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Title: Sir Joshua Reynolds' Discourses - Edited, with an Introduction, by Helen Zimmern
Author: Reynolds, Sir Joshua
Language: English
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Transcriber's note:

      Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

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Edited, with an Introduction, by


Walter Scott
London: 24 Warwick Lane
Paternoster Row


                              DISCOURSE I.                          PAGE

  The advantages proceeding from the institution of a Royal
      Academy.--Hints offered to the consideration of the Professors
      and visitors.--That an implicit obedience to the rules of Art
      be exacted from the young students.--That a premature
      disposition to a masterly dexterity be repressed.--That
      diligence be constantly recommended, and (that it may be
      effectual) directed to its proper object                         1

                              DISCOURSE II.

  The course and order of study.--The different stages of Art.--Much
      copying discountenanced.--The Artist at all times and in all
      places should be employed in laying up materials for the
      exercise of his Art                                             10

                              DISCOURSE III.

  The great leading principles of the grand style.--Of beauty.--The
      genuine habits of nature to be distinguished from those of
      fashion                                                         25

                              DISCOURSE IV.

  General ideas the presiding principle which regulates every part
      of Art; Invention, Expression, Colouring, and Drapery.--Two
      distinct styles in history-painting; the grand and the
      composite style.--The style formed on local customs and
      habits, or a partial view of nature                             39

                              DISCOURSE V.

  Circumspection required in endeavouring to unite contrary
      excellencies.--The expression of a mixed passion not to be
      attempted.--Examples of those who excelled in the great
      style.--Raffaelle, Michel Angelo, those two extraordinary
      men compared with each other.--The characteristical
      style.--Salvator Rosa mentioned as an example of that style;
      and opposed to Carlo Maratti.--Sketch of the characters of
      Poussin and Rubens.--These two Painters entirely dissimilar,
      but consistent with themselves.--This consistency required in
      all parts of the Art                                            58

                              DISCOURSE VI.

  Imitation.--Genius begins where rules end.--Invention; acquired by
      being conversant with the inventions of others.--The true
      method of imitating.--Borrowing, how far allowable.--Something
      to be gathered from every school                                74

                              DISCOURSE VII.

  The reality of a standard of taste as well as of corporal
      beauty.--Beside this immutable truth, there are secondary
      truths, which are variable; both requiring the attention of
      the Artist, in proportion to their stability or their
      influence                                                       98

                              DISCOURSE VIII.

  The principles of Art, whether Poetry or Painting, have their
      foundation in the mind; such as novelty, variety, and
      contrast; these in their excess become defects.--Simplicity,
      its excess disagreeable.--Rules not to be always observed in
      their literal sense; sufficient to preserve the spirit of the
      law.--Observations on the Prize Pictures                       129

                              DISCOURSE IX.

  On the removal of the Royal Academy to Somerset Place.--The
      advantages to Society from cultivating intellectual pleasure   154

                              DISCOURSE X.

  Sculpture: Has but one style.--Its objects, form, and
      character.--Ineffectual attempts of the modern Sculptors to
      improve the art.--Ill effects of modern dress in Sculpture     158

                              DISCOURSE XI.

  Genius: Consists principally in the comprehension of _A whole_;
      in taking general ideas only                                   174

                              DISCOURSE XII.

  Particular methods of study of little consequence--Little of
      the art can be taught.--Love of method often a love of
      idleness.--_Pittori improvvisatori_ apt to be careless and
      incorrect; seldom original and striking:--This proceeds
      from their not studying the works of other masters             190

                              DISCOURSE XIII.

  Art not merely imitation, but under the direction of the
      Imagination.--In what manner Poetry, Painting, Acting,
      Gardening, and Architecture depart from Nature                 211

                              DISCOURSE XIV.

  Character of _Gainsborough_: his excellencies and defects          230

                              DISCOURSE XV.

  The _President_ takes leave of the Academy.--A Review of the
      Discourses.--The study of the Works of _Michel Angelo_
      recommended                                                    248

  THE IDLER, No. 76. False Criticisms on Painting                    269
      ----   No. 79. The Grand Style of Painting                     275
      ----   No. 82. The true idea of Beauty                         279


Sir Joshua Reynolds--to whom is the name unfamiliar? to whom, hearing
it, does not appear in mental vision the equally familiar autograph
portrait of the deaf artist? This picture, painted originally for Mr.
Thrale, shows us the painter "in his habit as he lived," spectacles on
nose, ear-trumpet in hand--in short, exactly as he was known to his
intimates in his latter days in domestic life. Another autograph
picture of the artist in younger life hangs to-day in the National
Gallery. Close by is seen the portrait by the same hand of his equally
illustrious friend, bluff, common-sense Dr. Johnson, whom he
represents as reading and holding his book close to his eyes after the
manner of the short-sighted. It would seem that this mode of
representation roused Dr. Johnson's ire. "It is not friendly," he
remarked, "to hand down to posterity the imperfections of any person."
This comment of the doctor's is equally characteristic of the man and
his times. At so low an ebb was art and art criticism in those days,
that people less learned than Johnson failed to grasp the truth of
Reynolds' dictum, now become almost a commonplace, that a portrait but
receives enhanced value as a human and historical document if it makes
us acquainted with any natural peculiarity that characterises the
person delineated. Johnson rebelled against the notion he deduced from
this circumstance that Sir Joshua would make him known to posterity by
his defects only; he vowed to Mrs. Thrale he would not be so known.
"Let Sir Joshua do his worst, . . . he may paint himself as deaf as he
chooses, but I will not be blinking Sam."

In this anecdote, in this juxtaposition of two great names, each
thoroughly representative of their epoch, can be traced both the cause
of Sir Joshua's success, and of the difficulties against which he had
to strive. Reynolds may with truth be named the father of modern
English art, for before him English art can scarcely be said to have
existed, since what was produced on British soil was chiefly the work
of foreigners. The records even of this older art are sufficiently
barren. It would appear that in the reign of Henry III. some foreign
artists were invited over to decorate Winchester Castle, but of them
and their works little trace remains. At the time when Italy was
producing her masterpieces no native artist of whom we have record
bedaubed canvas in Great Britain; and when the pomp-loving Henry VIII.
wished to vie with his great contemporaries, Charles V., Leo X., and
Francis I., he had to turn to the Continent for the men to execute his
desires. That he himself had no true taste or love for the arts is
well known; it was purely the spirit of emulation that prompted him.
How crude were his own art notions may be gathered from the written
instructions he left for a monument to his memory. They serve equally
to illustrate the state of public taste in England at a period when
Italy was inspired by the genius of Michael Angelo, of Raphael, and of
Titian. The memorandum directs that "the king shall appear on
horseback, of the stature of a goodly man; while over him shall appear
the image of God the Father, holding the king's soul in his left hand,
and his right extended in the act of benediction." This work was to
have been executed in bronze, and was considerably advanced when
Elizabeth put a stop to its progress. It was afterwards sold by the
Puritan parliament for six hundred pounds. Still, for all his own
artistic incapacity, it is more than probable that had not Henry, for
private domestic reasons, adopted the Reformed faith, England under
his reign might have witnessed a prosperous art period, which, it is
true, would not have been native art, but might have given impetus
towards its birth. Thackeray was fond of saying that it was no idle
speculation to suppose what would have happened had Napoleon won the
battle of Waterloo. To those who love such fruitless mental sports it
may prove no idle speculation to ponder what would have happened had
Henry's amorous desires not led him to liberate himself and his nation
from the bosom of the Catholic Church. Enough that the facts are
there, and that with the first ardour of Protestant zeal there also
made itself felt a chilling influence, casting a blight over
literature and art, and more especially over art, till then so almost
exclusively the handmaiden of religion, that a work of art came to be
regarded as a symbol and remembrance of popery, and "painting and
sculpture were conscientiously discouraged as tending to encourage
idolatry and superstition and to minister to passion and luxury."
Queen Mary, Elizabeth, and James I., each in their way gave some
encouragement to foreign artists, such as Moro, Zucchero, and Mytens,
but their patronage was purely personal, and did not operate upon the
taste of the nation. More extended influence was exercised by Charles
I. This monarch had a real love and understanding for art, and under
him Rubens and Vandyke employed their pencils. He also bought many
pictures, and encouraged his nobles to do the like. At least, among
the upper classes the narrow Puritan art views were greatly
counteracted. But Charles had to lay his head upon the block, and
Puritanism had fuller and more unchecked sway than ever before,
creating influences which to this very day are not wholly extinct,
though happily in their death throes. Their latest survival is the
"British Matron" who writes to the _Times_ denouncing modern pictures
that displease her individual taste, and the artists, happily rare and
few, who preach that the study of the nude and anatomy is no essential
part of a painter's education.

After the death of Charles a general wreck of works of art ensued.
Whatever survived the bigotry of the Puritans was sacrificed to supply
their pecuniary necessities. A curious mixture of superstition and
covetousness was displayed. The journals of the House of Commons of 1645
afford some interesting reading like the following:--"Ordered: that all
pictures and sketches as are without superstition shall be forthwith
sold for the benefit of Ireland and the north. Ordered: that all such
pictures as have the representation of the Virgin Mary upon them shall
be forthwith burnt. Ordered: that all such pictures as have the
representation of the Second Person of the Trinity upon them shall be
forthwith burnt." It seems, however, that these orders were not quite
strictly executed. The Puritan conscience having been relieved by this
edict, many prohibited pictures were sold at a high price to swell the
coffers of the zealots. After this it is needless to remark that art did
not flourish under the Commonwealth. With the Restoration we find Lely
practising his method of portrait-painting, succeeded by Sir Godfrey
Kneller, neither, however, being Englishmen. The era of George I.
produced as native painters, Richardson and Sir James Thornhill; under
George II. Hudson flourished; it was reserved to the long reign of
George III. to see the birth of what can be truly termed art, of what
alone can measure itself with the nations of the Continent. Hogarth was
the first upon the list, but Hogarth, inimitable as he is, was rather a
satirist than an artist in the full acceptation of the term. Of beauty
of draughtmanship, of colour, we find next to nothing in his canvasses.
Together with him flourished Hudson, and a little later Wilson and
Gainsborough, who, like himself, and, indeed, like all English artists
up to that time, had imbibed their teaching through the medium of
Flanders, producing exact and careful work--indeed, in Gainsborough's
case, work of real beauty--but lacking on the side of poetical feeling
and elevation. Such a method must be regarded as the infancy of art, its
purely observant but unthinking side. It was reserved to Reynolds to
open out to English understanding the vista of Italian art, with its
glories, its perfections, and it is owing to his Discourses, even more
than to his works, that this mighty revolution came about; a revolution
so mighty, so important, that for its sake alone, had he never limned a
canvas, the name of Reynolds should stand forth proudly in the annals of
England. It was he who, coming to Italy, already in mature manhood, as a
finished artist in the eyes of his countrymen, had the perception and
the courage to admit before the works of Raphael and Michael Angelo
that it was needful for him "to become as a little child" and recommence
his studies upon principles of which hitherto he was ignorant.

Joshua Reynolds was born at Plympton, in Devonshire, July 16th, 1723,
the tenth child of the Rev. Samuel Reynolds, rector of Plympton and
principal of the local grammar school. His father was the boy's only
instructor. He had destined him, it would seem, for the medical
profession, and Reynolds is known to have said in latter life that if
this design had been carried out, "he should have felt the same
determination to become the most eminent physician as he then felt to be
the first painter of his age and country." It was, indeed, his decided
opinion (an opinion modern psychology would hardly endorse) that "the
superiority attainable in any pursuit whatever does not originate in an
innate propensity of the mind for that pursuit in particular, but
depends on the general strength of the intellect, and on the intense and
constant application of that strength to a specific purpose." He held
that ambition was the cause of eminence, but that accident pointed out
the means. It is impossible to decide whether or no Reynolds illustrates
his own theory, but from what he said in private, and also in his
Discourses, many erroneous conclusions are drawn as to this point. As
his biographer, Northcote, justly observes, Reynolds "never meant to
deny the existence of genius, supposing the term to denote a greater
degree of natural capacity in some minds than others; but he always
contended strenuously against the vulgar and absurd interpretation of
the word, which supposes that the same person may be a man of genius in
one respect, but utterly unfit for, and almost an idiot in everything
else; and that this singular and unaccountable faculty is a gift born
with us, which does not need the assistance of pains or culture, time or
accident, to improve and perfect it."

Whatever Reynolds' private views on the subject of native taste
asserting itself in the young, he himself undoubtedly showed a liking
for art at an early age, and his taste was fostered by his father,
himself an amateur possessing a small collection of anatomical and other
prints. If Joshua's love of drawing did not interfere with his other
studies, his father did not check it. Thus there is extant to this day a
perspective drawing of a bookcase under which Mr. Reynolds has written,
"Done by Joshua out of pure idleness." It is on the back of a Latin
exercise. He copied such prints as he could find in his father's
library, Jacob Cats's _Book of Emblems_ furnishing him with the richest
store. This his grandmother, who was a native of Holland, had
contributed to the family bookshelves. When he was only eight years old
he read with eagerness _The Jesuit's Perspective_, and so thoroughly did
he master its rules that he never afterwards had to study any other
works on the subject. An application of these rules to practice is
preserved in a drawing of the grammar school at Plympton. It was so well
done that the father exclaimed, "Now this exemplifies what the author of
the 'Perspective' asserts, that by observing the rules laid down in this
book a man may do wonders, for this is wonderful."

Visitors to the Reynolds' Exhibition, which was held in the Grosvenor
Gallery in 1884, may remember this little drawing, which was among the

Portraits of his family and friends next occupied Reynolds' youthful
pencil, while his love of art was influenced by reading Richardson's
_Treatise of Painting_. This book first awoke in him his enthusiastic
adoration of Raffaelle (of whose works he had till then seen nothing),
a love he cherished until the end of his days. At seventeen his liking
for art showing no diminution, the father decided he should follow a
painter's career, and took him to London, where he placed him under
Hudson, the most eminent artist England could then boast. By a curious
accident he was entered at Hudson's on St. Luke's day, the patron
saint of art and artists. Hudson set him at work at copying, a system
Sir Joshua afterwards strenuously condemned. His words on this matter,
written in the 2nd Discourse, should be "read, marked, learned, and
inwardly digested" by all art professors and students--they are golden
words of wisdom.

Notwithstanding the master's inadequate teaching, the pupil made such
progress that he aroused Hudson's jealousy, who, after two years'
apprenticeship, found a pretext for dismissing him. Reynolds, with
what he had learnt, continued to paint down in Devonshire, taking the
portraits of the local magnates. How conventional his style was at
first is proved by the following anecdote. It was a favourite attitude
with the portrait-painters of the time to represent their model with
one hand in waistcoat and the hat under the arm, convenient because it
dispensed the artist from the difficult task of painting the hand. Now
it happened that one gentleman, whose portrait Reynolds painted,
desired to have his hat on his head. The picture, which was quickly
finished and posed in a commonplace attitude, was done without much
study. When sent home, it was discovered, on inspection, that although
this gentleman in his portrait had one hat upon his head, there was
another under his arm.

For three years Reynolds painted in Devonshire, and certainly improved
greatly under his own instructions and those of William Gandy of
Exeter, so that some of the works of this period are undoubtedly fine.
During these first years of seclusion he taught himself to think as
well as to paint; and that the labour of the mind is the most
essential requisite in forming a great painter is a doctrine he
constantly inculcates in his Discourses, distinguishing it from that
of the hand. He aptly applied the dictum of Grotius--"Nothing can come
of nothing"--to demonstrate the necessity of teaching.

The more Reynolds thought, however, the less was he satisfied with his
own performances, and that he did not see himself progress with
greater speed no doubt fretted him the more, inasmuch as he had early
declared it his fixed opinion that if he did not prove himself the
best painter of his time, when arrived at the age of thirty, he never
should. For the completion of his studies he unceasingly felt that he
must visit Italy, and behold with his own eyes those masterpieces of
which he had heard so much. Chance offered him a passage to the
Continent in the flagship of Viscount Keppel, and thus, at the age of
twenty-six, May 11th, 1749, Reynolds first set sail for the
Continent, and for the land of his desires and aspirations.

On Sir Joshua's death papers were found on which were written a number
of detached thoughts, jotted down as hints for a Discourse, never
written, in which the artist intended to give a history of his mind, so
far as it concerned his art, his progress, studies, and practice. One of
these fragments narrates his feelings on first seeing the treasures of
Italian art, and is sufficiently remarkable. "It has frequently
happened," he writes, "as I was informed by the keeper of the Vatican,
that many of those whom he had conducted through the various apartments
of that edifice, when about to be dismissed, have asked for the works of
Raffaelle, and would not believe that they had already passed through
the rooms where they are preserved; so little impression had these
performances made on them. One of the first painters in France told me
that this circumstance happened to himself; though he now looks on
Raffaelle with that veneration which he deserves from all painters and
lovers of art. I remember very well my own disappointment when I first
visited the Vatican; but on confessing my feelings to a brother student,
of whose ingenuousness I had a high opinion, he acknowledged that the
works of Raffaelle had the same effect on him; or rather, that they did
not produce the effect which he expected. This was a great relief to my
mind; and, on inquiring farther of other students, I found that those
persons only who from natural imbecility appeared to be incapable of
ever relishing these divine performances, made pretensions to
instantaneous raptures on first beholding them. In justice to myself,
however, I must add, that though disappointed and mortified at not
finding myself enraptured with the works of this great master, I did not
for a moment conceive or suppose that the name of Raffaelle and those
admirable paintings in particular owed their reputation to the ignorance
and prejudice of mankind; on the contrary, my not relishing them, as I
was conscious I ought to have done, was one of the most humiliating
things that ever happened to me. I found myself in the midst of works
_executed upon principles_ _with which I was unacquainted_. I felt my
ignorance, and stood abashed.

"All the indigested notions of painting which I had brought with me
from England, where the art was at the lowest ebb--it could not indeed
be lower--were to be totally done away with and eradicated from my
mind. It was necessary, as it is expressed on a very solemn occasion,
that I should become _as a little child_. Notwithstanding my
disappointment, I proceeded to copy some of those excellent works. I
viewed them again and again; I even affected to feel their merits and
to admire them more than I really did. In a short time a new taste and
new perceptions began to dawn upon me, and I was convinced that I had
originally formed a _false opinion of the perfection of art_, and that
this great painter was well entitled to the high rank which he holds
in the estimation of the world.

"The truth is, that if these works had been really what I expected,
they would have contained beauties superficial and alluring, but by no
means such as would have entitled them to the great reputation which
they have long and so justly obtained."

It must, of course, be borne in mind, reading these words, that Sir
Joshua Reynolds had not the advantages put into the way to-day, not
only of art students, but of every person more or less interested in
art, in the way of copies, photographs, autotypes, from the works and
drawings of the great masters. He had to learn to understand, and he
at once put himself into the attitude of the learner, humbly assured
that the fault in appreciation must be in himself, not in those
masterpieces. His good sense told him that "the duration and stability
of their fame is sufficient to evince that it has not been suspended
upon the slender thread of fashion and caprice, but bound to the human
heart by every tie of sympathetic approbation."

"Having since that period," continues Sir Joshua, "frequently revolved
the subject in my mind, I am now clearly of opinion that a relish for
the higher excellences of the art is an acquired taste, which no man
ever possessed without long cultivation and great labour and
attention. On such occasions as that which I have mentioned, we are
often ashamed of our apparent dulness, as if it were expected that our
minds, like tinder, should instantly catch fire from the divine spark
of Raffaelle's genius. I flatter myself that _now_ it would be so, and
that I have a just perception of his great powers; but let it be
remembered that the excellence of his style is not on the surface, but
lies deep, and at the first view is seen but mistily. It is the florid
style which strikes at once, and captivates the eye, for a time,
without ever satisfying the judgment. Nor does painting in this
respect differ from other arts. A just poetical taste, and the
acquisition of a nice discriminative musical ear, are equally the work
of time. Even the eye, however perfect in itself, is often unable to
distinguish between the brilliancy of two diamonds, though the
experienced jeweller will be amazed at its blindness; not considering
that there was a time when he himself could not have been able to
pronounce which of the two was the most perfect, and that his own
power of discrimination was acquired by slow and imperceptible degrees."

From the first Reynolds avoided making copies, and had refused
lucrative orders. He sketched portions of pictures, such as he thought
would help his own comprehension, but he would do no slavish
imitation. "The man of true genius," writes Sir Joshua, "instead of
spending all his hours, as many artists do while they are at Rome, in
measuring statues and copying pictures, soon begins to think for
himself, and endeavour to do something like what he sees. I consider
general copying," he adds, "as a delusive kind of industry: the
student satisfies himself with the appearance of doing something; he
falls into the dangerous habit of imitating without selecting, and
labouring without a determinate object; as it requires no effort of
mind, he sleeps over his work, and those powers of invention and
disposition which ought particularly to be called out and put into
action lie torpid, and lose their energy for want of exercise. How
incapable of producing anything of their own those are who have spent
most of their time in making finished copies, is an observation well
known to all those who are conversant with our art."

His own precise method of study is not known, but it may be assumed
that he was chiefly occupied in reasoning on what he observed.
Elsewhere he writes--"A painter should form his rules from pictures
rather than from books or precepts; rules were first made from
pictures, not pictures from rules. Every picture an artist sees,
whether the most excellent or the most ordinary, he should consider
whence that fine effect or that ill effect proceeds, and then there is
no picture ever so indifferent but he may look at it to his profit."
"The artist," he observes, "who has his mind filled with ideas, and
his hand made expert by practice, works with ease and readiness;
whilst he who would have you believe that he is waiting for the
inspirations of genius, is in reality at a loss how to begin, and is
at last delivered of his monsters with difficulty and pain. The
well-grounded painter, on the contrary, has only maturely to consider
his subject, and all the mechanical parts of his art will follow,
without his exertion."

The mode of study which Sir Joshua adopted himself he continually
recommends to the students: "Instead of copying the touches of those
great masters, copy only their conceptions; instead of treading in their
footsteps, endeavour only to keep the same road; labour to invent on
their general principles and way of thinking; possess yourself with
their spirit; consider with yourself how a Michael Angelo or a Raffaelle
would have treated this subject, and work yourself into a belief that
your picture is to be seen and criticised by them when completed; even
an attempt of this kind will raise your powers.

"We all must have experienced how lazily, and consequently how
ineffectually, instruction is received when forced upon the mind by
others. Few have been taught to any purpose who have not been their
own teachers. We prefer those instructions which we have given
ourselves from our affection to the instructor; and they are more
effectual from being received into the mind at the very time when it
is most open to receive them."

Having stayed in Rome as long as his resources allowed, Sir Joshua
visited Florence, Venice, and some of the smaller Italian towns,
everywhere adopting the same careful, observant method of study.
After an absence of nearly three years he returned to England, feeling
himself indeed a mentally richer, wiser man than he set out.

It was after his return from Italy that Reynolds took up his permanent
abode in London, then, as now, the only true centre for art or
literature. At first he met much opposition; Hudson especially was
fiercely critical over Reynolds' new style, saying to him, "You don't
paint so well now as you did before you went to Italy." Another
eminent portrait-painter of the time, now long since consigned to
oblivion, shook his head sadly on seeing one of Sir Joshua's finest
portrait works, saying, "Oh, Reynolds, this will never answer: why,
you don't paint in the least in the manner of Kneller." And when the
artist tried to expose his reasons, his rival, not able to answer him,
left the room in a fury, shouting, "Damme! Shakespeare in poetry, and
Kneller in painting; damme!"

Nevertheless, Reynolds soon became a favourite with the public, and
his painting-room a fashionable resort. To this end his courtly manner
and agreeable conversation may greatly have aided. By the year 1760 he
had become the most sought for portraitist of his day, and was making
as much as £6000 a-year, in those days a very large sum for an artist
to earn, especially as the price he charged for his portraits was very
low as compared with modern artistic demands.

It was in 1759 that Reynolds first put down some of his artistic ideas
in writing. He contributed three papers to the _Idler_, then edited by
Dr. Johnson, with whom he had, on coming to London, formed that
friendship which lasted all their lives. They are the Numbers 76, 79,
and 82, and are reprinted in this volume.

"These papers," observes Northcote, "may be considered as a kind of
syllabus of all his future discourses; and they certainly occasioned
him some thinking in their composition. I have heard Sir Joshua say
that Johnson required them from him on a sudden emergency, and on that
account he sat up the whole night to complete them in time; and by it
he was so much disordered that it produced a vertigo in his head."

The following year, 1760, the one in which Reynolds removed to his
larger residence in Leicester Square, is memorable in the annals of
English art. It witnessed the first public exhibition of modern
paintings and sculptures, and proved so satisfactory that it was
repeated, and finally laid the foundation for what became the Royal
Academy. The catalogue to one of these first exhibitions was penned by
Dr. Johnson, and is written in his usual pompous style. The worthy
doctor had little appreciation for the fine arts, and in a private
letter to Baretti, speaking of this innovation, he says: "This
exhibition has filled the heads of artists and lovers of art. Surely
life, if it be not long, is tedious; since we are forced to call in
the assistance of so many trifles to rid us of our time--of that time
which never can return."

In 1768 the Royal Academy was founded by royal charter, and was opened
January 1, 1769. Reynolds had been elected its President, and in
accordance with the custom that prevails to this day, received,
together with this dignity, the compliment of knighthood. On this
occasion he delivered the first of his Discourses, in which, mingled
with general instructions concerning the purpose and method of art, we
find the needful servile adulation of the reigning sovereign. The
second, far more able and to the point, was delivered at the end of
the same year on the occasion of the distribution of prizes to the
students. It contains his admirable views with regard to copying. From
henceforth, on the same occasion, every two years, when the gold
medals are given, up to December 1790, Sir Joshua delivered such an
address to the students, making in all fifteen Discourses that are
read with pleasure to this day. At the last the hall was so crowded
that a beam supporting the floor actually gave way with the weight.
That outsiders should have been so eager to come is astonishing on
this account, that Reynolds, like most Englishmen, had no powers of
elocution. His manner in delivering his speeches was shy and awkward,
and he often spoke so low that those at some distance could not hear
him. His deafness in a measure may have accounted for this, for, like
all deaf people, he could not modulate his voice; but yet more, his
truly British horror lest he should seem to be posing as an orator.

It was no part of Sir Joshua's prescribed duty as President to deliver
an address on the presentation of medals; but, "if prizes were to be
given," he himself remarked in the last Discourse, "it appeared not
only proper, but indispensably necessary, that something should be
said by the President on the delivery of those prizes; and the
President, for his own credit, would wish to say something more than
mere words of compliment; which, by being frequently repeated, would
soon become flat and uninteresting, and, by being uttered to many,
would at last become a distinction to none. I thought, therefore, if I
were to preface this compliment with some instructive observations on
the art, when we crowned merit in the artists whom we rewarded, I
might do something to animate and guide them in their future attempts."

It was, perhaps, the fact that Reynolds intended this Discourse to be
his last, his farewell to the Academy he had served so long and well,
that attracted such a crowd. In it he takes a review of all his past
Discourses, and ends with commending to the students the works of his
idol, Michael Angelo. It was a source of joy to him that the last word
he spoke in that hall was the name of this adored master. "I felt a
self-congratulation in knowing myself capable of such sensations as he
intended to excite. I reflect, not without vanity, that these Discourses
bear testimony of my admiration of that truly divine man; and I should
desire that the last words which I should pronounce in this Academy, and
from this place, might be the name of _Michael Angelo_!"

Before the next occasion for a Discourse occurred Reynolds was quietly
sleeping his eternal sleep in St. Paul's Cathedral, having died February
23, 1792, after two years' suffering, borne with cheerful fortitude.

There are those who think that English art has rather retrograded than
progressed since the days of Reynolds. To those who speak thus it is
only needful to tell that Pliny already spoke of painting as a "dying
art." After this we need reason with such blind admirers of antiquity
_quâ_ antiquity no farther. That Reynolds was a great artist is
universally admitted beyond dispute; but to speak of him as the
greatest, as unapproachable henceforward, is as absurd as to claim, as
did his contemporaries, that anything so able as his art discourses
had never been penned. These were above all impressed by the undoubted
influence Johnson had upon Reynolds' style, giving it that pedantic
ring, that monotony of cadence, that want of colour, which is
precisely what we moderns least admire. We should hardly assent to the
contemporary lines lauding Dr. Johnson and saying--

      "To fame's proud cliff behold our Raphael rise,
      Hence Reynolds' pen with Reynolds' pencil vies."

But then, in any case, such fulsome flattery is not in accordance with
the spirit of our century. We might, too, now-a-days think it dubious
praise that Johnson, after reading one of his friend's essays and
praising it in general, should pick out one passage in particular with
the remark--"I think I might as well have said this myself." More
valuable we should consider the praise of Burke, who, writing to Mr.
Malone, says, "I have read over some part of the discourses with an
unusual sort of pleasure. . . . He is always the same man, the same
philosophical, the same artist-like critic, the same sagacious observer,
with the same minuteness, without the smallest degree of trifling."

This is true; Sir Joshua's polished mind and calm philosophical
observation makes itself felt in every line of his writings.

There was a time when envious calumny disputed the authorship of these
Discourses, attributing them now to Burke, now to Johnson. The
imputation is too futile to need refutation. There are those who deny
to any man the merit of having written his own works, commencing with
Homer and Shakespeare. This is a strange craze of the critical mind.
Seeing the work is the result of a human hand, why not, for example,
allow that Shakespeare wrote what he claims as his own, in lieu of
attributing the authorship to Lord Bacon? Again, why should there not
have been a Homer as there was a Dante, in lieu of an aggregation of
men? A very petty and despicable envy, or the frantic desire of saying
something new and strange to attract attention to ourselves, may be
pronounced the motor force of such theories.

Reynolds' Discourses may be described as the first attempt in the
English language at what may be called a philosophy of art. To this
day there are in English few works of this character. A science
corresponding to the German _Aesthetik_ does not exist in English, for
what modern cant has dubbed æstheticism, the child's play of
"passionate Brompton" and languishing South Kensington, must on no
account be confounded with a real serious study that in German
universities fills a special chair. The cause for this lack is no
doubt to be sought in the vastly diverse genius of the two nations.
The German is nothing if not abstract; the Englishman nothing if not
positive; and on this account the English take art, as well as all
else, from the practical side. To mention but a few German works of
this character. Hegel has written a philosophy of the fine arts
scarcely less valuable to art-students and painters, and perchance
even as unknown to the latter--for artists are rarely readers--as the
works of the same class written by Winckelmann and Lessing. Reynolds
addressed an audience not merely of readers and theoreticians, but of
actual workers, practical students; and he strove, therefore, to
combine theory with positive facts, hoping thus to bridge over the
gulf which made, and still unhappily makes, English art-students learn
their profession too much by mere rule of thumb. That Reynolds' work
is neither final nor all-embracing goes without saying. The mere fact
that these lectures were delivered but rarely, forming no designed
sequence, would have hindered such an end, even had Reynolds'
knowledge been sufficient to accomplish it. Under the circumstances,
it is sufficiently remarkable that they really form so complete a
whole as they undoubtedly do. The one leading idea that informs them
is the necessity for the student to study the works of the great
masters, above all of the Roman and Tuscan schools; and on this
doctrine, then so new, Reynolds could not insist enough. In his last
Discourse, with great modesty he sums up so ably what he has achieved,
that it is best to let him speak for himself. After saying how unequal
he had been to the expression of his ideas, he continues:--

"To this work, however, I could not be said to come totally unprovided
with materials; I had seen much, and I had thought much upon what I
had seen; I had something of a habit of investigation, and a
disposition to reduce all that I had observed and felt in my own mind
to method and system; but I thought it indispensably necessary well to
consider the opinions which were to be given out from this place, and
under the sanction of a Royal Academy; I therefore examined not only
my own opinions but likewise the opinions of others.

"In revising my discourses, it is no small satisfaction to be assured
that I have in no part of them lent my assistance to foster
_newly-hatched unfledged opinions_, or endeavoured to support
paradoxes, however tempting may have been their novelty, or however
ingenious I might, for the minute, fancy them to be; nor shall I, I
hope, anywhere be found to have imposed on the minds of young students
declamation for argument, a smooth period for a sound precept. I have
pursued a plain and _honest method_; I have taken up the art simply as
I found it exemplified in the practice of the most approved painters.
That approbation which the world has uniformly given, I have
endeavoured to justify by such proofs as questions of this kind will
admit; by the analogy which painting holds with the sister arts, and
consequently by the common congeniality which they all bear to our
nature. And though in what has been done no new discovery is
pretended, I may still flatter myself that from the discoveries which
others have made from their own intuitive good sense and native
rectitude of judgment (in allusion to the works of the old masters) I
have succeeded in establishing the rules and principles of our art on
a more firm and lasting foundation than that on which they formerly
had been placed."

It is worthy of note, as yet another proof of Sir Joshua's justice of
judgment and objectivity, that, speaking of portrait-painting
(_Discourse III._), he puts it low in rank among the various
departments of painting. He strove with all his power to elevate
English art methods, to lead artists to practice what he named the
"grand style," and it was on this account that he ever and always held
up to imitation the gods of his idolatry, Michael Angelo and
Raffaelle. What he writes concerning _pittori improvisatori_ may well
be laid to heart to-day when Impressionism threatens to swamp genuine
study and careful draughtsmanship. Indeed, looked at from all sides,
Sir Joshua's _Discourses_ worthily take rank among the English
classics, and it has been truly said that "with Reynolds' literature
was the playmate of art, and art became the handmaiden of literature."

That detractors have not been lacking is a matter of course, but
Reynolds, like others, can console himself with Goethe's lines--

      "Die schlechsten Früchte sindd es nichtt
      Woran die Wespen nagen."

Some of these objections merit reproduction. Who can read, for
instance, without a smile, the words of Blake, that sweet, childlike
mind, which was at once so penetrative and so uncritical? The smile
will of course be one of gentle sympathy, such as one ever accords to
that wayward genius. He writes in his notes--

"Whether Reynolds knew what he was doing is nothing to me. The
mischief is the same whether a man does it ignorantly or knowingly. I
always considered true art and true artists particularly insulted and
degraded by the reputation of these discourses; as much as they were
degraded by the reputation of Reynolds' paintings, and that such
artists as Reynolds are, at all times, hired by Satan for the
depression of art; a pretence of art to destroy art."

Once Blake finds a passage after his own heart: "A firm and
determined outline is one of the characteristics of the great style of
painting!" Against which is written, "Here is a noble sentence! a
sentence which overthrows all his book."

With no more than justice he remarks on the very weakest feature in Sir
Joshua's system: "Reynolds' opinion was, that genius may be taught, and
all pretence to inspiration is a lie or deceit, to say the least of it.
If it is deceit, the whole Bible is madness." Of the _Third Discourse_
he energetically avers: "The following discourse is particularly
interesting to blockheads, as it endeavours to prove that there is no
such thing as inspiration, and that any man of plain understanding may,
by thieving from others, become a Michael Angelo." Again--

      "No real style of colouring now appears,
      Save through advertisements in the newspapers;
      Look there--you'll see Sir Joshua's colouring;
      Look at his pictures--all has taken wing."

Again, when Reynolds tells his hearers that "enthusiastic admiration
seldom promotes knowledge,"--"And such is the coldness with which
Reynolds speaks! And such is his enmity! Enthusiastic admiration is the
first principle of knowledge and its last. How he begins to degrade, to
deny, and to mock! The man, who, on examining his own mind, finds
nothing of inspiration, ought not to dare to be an artist. He is a fool
and an amusing knave suited to the purposes of evil demons. The man who
never in his mind and thought travelled to Heaven is no artist. It is
evident that Reynolds wished none but fools to be in the arts, and in
order to compass this, he calls all others rogues, enthusiasts, or
madmen. What has reasoning to do with the art of painting?"

It is evident that Blake has not always fully followed Reynolds'
meaning. Indeed, Sir Joshua is at times a little obscure, a
circumstance his detractors did not overlook, nicknaming him Sir
Obadiah Twylight, and classifying his style as "sub-fusk."

Concerning this _Third Discourse_, which deals with the grand style
and the right imitation of nature, an anecdote is preserved. West was
at the time painting his picture of the "Death of Wolfe." When it was
understood that he meant to paint the characters as they actually
appeared on the scene, the Archbishop of York called on Reynolds and
asked his opinion concerning this. Both visited West and endeavoured
to dissuade him. West, firm in his rejection of the classic dress,
replied, "I want to mark the place, the time, and the people, and to
do this I must abide by truth."

When the picture was finished he called Sir Joshua to see it. Reynolds
seated himself before the canvas and examined it with interest for
half-an-hour, and then, rising, said, "West has conquered; he has
treated the subject as it ought to be treated." So just was Reynolds'
mind that he could admit the truth even when it opposed his own

Ruskin has also contributed his quota to the Reynolds controversy.
Writing in his favourite antithetic style, he says:--

"Nearly every word that Reynolds wrote was contrary to his own
practice; he seems to have been born to teach all error by his
precept, and all excellence by his example; he enforced with his lips
generalisation and idealism, while with his pencil he was tracing the
patterns of the dresses of the belles of the day; he exhorted his
pupils to attend only to the invariable, while he himself was occupied
in distinguishing every variation of womanly temper; and he denied the
existence of the beautiful at the same instant that he arrested it as
it passed, and perpetuated it for ever."

Thus to Sir Joshua's lot, as to all who put themselves before the
world, has fallen a portion of praise and blame; but the best praise
that can be accorded a man's work is that it should survive him, and
continue to arouse interest long after his death. This most certainly
is the case with regard to Reynolds' _Discourses_, and therefore to
them may apply what he has himself said as to the duration of
masterpieces. Not faultless, not all-embracing, but full of historical
and individual interest, of keen and careful observation, of judicious
thought, they merit the attention of the modern reading public--a
public far more largely interested in art than ever existed in the day
when their writer lived and painted and lectured.

                                                  HELEN ZIMMERN.


The regular progress of cultivated life is from necessaries to
accommodations, from accommodations to ornaments. By your illustrious
predecessors were established Marts for manufactures, and Colleges for
science; but for the arts of elegance, those arts by which
manufactures are embellished, and science is refined, to found an
Academy was reserved for Your Majesty.

Had such patronage been without effect, there has been reason to
believe that Nature had, by some insurmountable impediment, obstructed
our proficiency; but the annual improvement of the Exhibitions which
Your Majesty has been pleased to encourage, shows that only
encouragement had been wanting.

To give advice to those who are contending for royal liberality has
been for some years the duty of my station in the Academy; and these
Discourses hope for Your Majesty's acceptance, as well-intended
endeavours to incite that emulation which your notice has kindled, and
direct those studies which your bounty has rewarded.

                              May it please Your MAJESTY,
                                    Your MAJESTY'S
                                  Most dutiful Servant
                                      And most faithful Subject,
  [1778.]                                 JOSHUA REYNOLDS.





That you have ordered the publication of this discourse is not only
very flattering to me, as it implies your approbation of the method of
study which I have recommended; but likewise, as this method receives
from that act such an additional weight and authority, as demands from
the Students that deference and respect which can be due only to the
united sense of so considerable a BODY OF ARTISTS.

                                         I am,
                           With the greatest esteem and respect,
                                     Your most humble,
                                         And obedient Servant,
                                             JOSHUA REYNOLDS.




  _Delivered at the Opening of the Royal Academy, January 2, 1769._


An Academy, in which the Polite Arts may be regularly cultivated, is
at last opened among us by Royal munificence. This must appear an
event in the highest degree interesting, not only to the Artist, but
to the whole nation.

It is, indeed, difficult to give any other reason why an empire like
that of Britain should so long have wanted an ornament so suitable to
its greatness, than that slow progression of things, which naturally
makes elegance and refinement the last effect of opulence and power.

An Institution like this has often been recommended upon
considerations merely mercantile; but an Academy, founded upon such
principles, can never effect even its own narrow purposes. If it has
an origin no higher, no taste can ever be formed in manufactures; but
if the higher Arts of Design flourish, these inferior ends will be
answered of course.

We are happy in having a Prince who has conceived the design of such
an Institution, according to its true dignity; and who promotes the
Arts, as the head of a great, a learned, a polite, and a commercial
nation; and I can now congratulate you, Gentlemen, on the
accomplishment of your long and ardent wishes.

The numberless and ineffectual consultations which I have had with many
in this assembly to form plans and concert schemes for an Academy,
afford a sufficient proof of the impossibility of succeeding but by the
influence of Majesty. But there have, perhaps, been times when even the
influence of Majesty would have been ineffectual; and it is pleasing to
reflect, that we are thus embodied, when every circumstance seems to
concur from which honour and prosperity can probably arise.

There are, at this time, a greater number of excellent artists than were
ever known before at one period in this nation; there is a general
desire among our Nobility to be distinguished as lovers and judges of
the Arts; there is a greater superfluity of wealth among the people to
reward the professors; and, above all, we are patronised by a Monarch,
who, knowing the value of science and of elegance, thinks every art
worthy of his notice, that tends to soften and humanise the mind.

After so much has been done by His Majesty, it will be wholly our
fault if our progress is not in some degree correspondent to the
wisdom and generosity of the Institution: let us show our gratitude in
our diligence, that, though our merit may not answer his expectations,
yet, at least, our industry may deserve his protection.

But whatever may be our proportion of success, of this we may be sure,
that the present Institution will at least contribute to advance our
knowledge of the Arts, and bring us nearer to that ideal excellence,
which it is the lot of genius always to contemplate, and never to

The principal advantage of an Academy is, that, besides furnishing
able men to direct the Student, it will be a repository for the great
examples of the Art. These are the materials on which Genius is to
work, and without which the strongest intellect may be fruitlessly or
deviously employed. By studying these authentic models, that idea of
excellence which is the result of the accumulated experience of past
ages may be at once acquired; and the tardy and obstructed progress of
our predecessors may teach us a shorter and easier way. The Student
receives, at one glance, the principles which many Artists have spent
their whole lives in ascertaining; and, satisfied with their effect,
is spared the painful investigation by which they came to be known and
fixed. How many men of great natural abilities have been lost to this
nation for want of these advantages! They never had an opportunity of
seeing those masterly efforts of genius, which at once kindle the
whole soul, and force it into sudden and irresistible approbation.

Raffaelle, it is true, had not the advantage of studying in an Academy;
but all Rome, and the works of Michel Angelo in particular, were to him
an Academy. On the sight of the Capella Sistina, he immediately, from a
dry, Gothic, and even insipid manner, which attends to the minute
accidental discriminations of particular and individual objects, assumed
that grand style of painting, which improves partial representation by
the general and invariable ideas of nature.

Every seminary of learning may be said to be surrounded with an
atmosphere of floating knowledge, where every mind may imbibe somewhat
congenial to its own original conceptions. Knowledge, thus obtained,
has always something more popular and useful than that which is forced
upon the mind by private precepts or solitary meditation. Besides, it
is generally found, that a youth more easily receives instruction from
the companions of his studies, whose minds are nearly on a level with
his own, than from those who are much his superiors; and it is from
his equals only that he catches the fire of emulation.

One advantage, I will venture to affirm, we shall have in our Academy,
which no other nation can boast. We shall have nothing to unlearn. To
this praise the present race of Artists have a just claim. As far as
they have yet proceeded, they are right. With us the exertions of
genius will henceforward be directed to their proper objects. It will
not be as it has been in other schools, where he that travelled
fastest only wandered farthest from the right way.

Impressed, as I am, therefore, with such a favourable opinion of my
associates, in this undertaking, it would ill become me to dictate to
any of them. But as these Institutions have so often failed in other
nations; and as it is natural to think with regret how much might have
been done, I must take leave to offer a few hints, by which those
errors may be rectified, and those defects supplied. These the
Professors and Visitors may reject or adopt as they shall think proper.

I would chiefly recommend that an implicit obedience to the _Rules of
Art_, as established by the practice of the great MASTERS, should be
exacted from the _young_ Students. That those models, which have
passed through the approbation of ages, should be considered by them
as perfect and infallible guides; as subjects for their imitation,
not their criticism.

I am confident that this is the only efficacious method of making a
progress in the Arts; and that he who sets out with doubting, will
find life finished before he becomes master of the rudiments. For it
may be laid down as a maxim, that he who begins by presuming on his
own sense, has ended his studies as soon as he has commenced them.
Every opportunity, therefore, should be taken to discountenance that
false and vulgar opinion, that rules are the fetters of genius: they
are fetters only to men of no genius; as that armour, which upon the
strong is an ornament and a defence, upon the weak and misshapen
becomes a load, and cripples the body which it was made to protect.

How much liberty may be taken to break through those rules, and, as
the poet expresses it,

      "To snatch a grace beyond the reach of art,"

may be a subsequent consideration, when the pupils become masters
themselves. It is then, when their genius has received its utmost
improvement, that rules may possibly be dispensed with. But let us not
destroy the scaffold until we have raised the building.

The Directors ought more particularly to watch over the genius of
those Students, who, being more advanced, are arrived at that critical
period of study, on the nice management of which their future turn of
taste depends. At that age it is natural for them to be more
captivated with what is brilliant than with what is solid, and to
prefer splendid negligence to painful and humiliating exactness.

A facility in composing, a lively, and what is called a masterly,
handling of the chalk or pencil, are, it must be confessed,
captivating qualities to young minds, and become, of course, the
objects of their ambition. They endeavour to imitate these dazzling
excellencies, which they will find no great labour in attaining. After
much time spent in these frivolous pursuits, the difficulty will be to
retreat; but it will be then too late; and there is scarce an instance
of return to scrupulous labour, after the mind has been debauched and
deceived by this fallacious mastery.

By this useless industry they are excluded from all power of advancing
in real excellence. Whilst boys, they are arrived at their utmost
perfection: they have taken the shadow for the substance; and make the
mechanical felicity the chief excellence of the art, which is only an
ornament, and of the merit of which few but painters themselves are

This seems to me to be one of the most dangerous sources of
corruption; and I speak of it from experience, not as an error which
may possibly happen, but which has actually infected all foreign
Academies. The directors were probably pleased with this premature
dexterity in their pupils, and praised their despatch at the expense
of their correctness.

But young men have not only this frivolous ambition of being thought
masters of execution inciting them on one hand, but also their natural
sloth tempting them on the other. They are terrified at the prospect
before them of the toil required to attain exactness. The impetuosity
of youth is disgusted at the slow approaches of a regular siege, and
desires, from mere impatience of labour, to take the citadel by storm.
They wish to find some shorter path to excellence, and hope to obtain
the reward of eminence by other means than those which the
indispensable rules of art have prescribed. They must, therefore, be
told again and again, that labour is the only price of solid fame,
and that whatever their force of genius may be, there is no easy
method of becoming a good Painter.

When we read the lives of the most eminent Painters, every page
informs us that no part of their time was spent in dissipation. Even
an increase of fame served only to augment their industry. To be
convinced with what persevering assiduity they pursued their studies,
we need only reflect on their method of proceeding in their most
celebrated works. When they conceived a subject, they first made a
variety of sketches; then a finished drawing of the whole; after that
a more correct drawing of every separate part--heads, hands, feet, and
pieces of drapery; they then painted the picture, and after all,
retouched it from the life. The pictures, thus wrought with such
pains, now appear like the effect of enchantment, and as if some
mighty genius had struck them off at a blow.

But, whilst diligence is thus recommended to the Students, the
Visitors will take care that their diligence be effectual; that it be
well directed, and employed on the proper object. A Student is not
always advancing because he is employed; he must apply his strength to
that part of the art where the real difficulties lie; to that part
which distinguishes it as a liberal art; and not by mistaken industry
lose his time in that which is merely ornamental. The Students,
instead of vying with each other which shall have the readiest hand,
should be taught to contend who shall have the purest and most correct
outline; instead of striving which shall produce the brightest tint,
or curiously trifling, shall give the gloss of stuffs, so as to appear
real, let their ambition be directed to contend which shall dispose
his drapery in the most graceful folds, which shall give the most
grace and dignity to the human figure.

I must beg leave to submit one thing more to the consideration of the
Visitors, which appears to me a matter of very great consequence, and
the omission of which I think a principal defect in the method of
education pursued in all the Academies I have ever visited. The error
I mean is, that the Students never draw exactly from the living models
which they have before them. It is not, indeed, their intention, nor
are they directed to do it. Their drawings resemble the model only in
the attitude. They change the form according to their vague and
uncertain ideas of beauty, and make a drawing rather of what they
think the figure ought to be, than of what it appears. I have thought
this the obstacle that has stopped the progress of many young men of
real genius; and I very much doubt whether a habit of drawing
correctly what we see will not give a proportionable power of drawing
correctly what we imagine. He who endeavours to copy nicely the figure
before him, not only acquires a habit of exactness and precision, but
is continually advancing in his knowledge of the human figure; and
though he seems to superficial observers to make a slower progress, he
will be found at last capable of adding (without running into
capricious wildness) that grace and beauty which is necessary to be
given to his more finished works, and which cannot be got by the
moderns, as it was not acquired by the ancients, but by an attentive
and well-compared study of the human form.

What I think ought to enforce this method is, that it has been the
practice (as may be seen by their drawings) of the great Masters in
the Art. I will mention a drawing of Raffaelle, _The Dispute of the
Sacrament_, the print of which, by Count Cailus, is in every hand. It
appears that he made his sketch from one model; and the habit he had
of drawing exactly from the form before him appears by his making all
the figures with the same cap, such as his model then happened to
wear; so servile a copyist was this great man, even at a time when he
was allowed to be at his highest pitch of excellence.

I have seen also Academy figures by Annibale Caracci, though he was
often sufficiently licentious in his finished works, drawn with all
the peculiarities of an individual model.

This scrupulous exactness is so contrary to the practice of the
Academies, that it is not without great deference that I beg leave to
recommend it to the consideration of the Visitors; and submit to them,
whether the neglect of this method is not one of the reasons why
Students so often disappoint expectation, and, being more than boys at
sixteen, become less than men at thirty.

In short, the method I recommend can only be detrimental where there are
but few living forms to copy; for then Students, by always drawing from
one alone, will by habit be taught to overlook defects, and mistake
deformity for beauty. But of this there is no danger, since the Council
has determined to supply the Academy with a variety of subjects; and
indeed those laws which they have drawn up, and which the Secretary will
presently read for your confirmation, have in some measure precluded me
from saying more upon this occasion. Instead, therefore, of offering my
advice, permit me to indulge my wishes, and express my hope, that this
Institution may answer the expectation of its ROYAL FOUNDER; that the
present age may vie in Arts with that of LEO the Tenth; and that _the
dignity of the dying Art_ (to make use of an expression of Pliny) may be
revived under the Reign of GEORGE THE THIRD.


  _Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the Distribution
  of the Prizes, December 11, 1769._


I congratulate you on the honour which you have just received, I have
the highest opinion of your merits, and could wish to show my sense of
them in something which possibly may be more useful to you than barren
praise. I could wish to lead you into such a course of study as may
render your future progress answerable to your past improvement; and,
whilst I applaud you for what has been done, remind you how much yet
remains to attain perfection.

I flatter myself that from the long experience I have had, and the
unceasing assiduity with which I have pursued those studies, in which,
like you, I have been engaged, I shall be acquitted of vanity in
offering some hints to your consideration. They are, indeed, in a great
degree, founded upon my own mistakes in the same pursuit. But the
history of errors, properly managed, often shortens the road to truth.
And although no method of study that I can offer will of itself conduct
to excellence, yet it may preserve industry from being misapplied.

In speaking to you of the Theory of the Art, I shall only consider it
as it has a relation to the _method_ of your studies.

Dividing the study of painting into three distinct periods, I shall
address you as having passed through the first of them, which is
confined to the rudiments; including a facility of drawing any object
that presents itself, a tolerable readiness in the management of
colours, and an acquaintance with the most simple and obvious rules of

This first degree of proficiency is, in painting, what grammar is in
literature, a general preparation for whatever species of the art the
student may afterwards choose for his more particular application. The
power of drawing, modelling, and using colours is very properly called
the Language of the Art; and in this language, the honours you have
just received prove you to have made no inconsiderable progress.

When the Artist is once enabled to express himself with some degree of
correctness, he must then endeavour to collect subjects for
expression; to amass a stock of ideas, to be combined and varied as
occasion may require. He is now in the second period of study, in
which his business is to learn all that has been known and done before
his own time. Having hitherto received instructions from a particular
master, he is now to consider the Art itself as his master. He must
extend his capacity to more sublime and general instructions. Those
perfections which lie scattered among various masters are now united
in one general idea, which is henceforth to regulate his taste, and
enlarge his imagination. With a variety of models thus before him, he
will avoid that narrowness and poverty of conception which attends a
bigoted admiration of a single master, and will cease to follow any
favourite where he ceases to excel. This period is, however, still a
time of subjection and discipline. Though the Student will not resign
himself blindly to any single authority, when he may have the
advantage of consulting many, he must still be afraid of trusting his
own judgment, and of deviating into any track where he cannot find the
footsteps of some former master.

The third and last period emancipates the Student from subjection to
any authority, but what he shall himself judge to be supported by
reason. Confiding now in his own judgment, he will consider and
separate those different principles to which different modes of beauty
owe their original. In the former period he sought only to know and
combine excellence, wherever it was to be found, into one idea of
perfection: in this he learns, what requires the most attentive
survey, and the most subtle disquisition, to discriminate perfections
that are incompatible with each other.

He is from this time to regard himself as holding the same rank with
those masters whom he before obeyed as teachers; and as exercising a
sort of sovereignty over those rules which have hitherto restrained him.
Comparing now no longer the performances of Art with each other, but
examining the Art itself by the standard of nature, he corrects what is
erroneous, supplies what is scanty, and adds by his own observation what
the industry of his predecessors may have yet left wanting to
perfection. Having well established his judgment, and stored his memory,
he may now without fear try the power of his imagination. The mind that
has been thus disciplined may be indulged in the warmest enthusiasm, and
venture to play on the borders of the wildest extravagance. The habitual
dignity which long converse with the greatest minds has imparted to him
will display itself in all his attempts; and he will stand among his
instructors, not as an imitator, but a rival.

These are the different stages of the Art. But as I now address myself
particularly to those Students who have been this day rewarded for
their happy passage through the first period, I can with no propriety
suppose they want any help in the initiatory studies. My present
design is to direct your view to distant excellence, and to show you
the readiest path that leads to it. Of this I shall speak with such
latitude, as may leave the province of the professor uninvaded; and
shall not anticipate those precepts, which it is his business to give,
and your duty to understand.

It is indisputably evident that a great part of every man's life must
be employed in collecting materials for the exercise of genius.
Invention, strictly speaking, is little more than a new combination of
those images which have been previously gathered and deposited in the
memory: nothing can come of nothing: he who has laid up no materials
can produce no combinations.

A Student unacquainted with the attempts of former adventurers is
always apt to overrate his own abilities; to mistake the most trifling
excursions for discoveries of moment, and every coast new to him for a
new-found country. If by chance he passes beyond his usual limits, he
congratulates his own arrival at those regions which they who have
steered a better course have long left behind them.

The productions of such minds are seldom distinguished by an air of
originality: they are anticipated in their happiest efforts; and if
they are found to differ in any thing from their predecessors, it is
only in irregular sallies and trifling conceits. The more extensive,
therefore, your acquaintance is with the works of those who have
excelled, the more extensive will be your powers of invention; and
what may appear still more like a paradox, the more original will be
your conceptions. But the difficulty on this occasion is to determine
what ought to be proposed as models of excellence, and who ought to
be considered as the properest guides.

To a young man just arrived in Italy, many of the present painters of
that country are ready enough to obtrude their precepts, and to offer
their own performances as examples of that perfection which they
affect to recommend. The modern, however, who recommends himself as a
standard, may justly be suspected as ignorant of the true end, and
unacquainted with the proper object, of the art which he professes. To
follow such a guide will not only retard the Student, but mislead him.

On whom, then, can he rely, or who shall show him the path that leads to
excellence? The answer is obvious: those great masters who have
travelled the same road with success are the most likely to conduct
others. The works of those who have stood the test of ages have a claim
to that respect and veneration to which no modern can pretend. The
duration and stability of their fame is sufficient to evince that it has
not been suspended upon the slender thread of fashion and caprice, but
bound to the human heart by every tie of sympathetic approbation.

There is no danger of studying too much the works of those great men:
but how they may be studied to advantage is an inquiry of great

Some who have never raised their minds to the consideration of the
real dignity of the Art, and who rate the works of an Artist in
proportion as they excel or are defective in the mechanical parts,
look on theory as something that may enable them to talk but not to
paint better; and, confining themselves entirely to mechanical
practice, very assiduously toil on in the drudgery of copying, and
think they make a rapid progress while they faithfully exhibit the
minutest part of a favourite picture. This appears to me a very
tedious, and, I think, a very erroneous, method of proceeding. Of
every large composition, even of those which are most admired, a great
part may be truly said to be _commonplace_. This, though it takes up
much time in copying, conduces little to improvement. I consider
general copying as a delusive kind of industry: the Student satisfies
himself with the appearance of doing something; he falls into the
dangerous habit of imitating without selecting, and of labouring
without any determinate object; as it requires no effort of the mind,
he sleeps over his work: and those powers of invention and composition
which ought particularly to be called out, and put in action, lie
torpid, and lose their energy for want of exercise.

How incapable those are of producing anything of their own who have
spent much of their time in making finished copies, is well known to
all who are conversant with our art.

To suppose that the complication of powers and variety of ideas
necessary to that mind which aspires to the first honours in the Art
of Painting can be obtained by the frigid contemplation of a few
single models, is no less absurd than it would be in him who wishes to
be a poet to imagine, that by translating a tragedy he can acquire to
himself sufficient knowledge of the appearances of nature, the
operations of the passions, and the incidents of life.

The great use in copying, if it be at all useful, should seem to be in
learning to colour; yet even colouring will never be perfectly
attained by servilely copying the model before you. An eye critically
nice can only be formed by observing well-coloured pictures with
attention; and by close inspection and minute examination you will
discover, at last, the manner of handling, the artifices of contrast,
glazing, and other expedients by which good colourists have raised the
value of their tints, and by which nature has been so happily imitated.

I must inform you, however, that old pictures, deservedly celebrated
for their colouring, are often so changed by dirt and varnish that we
ought not to wonder if they do not appear equal to their reputation in
the eyes of unexperienced painters, or young Students. An artist whose
judgment is matured by long observation considers rather what the
picture once was than what it is at present. He has by habit acquired
a power of seeing the brilliancy of tints through the cloud by which
it is obscured. An exact imitation, therefore, of those pictures is
likely to fill the Student's mind with false opinions, and to send him
back a colourist of his own formation, with ideas equally remote from
nature and from art, from the genuine practice of the masters and the
real appearances of things.

Following these rules, and using these precautions, when you have
clearly and distinctly learned in what good colouring consists, you
cannot do better than have recourse to nature herself, who is always
at hand, and in comparison of whose true splendour the best coloured
pictures are but faint and feeble.

However, as the practice of copying is not entirely to be excluded,
since the mechanical practice of painting is learned in some measure by
it, let those choice parts only be selected which have recommended the
work to notice. If its excellence consists in its general effect, it
would be proper to make slight sketches of the machinery and general
management of the picture. Those sketches should be kept always by you
for the regulation of your style. Instead of copying the touches of
those great masters, copy only their conceptions. Instead of treading in
their footsteps, endeavour only to keep the same road. Labour to invent
on their general principles and way of thinking. Possess yourself with
their spirit. Consider with yourself how a Michel Angelo or a Raffaelle
would have treated this subject, and work yourself into a belief that
your picture is to be seen and criticised by them when completed. Even
an attempt of this kind will rouse your powers.

But as mere enthusiasm will carry you but a little way, let me
recommend a practice that may be equivalent to and will, perhaps, more
efficaciously contribute to your advancement than even the verbal
corrections of those masters themselves, could they be obtained. What
I would propose is, that you should enter into a kind of competition,
by painting a similar subject, and making a companion to any picture
that you consider as a model. After you have finished your work, place
it near the model, and compare them carefully together. You will then
not only see but feel your own deficiencies more sensibly than by
precepts, or any other means of instruction. The true principles of
painting will mingle with your thoughts. Ideas thus fixed by sensible
objects will be certain and definitive; and, sinking deep into the
mind, will not only be more just but more lasting than those presented
to you by precepts only, which will always be fleeting, variable, and

This method of comparing your own efforts with those of some great
master is, indeed, a severe and mortifying task, to which none will
submit but such as have great views, with fortitude sufficient to
forego the gratifications of present vanity for future honour. When
the Student has succeeded in some measure to his own satisfaction, and
has felicitated himself on his success, to go voluntary to a tribunal
where he knows his vanity must be humbled, and all self-approbation
must vanish, requires not only great resolution but great humility. To
him, however, who has the ambition to be a real master, the solid
satisfaction which proceeds from a consciousness of his advancement
(of which seeing his own faults is the first step) will very
abundantly compensate for the mortification of present disappointment.
There is, besides, this alleviating circumstance: every discovery he
makes, every acquisition of knowledge he attains, seems to proceed
from his own sagacity: and thus he acquires a confidence in himself
sufficient to keep up the resolution of perseverance.

We all must have experienced how lazily, and, consequently, how
ineffectually, instruction is received when forced upon the mind by
others. Few have been taught to any purpose who have not been their
own teachers. We prefer those instructions which we have given
ourselves, from our affection to the instructor; and they are more
effectual, from being received into the mind at the very time when it
is most open and eager to receive them.

With respect to the pictures that you are to choose for your models, I
could wish that you would take the world's opinion rather than your
own. In other words, I would have you choose those of established
reputation rather than follow your own fancy. If you should not admire
them at first, you will, by endeavouring to imitate them, find that
the world has not been mistaken.

It is not an easy task to point out those various excellencies for
your imitation which lie distributed amongst the various schools. An
endeavour to do this may, perhaps, be the subject of some future
discourse. I will, therefore, at present, only recommend a model for
style in Painting, which is a branch of the art more immediately
necessary to the young Student. Style in painting is the same as in
writing, a power over materials, whether words or colours, by which
conceptions or sentiments are conveyed. And in this Ludovico Caracci
(I mean his best works) appears to me to approach the nearest to
perfection. His unaffected breadth of light and shadow, the simplicity
of colouring, which, holding its proper rank, does not draw aside the
least part of the attention from the subject, and the solemn effect of
that twilight which seems diffused over his pictures, appear to me to
correspond with grave and dignified subjects, better than the more
artificial brilliancy of sunshine which enlightens the pictures of
Titian; though Tintoret thought that Titian's colouring was the model
of perfection, and would correspond even with the sublime of Michel
Angelo; and that if Angelo had coloured like Titian, or Titian
designed like Angelo, the world would once have had a perfect painter.

It is our misfortune, however, that those works of Caracci which I
would recommend to the Student are not often found out of Bologna. The
_St. Francis in the Midst of his Friars_, _The Transfiguration_, _The
Birth of St. John the Baptist_, _The Calling of St. Matthew_, the _St.
Jerome_, _The Fresco Paintings_ in the Zampieri palace, are all worthy
the attention of the Student. And I think those who travel would do
well to allot a much greater portion of their time to that city than
it has been hitherto the custom to bestow.

In this art, as in others, there are many teachers who profess to show
the nearest way to excellence; and many expedients have been invented
by which the toil of study might be saved. But let no man be seduced
to idleness by specious promises. Excellence is never granted to man,
but as the reward of labour. It argues, indeed, no small strength of
mind to persevere in habits of industry, without the pleasure of
perceiving those advances; which, like the hands of a clock, whilst
they make hourly approaches to their point, yet proceed so slowly as
to escape observation. A facility of drawing, like that of playing
upon a musical instrument, cannot be acquired but by an infinite
number of acts. I need not, therefore, enforce by many words the
necessity of continual application; nor tell you that the port-crayon
ought to be for ever in your hands. Various methods will occur to you
by which this power may be acquired. I would particularly recommend,
that after your return from the Academy (where I suppose your
attendance to be constant), you would endeavour to draw the figure by
memory. I will even venture to add, that by perseverance in this
custom you will become able to draw the human figure tolerably
correctly, with as little effort of the mind as is required to trace
with a pen the letters of the alphabet.

That this facility is not unattainable some members in this Academy
give a sufficient proof. And be assured, that, if this power is not
acquired whilst you are young, there will be no time for it
afterwards; at least, the attempt will be attended with as much
difficulty as those experience who learn to read or write after they
have arrived at the age of maturity.

But while I mention the port-crayon as the Student's constant
companion, he must still remember that the pencil is the instrument by
which he must hope to obtain eminence. What, therefore, I wish to
impress upon you is, that, whenever an opportunity offers, you paint
your studies instead of drawing them. This will give you such a
facility in using colours, that in time they will arrange themselves
under the pencil, even without the attention of the hand that conducts
it. If one act excluded the other, this advice could not with any
propriety be given. But if Painting comprises both drawing and
colouring, and if, by a short straggle of resolute industry, the same
expedition is attainable in painting as in drawing on paper, I cannot
see what objection can justly be made to the practice, or why that
should be done by parts which may be done all together.

If we turn our eyes to the several Schools of Painting, and consider
their respective excellencies, we shall find that those who excel most
in colouring pursued this method. The Venetian and Flemish schools,
which owe much of their fame to colouring, have enriched the cabinets
of the collectors of drawings with very few examples. Those of Titian,
Paul Veronese, Tintoret, and the Bassans, are in general slight and
undetermined. Their sketches on paper are as rude as their pictures
are excellent in regard to harmony of colouring. Correggio and
Baroccio have left few, if any, finished drawings behind them. And in
the Flemish school, Rubens and Vandyck made their designs for the most
part either in colours or in chiaro-oscuro. It is as common to find
studies of the Venetian and Flemish Painters on canvas as of the
schools of Rome and Florence on paper. Not but that many finished
drawings are sold under the names of those masters. Those, however,
are undoubtedly the productions either of engravers or their scholars,
who copied their works.

These instructions I have ventured to offer from my own experience;
but as they deviate widely from received opinions, I offer them with
diffidence, and when better are suggested shall retract them without

There is one precept, however, in which I shall only be opposed by the
vain, the ignorant, and the idle. I am not afraid that I shall repeat
it too often. You must have no dependence on your own genius. If you
have great talents, industry will improve them: if you have but
moderate abilities, industry will supply their deficiency. Nothing is
denied to well-directed labour: nothing is to be obtained without it.
Not to enter into metaphysical discussions on the nature or essence of
genius, I will venture to assert, that assiduity unabated by
difficulty, and a disposition eagerly directed to the object of its
pursuit, will produce effects similar to those which some call the
result of _natural powers_.

Though a man cannot at all times, and in all places, paint or draw,
yet the mind can prepare itself by laying in proper materials, at all
times, and in all places. Both Livy and Plutarch, in describing
Philopoemen, one of the ablest generals of antiquity, have given us a
striking picture of a mind always intent on its profession, and by
assiduity obtaining those excellencies which some all their lives
vainly expect from nature. I shall quote the passage in Livy at
length, as it runs parallel with the practice I would recommend to the
Painter, Sculptor, and Architect:--

"Philopoemen was a man eminent for his sagacity and experience in
choosing ground, and in leading armies; to which he formed his mind by
perpetual meditation, in times of peace as well as war. When, in any
occasional journey, he came to a strait, difficult passage, if he was
alone, he considered with himself, and if he was in company he asked
his friends, what it would be best to do if in this place they had
found an enemy, either in the front or in the rear, on the one side or
on the other? 'It might happen,' says he, 'that the enemy to be
opposed might come on drawn up in regular lines, or in a tumultuous
body formed only by the nature of the place.' He then considered a
little what ground he should take; what number of soldiers he should
use, and what arms he should give them; where he should lodge his
carriages, his baggage, and the defenceless followers of his camp; how
many guards, and of what kind, he should send to defend them: and
whether it would be better to press forward along the pass, or recover
by retreat his former station: he would consider likewise where his
camp could most commodiously be formed; how much ground he should
enclose within his trenches; where he should have the convenience of
water, and where he might find plenty of wood and forage; and when he
should break up his camp on the following day, through what road he
could most safely pass, and in what form he should dispose his troops.
With such thoughts and disquisitions he had from his early years so
exercised his mind, that on these occasions nothing could happen which
he had not been already accustomed to consider."

I cannot help imagining that I see a promising young Painter equally
vigilant, whether at home or abroad, in the streets or in the fields.
Every object that presents itself is to him a lesson. He regards all
nature with a view to his profession, and combines her beauties, or
corrects her defects. He examines the countenance of men under the
influence of passion; and often catches the most pleasing hints from
subjects of turbulence or deformity. Even bad pictures themselves
supply him with useful documents; and, as Lionardo da Vinci has
observed, he improves upon the fanciful images that are sometimes seen
in the fire, or are accidently sketched upon a discoloured wall.

The Artist who has his mind thus filled with ideas, and his hand made
expert by practice, works with ease and readiness; whilst he who would
have you believe that he is waiting for the inspirations of Genius, is
in reality at a loss how to begin; and is at last delivered of his
monsters with difficulty and pain.

The well-grounded Painter, on the contrary, has only maturely to
consider his subject, and all the mechanical parts of his art follow
without his exertion. Conscious of the difficulty of obtaining what he
possesses, he makes no pretensions to secrets, except those of closer
application. Without conceiving the smallest jealousy against others,
he is contented that all shall be as great as himself who have
undergone the same fatigue; and as his pre-eminence depends not upon a
trick, he is free from the painful suspicions of a juggler who lives
in perpetual fear lest his trick should be discovered.


  _Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the Distribution of
  the Prizes, December 14, 1770._


It is not easy to speak with propriety to so many Students of different
ages and different degrees of advancement. The mind requires nourishment
adapted to its growth; and what may have promoted our earlier efforts
might retard us in our nearer approaches to perfection.

The first endeavours of a young Painter, as I have remarked in a
former discourse, must be employed in the attainment of mechanical
dexterity, and confined to the mere imitation of the object before
him. Those who have advanced beyond the rudiments may, perhaps, find
advantage in reflecting on the advice which I have likewise given
them, when I recommended the diligent study of the works of our great
predecessors; but I at the same time endeavoured to guard them against
an implicit submission to the authority of any one master, however
excellent, or, by a strict imitation of his manner, precluding
themselves from the abundance and variety of Nature. I will now add,
that Nature herself is not to be too closely copied. There are
excellencies in the art of painting beyond what is commonly called the
imitation of Nature, and these excellencies I wish to point out. The
Students who, having passed through the initiatory exercises, are more
advanced in the art, and who, sure of their hand, have leisure to
exert their understanding, must now be told that a mere copier of
Nature can never produce anything great, can never raise and enlarge
the conceptions, or warm the heart of the spectator.

The wish of the genuine Painter must be more extensive; instead of
endeavouring to amuse mankind with the minute neatness of his
imitations, he must endeavour to improve them by the grandeur of his
ideas; instead of seeking praise, by deceiving the superficial sense of
the spectator, he must strive for fame, by captivating the imagination.

The principle now laid down, that the perfection of this art does not
consist in mere imitation, is far from being new or singular. It is,
indeed, supported by the general opinion of the enlightened part of
mankind. The poets, orators, and rhetoricians of antiquity are
continually enforcing this position,--that all the arts receive their
perfection from an ideal beauty, superior to what is to be found in
individual nature. They are ever referring to the practice of the
painters and sculptors of their times, particularly Phidias (the
favourite artist of antiquity), to illustrate their assertions. As if
they could not sufficiently express their admiration of his genius by
what they knew, they have recourse to poetical enthusiasm: they call
it inspiration--a gift from heaven. The artist is supposed to have
ascended the celestial regions, to furnish his mind with this perfect
idea of beauty. "He," says Proclus,[1] "who takes for his model such
forms as Nature produces, and confines himself to an exact imitation
of them, will never attain to what is perfectly beautiful; for the
works of Nature are full of disproportion, and fall very short of the
true standard of beauty. So that Phidias, when he formed his Jupiter,
did not copy any object ever presented to his sight, but contemplated
only that image which he had conceived in his mind from Homer's
description." And thus Cicero, speaking of the same Phidias:--"Neither
did this artist," says he, "when he carved the image of Jupiter or
Minerva, set before him any one human figure, as a pattern, which he
was to copy; but having a more perfect idea of beauty fixed in his
mind, this is steadily contemplated, and to the imitation of this all
his skill and labour were directed."

The Moderns are not less convinced than the Ancients of this superior
power existing in the art; nor less sensible of its effects. Every
language has adopted terms expressive of this excellence. The _gusto
grande_ of the Italians, the _beau idéal_ of the French, and _great
style_, _genius_, and _taste_ among the English, are but different
appellations of the same thing. It is this intellectual dignity, they
say, that ennobles the Painter's art; that lays the line between him
and the mere mechanic; and produces those great effects in an instant,
which eloquence and poetry, by slow and repeated efforts, are scarcely
able to attain.

Such is the warmth with which both the Ancients and Moderns speak of
this divine principle of the art; but, as I have formerly observed,
enthusiastic admiration seldom promotes knowledge. Though a Student by
such praise may have his attention roused, and a desire excited, of
running in this great career, yet it is possible that what has been
said to excite may only serve to deter him. He examines his own mind,
and perceives there nothing of that divine inspiration with which he
is told so many others have been favoured. He never travelled to
heaven to gather new ideas; and he finds himself possessed of no other
qualifications than what mere common observation and a plain
understanding can confer. Thus he becomes gloomy amidst the splendour
of figurative declamation, and thinks it hopeless to pursue an object
which he supposes out of the reach of human industry.

But on this, as upon many other occasions, we ought to distinguish how
much is to be given to enthusiasm, and how much to reason. We ought to
allow for, and we ought to commend, that strength of vivid expression
which is necessary to convey, in its full force, the highest sense of
the most complete effect of art; taking care, at the same time, not to
lose in terms of vague admiration that solidity and truth of principle
upon which alone we can reason, and may be enabled to practise.

It is not easy to define in what this great style consists; nor to
describe, by words, the proper means of acquiring it, if the mind of the
Student should be at all capable of such an acquisition. Could we teach
taste or genius by rules, they would be no longer taste and genius. But
though there neither are, nor can be, any precise invariable rules for
the exercise, or the acquisition, of these great qualities, yet we may
truly say, that they always operate in proportion to our attention in
observing the works of Nature, to our skill in selecting, and to our
care in digesting, methodising, and comparing our observations. There
are many beauties in our art that seem, at first, to lie without the
reach of precept, and yet may easily be reduced to practical principles.
Experience is all in all: but it is not every one who profits by
experience; and most people err, not so much from want of capacity to
find their object, as from not knowing what object to pursue. This great
ideal perfection and beauty are not to be sought in the heavens, but
upon the earth. They are about us, and upon every side of us. But the
power of discovering what is deformed in Nature, or, in other words,
what is particular and uncommon, can be acquired only by experience;
and the whole beauty and grandeur of the art consists, in my opinion, in
being able to get above all singular forms, local customs,
particularities, and details of every kind.

All the objects which are exhibited to our view by Nature, upon close
examination will be found to have their blemishes and defects. The
most beautiful forms have something about them like weakness,
minuteness, or imperfection. But it is not every eye that perceives
these blemishes. It must be an eye long used to the contemplation and
comparison of these forms; and which, by a long habit of observing
what any set of objects of the same kind have in common, has acquired
the power of discerning what each wants in particular. This long,
laborious comparison should be the first study of the Painter who aims
at the great style. By this means he acquires a just idea of beautiful
forms; he corrects Nature by herself, her imperfect state by her more
perfect. His eye being enabled to distinguish the accidental
deficiencies, excrescences, and deformities of things, from their
general figures, he makes out an abstract idea of their forms more
perfect than any one original; and what may seem a paradox, he learns
to design naturally by drawing his figures unlike to any one object.
This idea of the perfect state of Nature, which the Artist calls the
Ideal beauty, is the great leading principle by which works of genius
are conducted. By this Phidias acquired his fame. He wrought upon a
sober principle what has so much excited the enthusiasm of the world;
and by this method you, who have courage to tread the same path, may
acquire equal reputation.

This is the idea which has acquired, and which seems to have a right
to, the epithet of _divine_; as it may be said to preside, like a
supreme judge, over all the productions of Nature, appearing to be
possessed of the will and intention of the Creator, as far as they
regard the external form of living beings. When a man once possesses
this idea in its perfection, there is no danger but that he will be
sufficiently warmed by it himself, and be able to warm and ravish
every one else.

Thus it is from a reiterated experience, and a close comparison of the
objects in Nature, that an artist becomes possessed of the idea of
that central form, if I may so express it, from which every deviation
is deformity. But the investigation of this form, I grant, is painful,
and I know but of one method of shortening the road; this is, by a
careful study of the works of the ancient sculptors; who, being
indefatigable in the school of Nature, have left models of that
perfect form behind them, which an artist would prefer as supremely
beautiful, who had spent his whole life in that single contemplation.
But if industry carried them thus far, may not you also hope for the
same reward from the same labour? We have the same school opened to us
that was opened to them; for Nature denies her instructions to none
who desire to become her pupils.

This laborious investigation, I am aware, must appear superfluous to
those who think everything is to be done by felicity and the powers of
native genius. Even the great Bacon treats with ridicule the idea of
confining proportion to rules, or of producing beauty by selection. "A
man cannot tell," says he, "whether Apelles or Albert Durer were the
more trifler: whereof the one would make a personage by geometrical
proportions; the other, by taking the best parts out of divers faces,
to make one excellent. . . The painter," he adds, "must do it by a
kind of felicity . . . and not by rule."[2]

It is not safe to question any opinion of so great a writer, and so
profound a thinker, as undoubtedly Bacon was. But he studies brevity to
excess; and therefore his meaning is sometimes doubtful. If he means
that beauty has nothing to do with rule, he is mistaken. There is a
rule, obtained out of general Nature, to contradict which is to fall
into deformity. Whenever anything is done beyond this rule, it is in
virtue of some other rule which is followed along with it, but which
does not contradict it. Everything which is wrought with certainty, it
is wrought upon some principle. If is not, it cannot be repeated. If by
felicity is meant anything of chance or hazard, or something born with a
man, and not earned, I cannot agree with this great philosopher. Every
object which pleases must give us pleasure upon some certain principles:
but as the objects of pleasure are almost infinite, so their principles
vary without end, and every man finds them out, not by felicity or
successful hazard, but by care and sagacity.

To the principle I have laid down, that the idea of beauty in each
species of beings is an invariable one, it may be objected, that in
every particular species there are various central forms, which are
separate and distinct from each other, and yet are undeniably
beautiful; that in the human figure, for instance, the beauty of
Hercules is one, of the Gladiator another, of the Apollo another;
which makes so many different ideas of beauty.

It is true, indeed, that these figures are each perfect in their kind,
though of different characters and proportions; but still none of them
is the representation of an individual, but of a class. And as there
is one general form, which, as I have said, belongs to the human kind
at large, so in each of these classes there is one common idea and
central form, which is the abstract of the various individual forms
belonging to that class. Thus, though the forms of childhood and age
differ exceedingly, there is a common form in childhood, and a common
form in age, which is the more perfect, as it is more remote from all
peculiarities. But I must add further, that though the most perfect
forms of each of the general divisions of the human figure are ideal
and superior to any individual form of that class; yet the highest
perfection of the human figure is not to be found in any one of them.
It is not in the Hercules, nor in the Gladiator, nor in the Apollo;
but in that form which is taken from all, and which partakes equally
of the activity of the Gladiator, of the delicacy of the Apollo, and
of the muscular strength of the Hercules. For perfect beauty in any
species must combine all the characters which are beautiful in that
species. It cannot consist in any one to the exclusion of the rest: no
one, therefore, must be predominant, that no one may be deficient.

The knowledge of these different characters, and the power of
separating and distinguishing them, is undoubtedly necessary to the
Painter, who is to vary his compositions with figures of various forms
and proportions, though he is never to lose sight of the general idea
of perfection in each kind.

There is, likewise, a kind of symmetry, or proportion, which may
properly be said to belong to deformity. A figure lean or corpulent,
tall or short, though deviating from beauty, may still have a certain
union of the various parts, which may contribute to make them on the
whole not unpleasing.

When the Artist has by diligent attention acquired a clear and
distinct idea of beauty and symmetry; when he has reduced the variety
of nature to the abstract idea; his next task will be to become
acquainted with the genuine habits of nature, as distinguished from
those of fashion. For in the same manner, and on the same principles,
as he has acquired the knowledge of the real forms of nature, distinct
from accidental deformity, he must endeavour to separate simple chaste
nature from those adventitious, those affected and forced airs or
actions, with which she is loaded by modern education.

Perhaps I cannot better explain what I mean than by reminding you of
what was taught us by the Professor of Anatomy, in respect to the
natural position and movement of the feet. He observed that the
fashion of turning them outwards was contrary to the intent of nature,
as might be seen from the structure of the bones, and from the
weakness that proceeded from that manner of standing. To this we may
add the erect position of the head, the projection of the chest, the
walking with straight knees, and many such actions, which we know to
be merely the result of fashion, and what nature never warranted, as
we are sure that we have been taught them when children.

I have mentioned but a few of those instances, in which vanity or
caprice have contrived to distort and disfigure the human form; your
own recollection will add to these a thousand more of ill-understood
methods, which have been practised to disguise nature among our
dancing-masters, hairdressers, and tailors, in their various schools
of deformity.[3]

However the mechanic and ornamental arts may sacrifice to Fashion, she
must be entirely excluded from the Art of Painting; the painter must
never mistake this capricious challenging for the genuine offspring
of nature; he must divest himself of all prejudices in favour of his
age or country; he must disregard all local and temporary ornaments,
and look only on those general habits which are everywhere and always
the same; he addresses his works to the people of every country and
every age, he calls upon posterity to be his spectators, and says,
with Zeuxis, _In æternitatem pingo_.

The neglect of separating modern fashions from the habits of nature
leads to that ridiculous style which has been practised by some
painters, who have given to Grecian heroes the airs and graces practised
in the court of Louis XIV.; an absurdity almost as great as it would
have been to have dressed them after the fashion of that court.

To avoid this error, however, and to retain the true simplicity of
nature, is a task more difficult than at first sight it may appear.
The prejudices in favour of the fashions and customs that we have been
used to, and which are justly called a second nature, make it too
often difficult to distinguish that which is natural from that which
is the result of education; they frequently even give a predilection
in favour of the artificial mode; and almost every one is apt to be
guided by those local prejudices, who has not chastised his mind, and
regulated the instability of his affections by the eternal invariable
idea of nature.

Here, then, as before, we must have recourse to the ancients as
instructors. It is from a careful study of their works that you will
be enabled to attain to the real simplicity of nature; they will
suggest many observations which would probably escape you, if your
study were confined to nature alone. And, indeed, I cannot help
suspecting, that, in this instance, the ancients had an easier task
than the moderns. They had, probably, little or nothing to unlearn,
as their manners were nearly approaching to this desirable simplicity;
while the modern artist, before he can see the truth of things, is
obliged to remove a veil, with which the fashion of the times has
thought proper to cover her.

Having gone thus far in our investigation of the great style in
painting; if we now should suppose that the artist has found the true
idea of beauty, which enables him to give his works a correct and
perfect design; if we should suppose, also, that he has acquired a
knowledge of the unadulterated habits of nature, which gives him
simplicity; the rest of his task is, perhaps, less than is generally
imagined. Beauty and simplicity have so great a share in the
composition of a great style, that he who has acquired them has little
else to learn. It must not, indeed, be forgotten that there is a
nobleness of conception which goes beyond anything in the mere
exhibition even of perfect form; there is an art of animating and
dignifying the figures with intellectual grandeur, of impressing the
appearance of philosophic wisdom, or heroic virtue. This can only be
acquired by him that enlarges the sphere of his understanding by a
variety of knowledge, and warms his imagination with the best
productions of ancient and modern poetry.

A hand thus exercised, and a mind thus instructed, will bring the art to
a higher degree of excellence than, perhaps, it has hitherto attained in
this country. Such a student will disdain the humbler walks of painting,
which, however profitable, can never assure him a permanent reputation.
He will leave the meaner artist servilely to suppose that those are the
best pictures which are most likely to deceive the spectator. He will
permit the lower painter, like the florist or collector of shells, to
exhibit the minute discriminations, which distinguish one object of the
same species from another; while he, like the philosopher, will consider
nature in the abstract, and represent in every one of his figures the
character of its species.

If deceiving the eye were the only business of the art, there is no
doubt, indeed, but the minute painter would be more apt to succeed;
but it is not the eye, it is the mind which the painter of genius
desires to address; nor will he waste a moment upon those smaller
objects which only serve to catch the sense, to divide the attention,
and to counteract his great design of speaking to the heart.

This is the ambition which I wish to excite in your minds; and the
object I have had in my view, throughout this discourse, is that one
great idea which gives to painting its true dignity, which entitles it
to the name of a liberal art, and ranks it as a sister of poetry.

It may possibly have happened to many young students, whose
application was sufficient to overcome all difficulties, and whose
minds were capable of embracing the most extensive views, that they
have, by a wrong direction originally given, spent their lives in the
meaner walks of painting, without ever knowing there was a nobler to
pursue. Albert Durer, as Vasari has justly remarked, would probably
have been one of the first painters of his age (and he lived in an era
of great artists) had he been initiated into those great principles of
the art, which were so well understood and practised by his
contemporaries in Italy. But, unluckily, having never seen nor heard
of any other manner, he, without doubt, considered his own as perfect.

As for the various departments of painting which do not presume to
make such high pretensions, they are many. None of them are without
their merit, though none enter into competition with this universal
presiding idea of the art. The painters who have applied themselves
more particularly to low and vulgar characters, and who express with
precision the various shades of passion as they are exhibited by
vulgar minds (such as we see in the works of Hogarth), deserve great
praise; but as their genius has been employed on low and confined
subjects, the praise which we give must be as limited as its object.
The merrymaking or quarrelling of the Boors of Teniers; the same sort
of productions of Brouwer or Ostade, are excellent in their kind; and
the excellence and its praise will be in proportion, as, in those
limited subjects and peculiar forms, they introduce more or less of
the expression of those passions as they appear in general and more
enlarged nature. This principle may be applied to the Battle-pieces of
Bourgognone, the French Gallantries of Watteau, and even beyond the
exhibition of animal life, to the Landscapes of Claude Lorraine, and
the Sea-Views of Vandervelde. All these painters have, in general, the
same right, in different degrees, to the name of a painter, which a
satirist, an epigrammatist, a sonneteer, a writer of pastorals or
descriptive poetry, has to that of a poet.

In the same rank, and perhaps of not so great merit, is the cold
painter of portraits. But his correct and just imitation of his object
has its merit. Even the painter of still life, whose highest ambition
is to give a minute representation of every part of those low objects
which he sets before him, deserves praise in proportion to his
attainment; because no part of this excellent art, so much the
ornament of polished life, is destitute of value and use. These,
however, are by no means the views to which the mind of the student
ought to be _primarily_ directed. Having begun by aiming at better
things, if from particular inclination, or from the taste of the time
and place he lives in, or from necessity, or from failure in the
highest attempts, he is obliged to descend lower, he will bring into
the lower sphere of art a grandeur of composition and character that
will raise and ennoble his works far above their natural rank.

A man is not weak, though he may not be able to wield the club of
Hercules; nor does a man always practice that which he esteems the
best, but does that which he can best do. In moderate attempts there
are many walks open to the artist. But as the idea of beauty is of
necessity but one, so there can be but one great mode of painting; the
leading principle of which I have endeavoured to explain.

I should be sorry if what is here recommended should be at all
understood to countenance a careless or undetermined manner of
painting. For, though the painter is to overlook the accidental
discriminations of nature, he is to exhibit distinctly, and with
precision, the general forms of things. A firm and determined outline
is one of the characteristics of the great style in painting; and, let
me add, that he who possesses the knowledge of the exact form which
every part of nature ought to have, will be fond of expressing that
knowledge with correctness and precision in all his works.

To conclude: I have endeavoured to reduce the idea of beauty to
general principles; and I had the pleasure to observe that the
Professor of Painting proceeded in the same method, when he showed you
that the artifice of contrast was founded but on one principle. I am
convinced that this is the only means of advancing science; of
clearing the mind from a confused heap of contradictory observations,
that do but perplex and puzzle the student, when he compares them, or
misguide him if he gives himself up to their authority; bringing them
under one general head can alone give rest and satisfaction to an
inquisitive mind.


1: Lib. 2, in Timæum Platonis, as cited by Junius de Pictura

2: _Essays_, p. 252, edit. 1625.

3: "Those," says Quintilian, "who are taken with the outward
show of things, think that there is more beauty in persons who are
trimmed, curled, and painted, than uncorrupt nature can give; as if
beauty were merely the effect of the corruption of manners."--R.


  _Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the Distribution
  of the Prizes, December 10, 1771._


The value and rank of every art is in proportion to the mental labour
employed in it, or the mental pleasure produced by it. As this
principle is observed or neglected, our profession becomes either a
liberal art or a mechanical trade. In the hands of one man, it makes
the highest pretensions, as it is addressed to the noblest faculties:
in those of another, it is reduced to a mere matter of ornament; and
the painter has but the humble province of furnishing our apartments
with elegance.

This exertion of mind, which is the only circumstance that truly
ennobles our Art, makes the great distinction between the Roman and
Venetian schools. I have formerly observed that perfect form is
produced by leaving out particularities, and retaining only general
ideas: I shall now endeavour to show that this principle, which I have
proved to be metaphysically just, extends itself to every part of the
Art; that it gives what is called the _grand style_ to Invention, to
Composition, to Expression, and even to Colouring and Drapery.

Invention, in Painting, does not imply the invention of the subject,
for that is commonly supplied by the Poet or Historian. With respect
to the choice, no subject can be proper that is not generally
interesting. It ought to be either some eminent instance of heroic
action or heroic suffering. There must be something, either in the
action or in the object, in which men are universally concerned, and
which powerfully strikes upon the public sympathy.

Strictly speaking, indeed, no subject can be of universal, hardly can
it be of general, concern; but there are events and characters so
popularly known in those countries where our Art is in request, that
they may be considered as sufficiently general for all our purposes.
Such are the great events of Greek and Roman fable and history, which
early education, and the usual course of reading, have made familiar
and interesting to all Europe, without being degraded by the vulgarism
of ordinary life in any country. Such, too, are the capital subjects
of Scripture history, which, beside their general notoriety, become
venerable by their connection with our religion.

As it is required that the subject selected should be a general one,
it is no less necessary that it should be kept unembarrassed with
whatever may any way serve to divide the attention of the spectator.
Whenever a story is related, every man forms a picture in his mind of
the action and expression of the persons employed. The power of
representing this mental picture on canvas is what we call invention
in a Painter. And as, in the conception of this ideal picture, the
mind does not enter into the minute peculiarities of the dress,
furniture, or scene of action; so, when the Painter comes to represent
it, he contrives those little necessary concomitant circumstances in
such a manner that they shall strike the spectator no more than they
did himself in his first conception of the story.

I am very ready to allow that some circumstances of minuteness and
particularity frequently tend to give an air of truth to a piece, and
to interest the spectator in an extraordinary manner. Such
circumstances, therefore, cannot wholly be rejected: but if there be
anything in the Art which require peculiar nicety of discernment, it
is the disposition of these minute circumstantial parts; which,
according to the judgment employed in the choice, become so useful to
truth, or so injurious to grandeur.

However, the usual and most dangerous error is on the side of
minuteness; and, therefore, I think caution most necessary where most
have failed. The general idea constitutes real excellence. All smaller
things, however perfect in their way, are to be sacrificed without
mercy to the greater. The Painter will not inquire what things may be
admitted without much censure; he will not think it enough to show
that they may be there; he will show that they must be there; that
their absence would render his picture maimed and defective.

Thus, though to the principal group a second or third be added, and a
second and third mass of light, care must be taken that these
subordinate actions and lights, neither each in particular, nor all
together, come into any degree of competition with the principal: they
should merely make a part of that whole which would be imperfect
without them. To every kind of painting this rule may be applied. Even
in portraits, the grace, and, we may add, the likeness consists more
in taking the general air than in observing the exact similitude of
every feature.

Thus figures must have a ground whereon to stand; they must be
clothed; there must be a background; there must be light and shadow;
but none of these ought to appear to have taken up any part of the
artist's attention. They should be so managed as not even to catch
that of the spectator. We know well enough, when we analyse a piece,
the difficulty and the subtlety with which an artist adjusts the
background drapery and masses of light; we know that a considerable
part of the grace and effect of his picture depends upon them; but
this art is so much concealed, even to a judicious eye, that no
remains of any of these subordinate parts occur to the memory when the
picture is not present.

The great end of the art is to strike the imagination. The Painter,
therefore, is to make no ostentation of the means by which this is
done; the spectator is only to feel the result in his bosom. An
inferior artist is unwilling that any part of his industry should be
lost upon the spectator. He takes as much pains to discover, as the
greater artist does to conceal, the marks of his subordinate
assiduity. In works of the lower kind everything appears studied and
encumbered; it is all boastful art and open affectation. The ignorant
often part from such pictures with wonder in their mouths and
indifference in their hearts.

But it is not enough in Invention that the Artist should restrain and
keep under all the inferior parts of his subject; he must sometimes
deviate from vulgar and strict historical truth, in pursuing the
grandeur of his design.

How much the great style exacts from its professors to conceive and
represent their subjects in a poetical manner, not confined to mere
matter of fact, may be seen in the Cartoons of Raffaelle. In all the
pictures in which the painter has represented the apostles, he has
drawn them with great nobleness; he has given them as much dignity as
the human figure is capable of receiving; yet we are expressly told
in Scripture they had no such respectable appearance; and of St. Paul,
in particular, we are told, by himself, that his _bodily_ presence was
_mean_. Alexander is said to have been of a low stature: a Painter
ought not so to represent him. Agesilaus was low, lame, and of a mean
appearance: none of these defects ought to appear in a piece of which
he is the hero. In conformity to custom, I call this part of the art
History Painting; it ought to be called Poetical, as in reality it is.

All this is not falsifying any fact; it is taking an allowed poetical
license. A painter of portraits retains the individual likeness; a
painter of history shows the man by showing his action. A Painter must
compensate the natural deficiencies of his art. He has but one
sentence to utter, but one moment to exhibit. He cannot, like the poet
or historian, expatiate, and impress the mind with great veneration
for the character of the hero or saint he represents, though he lets
us know, at the same time, that the saint was deformed or the hero
lame. The Painter has no other means of giving an idea of the dignity
of the mind, but by that external appearance which grandeur of thought
does generally, though not always, impress on the countenance; and by
that correspondence of figure to sentiment and situation, which all
men wish, but cannot command. The Painter who may in this one
particular attain with ease what others desire in vain, ought to give
all that he possibly can, since there are so many circumstances of
true greatness that he cannot give at all. He cannot make his hero
talk like a great man; he must make him look like one. For which
reason he ought to be well studied in the analysis of those
circumstances which constitute dignity of appearance in real life.

As in Invention, so likewise in Expression, care must be taken not to
run into particularities. Those expressions alone should be given to
the figures which their respective situations generally produce. Nor
is this enough; each person should also have that expression which men
of his rank generally exhibit. The joy, or the grief, of a character
of dignity is not to be expressed in the same manner as a similar
passion in a vulgar face. Upon this principle, Bernini, perhaps, may
be subject to censure. This sculptor, in many respects admirable, has
given a very mean expression to his statue of David, who is
represented as just going to throw the stone from the sling; and, in
order to give it the expression of energy, he has made him biting his
under lip. This expression is far from being general, and still
farther from being dignified. He might have seen it in an instance or
two; and he mistook accident for generality.

With respect to Colouring, though it may appear at first a part of
painting merely mechanical, yet it still has its rules, and those
grounded upon that presiding principle which regulates both the great
and the little in the study of a painter. By this, the first effect of
the picture is produced; and as this is performed, the spectator, as
he walks the gallery, will stop, or pass along. To give a general air
of grandeur at first view, all trifling, or artful play of little
lights, or an attention to a variety of tints, is to be avoided; a
quietness and simplicity must reign over the whole work; to which a
breadth of uniform and simple colour will very much contribute.
Grandeur of effect is produced by two different ways, which seem
entirely opposed to each other. One is, by reducing the colours to
little more than chiaro-oscuro, which was often the practice of the
Bolognian schools; and the other, by making the colours very distinct
and forcible, such as we see in those of Rome and Florence; but still,
the presiding principle of both those manners is simplicity.
Certainly, nothing can be more simple than monotony; and the distinct
blue, red, and yellow colours which are seen in the draperies of the
Roman and Florentine schools, though they have not that kind of
harmony which is produced by a variety of broken and transparent
colours, have that effect of grandeur which was intended. Perhaps
these distinct colours strike the mind more forcibly, from there not
being any great union between them; as martial music, which is
intended to rouse the nobler passions, has its effect from the sudden
and strongly-marked transitions from one note to another which that
style of music requires; whilst in that which is intended to move the
softer passions, the notes imperceptibly melt into one another.

In the same manner as the historical painter never enters into the
detail of colours, so neither does he debase his conceptions with
minute attention to the discriminations of drapery. It is the inferior
style that marks the variety of stuffs. With him the clothing is
neither woollen, nor linen, nor silk, satin, or velvet: it is drapery;
it is nothing more. The art of disposing the foldings of the drapery
makes a very considerable part of the painter's study. To make it
merely natural is a mechanical operation, to which neither genius nor
taste are required; whereas it requires the nicest judgment to dispose
the drapery, so that the folds shall have an easy communication, and
gracefully follow each other with such natural negligence as to look
like the effect of chance, and at the same time show the figure under
it to the utmost advantage.

Carlo Maratti was of opinion that the disposition of drapery was a
more difficult art than even that of drawing the human figure; that a
student might be more easily taught the latter than the former; as the
rules of drapery, he said, could not be so well ascertained as those
for delineating a correct form. This, perhaps, is a proof how
willingly we favour our own peculiar excellence. Carlo Maratti is said
to have valued himself particularly upon his skill in this part of his
art; yet in him, the disposition appears so ostentatiously artificial,
that he is inferior to Raffaelle, even in that which gave him his best
claim to reputation.

Such is the great principle by which we must be directed in the nobler
branches of our art. Upon this principle, the Roman, the Florentine,
the Bolognese schools have formed their practice; and by this they
have deservedly obtained the highest praise. These are the three great
schools of the world in the epic style. The best of the French school,
Poussin, Le Sueur, and Le Brun, have formed themselves upon these
models, and consequently may be said, though Frenchmen, to be a colony
from the Roman school. Next to these, but in a very different style of
excellence, we may rank the Venetian, together with the Flemish and
Dutch schools; all professing to depart from the great purposes of
painting, and catching at applause by inferior qualities.

I am not ignorant that some will censure me for placing the Venetians
in this inferior class, and many of the warmest admirers of painting
will think them unjustly degraded; but I wish not to be misunderstood.
Though I can by no means allow them to hold any rank with the nobler
schools of painting, they accomplished perfectly the thing they
attempted. But as mere elegance is their principal object, as they
seem more willing to dazzle than to affect, it can be no injury to
them to suppose that their practice is useful only to its proper end.
But what may heighten the elegant may degrade the sublime. There is a
simplicity, and, I may add, severity, in the great manner, which is,
I am afraid, almost incompatible with this comparatively sensual style.

Tintoret, Paul Veronese, and others of the Venetian school, seem to
have painted with no other purpose than to be admired for their skill
and expertness in the mechanism of painting, and to make a parade of
that art, which, as I before observed, the higher style requires its
followers to conceal.

In a conference of the French Academy, at which were present Le Brun,
Sabastian Bourdon, and all the eminent Artists of that age, one of the
Academicians desired to have their opinion on the conduct of Paul
Veronese, who, though a painter of great consideration, had, contrary
to the strict rules of art, in his picture of Perseus and Andromeda,
represented the principal figure in shade. To this question no
satisfactory answer was then given. But I will venture to say, that,
if they had considered the class of the Artist, and ranked him as an
ornamental Painter, there would have been no difficulty in
answering--"It was unreasonable to expect what was never intended. His
intention was solely to produce an effect of light and shadow;
everything was to be sacrificed to that intent, and the capricious
composition of that picture suited very well with the style which he

Young minds are indeed too apt to be captivated by this splendour of
style; and that of the Venetians is particularly pleasing; for by them
all those parts of the Art that gave pleasure to the eye or sense have
been cultivated with care, and carried to the degree nearest to
perfection. The powers exerted in the mechanical part of the Art have
been called _the language of Painters_; but we may say, that it is but
poor eloquence which only shows that the orator can talk. Words should
be employed as the means, not as the end: language is the instrument,
conviction is the work.

The language of Painting must indeed be allowed these masters; but
even in that they have shown more copiousness than choice, and more
luxuriancy than judgment. If we consider the uninteresting subjects of
their invention, or at least the uninteresting manner in which they
are treated; if we attend to their capricious composition, their
violent and affected contrasts, whether of figures or of light and
shadow, the richness of their drapery, and, at the same time, the mean
effect which the discrimination of stuffs gives to their pictures; if
to these we add their total inattention to expression; and then
reflect on the conceptions and the learning of Michel Angelo, or the
simplicity of Raffaelle, we can no longer dwell on the comparison.
Even in colouring, if we compare the quietness and chastity of the
Bolognese pencil to the bustle and tumult that fills every part of a
Venetian picture, without the least attempt to interest the passions,
their boasted art will appear a mere struggle without effect; _a tale
told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing_.

Such as suppose that the great style might happily be blended with the
ornamental, that the simple, grave, and majestic dignity of Raffaelle
could unite with the glow and bustle of a Paolo or Tintoret, are totally
mistaken. The principles by which each is attained are so contrary to
each other, that they seem, in my opinion, incompatible, and as
impossible to exist together, as that in the mind the most sublime ideas
and the lowest sensuality should at the same time be united.

The subjects of the Venetian Painters are mostly such as give them an
opportunity of introducing a great number of figures; such as feasts,
marriages, and processions, public martyrdoms, or miracles. I can
easily conceive that Paul Veronese, if he were asked, would say, that
no subject was proper for an historical picture, but such as admitted
at least forty figures; for in a less number, he would assert, there
could be no opportunity of the Painter's showing his art in
composition, his dexterity of managing and disposing the masses of
light and groups of figures, and of introducing a variety of Eastern
dresses and characters in their rich stuffs.

But the thing is very different with a pupil of the greater schools.
Annibale Caracci thought twelve figures sufficient for any story; he
conceived that more would contribute to no end but to fill space; that
they would be but cold spectators of the general action, or, to use
his own expression, that they would be _figures to be let_. Besides,
it is impossible for a picture composed of so many parts to have that
effect so indispensably necessary to grandeur, that of one complete
whole. However contradictory it may be in geometry, it is true in
taste, that many little things will not make a great one. The Sublime
impresses the mind at once with one great idea; it is a single blow:
the Elegant, indeed, may be produced by repetition; by an accumulation
of many minute circumstances.

However great the difference is between the composition of the Venetian
and the rest of the Italian schools, there is full as great a disparity
in the effect of their pictures as produced by colours. And though in
this respect the Venetians must be allowed extraordinary skill, yet even
that skill, as they have employed it, will but ill correspond with the
great style. Their colouring is not only too brilliant, but, I will
venture to say, too harmonious, to produce that solidity, steadiness,
and simplicity of effect, which heroic subjects require, and which
simple or grave colours only can give to a work. That they are to be
cautiously studied by those who are ambitious of treading the great
walk of history, is confirmed, if it wants confirmation, by the greatest
of all authorities, Michel Angelo. This wonderful man, after having seen
a picture by Titian, told Vasari, who accompanied him, "that he liked
much his colouring and manner;" but then he added, "that it was a pity
the Venetian painters did not learn to draw correctly in their early
youth, and adopt a better _manner of study_."

By this it appears that the principal attention of the Venetian
painters, in the opinion of Michel Angelo, seemed to be engrossed by
the study of colours, to the neglect of the _ideal beauty of form_, or
propriety of expression. But if general censure was given to that
school from the sight of a picture of Titian, how much more heavily
and more justly would the censure fall on Paolo Veronese, and more
especially on Tintoret? And here I cannot avoid citing Vasari's
opinion of the style and manner of Tintoret. "Of all the extraordinary
geniuses," says he, "that have practised the art of painting, for
wild, capricious, extravagant, and fantastical inventions, for furious
impetuosity and boldness in the execution of his work, there is none
like Tintoret; his strange whimsies are even beyond extravagance; and
his works seem to be produced rather by chance than in consequence of
any previous design, as if he wanted to convince the world that the
art was a trifle, and of the most easy attainment."

For my own part, when I speak of the Venetian painters, I wish to be
understood to mean Paolo Veronese and Tintoret, to the exclusion of
Titian; for though his style is not so pure as that of many other of
the Italian Schools, yet there is a sort of senatorial dignity about
him, which, however awkward in his imitators, seems to become him
exceedingly. His portraits alone, from the nobleness and simplicity
of character which he always gave them, will entitle him to the
greatest respect, as he undoubtedly stands in the first rank in this
branch of the art.

It is not with Titian, but with the seducing qualities of the two
former, that I could wish to caution you against being too much
captivated. These are the persons who may be said to have exhausted
all the powers of florid eloquence, to debauch the young and
unexperienced; and have, without doubt, been the cause of turning off
the attention of the connoisseur and of the patron of art, as well as
that of the painter, from those higher excellencies of which the art
is capable, and which ought to be required in every considerable
production. By them, and their imitators, a style merely ornamental
has been disseminated throughout all Europe. Rubens carried it to
Flanders; Voet to France; and Lucca Giordano to Spain and Naples.

The Venetian is indeed the most splendid of the schools of elegance;
and it is not without reason that the best performances in this lower
school are valued higher than the second-rate performances of those
above them; for every picture has value when it has a decided
character, and is excellent in its kind. But the student must take
care not to be so much dazzled with this splendour as to be tempted to
imitate what must ultimately lead from perfection. Poussin, whose eye
was always steadily fixed on the sublime, has been often heard to say,
"that a particular attention to colouring was an obstacle to the
student, in his progress to the great end and design of the art; and
that he who attaches himself to this principal end will acquire by
practice a reasonably good method of colouring."

Though it be allowed that elaborate harmony of colouring, a brilliancy
of tints, a soft and gradual transition from one to another, present
to the eye what an harmonious concert of music does to the ear, it
must be remembered that painting is not merely a gratification of the
sight. Such excellence, though properly cultivated, where nothing
higher than elegance is intended, is weak and unworthy of regard, when
the work aspires to grandeur and sublimity.

The same reasons that have been urged to show that a mixture of the
Venetian style cannot improve the great style, will hold good in
regard to the Flemish and Dutch schools. Indeed, the Flemish school,
of which Rubens is the head, was formed upon that of the Venetian;
like them, he took his figures too much from the people before him.
But it must be allowed in favour of the Venetians, that he was more
gross than they, and carried all their mistaken methods to a far
greater excess. In the Venetian school itself, where they all err from
the same cause, there is a difference in the effect. The difference
between Paolo and Bassano seems to be only, that one introduced
Venetian gentlemen into his pictures, and the other the boors of the
district of Bassano, and called them patriarchs and prophets.

The painters of the Dutch school have still more locality. With them a
history-piece is properly a portrait of themselves; whether they
describe the inside or outside of their houses, we have their own
people engaged in their own peculiar occupations; working or drinking,
playing or fighting. The circumstances that enter into a picture of
this kind are so far from giving a general view of human life, that
they exhibit all the minute particularities of a nation differing in
several respects from the rest of mankind. Yet let them have their
share of more humble praise. The painters of this school are excellent
in their own way; they are only ridiculous when they attempt general
history on their own narrow principles, and debase great events by the
meanness of their characters.

Some inferior dexterity, some extraordinary mechanical power, is
apparently that from which they seek distinction. Thus, we see that
school alone has the custom of representing candle-light, not as it
really appears to us by night, but red, as it would illuminate objects
to a spectator by day. Such tricks, however pardonable in the little
style, where petty effects are the sole end, are inexcusable in the
greater, where the attention should never be drawn aside by trifles,
but should be entirely occupied by the subject itself.

The same local principles which characterise the Dutch school extend
even to their landscape painters; and Rubens himself, who has painted
many landscapes, has sometimes transgressed in this particular. Their
pieces in this way are, I think, always a representation of an
individual spot, and each in its kind a very faithful but a very
confined portrait. Claude Lorrain, on the contrary, was convinced that
taking nature as he found it seldom produced beauty. His pictures are
a composition of the various draughts which he had previously made
from various beautiful scenes and prospects. However, Rubens in some
measure has made amends for the deficiency with which he is charged;
he has contrived to raise and animate his otherwise uninteresting
views, by introducing a rainbow, storm, or some particular accidental
effect of light. That the practice of Claude Lorrain, in respect to
his choice, is to be adopted by Landscape-painters in opposition to
that of the Flemish and Dutch schools, there can be no doubt, as its
truth is founded upon the same principle as that by which
the Historical-painter acquires perfect form. But whether
landscape-painting has a right to aspire so far as to reject what the
painters call Accidents of Nature, is not easy to determine. It is
certain Claude Lorrain seldom, if ever, availed himself of those
accidents; either he thought that such peculiarities were contrary to
that style of general nature which he professed, or that it would
catch the attention too strongly, and destroy that quietness and
repose which he thought necessary to that kind of painting.

A Portrait-painter likewise, when he attempts history, unless he is
upon his guard, is likely to enter too much into the detail. He too
frequently makes his historical heads look like portraits; and this
was once the custom amongst those old painters, who revived the art
before general ideas were practised or understood. A History-painter
paints man in general; a Portrait-painter, a particular man, and
consequently a defective model.

Thus an habitual practice in the lower exercises of the art will
prevent many from attaining the greater. But such of us who move in
these humbler walks of the profession are not ignorant that, as the
natural dignity of the subject is less, the more all the little
ornamental helps are necessary to its embellishment. It would be
ridiculous for a painter of domestic scenes, of portraits, landscapes,
animals, or still life, to say that he despised those qualities which
has made the subordinate schools so famous. The art of colouring, and
the skilful management of light and shadow, are essential requisites
in his confined labours. If we descend still lower, what is the
painter of fruit and flowers without the utmost art in colouring, and
what the painters call handling; that is, a lightness of pencil that
implies great practice, and gives the appearance of being done with
ease? Some here, I believe, must remember a flower-painter whose boast
it was, that he scorned to paint for the _million_: no, he professed
to paint in the true Italian taste; and, despising the crowd, called
strenuously upon the _few_ to admire him. His idea of the Italian
taste was to paint as black and dirty as he could, and to leave all
clearness and brilliancy of colouring to those who were fonder of
money than immortality. The consequence was such as might be expected.
For these petty excellencies are here essential beauties; and without
this merit the artist's work will be more short-lived than the objects
of his imitation.

From what has been advanced, we must now be convinced that there are
two distinct styles in History-painting: the grand, and the splendid
or ornamental.

The great style stands alone, and does not require, perhaps does not
so well admit, any addition from inferior beauties. The ornamental
style also possesses its own peculiar merit. However, though the union
of the two may make a sort of composite style, yet that style is
likely to be more imperfect than either of those which go to its
composition. Both kinds have merit, and may be excellent though in
different ranks, if uniformity be preserved, and the general and
particular ideas of nature be not mixed. Even the meanest of them is
difficult enough to attain; and the first place being already occupied
by the great artists in each department, some of those who followed
thought there was less room for them; and feeling the impulse of
ambition and the desire of novelty, and being at the same time,
perhaps, willing to take the shortest way, endeavoured to make for
themselves a place between both. This they have effected by forming an
union of the different orders. But as the grave and majestic style
would suffer by an union with the florid and gay, so also has the
Venetian ornament in some respect been injured by attempting an
alliance with simplicity.

It may be asserted, that the great style is always more or less
contaminated by any meaner mixture. But it happens in a few instances
that the lower may be improved by borrowing from the grand. Thus, if a
Portrait-painter is desirous to raise and improve his subject, he has
no other means than by approaching it to a general idea. He leaves out
all the minute breaks and peculiarities in the face, and changes the
dress from a temporary fashion to one more permanent, which has
annexed to it no ideas of meanness from its being familiar to us. But
if an exact resemblance of an individual be considered as the sole
object to be aimed at, the Portrait-painter will be apt to lose more
than he gains by the acquired dignity taken from general nature. It is
very difficult to ennoble the character of a countenance but at the
expense of the likeness, which is what is most generally required by
such as sit to the painter.

Of those who have practised the composite style, and have succeeded in
this perilous attempt, perhaps the foremost is Correggio. His style is
founded upon modern grace and elegance, to which is superadded
something of the simplicity of the grand style. A breadth of light and
colour, the general ideas of the drapery, an uninterrupted flow of
outline, all conspire to this effect. Next to him (perhaps equal to
him), Parmegiano has dignified the genteelness of modern effeminacy,
by uniting it with the simplicity of the ancients and the grandeur and
severity of Michel Angelo. It must be confessed, however, that these
two extraordinary men, by endeavouring to give the utmost degree of
grace, have sometimes, perhaps, exceeded its boundaries, and have
fallen into the most hateful of all hateful qualities--affectation.
Indeed, it is the peculiar characteristic of men of genius to be
afraid of coldness and insipidity, from which they think they never
can be too far removed. It particularly happens to these great masters
of grace and elegance. They often boldly drive on to the very verge
of ridicule; the spectator is alarmed, but at the same time admires
their vigour and intrepidity:--

      "Strange graces still, and stranger flights they had,
           *      *      *      *      *      *
      Yet ne'er so sure our passion to create,
      As when they touch'd the brink of all we hate."

The errors of genius, however, are pardonable, and none even of the
more exalted painters are wholly free from them; but they have taught
us, by the rectitude of their general practice, to correct their own
affected or accidental deviation. The very first have not been always
upon their guard, and perhaps there is not a fault but what may take
shelter under the most venerable authorities; yet that style only is
perfect, in which the noblest principles are uniformly pursued; and
those masters only are entitled to the first rank in our estimation
who have enlarged the boundaries of their art, and have raised it to
its highest dignity, by exhibiting the general ideas of nature.

On the whole, it seems to me that there is but one presiding principle
which regulates and gives stability to every art. The works, whether
of poets, painters, moralists, or historians, which are built upon
general nature, live for ever; while those which depend for their
existence on particular customs and habits, a partial view of nature,
or the fluctuation of fashion, can only be coeval with that which
first raised them from obscurity. Present time and future may be
considered as rivals; and he who solicits the one must expect to be
discountenanced by the other.


  _Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the Distribution
  of the Prizes, December 10, 1772._


I purpose to carry on in this discourse the subject which I began in
my last. It was my wish upon that occasion to incite you to pursue the
higher excellencies of the art. But I fear that in this particular I
have been misunderstood. Some are ready to imagine, when any of their
favourite acquirements in the art are properly classed, that they are
utterly disgraced. This is a very great mistake: nothing has its
proper lustre but in its proper place. That which is most worthy of
esteem in its allotted sphere, becomes an object, not of respect, but
of derision, when it is forced into a higher, to which it is not
suited; and there it becomes doubly a source of disorder, by occupying
a situation which is not natural to it, and by putting down from the
first place what is in reality of too much magnitude to become with
grace and proportion that subordinate station, to which something of
less value would be much better suited.

My advice, in a word, is this:--Keep your principal attention fixed
upon the higher excellencies. If you compass them, and compass nothing
more, you are still in the first class. We may regret the innumerable
beauties which you may want; you may be very imperfect: but still you
are an imperfect artist of the highest order.

If, when you have got thus far, you can add any, or all, of the
subordinate qualifications, it is my wish and advice that you should
not neglect them. But this is as much a matter of circumspection and
caution at least, as of eagerness and pursuit.

The mind is apt to be distracted by a multiplicity of objects; and
that scale of perfection which I wish always to be preserved, is in
the greatest danger of being totally disordered, and even inverted.

Some excellencies bear to be united, and are improved by union; others
are of a discordant nature; and the attempt to join them only produces a
harsh jarring of incongruent principles. The attempt to unite contrary
excellencies (of form, for instance) in a single figure can never escape
degenerating into the monstrous, but by sinking into the insipid; by
taking away its marked character, and weakening its expression.

This remark is true to a certain degree with regard to the passions.
If you mean to preserve the most perfect beauty _in its most perfect
state_, you cannot express the passions, all of which produce
distortion and deformity, more or less, in the most beautiful faces.

Guido, from want of choice in adapting his subject to his ideas and
his powers, or from attempting to preserve beauty where it could not
be preserved, has in this respect succeeded very ill. His figures are
often engaged in subjects that require great expression; yet his
Judith and Holofernes, the daughter of Herodias with the Baptist's
head, the Andromeda, and some even of the Mothers of the Innocents,
have little more expression than his Venus attired by the Graces.

Obvious as these remarks appear, there are many writers on our art,
who, not being of the profession, and consequently not knowing what
can or cannot be done, have been very liberal of absurd praises in
their descriptions of favourite works. They always find in them what
they are resolved to find. They praise excellencies that can hardly
exist together; and, above all things, are fond of describing, with
great exactness, the expression of a mixed passion, which more
particularly appears to me out of the reach of our art.

Such are many disquisitions which I have read on some of the Cartoons
and other pictures of Raffaelle, where the critics have described
their own imaginations; or, indeed, where the excellent master himself
may have attempted this expression of passions above the powers of the
art, and has, therefore, by an indistinct and imperfect marking, left
room for every imagination, with equal probability to find a passion
of his own. What has been, and what can be done in the art, is
sufficiently difficult; we need not be mortified or discouraged at not
being able to execute the conceptions of a romantic imagination. Art
has its boundaries, though imagination has none. We can easily, like
the ancients, suppose a Jupiter to be possessed of all those powers
and perfections which the subordinate deities were endowed with
separately. Yet, when they employed their art to represent him, they
confined his character to majesty alone. Pliny, therefore, though we
are under great obligations to him for the information he has given
us in relation to the works of the ancient artists, is very frequently
wrong when he speaks of them, which he does very often, in the style
of many of our modern connoisseurs. He observes, that in a statue of
Paris, by Euphranor, you might discover, at the same time, three
different characters; the dignity of a Judge of the Goddesses, the
Lover of Helen, and the Conqueror of Achilles. A statue, in which you
endeavour to unite stately dignity, youthful elegance, and stern
valour, must surely possess none of these to any eminent degree.

From hence it appears, that there is much difficulty, as well as
danger, in an endeavour to concentrate, in a single subject, those
various powers, which, rising from different points, naturally move in
different directions.

The summit of excellence seems to be an assemblage of contrary
qualities, but mixed in such proportions, that no one part is found to
counteract the other. How hard this is to be attained in every art,
those only know who have made the greatest progress in their
respective professions.

To conclude what I have to say on this part of the subject, which I
think of great importance, I wish you to understand that I do not
discourage the younger Students from the noble attempt of uniting all
the excellencies of art; but suggest to them, that, beside the
difficulties which attend every arduous attempt, there is a peculiar
difficulty in the choice of the excellencies which ought to be united.
I wish to attend to this, that you may try yourselves, whenever you
are capable of that trial, what you can and what you cannot do; and
that, instead of dissipating your natural faculties over the immense
field of possible excellence, you may choose some particular walk in
which you may exercise all your powers in order that each of you may
become the first in his way. If any man shall be master of such a
transcendent, commanding, and ductile genius, as to enable him to rise
to the highest, and to stoop to the lowest, flights of art, and to
sweep over all of them, unobstructed and secure, he is fitter to give
example than to receive instruction.

Having said thus much on the _union_ of excellencies, I will next say
something of the subordination in which various excellencies ought to
be kept.

I am of opinion that the ornamental style, which, in my discourse of
last year, I cautioned you against considering as _principal_, may not
be wholly unworthy the attention even of those who aim at the grand
style, when it is properly placed and properly reduced.

But this study will be used with far better effect, if its principles
are employed in softening the harshness and mitigating the rigour of
the great style, than if it attempt to stand forward with any
pretensions of its own to positive and original excellence. It was
thus Ludovico Caracci, whose example I formerly recommended to you,
employed it. He was acquainted with the works both of Correggio and
the Venetian painters, and knew the principles by which they produced
those pleasing effects, which, at the first glance, prepossess us so
much in their favour; but he took only as much from each as would
embellish, but not overpower, that manly strength and energy of style
which is his peculiar character.

Since I have already expatiated so largely in my former discourse, and
in my present, upon the _styles_ and _characters_ of Painting, it will
not be at all unsuitable to my subject, if I mention to you some
particulars relative to the leading principles, and capital works, of
those who excelled in the _great style_, that I may bring you from
abstraction nearer to practice, and, by exemplifying the positions
which I have laid down, enable you to understand more clearly what I
would enforce.

The principal works of modern art are in _Fresco_, a mode of painting
which excludes attention to minute elegancies: yet these works in Fresco
are the productions on which the fame of the greatest masters depends.
Such are the pictures of Michel Angelo and Raffaelle in the Vatican; to
which we may add the Cartoons; which, though not strictly to be called
Fresco, yet may be put under that denomination; and such are the works
of Giulio Romano at Mantua. If these performances were destroyed, with
them would be lost the best part of the reputation of those illustrious
painters; for these are justly considered as the greatest effort of our
art which the world can boast. To these, therefore, we should
principally direct our attention for higher excellencies. As for the
lower arts, as they have been once discovered, they may be easily
attained by those possessed of the former.

Raffaelle, who stands in general foremost of the first painters, owes
his reputation, as I have observed, to his excellence in the higher
parts of the art; his works in _Fresco_, therefore, ought to be the
first object of our study and attention. His easel-works stand in a
lower degree of estimation: for though he continually, to the day of
his death, embellished his performances more and more with the
addition of those lower ornaments, which entirely make the merit of
some painters, yet he never arrived at such perfection as to make him
an object of imitation. He never was able to conquer perfectly that
dryness, or even littleness of manner, which he inherited from his
master. He never acquired that nicety of taste in colours, that
breadth of light and shadow, that art and management of uniting light
to light, and shadow to shadow, so as to make the object rise out of
the ground, with the plenitude of effect so much admired in the works
of Correggio. When he painted in oil, his hand seemed to be so cramped
and confined, that he not only lost that facility and spirit, but I
think even that correctness of form, which is so perfect and admirable
in his Fresco-works. I do not recollect any pictures of his of this
kind, except the Transfiguration, in which there are not some parts
that appear to be even feebly drawn. That this is not a necessary
attendant on Oil-painting, we have abundant instances in more modern
painters. Ludovico Caracci, for instance, preserved in his works in
oil the same spirit, vigour, and correctness which he had in Fresco. I
have no desire to degrade Raffaelle from the high rank which he
deservedly holds; but by comparing him with himself, he does not
appear to me to be the same man in Oil as in Fresco.

From those who have ambition to tread in this great walk of the art,
Michel Angelo claims the next attention. He did not possess so many
excellencies as Raffaelle, but those which he had were of the highest
kind. He considered the art as consisting of little more than what may
be attained by sculpture; correctness of form and energy of character.
We ought not to expect more than an artist intends in his work. He never
attempted those lesser elegancies and graces in the art. Vasari says he
never painted but one picture in oil, and resolved never to paint
another, saying it was an employment only fit for women and children.

If any man had a right to look down upon the lower accomplishments as
beneath his attention, it was certainly Michel Angelo: nor can it be
thought strange that such a mind should have slighted or have been
withheld from paying due attention to all those graces and
embellishments of art which have diffused such lustre over the works
of other painters.

It must be acknowledged, however, that together with these, which we
wish he had more attended to, he has rejected all the false, though
specious ornaments, which disgrace the works even of the most esteemed
artists; and I will venture to say, that when those higher
excellencies are more known and cultivated by the artists and the
patrons of arts, his fame and credit will increase with our increasing
knowledge. His name will then be held in the same veneration as it was
in the enlightened age of Leo the Tenth: and it is remarkable that the
reputation of this truly great man has been continually declining as
the art itself has declined. For I must remark to you, that it has
long been much on the decline, and that our only hope of its revival
will consist in your being thoroughly sensible of its deprivation and
decay. It is to Michel Angelo that we owe even the existence of
Raffaelle; it is to him Raffaelle owes the grandeur of his style. He
was taught by him to elevate his thoughts, and to conceive his
subjects with dignity. His genius, however, formed to blaze and shine,
might, like fire in combustible matter, forever have lain dormant, if
it had not caught a spark by its contact with Michel Angelo; and
though it never burst out with _his_ extraordinary heat and vehemence,
yet it must be acknowledged to be a more pure, regular, and chaste
flame. Though our judgment must, upon the whole, decide in favour of
Raffaelle, yet he never takes such a firm hold and entire possession
of the mind as to make us desire nothing else, and to feel nothing
wanting. The effect of the capital works of Michel Angelo perfectly
corresponds to what Bouchardon said he felt from reading Homer; his
whole frame appeared to himself to be enlarged, and all nature which
surrounded him, diminished to atoms.

If we put these great artists in a light of comparison with each
other, Raffaelle had more Taste and Fancy, Michel Angelo more Genius
and Imagination. The one excelled in beauty, the other in energy.
Michel Angelo has more of the poetical Inspiration; his ideas are vast
and sublime; his people are a superior order of beings; there is
nothing about them, nothing in the air of their actions, or their
attitudes, or the style and cast of their limbs or features, that
reminds us of their belonging to our own species. Raffaelle's
imagination is not so elevated; his figures are not so much disjoined
from our own diminutive race of beings, though his ideas are chaste,
noble, and of great conformity to their subjects. Michel Angelo's
works have a strong, peculiar, and marked character; they seem to
proceed from his own mind entirely, and that mind so rich and
abundant, that he never needed, or seemed to disdain, to look abroad
for foreign help. Raffaelle's materials are generally borrowed, though
the noble structure is his own. The excellency of this extraordinary
man lay in the propriety, beauty, and majesty of his characters, the
judicious contrivance of his Composition, his correctness of Drawing,
purity of Taste, and skilful accommodation of other men's conception's
to his own purpose. Nobody excelled him in that judgment, with which
he united to his own observations on Nature the energy of Michel
Angelo and the Beauty and Simplicity of the Antique. To the question,
therefore, which ought to hold the first rank, Raffaelle or Michel
Angelo, it must be answered, that if it is to be given to him who
possessed a greater combination of the higher qualities of the art
than any other man, there is no doubt but Raffaelle is the first. But
if, as Longinus thinks, the sublime, being the highest excellence
that human composition can attain to, abundantly compensates the
absence of every other beauty, and atones for all other deficiencies,
then Michel Angelo demands the preference.

These two extraordinary men carried some of the higher excellencies of
the art to a greater degree of perfection than probably they ever
arrived at before. They certainly have not been excelled, nor equalled
since. Many of their successors were induced to leave this great road
as a beaten path, endeavouring to surprise and please by something
uncommon or new. When this desire of novelty has proceeded from mere
idleness or caprice, it is not worth the trouble of criticism; but
when it has been the result of a busy mind of a peculiar complexion,
it is always striking and interesting, never insipid.

Such is the great style, as it appears in those who possessed it at
its height; in this, search after novelty, in conception or in
treating the subject, has no place.

But there is another style, which, though inferior to the former, has
still great merit, because it shows that those who cultivated it were
men of lively and vigorous imagination. This, which may be called the
original or characteristical style, being less referred to any true
archetype existing either in general or particular nature, must be
supported by the painter's consistency in the principles which he has
assumed, and in the union and harmony of his whole design. The
excellency of every style, but of the subordinate styles more
especially, will very much depend on preserving that union and harmony
between all the component parts, that they may appear to hang well
together, as if the whole proceeded from one mind. It is in the works
of art as in the characters of men. The faults or defects of some men
seem to become them when they appear to be the natural growth, and of
a piece with the rest of their character. A faithful picture of a
mind, though it be not of the most elevated kind, though it be
irregular, wild, and incorrect, yet if it be marked with that spirit
and firmness which characterise works of genius, will claim attention,
and be more striking than a combination of excellencies that do not
seem to unite well together; or we may say, than a work that possesses
even all excellencies, but those in a moderate degree.

One of the strongest-marked characters of this kind, which must be
allowed to be subordinate to the great style, is that of Salvator Rosa.
He gives us a peculiar cast of nature, which, though void of all grace,
elegance, and simplicity, though it has nothing of that elevation and
dignity which belongs to the grand style, yet has that sort of dignity
which belongs to savage and uncultivated nature: but what is most to be
admired in him is the perfect correspondence which he observed between
the subjects which he chose and his manner of treating them. Everything
is of a piece: his Rocks, Trees, Sky, even to his handling, have the
same rude and wild character which animates his figures.

With him we may contrast the character of Carlo Maratti, who, in my
opinion, had no great vigour of mind or strength of original genius.
He rarely seizes the imagination by exhibiting the higher
excellencies, nor does he captivate us by that originality which
attends the painter who thinks for himself. He knew and practised all
the rules of art, and from a composition of Raffaelle, Caracci, and
Guido, made up a style, of which the only fault was, that it had no
manifest defects and no striking beauties; and that the principles of
his composition are never blended together so as to form one uniform
body, original in its kind, or excellent in any view.

I will mention two other painters, who, though entirely dissimilar,
yet, by being each consistent with himself, and possessing a manner
entirely his own, have both gained reputation, though for very
opposite accomplishments. The painters I mean are Rubens and Poussin.
Rubens I mention in this place, as I think him a remarkable instance
of the same mind being seen in all the various parts of the art. The
whole is so much of a piece, that one can scarce be brought to believe
but that if any one of the qualities he possessed had been more
correct and perfect, his works would not have been so complete as they
now appear. If we should allow him a greater purity and correctness of
Drawing, his want of Simplicity in Composition, Colouring, and
Drapery, would appear more gross.

In his Composition his art is too apparent. His figures have
expression, and act with energy, but without simplicity or dignity.
His colouring, in which he is eminently skilled, is, notwithstanding,
too much of what we call tinted. Throughout the whole of his works
there is a proportionable want of that nicety of distinction and
elegance of mind, which is required in the higher walks of painting;
and to this want it may be in some degree ascribed, that those
qualities which make the excellency of this subordinate style appear
in him with their greatest lustre. Indeed, the facility with which he
invented, the richness of his composition, the luxuriant harmony and
brilliancy of his colouring, so dazzle the eye, that whilst his works
continue before us, we cannot help thinking that all his deficiencies
are fully supplied.

Opposed to this florid, careless, loose, and inaccurate style, that of
the simple, careful, pure, and correct style of Poussin seems to be a
complete contrast. Yet however opposite their characters, in one thing
they agreed; both of them always preserving a perfect correspondence
between all the parts of their respective manners; insomuch that it
may be doubted whether any alteration of what is considered as
defective in either would not destroy the effect of the whole.

Poussin lived and conversed with the ancient statues so long that he
may be said to have been better acquainted with them than with the
people who were about him. I have often thought that he carried his
veneration for them so far as to wish to give his works the air of
Ancient Paintings. It is certain he copied some of the Antique
Paintings, particularly the Marriage in the Aldobrandini Palace at
Rome, which I believe to be the best relic of those remote ages that
has yet been found.

No works of any modern have so much of the air of Antique Painting as
those of Poussin. His best performances have a remarkable dryness of
manner, which though by no means to be recommended for imitation, yet
seems perfectly correspondent to that ancient simplicity which
distinguishes his style. Like Polidoro, he studied the ancients so much
that he acquired a habit of thinking in their way, and seemed to know
perfectly the actions and gestures they would use on every occasion.

Poussin in the latter part of his life changed from his dry manner to
one much softer and richer, where there is a greater union between the
figures and ground; as in the Seven Sacraments in the Duke of Orlean's
collection; but neither these, or any of his other pictures in this
manner, are at all comparable to many in this dry manner which we have
in England.

The favourite subjects of Poussin were Ancient Fables; and no painter
was ever better qualified to paint such subjects, not only from his
being eminently skilled in the knowledge of the ceremonies, customs,
and habits of the Ancients, but from his being so well acquainted with
the different characters which those who invented them gave to their
allegorical figures. Though Rubens has shown great fancy in his
Satyrs, Silenuses, and Fauns, yet they are not that distinct separate
class of beings, which is carefully exhibited by the Ancients, and by
Poussin. Certainly, when such subjects of antiquity are represented,
nothing in the picture ought to remind us of modern times. The mind is
thrown back into antiquity, and nothing ought to be introduced that
may tend to awaken it from the illusion.

Poussin seemed to think that the style and the language in which such
stories are told, is not the worse for preserving some relish of the
old way of painting, which seemed to give a general uniformity to the
whole, so that the mind was thrown back into antiquity not only by the
subject, but the execution.

If Poussin, in imitation of the Ancients, represents Apollo driving
his chariot out of the sea by way of representing the Sun rising, if
he personifies Lakes and Rivers, it is nowise offensive in him; but
seems perfectly of a piece with the general air of the picture. On the
contrary, if the figures which people his pictures had a modern air or
countenance, if they appeared like our countrymen, if the draperies
were like cloth or silk of our manufacture, if the landscape had the
appearance of a modern view, how ridiculous would Apollo appear
instead of the Sun; and an old Man, or a nymph with an urn, to
represent a River or a Lake?

I cannot avoid mentioning here a circumstance in portrait-painting
which may help to confirm what has been said. When a portrait is
painted in the Historical Style, as it is neither an exact minute
representation of an individual, nor completely ideal, every
circumstance ought to correspond to this mixture. The simplicity of
the antique air and attitude, however much to be admired, is
ridiculous when joined to a figure in a modern dress. It is not to my
purpose to enter into the question at present, whether this mixed
style ought to be adopted or not; yet if it is chosen, it is necessary
it should be complete, and all of a piece; the difference of stuffs,
for instance, which make the clothing, should be distinguished in the
same degree as the head deviates from a general idea. Without this
union, which I have so often recommended, a work can have no marked
and determined character, which is the peculiar and constant evidence
of genius. But when this is accomplished to a high degree, it becomes
in some sort a rival to that style which we have fixed as the highest.

Thus I have given a sketch of the characters of Rubens and Salvator
Rosa, as they appear to me to have the greatest uniformity of mind
throughout their whole work. But we may add to these, all those
Artists who are at the head of a class, and have had a school of
imitators from Michel Angelo down to Watteau. Upon the whole it
appears that, setting aside the Ornamental Style, there are two
different modes, either of which a Student may adopt without degrading
the dignity of his art. The object of the first is to combine the
higher excellencies and embellish them to the greatest advantage; of
the other, to carry one of these excellencies to the highest degree.
But those who possess neither must be classed with them, who, as
Shakespeare says, are _men of no mark or likelihood_.

I inculcate as frequently as I can your forming yourselves upon great
principles and great models. Your time will be much misspent in every
other pursuit. Small excellencies should be viewed, not studied; they
ought to be viewed, because nothing ought to escape a Painter's
observation: but for no other reason.

There is another caution which I wish to give you. Be as select in
those whom you endeavour to please, as in those whom you endeavour to
imitate. Without the love of fame you can never do anything excellent;
but by an excessive and undistinguishing thirst after it, you will
come to have vulgar views; you will degrade your style; and your taste
will be entirely corrupted. It is certain that the lowest style will
be the most popular, as it falls within the compass of ignorance
itself; and the Vulgar will always be pleased with what is natural, in
the confined and misunderstood sense of the word.

One would wish that such depravation of taste should be counteracted
with that manly pride which actuated Euripides when he said to the
Athenians who criticised his works, "I do not compose my works in
order to be corrected by you, but to instruct you." It is true, to
have a right to speak thus, a man must be an Euripides. However, thus
much may be allowed, that when an Artist is sure that he is upon firm
ground, supported by the authority and practice of his predecessors of
the greatest reputation, he may then assume the boldness and
intrepidity of genius; at any rate he must not be tempted out of the
right path by any allurement of popularity, which always accompanies
the lower styles of painting.

I mention this, because our Exhibitions, while they produce such
admirable effects by nourishing emulation, and calling out genius,
have also a mischievous tendency, by seducing the Painter to an
ambition of pleasing indiscriminately the mixed multitude of people
who resort to them.


  _Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the Distribution
  of the Prizes, December 10, 1774._


When I have taken the liberty of addressing you on the course and
order of your studies, I never proposed to enter into a minute detail
of the art. This I have always left to the several Professors, who
pursue the end of our institution with the highest honour to
themselves, and with the greatest advantage to the Students.

My purpose in the discourses I have held in the Academy has been to
lay down certain general positions, which seem to me proper for the
formation of a sound taste: principles necessary to guard the pupils
against those errors into which the sanguine temper common to their
time of life has a tendency to lead them: and which have rendered
abortive the hopes of so many successions of promising young men in
all parts of Europe. I wished also, to intercept and suppress those
prejudices which particularly prevail when the mechanism of painting
is come to its perfection; and which, when they do prevail, are
certain utterly to destroy the higher and more valuable parts of this
literate and liberal profession.

These two have been my principal purposes; they are still as much my
concern as ever; and if I repeat my own notions on the subject, you
who know how fast mistake and prejudice, when neglected, gain ground
upon truth and reason, will easily excuse me. I only attempt to set
the same thing in the greatest variety of lights.

The subject of this discourse will be IMITATION, as far as a painter
is concerned in it. By imitation, I do not mean imitation in its
largest sense, but simply the following of other masters, and the
advantage to be drawn from the study of their works.

Those who have undertaken to write on our art, and have represented it
as a kind of _inspiration_, as a _gift_ bestowed upon peculiar
favourites at their birth, seem to insure a much more favourable
disposition from their readers, and have a much more captivating and
liberal air, than he who attempts to examine, coldly, whether there
are any means by which this art may be acquired; how the mind may be
strengthened and expanded, and what guides will show the way to

It is very natural for those who are unacquainted with the _cause_ of
anything extraordinary to be astonished at the _effect_, and to
consider it as a kind of magic. They, who have never observed the
gradation by which art is acquired; who see only what is the full
result of long labour and application of an infinite number and
infinite variety of acts, are apt to conclude, from their entire
inability to do the same at once, that it is not only inaccessible to
themselves, but can be done by those only who have some gift of the
nature of inspiration bestowed upon them.

The travellers into the East tell us, that when the ignorant
inhabitants of those countries are asked concerning the ruins of
stately edifices yet remaining amongst them, the melancholy monuments
of their former grandeur and long-lost science, they always answer
that they were built by magicians. The untaught mind finds a vast gulf
between its own powers and those works of complicated art, which it is
utterly unable to fathom; and it supposes that such a void can be
passed only by supernatural powers.

And, as for artists themselves, it is by no means their interest to
undeceive such judges, however conscious they may be of the very
natural means by which their extraordinary powers were acquired;
though our art, being intrinsically imitative, rejects this idea of
inspiration, more perhaps than any other.

It is to avoid this plain confession of the truth, as it should seem,
that this imitation of masters, indeed almost all imitation, which
implies a more regular and progressive method of attaining the ends of
painting, has ever been particularly inveighed against with great
keenness, both by ancient and modern writers.

To derive all from native power, to owe nothing to another, is the
praise which men who do not much think on what they are saying, bestow
sometimes upon others, and sometimes on themselves; and their
imaginary dignity is naturally heightened by a supercilious censure of
the low, the barren, the groveling, the servile imitator. It would be
no wonder if a student, frightened by these terrific and disgraceful
epithets, with which the poor imitators are so often loaded, should
let fall his pencil in mere despair (conscious as he must be, how much
he has been indebted to the labours of others), how little, how very
little of his art was born with him; and consider it as hopeless, to
set about acquiring by the imitation of any human master, what he is
taught to suppose is matter of inspiration from heaven.

Some allowance must be made for what is said in the gaiety of
rhetoric. We cannot suppose that any one can really mean to exclude
all imitation of others. A position so wild would scarce deserve a
serious answer; for it is apparent, if we were forbid to make use of
the advantages which our predecessors afford us, the art would be
always to begin, and consequently remain always in its infant state;
and it is a common observation, that no art was ever invented and
carried to perfection at the same time.

But to bring us entirely to reason and sobriety, let it be observed,
that a painter must not only be of necessity an imitator of the works of
nature, which alone is sufficient to dispel this phantom of inspiration,
but he must be as necessarily an imitator of the works of other
painters; this appears more humiliating, but is equally true; and no man
can be an artist, whatever he may suppose, upon any other terms.

However, those who appear more moderate and reasonable, allow, that
our study is to begin by imitation; but maintain that we should no
longer use the thoughts of our predecessors, when we are become able
to think for ourselves. They hold that imitation is as hurtful to the
more advanced student, as it was advantageous to the beginner.

For my own part, I confess, I am not only very much disposed to
maintain the absolute necessity of imitation in the first stages of
the art; but am of opinion that the study of other masters, which I
here call imitation, may be extended throughout our whole lives,
without any danger of the inconveniences with which it is charged, of
enfeebling the mind, or preventing us from giving that original air
which every work undoubtedly ought always to have.

I am on the contrary persuaded that by imitation only, variety, and
even originality of invention, is produced. I will go further; even
genius, at least what generally is so called, is the child of
imitation. But as this appears to be contrary to the general opinion,
I must explain my position before I enforce it.

Genius is supposed to be a power of producing excellencies which are
out of the reach of the rules of art; a power which no precepts can
teach, and which no industry can acquire.

This opinion of the impossibility of acquiring those beauties, which
stamp the work with the character of genius, supposes that it is
something more fixed than in reality it is; and that we always do, and
ever did agree in opinion, with respect to what should be considered
as the characteristic of genius. But the truth is, that the _degree_
of excellence which proclaims _Genius_ is different, in different
times and different places; and what shows it to be so is, that
mankind have often changed their opinion upon this matter.

When the Arts were in their infancy the power of merely drawing the
likeness of any object was considered as one of its greatest efforts.
The common people, ignorant of the principles of art, talk the same
language even to this day. But when it was found that every man could
be taught to do this, and a great deal more, merely by the observance
of certain precepts; the name of Genius then shifted its application,
and was given only to him who added the peculiar character of the
object he represented; to him who had invention, expression, grace, or
dignity; in short, those qualities, or excellencies, the power of
producing which could not _then_ be taught by any known and
promulgated rules.

We are very sure that the beauty of form, the expression of the
passions, the art of composition, even the power of giving a general
air of grandeur to a work, is at present very much under the dominion
of rules. These excellencies were, heretofore, considered merely as
the effect of genius; and justly, if genius is not taken for
inspiration, but as the effect of close observation and experience.

He who first made any of these observations, and digested them, so as to
form an invariable principle for himself to work by, had that merit, but
probably no one went very far at once; and generally, the first who gave
the hint, did not know how to pursue it steadily and methodically; at
least not in the beginning. He himself worked on it, and improved it;
others worked more, and improved further; until the secret was
discovered, and the practice made as general as refined practice can be
made. How many more principles may be fixed and ascertained we cannot
tell; but as criticism is likely to go hand in hand with the art which
is its subject, we may venture to say, that as that art shall advance,
its powers will be still more and more fixed by rules.

But by whatever strides criticism may gain ground, we need be under no
apprehension that invention will ever be annihilated or subdued; or
intellectual energy be brought entirely within the restraint of
written law. Genius will still have room enough to expatiate, and keep
always at the same distance from narrow comprehension and mechanical

What we now call Genius begins, not where rules abstractedly taken
end, but where known vulgar and trite rules have no longer any place.
It must of necessity be, that even works of Genius, like every other
effect, as they must have their cause, must likewise have their rules;
it cannot be by chance that excellencies are produced with any
constancy or any certainty, for this is not the nature of chance; but
the rules by which men of extraordinary parts, and such as are called
men of Genius, work, are either such as they discover by their own
peculiar observations, or of such a nice texture as not easily to
admit being expressed in words; especially as artists are not very
frequently skilful in that mode of communicating ideas. Unsubstantial,
however, as these rules may seem, and difficult as it may be to convey
them in writing, they are still seen and felt in the mind of the
artist; and he works from them with as much certainty, as if they were
embodied, as I may say, upon paper. It is true, these refined
principles cannot be always made palpable, like the more gross rules
of art; yet it does not follow, but that the mind may be put in such a
train, that it shall perceive, by a kind of scientific sense, that
propriety, which words, particularly words of unpractised writers,
such as we are, can but very feebly suggest.

Invention is one of the great marks of genius; but if we consult
experience, we shall find that it is by being conversant with the
inventions of others, that we learn to invent; as by reading the
thoughts of others we learn to think.

Whoever has so far formed his taste, as to be able to relish and feel
the beauties of the great masters, has gone a great way in his study;
for, merely from a consciousness of this relish of the right, the mind
swells with an inward pride, and is almost as powerfully affected as
if it had itself produced what it admires. Our hearts, frequently
warmed in this manner by the contact of those whom we wish to
resemble, will undoubtedly catch something of their way of thinking;
and we shall receive in our own bosoms some radiation at least of
their fire and splendour. That disposition, which is so strong in
children, still continues with us, of catching involuntarily the
general air and manner of those with whom we are most conversant; with
this difference only, that a young mind is naturally pliable and
imitative; but in a more advanced state it grows rigid, and must be
warmed and softened before it will receive a deep impression.

From these considerations, which a little of your own reflection will
carry a great way further, it appears, of what great consequence it
is, that our minds should be habituated to the contemplation of
excellence; and that, far from being contented to make such habits the
discipline of our youth only, we should, to the last moment of our
lives, continue a settled intercourse with all the true examples of
grandeur. Their inventions are not only the food of our infancy, but
the substance which supplies the fullest maturity of our vigour.

The mind is but a barren soil--a soil which is soon exhausted, and
will produce no crop, or only one, unless it be continually fertilised
and enriched with foreign matter.

When we have had continually before us the great works of Art to
impregnate our minds with kindred ideas, we are then, and not till
then, fit to produce something of the same species. We behold all
about us with the eyes of those penetrating observers whose works we
contemplate; and our minds, accustomed to think the thoughts of the
noblest and brightest intellects, are prepared for the discovery and
selection of all that is great and noble in nature. The greatest
natural genius cannot subsist on its own stock: he who resolves never
to ransack any mind but his own, will be soon reduced, from mere
barrenness, to the poorest of all imitations; he will be obliged to
imitate himself, and to repeat what he has before often repeated.
When we know the subject designed by such men, it will never be
difficult to guess what kind of work is to be produced.

It is vain for painters or poets to endeavour to invent without
materials on which the mind may work, and from which invention must
originate. Nothing can come of nothing.

Homer is supposed to be possessed of all the learning of his time; and
we are certain that Michel Angelo and Raffaelle were equally possessed
of all the knowledge in the art which had been discovered in the works
of their predecessors.

A mind enriched by an assemblage of all the treasures of ancient and
modern art will be more elevated and fruitful in resources, in
proportion to the number of ideas which have been carefully collected
and thoroughly digested. There can be no doubt but that he who has the
most materials has the greatest means of invention; and if he has not
the power of using them, it must proceed from a feebleness of
intellect; or from the confused manner in which those collections have
been laid up in his mind.

The addition of other men's judgment is so far from weakening our own,
as is the opinion of many, that it will fashion and consolidate those
ideas of excellence which lay in embryo--feeble, ill-shaped, and
confused--but which are finished and put in order by the authority and
practice of those whose works may be said to have been consecrated by
having stood the test of ages.

The mind, or genius, has been compared to a spark of fire, which is
smothered by a heap of fuel, and prevented from blazing into a flame.
This simile, which is made use of by the younger Pliny, may be easily
mistaken for argument or proof. But there is no danger of the mind
being overburthened with knowledge, or the genius extinguished by any
addition of images; on the contrary, these acquisitions may as well,
perhaps better, be compared, if comparisons signified anything in
reasoning, to the supply of living embers, which will contribute to
strengthen the spark, that without the association of more fuel would
have died away. The truth is, he whose feebleness is such, as to make
other men's thoughts an incumbrance to him, can have no very great
strength of mind or genius of his own to be destroyed; so that not
much harm will be done at worst.

We may oppose to Pliny the greater authority of Cicero, who is
continually enforcing the necessity of this method of study. In his
dialogue on Oratory, he makes Crassus say, that one of the first and
most important precepts is, to choose a proper model for our imitation.
_Hoc sit primum in proeceptis meis, ut demonstremus quem imitemur._

When I speak of the habitual imitation and continued study of masters,
it is not to be understood that I advise any endeavour to copy the
exact peculiar colour and complexion of another man's mind; the
success of such an attempt must always be like his, who imitates
exactly the air, manner, and gestures of him whom he admires. His
model may be excellent, but the copy will be ridiculous; this ridicule
does not arise from his having imitated, but from his not having
chosen the right mode of imitation.

It is a necessary and warrantable pride to disdain to walk servilely
behind any individual, however elevated his rank. The true and liberal
ground of imitation is an open field; where, though he who precedes
has had the advantage of starting before you, you may always propose
to overtake him; it is enough, however, to pursue his course; you need
not tread in his footsteps, and you certainly have a right to outstrip
him if you can.

Nor whilst I recommend studying the art from artists, can I be
supposed to mean that nature is to be neglected; I take this study in
aid, and not in exclusion of the other. Nature is and must be the
fountain which alone is inexhaustible, and from which all excellencies
must originally flow.

The great use of studying our predecessors is, to open the mind, to
shorten our labour, and to give us the result of the selection made by
those great minds of what is grand or beautiful in nature; her rich
stores are all spread out before us; but it is an art, and no easy
art, to know how or what to choose, and how to attain and secure the
object of our choice. Thus, the highest beauty of form must be taken
from nature; but it is an art of long deduction and great experience
to know how to find it. We must not content ourselves with merely
admiring and relishing; we must enter into the principles on which the
work is wrought: these do not swim on the superficies, and
consequently are not open to superficial observers.

Art in its perfection is not ostentatious; it lies hid and works its
effect, itself unseen. It is the proper study and labour of an artist
to uncover and find out the latent cause of conspicuous beauties, and
from thence form principles of his own conduct: such an examination is
a continual exertion of the mind; as great, perhaps, as that of the
artist whose works he is thus studying.

The sagacious imitator does not content himself with merely remarking
what distinguishes the different manner or genius of each master; he
enters into the contrivance in the composition, how the masses of
lights are disposed, the means by which the effect is produced, how
artfully some parts are lost in the ground, others boldly relieved,
and how all these are mutually altered and interchanged according to
the reason and scheme of the work. He admires not the harmony of
colouring alone, but examines by what artifice one colour is a foil to
its neighbour. He looks close into the tints, examines of what colours
they are composed, till he has formed clear and distinct ideas, and
has learnt to see in what harmony and good colouring consists. What is
learnt in this manner from the works of others becomes really our own,
sinks deep, and is never forgotten; nay, it is by seizing on this clue
that we proceed forward, and get further and further in enlarging the
principles and improving the practice of our art.

There can be no doubt but the art is better learnt from the works
themselves, than from the precepts which are formed upon those works;
but if it is difficult to choose proper models for imitation, it
requires no less circumspection to separate and distinguish what in
those models we ought to imitate.

I cannot avoid mentioning here, though it is not my intention at
present to enter into the art and method of study, an error which
students are too apt to fall into. He that is forming himself must
look with great caution and wariness on those peculiarities, or
prominent parts, which at first force themselves upon view; and are
the marks, or what is commonly called the manner, by which that
individual artist is distinguished.

Peculiar marks I hold to be, generally, if not always, defects;
however difficult it may be wholly to escape them.

Peculiarities in the works of art are like those in the human figure;
it is by them that we are cognisable, and distinguished one from
another, but they are always so many blemishes; which, however, both
in real life and in painting, cease to appear deformities to those who
have them continually before their eyes. In the works of art, even
the most enlightened mind, when warmed by beauties of the highest
kind, will by degrees find a repugnance within him to acknowledge any
defects; nay, his enthusiasm will carry him so far, as to transform
them into beauties and objects of imitation.

It must be acknowledged that a peculiarity of style, either from its
novelty or by seeming to proceed from a peculiar turn of mind, often
escapes blame; on the contrary, it is sometimes striking and pleasing;
but this it is a vain labour to endeavour to imitate, because novelty
and peculiarity being its only merit, when it ceases to be new it
ceases to have value.

A manner, therefore, being a defect, and every painter, however
excellent, having a manner, it seems to follow that all kinds of faults,
as well as beauties, may be learned under the sanction of the greatest
authorities. Even the great name of Michel Angelo may be used, to keep
in countenance a deficiency, or rather neglect, of colouring, and every
other ornamental part of the art. If the young student is dry and hard,
Poussin is the same. If his work has a careless and unfinished air, he
has most of the Venetian school to support him. If he makes no selection
of objects, but takes individual nature just as he finds it, he is like
Rembrandt. If he is incorrect in the proportions of his figures,
Correggio was likewise incorrect. If his colours are not blended and
united, Rubens was equally crude. In short, there is no defect that may
not be excused, if it is a sufficient excuse that it can be imputed to
considerable artists; but it must be remembered, that it was not by
these defects they acquired their reputation; they have a right to our
pardon, but not to our admiration.

However, to imitate peculiarities, or mistake defects for beauties,
that man will be most liable who confines his imitation to one
favourite master; and even though he chooses the best, and is capable
of distinguishing the real excellencies of his model, it is not by
such narrow practice that a genius or mastery in the art is acquired.
A man is as little likely to form a true idea of the perfection of the
art by studying a single artist, as he would be to produce a perfectly
beautiful figure, by an exact imitation of any individual living
model. And as the painter, by bringing together in one piece those
beauties which are dispersed among a great variety of individuals,
produces a figure more beautiful than can be found in nature, so that
artist who can unite in himself the excellencies of the various great
painters, will approach nearer to perfection than any one of his
masters. He who confines himself to the imitation of an individual, as
he never proposes to surpass, so he is not likely to equal, the object
of his imitation. He professes only to follow; and he that follows
must necessarily be behind.

We should imitate the conduct of the great artists in the course of
their studies, as well as the works which they produced, when they
were perfectly formed. Raffaelle began by imitating implicitly the
manner of Pietro Perugino, under whom he studied: hence his first
works are scarce to be distinguished from his master's; but soon
forming higher and more extensive views, he imitated the grand outline
of Michel Angelo: he learned the manner of using colours from the
works of Leonardo da Vinci, and Fratre Bartolomeo: to all this he
added the contemplation of all the remains of antiquity that were
within his reach, and employed others to draw for him what was in
Greece and distant places. And it is from his having taken so many
models, that he became himself a model for all succeeding painters;
always imitating, and always original.

If your ambition, therefore, be to equal Raffaelle, you must do as
Raffaelle did, take many models, and not even _him_ for your guide
alone, to the exclusion of others.[4] And yet the number is infinite
of those who seem, if one may judge by their style, to have seen no
other works but those of their master, or of some favourite, whose
_manner_ is their first wish, and their last.

I will mention a few that occur to me of this narrow, confined,
illiberal, unscientific, and servile kind of imitators. Guido was thus
meanly copied by Elizabetta, Sirani, and Simone Cantarini; Poussin, by
Verdier and Cheron; Parmeggiano by Jeronimo Mazzuoli. Paolo Veronese,
and Iacomo Bassan, had for their imitators their brothers and sons.
Pietro da Cortona was followed by Ciro Ferri, and Romanelli; Rubens,
by Jacques Jordaens and Diepenbeke; Guercino, by his own family, the
Gennari. Carlo Maratti was imitated by Giuseppe Chiari, and Pietro de
Pietri; and Rembrandt, by Bramer, Eeckhout, and Flink. All these, to
whom may be added a much longer list of painters, whose works among
the ignorant pass for those of their masters, are justly to be
censured for barrenness and servility.

To oppose to this list a few that have adopted a more liberal style of
imitation;--Pellegrino Tibaldi Rosso and Primaticcio did not coldly
imitate, but caught something of the fire that animates the works of
Michel Angelo. The Caraccis formed their style from Pellegrino
Tibaldi, Correggio, and the Venetian school. Domenichino, Guido,
Lanfranco, Albano, Guercino, Cavidone, Schidone, Tiarini, though it is
sufficiently apparent that they came from the school of the Caraccis,
have yet the appearance of men who extended their views beyond the
model that lay before them, and have shown that they had opinions of
their own, and thought for themselves, after they had made themselves
masters of the general principles of their schools.

Le Suer's first manner resembles very much that of his master Voüet;
but as he soon excelled him, so he differed from him in every part of
the art. Carlo Maratti succeeded better than those I have first named,
and, I think, owes his superiority to the extension of his views;
beside his master Andrea Sacchi, he imitated Raffaelle, Guido, and the
Caraccis. It is true, there is nothing very captivating in Carlo
Maratti; but this proceeded from a want which cannot be completely
supplied; that is, want of strength of parts. In this certainly men
are not equal; and a man can bring home wares only in proportion to
the capital with which he goes to market. Carlo, by diligence, made
the most of what he had; but there was undoubtedly a heaviness about
him, which extended itself, uniformly, to his invention, expression,
his drawing, colouring, and the general effect of his pictures. The
truth is, he never equalled any of his patterns in any one thing, and
he added little of his own.

But we must not rest contented even in this general study of the
moderns; we must trace back the art to its fountain-head; to that
source from whence they drew their principal excellencies, the
monuments of pure antiquity. All the inventions and thoughts of the
ancients, whether conveyed to us in statues, bas-reliefs, intaglios,
cameos, or coins, are to be sought after and carefully studied; the
genius that hovers over these venerable relics may be called the
father of modern art.

From the remains of the works of the ancients the modern arts were
revived, and it is by their means that they must be restored a second
time. However it may mortify our vanity, we must be forced to allow
them our masters: and we may venture to prophesy, that when they shall
cease to be studied, arts will no longer flourish, and we shall again
relapse into barbarism.

The fire of the artist's own genius operating upon these materials
which have been thus diligently collected, will enable him to make new
combinations, perhaps superior to what had ever before been in the
possession of the art; as in the mixture of the variety of metals,
which are said to have been melted and run together at the burning of
Corinth, a new and till then unknown metal was produced, equal in
value to any of those that had contributed to its composition. And
though a curious refiner should come with his crucibles, analyse and
separate its various component parts, yet Corinthian brass would still
hold its rank amongst the most beautiful and valuable of metals.

We have hitherto considered the advantages of imitation as it tends to
form the taste, and as a practice by which a spark of that genius may
be caught which illumines those noble works that ought always to be
present to our thoughts.

We come now to speak of another kind of imitation; the borrowing a
particular thought, an action, attitude, or figure, and transplanting
it into your own work, this will either come under the charge of
plagiarism, or be warrantable, and deserve commendation, according to
the address with which it is performed. There is some difference,
likewise, whether it is upon the ancient or moderns that these
depredations are made. It is generally allowed, that no man need be
ashamed of copying the ancients; their works are considered as a
magazine of common property, always open to the public, whence every
man has a right to take what materials he pleases; and if he has the
art of using them, they are supposed to become to all intents and
purposes his own property. The collection of the thoughts of the
ancients which Raffaelle made with so much trouble, is a proof of his
opinion on this subject. Such collections may be made with much more
ease, by means of an art scarce known in this time; I mean that of
engraving; by which, at an easy rate, every man may now avail himself
of the inventions of antiquity.

It must be acknowledged that the works of the moderns are more the
property of their authors. He who borrows an idea from an ancient, or
even from a modern artist not his contemporary, and so accommodates it
to his own work, that it makes a part of it, with no seam or joining
appearing, can hardly be charged with plagiarism; poets practise this
kind of borrowing, without reserve. But an artist should not be
contented with this only; he should enter into a competition with his
original, and endeavour to improve what he is appropriating to his own
work. Such imitation is so far from having anything in it of the
servility of plagiarism, that it is a perpetual exercise of the mind, a
continual invention. Borrowing or stealing with such art and caution,
will have a right to the same lenity as was used by the Lacedæmonians;
who did not punish theft, but the want of artifice to conceal.

In order to encourage you to imitation, to the utmost extent, let me
add, that very finished artists in the inferior branches of the art
will contribute to furnish the mind and give hints, of which a skilful
painter, who is sensible of what he wants, and is in no danger of
being infected by the contact of vicious models, will know how to
avail himself. He will pick up from dunghills what, by a nice
chemistry, passing through his own mind, shall be converted into pure
gold; and under the rudeness of Gothic essays, he will find original,
rational, and even sublime inventions.

The works of Albert Durer, Lucas Van Leyden, the numerous inventions
of Tobias Stimmer, and Jost Ammon, afford a rich mass of genuine
materials, which, wrought up, and polished to elegance, will add
copiousness to what, perhaps, without such aid, could have aspired
only to justness and propriety.

In the luxuriant style of Paul Veronese, in the capricious
compositions of Tintoret, he will find something that will assist his
invention, and give points, from which his own imagination shall rise
and take flight, when the subject which he treats will with propriety
admit of splendid effects.

In every school, whether Venetian, French, or Dutch, he will find
either ingenious compositions, extraordinary effects, some peculiar
expressions, or some mechanical excellence, well worthy of his
attention, and, in some measure, of his imitation. Even in the lower
class of the French painters, great beauties are often found, united
with great defects. Though Coypel wanted a simplicity of taste, and
mistook a presumptuous and assuming air for what is grand and
majestic; yet he frequently has good sense and judgment in his manner
of telling his stories, great skill in his compositions, and is not
without a considerable power of expressing the passions. The modern
affectation of grace in his works, as well as in those of Bosch and
Watteau, may be said to be separated by a very thin partition from the
more simple and pure grace of Correggio and Parmegiano.

Among the Dutch painters, the correct, firm, and determined pencil,
which was employed by Bamboccio and Jean Miel, on vulgar and mean
subjects, might, without any change, be employed on the highest; to
which, indeed, it seems more properly to belong. The greatest style,
if that style is confined to small figures, such as Poussin generally
painted, would receive an additional grace by the elegance and
precision of pencil so admirable in the works of Teniers; and though
the school to which he belonged more particularly excelled in the
mechanism of painting; yet it produced many, who have shown great
abilities in expressing what must be ranked above mechanical
excellencies. In the works of Frank Hals, the portrait-painter may
observe the composition of a face, the features well put together, as
the painters express it; from whence proceeds that strong-marked
character of individual nature, which is so remarkable in his
portraits, and is not found in an equal degree in any other painter.
If he had joined to this most difficult part of the art a patience in
finishing what he had so correctly planned, he might justly have
claimed the place which Vandyke, all things considered, so justly
holds as the first of portrait-painters.

Others of the same school have shown great power in expressing the
character and passions of those vulgar people which were the subjects
of their study and attention. Among those, Jan Steen seems to be one
of the most diligent and accurate observers of what passed in those
scenes which he frequented, and which were to him an academy. I can
easily imagine, that if this extraordinary man had had the good
fortune to have been born in Italy, instead of Holland; had he lived
in Rome, instead of Leyden; and been blessed with Michel Angelo and
Raffaelle for his masters, instead of Brouwer and Van Goyen; the same
sagacity and penetration which distinguished so accurately the
different characters and expression in his vulgar figures, would,
when exerted in the selection and imitation of what was great and
elevated in nature, have been equally successful; and he now would
have ranged with the great pillars and supporters of our Art.

Men who, although thus bound down by the almost invincible powers of
early habits, have still exerted extraordinary abilities within their
narrow and confined circle; and have, from the natural vigour of their
mind, given a very interesting expression, and great force and energy
to their works; though they cannot be recommended to be exactly
imitated, may yet invite an artist to endeavour to transfer, by a kind
of parody, their excellencies to his own performances. Whoever has
acquired the power of making this use of the Flemish, Venetian, and
French schools, is a real genius, and has sources of knowledge open to
him which were wanting to the great artists who lived in the great age
of painting.

To find excellencies, however dispersed; to discover beauties, however
concealed by the multitude of defects with which they are surrounded,
can be the work only of him, who, having a mind always alive to his
art, has extended his views to all ages and to all schools, and has
acquired from that comprehensive mass which he has thus gathered to
himself--a well-digested and perfect idea of his art, to which
everything is referred. Like a sovereign judge and arbiter of art, he
is possessed of that presiding power which separates and attracts
every excellence from every school; selects both from what is great,
and what is little; brings home knowledge from the East and from the
West; making the universe tributary towards furnishing his mind, and
enriching his works with originality and variety of inventions.

Thus I have ventured to give my opinion of what appears to me the true
and only method by which an artist makes himself master of his
profession; which I hold ought to be one continued course of
imitation, that is not to cease but with his life.

Those, who either from their own engagements and hurry of business, or
from indolence, or from conceit and vanity, have neglected looking out
of themselves, as far as my experience and observation reaches, have
from that time, not only ceased to advance, and improve in their
performances, but have gone backward. They may be compared to men who
have lived upon their principal till they are reduced to beggary, and
left without resources.

I can recommend nothing better, therefore, than that you endeavour to
infuse into your works what you learn from the contemplation of the
works of others. To recommend this has the appearance of needless and
superfluous advice; but it has fallen within my own knowledge, that
artists, though they were not wanting in a sincere love for their art,
though they had great pleasure in seeing good pictures, and were well
skilled to distinguish what was excellent or defective in them, yet
have gone on in their own manner, without any endeavour to give a
little of those beauties, which they admired in others, to their own
works. It is difficult to conceive how the present Italian painters,
who live in the midst of the treasures of art, should be contented
with their own style. They proceed in their commonplace inventions,
and never think it worth while to visit the works of those great
artists with which they are surrounded.

I remember, several years ago, to have conversed at Rome with an
artist of great fame throughout Europe; he was not without a
considerable degree of abilities, but those abilities were by no
means equal to his own opinion of them. From the reputation he had
acquired, he too fondly concluded that he stood in the same rank when
compared with his predecessors, as he held with regard to his
miserable contemporary rivals. In conversation about some particulars
of the works of Raffaelle, he seemed to have, or to affect to have, a
very obscure memory of them. He told me that he had not set his foot
in the Vatican for fifteen years together; that he had been in treaty
to copy a capital picture of Raffaelle, but that the business had gone
off; however, if the agreement had held, his copy would have greatly
exceeded the original. The merit of this artist, however great we may
suppose it, I am sure would have been far greater, and his presumption
would have been far less, if he had visited the Vatican, as in reason
he ought to have done, at least once every month of his life.

I address myself, Gentlemen, to you who have made some progress in the
art, and are to be, for the future, under the guidance of your own
judgment and discretion. I consider you as arrived to that period when
you have a right to think for yourselves, and to presume that every
man is fallible; to study the masters with a suspicion, that great men
are not always exempt from great faults; to criticise, compare, and
rank their works in your own estimation, as they approach to, or
recede from, that standard of perfection which you have formed in your
own minds, but which those masters themselves, it must be remembered,
have taught you to make, and which you will cease to make with
correctness, when you cease to study them. It is their excellencies
which have taught you their defects.

I would wish you to forget where you are, and who it is that speaks
to you. I only direct you to higher models and better advisers. We can
teach you here but very little; you are henceforth to be your own
teachers. Do this justice, however, to the English Academy; to bear in
mind, that in this place you contracted no narrow habits, no false
ideas, nothing that could lead you to the imitation of any living
master, who may be the fashionable darling of the day. As you have not
been taught to flatter us, do not learn to flatter yourselves. We have
endeavoured to lead you to the admiration of nothing but what is truly
admirable. If you choose inferior patterns, or if you make your own
_former_ works your patterns for your _latter_, it is your own fault.

The purport of this discourse, and, indeed, of most of my other
discourses, is, to caution you against that false opinion, but too
prevalent among artists, of the imaginary powers of native genius, and
its sufficiency in great works. This opinion, according to the temper of
mind it meets with, almost always produces, either a vain confidence, or
a sluggish despair--both equally fatal to all proficiency.

Study, therefore, the great works of the great masters forever. Study,
as nearly as you can, in the order, in the manner, and on the
principles, on which they studied. Study nature attentively, but
always with those masters in your company; consider them as models
which you are to imitate, and at the same time as rivals with whom you
are to contend.


4: Sed non qui maxime imitandus, etiam solus imitandus est


  _Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the Distribution of
  the Prizes, December 10, 1776._


It has been my uniform endeavour, since I first addressed you from
this place, to impress you strongly with one ruling idea. I wished you
to be persuaded that success in your art depends almost entirely on
your own industry; but the industry which I principally recommended is
not the industry of the _hands_, but of the _mind_.

As our art is not a divine _gift_, so neither is it a mechanical
_trade_. Its foundations are laid in solid science; and practice,
though essential to perfection, can never attain that to which it
aims, unless it works under the direction of principle.

Some writers upon art carry this point too far, and suppose that such a
body of universal and profound learning is requisite, that the very
enumeration of its kinds is enough to frighten a beginner. Vitruvius,
after going through the many accomplishments of nature, and the many
acquirements of learning, necessary to an architect, proceeds with great
gravity to assert that he ought to be well skilled in the civil law,
that he may not be cheated in the title of the ground he builds on. But
without such exaggeration, we may go so far as to assert, that a painter
stands in need of more knowledge than is to be picked off his pallet, or
collected by looking on his model, whether it be in life or in picture.
He can never be a great artist who is grossly illiterate.

Every man whose business is description ought to be tolerably
conversant with the poets, in some language or other; that he may
imbibe a poetical spirit, and enlarge his stock of ideas. He ought to
acquire an habit of comparing and digesting his notions. He ought not
to be wholly unacquainted with that part of philosophy which gives an
insight into human nature, and relates to the manners, characters,
passions, and affections. He ought to know _something_ concerning the
mind, as well as _a great deal_ concerning the body of man. For this
purpose it is not necessary that he should go into such a compass of
reading as must, by distracting his attention, disqualify him for the
practical part of his profession, and make him sink the performer in
the critic. Reading, if it can be made the favourite recreation of his
leisure hours, will improve and enlarge his mind, without retarding
his actual industry. What such partial and desultory reading cannot
afford, may be supplied by the conversation of learned and ingenious
men, which is the best of all substitutes for those who have not the
means or opportunities of deep study. There are many such men in this
age; and they will be pleased with communicating their ideas to
artists, when they see them curious and docile, if they are treated
with that respect and deference which is so justly their due. Into
such society, young artists, if they make it the point of their
ambition, will, by degrees, be admitted. There, without formal
teaching, they will insensibly come to feel and reason like those
they live with, and find a rational and systematic taste imperceptibly
formed in their minds, which they will know how to reduce to a
standard by applying general truth to their own purposes, better,
perhaps, than those to whom they owned the original sentiment.

Of these studies, and this conversation, the desire and legitimate
offspring, is a power of distinguishing right from wrong; which power,
applied to works of art, is denominated TASTE. Let me, then, without
further introduction, enter upon an examination, whether taste be so
far beyond our reach as to be unattainable by care; or be so very
vague and capricious, that no care ought to be employed about it.

It has been the fate of arts to be enveloped in mysterious and
incomprehensible language, as if it was thought necessary that even
the terms should correspond to the idea entertained of the instability
and uncertainty of the rules which they expressed.

To speak of genius and taste, as in any way connected with reason or
common-sense, would be, in the opinion of some towering talkers, to
speak like a man who possessed neither; who had never felt that
enthusiasm, or, to use their own inflated language, was never warmed by
that Promethean fire, which animates the canvas and vivifies the marble.

If, in order to be intelligible, I appear to degrade art by bringing
her down from the visionary situation in the clouds, it is only to
give her a more solid mansion upon the earth. It is necessary that at
some time or other we should see things as they really are, and not
impose on ourselves by that false magnitude with which objects appear
when viewed indistinctly as through a mist.

We will allow a poet to express his meaning, when his meaning is not
well known to himself, with a certain degree of obscurity, as it is
one sort of the sublime. But when, in plain prose, we gravely talk of
courting the Muse in shady bowers; waiting the call and inspiration of
Genius, finding out where he inhabits, and where he is to be invoked
with the greatest success; of attending to times and seasons when the
imagination shoots with the greatest vigour, whether at the summer
solstice or the vernal equinox; sagaciously observing how much the
wild freedom and liberty of imagination is cramped by attention to
established rules; and how this same imagination begins to grow dim in
advanced age, smothered and deadened by too much judgment; when we
talk such language, or entertain such sentiments as these, we
generally rest contented with mere words, or at best entertain notions
not only groundless but pernicious.

If all this means, what it is very possible was originally intended
only to be meant, that in order to cultivate an art a man secludes
himself from the commerce of the world, and retires into the country
at particular seasons: or that at one time of the year his body is in
better health, and, consequently, his mind fitter for the business of
hard thinking than at another time; or that the mind may be fatigued
and grow confused by long and unremitted application; this I can
understand. I can likewise believe that a man, eminent when young for
possessing poetical imagination, may, from having taken another road,
so neglect its cultivation as to show less of its powers in his latter
life. But I am persuaded that scarce a poet is to be found, from Homer
down to Dryden, who preserved a sound mind in a sound body, and
continued practising his profession to the very last, whose latter
works are not as replete with the fire of imagination, as those which
were produced in his more youthful days.

To understand literally these metaphors, or ideas expressed in
poetical language, seems to be equally absurd as to conclude, that
because painters sometimes represent poets writing from the dictates
of a little winged boy or genius, that this same genius did really
inform him in a whisper what he was to write; and that he is himself
but a mere machine, unconscious of the operations of his own mind.

Opinions generally received and floating in the world, whether true or
false, we naturally adopt and make our own: they may be considered as a
kind of inheritance to which we succeed and are tenants for life, and
which we leave to our posterity very nearly in the condition in which we
received it, it not being much in any one man's power either to impair
or improve it. The greatest part of these opinions, like current coin in
its circulation, we are used to take without weighing or examining; but
by this inevitable inattention many adulterated pieces are received,
which, when we seriously estimate our wealth, we must throw away. So the
collector of popular opinions, when he embodies his knowledge, and forms
a system, must separate those which are true from those which are only
plausible. But it becomes more peculiarly a duty to the professors of
art not to let any opinions relating to _that_ art pass unexamined. The
caution and circumspection required in such examination we shall
presently have an opportunity of explaining.

Genius and taste, in their common acceptation, appear to be very
nearly related; the difference lies only in this, that genius has
superadded to it a habit or power of execution; or we may say, that
taste, when this power is added, changes its name, and is called
genius. They both, in the popular opinion, pretend to an entire
exemption from the restraint of rules. It is supposed that their
powers are intuitive; that under the name of genius great works are
produced, and under the name of taste an exact judgment is given,
without our knowing why, and without our being under the least
obligation to reason, precept, or experience.

One can scarce state these opinions without exposing their absurdity;
yet they are constantly in the mouths of men, and particularly of
artists. They who have thought seriously on this subject do not carry
the point so far; yet I am persuaded, that even among those few who
may be called thinkers, the prevalent opinion allows less than it
ought to the powers of reason; and considers the principles of taste,
which give all their authority to the rules of art, as more
fluctuating, and as having less solid foundations, than we shall find,
upon examination, they really have.

The common saying, that _tastes are not to be disputed_, owes its
influence, and its general reception, to the same error which leads us
to imagine this faculty of too high an original to submit to the
authority of an earthly tribunal. It likewise corresponds with the
notions of those who consider it as a mere phantom of the imagination,
so devoid of substance as to elude all criticism.

We often appear to differ in sentiments from each other, merely from the
inaccuracy of terms, as we are not obliged to speak always with critical
exactness. Something of this too may arise from want of words in the
language in which we speak to express the more nice discrimination which
a deep investigation discovers. A great deal, however, of this
difference vanishes when each opinion is tolerably explained and
understood by constancy and precision in the use of terms.

We apply the term TASTE to that act of the mind by which we like or
dislike, whatever be the subject. Our judgment upon an airy nothing, a
fancy which has no foundation, is called by the same name which we
give to our determination concerning those truths which refer to the
most general and most unalterable principles of human nature; to the
works which are only to be produced by the greatest effort of the
human understanding. However inconvenient this may be, we are obliged
to take words as we find them; all we can do is to distinguish the
THINGS to which they are applied.

We may let pass those things which are at once subjects of taste and
sense, and which, having as much certainty as the senses themselves,
give no occasion to inquiry or dispute. The natural appetite or taste
of the human mind is for TRUTH; whether that truth results from the
real agreement or equality of original ideas among themselves; from
the agreement of the representation of any object with the thing
represented; or from the correspondence of the several parts of any
arrangement with each other. It is the very same taste which relishes
a demonstration in geometry, that is pleased with the resemblance of a
picture to an original and touched with the harmony of music.

All these have unalterable and fixed foundations in nature, and are
therefore equally investigated by reason, and known by study; some
with more, some with less clearness, but all exactly in the same way.
A picture that is unlike is false. Disproportionate ordonnance of
parts is not right; because it cannot be true, until it ceases to be a
contradiction to assert, that the parts have no relation to the whole.
Colouring is true, when it is naturally adapted to the eye, from
brightness, from softness, from harmony, from resemblance; because
these agree with their object, NATURE, and therefore are true; as
true as mathematical demonstration; but known to be true only to those
who study these things.

But besides real, there is also apparent truth, or opinion, or
prejudice. With regard to real truth, when it is known, the taste
which conforms to it is, and must be, uniform. With regard to the
second sort of truth, which may be called truth upon sufferance, or
truth by courtesy, it is not fixed, but variable. However, whilst
these opinions and prejudices, on which it is founded, continue, they
operate as truth; and the art, whose office it is to please the mind,
as well as instruct it, must direct itself according to opinion, or it
will not attain its end.

In proportion as these prejudices are known to be generally diffused,
or long received, the taste which conforms to them approaches nearer
to certainty, and to a sort of resemblance to real science, even where
opinions are found to be no better than prejudices. And since they
deserve, on account of their duration and extent, to be considered as
really true, they become capable of no small degree of stability and
determination, by their permanent and uniform nature.

As these prejudices become more narrow, more local, more transitory,
this secondary taste becomes more and more fantastical; recedes from
real science; is less to be approved by reason, and less followed by
practice: though in no case perhaps to be wholly neglected, where it
does not stand, as it sometimes does, in direct defiance of the most
respectable opinions received amongst mankind.

Having laid down these positions, I shall proceed with less method,
because less will serve to explain and apply them.

We will take it for granted, that reason is something invariable, and
fixed in the nature of things; and without endeavouring to go back to
an account of first principles, which for ever will elude our search,
we will conclude that whatever goes under the name of taste, which we
can fairly bring under the dominion of reason, must be considered as
equally exempt from change. If, therefore, in the course of this
inquiry, we can show that there are rules for the conduct of the
artist which are fixed and invariable, it follows, of course, that the
art of the connoisseur, or, in other words, taste, has likewise
invariable principles.

Of the judgment which we make on the works of art, and the preference
that we give to one class of art over another, if a reason be
demanded, the question is perhaps evaded by answering, I judge from my
taste; but it does not follow that a better answer cannot be given,
though, for common gazers, this may be sufficient. Every man is not
obliged to investigate the cause of his approbation or dislike.

The arts would lie open for ever to caprice and casualty, if those who
are to judge of their excellencies had no settled principles by which
they are to regulate their decisions, and the merit or defect of
performances were to be determined by unguided fancy. And indeed we may
venture to assert, that whatever speculative knowledge is necessary to
the artist, is equally and indispensably necessary to the connoisseur.

The first idea that occurs in the consideration of what is fixed in
art, or in taste, is that presiding principle of which I have so
frequently spoken in former discourses,--the general idea of nature.
The beginning, the middle, and the end of everything that is valuable
in taste, is comprised in the knowledge of what is truly nature; for
whatever notions are not conformable to those of nature, or universal
opinion, must be considered as more or less capricious.

My notion of nature comprehends not only the forms which nature
produces, but also the nature and internal fabric and organisation, as
I may call it, of the human mind and imagination. The terms beauty, or
nature, which are general ideas, are but different modes of expressing
the same thing, whether we apply these terms to statues, poetry, or
pictures. Deformity is not nature, but an accidental deviation from
her accustomed practice. This general idea, therefore, ought to be
called Nature; and nothing else, correctly speaking, has a right to
that name. But we are sure so far from speaking, in common
conversation, with any such accuracy, that, on the contrary, when we
criticise Rembrandt and other Dutch painters, who introduced into
their historical pictures exact representations of individual objects
with all their imperfections, we say--Though it is not in a good
taste, yet it is nature.

This misapplication of terms must be very often perplexing to the
young student. Is not art, he may say, an imitation of nature? Must he
not, therefore, who imitates her with the greatest fidelity be the
best artist? By this mode of reasoning Rembrandt has a higher place
than Raffaelle. But a very little reflection will serve to show us
that these particularities cannot be nature; for how can that be the
nature of man, in which no two individuals are the same?

It plainly appears, that as a work is conducted under the influence of
general ideas, or partial, it is principally to be considered as the
effect of a good or a bad taste.

As beauty, therefore, does not consist in taking what lies immediately
before you, so neither, in our pursuit of taste, are those opinions
which we first received and adopted the best choice, or the most
natural to the mind and imagination. In the infancy of our knowledge
we seize with greediness the good that is within our reach; it is by
after-consideration, and in consequence of discipline, that we refuse
the present for a greater good at a distance. The nobility or
elevation of all arts, like the excellency of virtue itself, consists
in adopting this enlarged and comprehensive idea; and all criticism
built upon the more confined view of what is natural may properly be
called _shallow_ criticism, rather than false: its defect is, that the
truth is not sufficiently extensive.

It has sometimes happened that some of the greatest men in our art
have been betrayed into errors by this confined mode of reasoning.
Poussin, who upon the whole may be produced as an artist strictly
attentive to the most enlarged and extensive ideas of nature, from not
having settled principles on this point, has, in one instance at
least, I think, deserted truth for prejudice. He is said to have
vindicated the conduct of Julio Romano for his inattention to the
masses of light and shade, or grouping the figures in THE BATTLE OF
CONSTANTINE, as if designedly neglected, the better to correspond with
the hurry and confusion of a battle. Poussin's own conduct in many of
his pictures makes us more easily give credit to this report. That it
was too much his own practice, THE SACRIFICE TO SILENUS, and THE
TRIUMPH OF BACCHUS AND ARIADNE, may be produced as instances; but this
principle is still more apparent, and may be said to be even more
ostentatiously displayed in his PERSEUS and MEDUSA'S HEAD.

This is undoubtedly a subject of great bustle and tumult, and that the
first effect of the picture may correspond to the subject, every
principle of composition is violated; there is no principal figure,
no principal light, no groups; everything is dispersed, and in such a
state of confusion, that the eye finds no repose anywhere. In
consequence of the forbidding appearance, I remember turning from it
with disgust, and should not have looked a second time, if I had not
been called back to a closer inspection. I then indeed found, what we
may expect always to find in the works of Poussin, correct drawing,
forcible expression, and just character; in short, all the
excellencies which so much distinguish the works of this learned

This conduct of Poussin I hold to be entirely improper to imitate. A
picture should please at first sight, and appear to invite the
spectator's attention: if, on the contrary, the general effect offends
the eye, a second view is not always sought, whatever more substantial
and intrinsic merit it may possess.

Perhaps no apology ought to be received for offences committed against
the vehicle (whether it be the organ of seeing or of hearing) by which
our pleasures are conveyed to the mind. We must take care that the eye
be not perplexed and distracted by a confusion of equal parts, or
equal lights, or offended by an unharmonious mixture of colours, as we
should guard against offending the ear by unharmonious sounds. We may
venture to be more confident of the truth of this observation, since
we find that Shakespeare, on a parallel occasion, has made Hamlet
recommend to the players a precept of the same kind--never to offend
the ear by harsh sounds: _In the very torrent, tempest, and whirlwind
of your passion_, says he, _you must acquire and beget a temperance
that may give it smoothness_. And yet, at the same time, he very
justly observes, _The end of playing, both at the first, and now, was,
and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature_. No one can deny
that violent passions will naturally emit harsh and disagreeable
tones; yet this great poet and critic thought that this imitation of
nature would cost too much, if purchased at the expense of
disagreeable sensations, or, as he expresses it, of _splitting the
ear_. The poet and actor, as well as the painter of genius, who is
well acquainted with all the variety and sources of pleasure in the
mind and imagination, has little regard or attention to common nature,
or creeping after common-sense. By overleaping those narrow bounds, he
more effectually seizes the whole mind, and more powerfully
accomplishes his purpose. This success is ignorantly imagined to
proceed from inattention to all rules, and a defiance of reason and
judgment; whereas it is in truth acting according to the best rules
and the justest reason.

He who thinks nature, in the narrow sense of the word, is alone to be
followed, will produce but a scanty entertainment for the imagination;
everything is to be done with which it is natural for the mind to be
pleased, whether it proceeds from simplicity or variety, uniformity or
irregularity; whether the scenes are familiar or exotic; rude and
wild, or enriched and cultivated; for it is natural for the mind to be
pleased with all these in their turn. In short, whatever pleases has
in it what is analogous to the mind, and is, therefore, in the highest
and best sense of the word, natural.

It is the sense of nature or truth which ought more particularly to be
cultivated by the professors of art; and it may be observed, that many
wise and learned men, who have accustomed their minds to admit nothing
for truth but what can be proved by mathematical demonstration, have
seldom any relish for those arts which address themselves to the
fancy, the rectitude and truth of which is known by another kind of
proof; and we may add, that the acquisition of this knowledge requires
as much circumspection and sagacity as is necessary to attain those
truths which are more capable of demonstration. Reason must ultimately
determine our choice on every occasion; but this reason may still be
exerted ineffectually by applying to taste principles which, though
right as far as they go, yet do not reach the object. No man, for
instance, can deny that it seems at first view very reasonable that a
statue, which is to carry down to posterity the resemblance of an
individual, should be dressed in the fashion of the times, in the
dress which he himself wore: this would certainly be true, if the
dress were part of the man; but after a time, the dress is only an
amusement for an antiquarian; and if it obstructs the general design
of the piece, it is to be disregarded by the artist. Common-sense must
here give way to a higher sense. In the naked form, and in the
disposition of the drapery, the difference between one artist and
another is principally seen. But if he is compelled to exhibit the
modern dress, the naked form is entirely hid, and the drapery is
already disposed by the skill of the tailor. Were a Phidias to obey
such absurd commands, he would please no more than an ordinary
sculptor; in the inferior parts of every art the learned and the
ignorant are nearly upon a level.

These were probably among the reasons that induced the sculptor
of that wonderful figure of Laocoon, to exhibit him naked,
notwithstanding he was surprised in the act of sacrificing to Apollo,
and consequently ought to have been shown in his sacerdotal habits, if
those greater reasons had not preponderated. Art is not yet in so high
estimation with us, as to obtain so great a sacrifice as the ancients
made, especially the Grecians, who suffered themselves to be
represented naked, whether they were generals, lawgivers, or kings.

Under this head of balancing and choosing the greater reason, or of
two evils taking the least, we may consider the conduct of Rubens in
the Luxembourg gallery, where he has mixed allegorical figures with
the representations of real personages, which must be acknowledged
to be a fault; yet, if the artist considered himself as engaged to
furnish this gallery with a rich, various, and splendid ornament,
this could not be done, at least in an equal degree, without
peopling the air and water with these allegorical figures: he
therefore accomplished all that he purposed. In this case all lesser
considerations, which tend to obstruct the great end of the work, must
yield and give way.

The variety which portraits and modern dresses, mixed with allegorical
figures, produce, is not to be slightly given up upon a punctilio of
reason, when that reason deprives the art in a manner of its very
existence. It must always be remembered that the business of a great
painter is to produce a great picture; he must therefore take especial
care not to be cajoled by specious arguments out of his materials.

What has been so often said to the disadvantage of allegorical
poetry,--that it is tedious, and uninteresting,--cannot with the same
propriety be applied to painting, where the interest is of a different
kind. If allegorical painting produces a greater variety of ideal
beauty, a richer, a more various and delightful composition, and gives
to the artist a greater opportunity of exhibiting his skill, all the
interest he wishes for is accomplished; such a picture not only
attracts, but fixes the attention.

If it be objected that Rubens judged ill at first in thinking it
necessary to make his work so very ornamental, this puts the question
upon new ground. It was his peculiar style; he could paint in no other;
and he was selected for that work, probably because it was his style.
Nobody will dispute but some of the best of the Roman or Bolognian
schools would have produced a more learned and more noble work.

This leads us to another important province of taste, that of weighing
the value of the different classes of the art, and of estimating them

All arts have means within them of applying themselves with success
both to the intellectual and sensitive part of our natures. It cannot
be disputed, supposing both these means put in practice with equal
abilities, to which we ought to give the preference; to him who
represents the heroic arts and more dignified passions of man, or to
him who, by the help of meretricious ornaments, however elegant and
graceful, captivates the sensuality, as it may be called, of our
taste. Thus the Roman and Bolognian schools are reasonably preferred
to the Venetian, Flemish, or Dutch schools, as they address themselves
to our best and noblest faculties.

Well-turned periods in eloquence, or harmony of numbers in poetry,
which are in those arts what colouring is in painting, however highly
we may esteem them, can never be considered as of equal importance
with the art of unfolding truths that are useful to mankind, and which
make us better or wiser. Nor can those works which remind us of the
poverty and meanness of our nature be considered as of equal rank with
what excites ideas of grandeur, or raises and dignifies humanity; or,
in the words of a late poet, which makes the beholder _learn to
venerate himself as man_.[5]

It is reason and good sense, therefore, which ranks and estimates every
art, and every part of that art, according to its importance, from the
painter of animated down to inanimated nature. We will not allow a man,
who shall prefer the inferior style, to say it is his taste; taste here
has nothing, or at least ought to have nothing, to do with the question.
He wants not taste, but sense and soundness of judgment.

Indeed, perfection in an inferior style may be reasonably preferred to
mediocrity in the highest walks of art. A landscape of Claude Lorrain
may be preferred to a history by Luca Giordano; but hence appears the
necessity of the connoisseur's knowing in what consists the excellency
of each class, in order to judge how near it approaches to perfection.

Even in works of the same kind, as in history-painting, which is
composed of various parts, excellence of an inferior species, carried
to a very high degree, will make a work very valuable, and in some
measure compensate for the absence of the higher kinds of merit. It is
the duty of the connoisseur to know and esteem, as much as it may
deserve, every part of painting: he will not then think even Bassano
unworthy of his notice; who, though totally devoid of expression,
sense, grace, or elegance, may be esteemed on account of his admirable
taste of colours, which, in his best works, are little inferior to
those of Titian.

Since I have mentioned Bassano, we must do him likewise the justice to
acknowledge, that though he did not aspire to the dignity of
expressing the characters and passions of men, yet, with respect to
facility and truth in his manner of touching animals of all kinds, and
giving them what painters call _their character_, few have excelled him.

To Bassano we may add Paul Veronese and Tintoret, for their entire
inattention to what is justly thought the most essential part of our
art, the expression of the passions. Notwithstanding these glaring
deficiencies, we justly esteem their works; but it must be remembered,
that they do not please from those defects, but from their great
excellencies of another kind, and in spite of such transgressions. These
excellencies, too, as far as they go, are founded in the truth of
_general_ nature: they tell the _truth_, though not _the whole truth_.

By these considerations, which can never be too frequently impressed,
may be obviated two errors, which I observed to have been, formerly at
least, the most prevalent, and to be most injurious to artists; that
of thinking taste and genius to have nothing to do with reason, and
that of taking particular living objects for nature.

I shall now say something on that part of _taste_, which, as I have
hinted to you before, does not belong so much to the external form of
things, but is addressed to the mind, and depends on its original
frame, or, to use the expression, the organisation of the soul; I mean
the imagination and the passions. The principles of these are as
invariable as the former, and are to be known and reasoned upon in the
same manner, by an appeal to common-sense deciding upon the common
feelings of mankind. This sense, and these feelings, appear to me of
equal authority, and equally conclusive. Now this appeal implies a
general uniformity and agreement in the minds of men. It would be else
an idle and vain endeavour to establish rules of art; it would be
pursuing a phantom, to attempt to move affections with which we were
entirely unacquainted. We have no reason to suspect there is a greater
difference between our minds than between our forms; of which, though
there are no two alike, yet there is a general similitude that goes
through the whole race of mankind; and those who have cultivated their
taste can distinguish what is beautiful or deformed, or, in other
words, what agrees with or deviates from the general idea of nature,
in one case, as well as in the other.

The internal fabric of our minds, as well as the external form of our
bodies, being nearly uniform, it seems then to follow of course, that
as the imagination is incapable of producing any thing originally of
itself, and can only vary and combine those ideas with which it is
furnished by means of the senses, there will be necessarily an
agreement in the imaginations, as in the senses of men. There being
this agreement, it follows, that in all cases, in our lightest
amusements as well as in our most serious actions and engagements of
life, we must regulate our affections of every kind by that of others.
The well-disciplined mind acknowledges this authority, and submits its
own opinion to the public voice. It is from knowing what are the
general feelings and passions of mankind that we acquire a true idea
of what imagination is; though it appears as if we had nothing to do
but to consult our own particular sensations, and these were
sufficient to ensure us from all error and mistake.

A knowledge of the disposition and character of the human mind can be
acquired only by experience; a great deal will be learned, I admit, by
a habit of examining what passes in our bosoms, what are our own
motives of action, and of what kind of sentiments we are conscious on
any occasion. We may suppose an uniformity, and conclude that the same
effect will be produced by the same cause in the mind of others. This
examination will contribute to suggest to us matters of inquiry; but
we can never be sure that our own sentiments are true and right, till
they are confirmed by more extensive observation. One man opposing
another determines nothing; but a general union of minds, like a
general combination of the forces of all mankind, makes a strength
that is irresistible. In fact, as he who does not know himself, does
not know others, so it may be said with equal truth, that he who does
not know others, knows himself but very imperfectly.

A man who thinks he is guarding himself against prejudices by
resisting the authority of others, leaves open every avenue to
singularity, vanity, self-conceit, obstinacy, and many other vices,
all tending to warp the judgment, and prevent the natural operation of
his faculties. This submission to others is a deference which we owe,
and, indeed, are forced involuntarily to pay. In fact, we never are
satisfied with our opinions, whatever we may pretend, till they are
ratified and confirmed by the suffrages of the rest of mankind. We
dispute and wrangle for ever; we endeavour to get men to come to us
when we do not go to them.

He, therefore, who is acquainted with the works which have pleased
different ages and different countries, and has formed his opinion on
them, has more materials, and more means of knowing what is analogous
to the mind of man, than he who is conversant only with the works of
his own age or country. What has pleased, and continues to please, is
likely to please again: hence are derived the rules of art, and on
this immovable foundation they must ever stand.

This search and study of the history of the mind ought not to be
confined to one art only. It is by the analogy that one art bears to
another that many things are ascertained, which either were but
faintly seen, or, perhaps, would not have been discovered at all, if
the inventor had not received the first hints from the practices of a
sister art on a similar occasion.[6] The frequent allusions which
every man who treats of any art is obliged to make to others, in order
to illustrate and confirm his principles, sufficiently show their near
connection and inseparable relation.

All arts having the same general end, which is to please; and
addressing themselves to the same faculties, through the medium of the
senses; it follows that their rules and principles must have as great
affinity as the different materials and the different organs or
vehicles by which they pass to the mind will permit them to retain.[7]

We may therefore conclude that the real substance, as it may be
called, of what goes under the name of taste, is fixed and established
in the nature of things; that there are certain and regular causes by
which the imagination and passions of men are affected; and that the
knowledge of these causes is acquired by a laborious and diligent
investigation of nature, and by the same slow progress as wisdom or
knowledge of every kind, however instantaneous its operations may
appear when thus acquired.

It has been often observed, that the good and virtuous man alone can
acquire this true or just relish even of works of art. This opinion
will not appear entirely without foundation, when we consider that the
same habit of mind, which is acquired by our search after truth, in
the more serious duties of life, is only transferred to the pursuit of
lighter amusements. The same disposition, the same desire to find
something steady, substantial, and durable, on which the mind can
lean, as it were, and rest with safety, actuates us in both cases.
The subject only is changed. We pursue the same method in our search
after the idea of beauty and perfection in each; of virtue, by looking
forward beyond ourselves to society, and to the whole; of arts, by
extending our views in the same manner, to all ages and all times.

Every art, like our own, has in its composition fluctuating as well as
fixed principles. It is an attentive inquiry into their difference
that will enable us to determine how far we are influenced by custom
and habit, and what is fixed in the nature of things.

To distinguish how much has solid foundation, we may have recourse to
the same proof by which some hold that wit ought to be tried; whether
it preserves itself when translated. That wit is false which can
subsist only in one language; and that picture which pleases only one
age or one nation owes its reception to some local or accidental
association of ideas.

We may apply this to every custom and habit of life. Thus, the general
principles of urbanity, politeness, or civility, have been the same in
all nations; but the mode in which they are dressed is continually
varying. The general idea of showing respect is by making yourself
less; but the manner, whether by bowing the body, kneeling,
prostration, pulling off the upper part of our dress, or taking away
the lower,[8] is a matter of custom.

Thus, in regard to ornaments,--it would be unjust to conclude, that,
because they were at first arbitrarily contrived, they are therefore
undeserving of our attention; on the contrary, he who neglects the
cultivation of those ornaments acts contrary to nature and reason. As
life would be imperfect without its highest ornaments, the Arts, so
these arts themselves would be imperfect without _their_ ornaments.
Though we by no means ought to rank with these positive and
substantial beauties, yet it must be allowed that a knowledge of both
is essentially requisite towards forming a complete, whole, and
perfect taste. It is in reality from their ornaments that arts receive
their peculiar character and complexion; we may add, that in them we
find the characteristical mark of a national taste; as, by throwing up
a feather in the air, we know which way the wind blows, better than by
a more heavy matter.

The striking distinction between the works of the Roman, Bolognian,
and Venetian schools consists more in that general effect which is
produced by colours than in the more profound excellencies of the art;
at least it is from thence that each is distinguished and known at
first sight. Thus it is the ornaments rather than the proportions of
architecture which at the first glance distinguish the different
orders from each other; the Doric is known by its triglyphs, the Ionic
by its volutes, and the Corinthian by its acanthus.

What distinguishes oratory from a cold narration is a more liberal,
though chaste, use of those ornaments which go under the name of
figurative and metaphorical expressions; and poetry distinguishes
itself from oratory by words and expressions still more ardent and
glowing. What separates and distinguishes poetry is more particularly
the ornament of _verse_; it is this which gives it its character, and
is an essential without which it cannot exist. Custom has appropriated
different metre to different kinds of composition, in which the world
is not perfectly agreed. In England the dispute is not yet settled,
which is to be preferred, rhyme or blank verse. But however we
disagree about what these metrical ornaments shall be, that some metre
is essentially necessary is universally acknowledged.

In poetry or eloquence, to determine how far figurative or
metaphorical language may proceed, and when it begins to be
affectation or beside the truth, must be determined by taste; though
this taste, we must never forget, is regulated and formed by the
presiding feelings of mankind--by those works which have approved
themselves to all times and all persons. Thus, though eloquence has
undoubtedly an essential and intrinsic excellence, and immovable
principles common to all languages, founded in the nature of our
passions and affections; yet it has its ornaments and modes of
address, which are merely arbitrary. What is approved in the eastern
nations as grand and majestic would be considered by the Greeks and
Romans as turgid and inflated; and they, in return, would be thought
by the Orientals to express themselves in a cold and insipid manner.

We may add, likewise, to the credit of ornaments, that it is by their
means that Art itself accomplishes its purpose. Fresnoy calls
colouring, which is one of the chief ornaments of painting, _lena
sororis_, that which procures lovers and admirers to the more valuable
excellencies of the art.

It appears to be the same right turn of mind which enables a man to
acquire the _truth_, or the just idea of what is right, in the
ornaments, as in the more stable principles of art. It has still the
same centre of perfection, though it is the centre of a smaller circle.

To illustrate this by the fashion of dress, in which there is allowed
to be a good or bad taste. The component parts of dress are
continually changing from great to little, from short to long; but
the general form still remains; it is still the same general dress,
which is comparatively fixed, though on a very slender foundation; but
it is on this which fashion must rest. He who invents with the most
success, or dresses in the best taste, would probably, from the same
sagacity employed to greater purposes, have discovered equal skill, or
have formed the same correct taste, in the highest labours of art.

I have mentioned taste in dress, which is certainly one of the lowest
subjects to which this word is applied; yet, as I have before
observed, there is a right even here, however narrow its foundation,
respecting the fashion of any particular nation. But we have still
more slender means of determining to which of the different customs of
different ages or countries we ought to give the preference, since
they seem to be all equally removed from nature. If an European, when
he has cut off his beard, and put false hair on his head, or bound up
his own natural hair in regular hard knots, as unlike nature as he can
possibly make it; and after having rendered them immovable by the help
of the fat of hogs, has covered the whole with flour, laid on by a
machine with the utmost regularity; if, when thus attired, he issues
forth, and meets a Cherokee Indian, who has bestowed as much time at
his toilet, and laid on, with equal care and attention, his yellow and
red ochre on particular parts of his forehead or cheeks, as he judges
most becoming; whoever of these two despises the other for this
attention to the fashion of his country, whichever first feels himself
provoked to laugh, is the barbarian.

All these fashions are very innocent; neither worth disquisition, nor
any endeavour to alter them; as the change would, in all probability,
be equally distant from nature. The only circumstance against which
indignation may reasonably be moved, is, where the operation is
painful or destructive of health; such as some of the practices at
Otaheite, and the strait-lacing of the English ladies; of the last of
which practices, how destructive it must be to health and long life
the professor of anatomy took an opportunity of proving a few days
since in this Academy.

It is in dress as in things of greater consequence. Fashions originate
from those only who have the high and powerful advantages of rank,
birth, and fortune. Many of the ornaments of art, those at least for
which no reason can be given, are transmitted to us, are adopted, and
acquire their consequence from the company in which we have been used
to see them. As Greece and Rome are the fountains from whence have
flowed all kinds of excellence, to that veneration which they have a
right to claim for the pleasure and knowledge which they have afforded
us we voluntarily add our approbation of every ornament and every
custom that belonged to them, even to the fashion of their dress. For
it may be observed that, not satisfied with them in their own place,
we make no difficulty of dressing statues of modern heroes or senators
in the fashion of the Roman armour or peaceful robe; we go so far as
hardly to bear a statue in any other drapery.

The figures of the great men of those nations have come down to us in
sculpture. In sculpture remain almost all the excellent specimens of
ancient art. We have so far associated personal dignity to the persons
thus represented, and the truth of art to their manner of
representation, that it is not in our power any longer to separate
them. This is not so in painting; because, having no excellent ancient
portraits, that connection was never formed. Indeed, we could no more
venture to paint a general officer in a Roman military habit than we
could make a statue in the present uniform. But since we have no
ancient portraits, to show how ready we are to adopt those kind of
prejudices, we make the best authority among the moderns serve the
same purpose. The great variety of excellent portraits with which
Vandyke has enriched this nation, we are not content to admire for
their real excellence, but extend our approbation even to the dress
which happened to be the fashion of that age. We all very well
remember how common it was a few years ago for portraits to be drawn
in this fantastic dress; and this custom is not yet entirely laid
aside. By this means it must be acknowledged very ordinary pictures
acquired something of the air and effect of the works of Vandyke, and
appeared therefore at first sight to be better pictures than they
really were; they appeared so, however, to those only who had the
means of making this association; and when made, it was irresistible.
But this association is nature, and refers to that secondary truth
that comes from conformity to general prejudice and opinion; it is
therefore not merely fantastical. Besides the prejudice which we have
in favour of ancient dresses, there may be likewise other reasons for
the effect which they produce; among which we may justly rank the
simplicity of them, consisting of little more than one single piece of
drapery, without those whimsical capricious forms by which all other
dresses are embarrassed.

Thus, though it is from the prejudice we have in favour of the
ancients, who have taught us architecture, that we have adopted
likewise their ornaments; and though we are satisfied that neither
nature nor reason are the foundation of those beauties which we
imagine we see in that art, yet if any one, persuaded of this truth,
should therefore invent new orders of equal beauty, which we will
suppose to be possible, they would not please; nor ought he to
complain, since the old has that great advantage of having custom and
prejudice on its side. In this case we leave what has every prejudice
in its favour, to take that which will have no advantage over what we
have left, but novelty; which soon destroys itself, and at any rate is
but a weak antagonist against custom.

Ancient ornaments, having the right of possession, ought not to be
removed, unless to make room for that which not only has higher
pretensions, but such pretensions as will balance the evil and
confusion which innovation always brings with it.

To this we may add, that even the durability of the materials will
often contribute to give a superiority to one object over another.
Ornaments in buildings, with which taste is principally concerned, are
composed of materials which last longer than those of which dress is
composed; the former, therefore, make higher pretensions to our favour
and prejudice.

Some attention is surely due to what we can no more get rid of than we
can go out of ourselves. We are creatures of prejudice; we neither can
nor ought to eradicate it; we must only regulate it by reason; which
kind of regulation is indeed little more than obliging the lesser, the
local and temporal prejudices, to give way to those which are more
durable and lasting.

He, therefore, who in his practice of portrait-painting wishes to
dignify his subject, which we will suppose to be a lady, will not
paint her in the modern dress, the familiarity of which alone is
sufficient to destroy all dignity. He takes care that his work shall
correspond to those ideas and that imagination which he knows will
regulate the judgment of others; and, therefore, dresses his figure
something with the general air of the antique for the sake of
dignity, and preserves something of the modern for the sake of
likeness. By this conduct his works correspond with those prejudices
which we have in favour of what we continually see; and the relish of
the antique simplicity corresponds with what we may call the more
learned and scientific prejudice.

There was a statue made not long since of Voltaire, which the
sculptor, not having that respect for the prejudices of mankind which
he ought to have had, made entirely naked, and as meagre and emaciated
as the original is said to be. The consequence was what might have
been expected: it remained in the sculptor's shop, though it was
intended as a public ornament and a public honour to Voltaire, for it
was procured at the expense of his contemporary wits and admirers.

Whoever would reform a nation, supposing a bad taste to prevail in it,
will not accomplish his purpose by going directly against the stream
of their prejudices. Men's minds must be prepared to receive what is
new to them. Reformation is a work of time. A national taste, however
wrong it may be, cannot be totally changed at once; we must yield a
little to the prepossession which has taken hold on the mind, and we
may then bring people to adopt what would offend them, if endeavoured
to be introduced by violence. When Battista Franco was employed, in
conjunction with Titian, Paul Veronese, and Tintoret, to adorn the
library of St. Mark, his work, Vasari says, gave less satisfaction
than any of the others: the dry manner of the Roman school was very
ill calculated to please eyes that had been accustomed to the
luxuriancy, splendour, and richness of Venetian colouring. Had the
Romans been the judges of this work, probably the determination would
have been just contrary; for in the more noble parts of the art
Battista Franco was perhaps not inferior to any of his rivals.

It has been the main scope and principal end of this discourse to
demonstrate the reality of a standard in taste, as well as in
corporeal beauty; that a false or depraved taste is a thing as well
known, as easily discovered, as any thing that is deformed, misshapen,
or wrong in our form or outward make; and that this knowledge is
derived from the uniformity of sentiments among mankind, from whence
proceeds the knowledge of what are the general habits of nature; the
result of which is an idea of perfect beauty.

If what has been advanced be true--that beside this beauty or truth,
which is formed on the uniform, eternal, and immutable laws of nature,
and which of necessity can be but _one_; that beside this one
immutable verity there are likewise what we have called apparent or
secondary truths, proceeding from local and temporary prejudices,
fancies, fashions, or accidental connection of ideas; if it appears
that these last have still their foundation, however slender, in the
original fabric of our minds; it follows that all these truths or
beauties deserve and require the attention of the artist, in
proportion to their stability or duration, or as their influence is
more or less extensive. And let me add, that as they ought not to pass
their just bounds, so neither do they, in a well-regulated taste, at
all prevent or weaken the influence of those general principles which
alone can give to art its true and permanent dignity.

To form this just taste is undoubtedly in your own power, but it is to
reason and philosophy that you must have recourse; from them you must
borrow the balance, by which is to be weighed and estimated the value
of every pretension that intrudes itself on your notice.

The general objection which is made to the introduction of Philosophy
into the regions of taste, is, that it checks and restrains the flights
of the imagination, and gives that timidity, which an over-carefulness
not to err or act contrary to reason is likely to produce. It is not so.
Fear is neither reason nor philosophy. The true spirit of philosophy, by
giving knowledge, gives a manly confidence, and substitutes rational
firmness in the place of vain presumption. A man of real taste is always
a man of judgment in other respects; and those inventions which either
disdain or shrink from reason are generally, I fear, more like the
dreams of a distempered brain than the exalted enthusiasm of a sound and
true genius. In the midst of the highest flights of fancy or
imagination, reason ought to preside from first to last, though I admit
her more powerful operation is upon reflection.

Let me add, that some of the greatest names of antiquity, and those
who have most distinguished themselves in works of genius and
imagination, were equally eminent for their critical skill. Plato,
Aristotle, Cicero, and Horace; and among the moderns, Boileau,
Corneille, Pope, and Dryden, are at least instances of genius not
being destroyed by attention or subjection to rules and science. I
should hope, therefore, that the natural consequence of what has been
said would be, to excite in you a desire of knowing the principles and
conduct of the great masters of our art, and respect and veneration
for them when known.


5: Dr. Goldsmith.

6: "Nulla ars, non alterius artis, aut mater, aut popinqua
est."--TERTULL as cited by JUNIUS.

7: "Omnes artes quæ ad humanitatem pertinent, habent quoddam
commune vinculum, et quasi cognatione inter se continentur."--CICERO.

8: "Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place
whereon thou standest is holy ground."--EXODUS iii. 5.


  _Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the Distribution
  of the Prizes, December 10, 1778._


I have recommended in former[9] discourses that Artists should learn
their profession by endeavouring to form an idea of perfection from the
different excellencies which lie dispersed in the various schools of
painting. Some difficulty will still occur, to know what is beauty, and
where it may be found: one would wish not to be obliged to take it
entirely on the credit of fame; though to this, I acknowledge, the
younger students must unavoidably submit. Any suspicion in them of the
chance of their being deceived will have more tendency to obstruct their
advancement than even an enthusiastic confidence in the perfection of
their models. But to the more advanced in the art, who wish to stand on
more stable and firmer ground, and to establish principles on a stronger
foundation than authority, however venerable or powerful, it may be
safely told that there is still a higher tribunal, to which those great
masters themselves must submit, and to which, indeed, every excellence
in art must be ultimately referred. He who is ambitious to enlarge the
boundaries of his art, must extend his views beyond the precepts which
are found in books or may be drawn from the practice of his
predecessors, to a knowledge of those precepts in the mind, those
operations of intellectual nature--to which everything that aspires to
please must be proportioned and accommodated.

Poetry having a more extensive power than our art, exerts its
influence over almost all the passions; among those may be reckoned
one of our most prevalent dispositions--anxiety for the future. Poetry
operates by raising our curiosity, engaging the mind by degrees to
take an interest in the event, keeping that event suspended, and
surprising at last with an unexpected catastrophe.

The painter's art is more confined, and has nothing that corresponds
with, or perhaps is equivalent to, this power and advantage of leading
the mind on, till attention is totally engaged. What is done by
Painting must be done at one blow; curiosity has received at once all
the satisfaction it can ever have. There are, however, other
intellectual qualities and dispositions which the Painter can satisfy
and affect as powerfully as the poet: among those we may reckon our
love of novelty, variety, and contrast; these qualities, on
examination, will be found to refer to a certain activity and
restlessness which has a pleasure and delight in being exercised and
put in motion. Art, therefore, only administers to those wants and
desires of the mind.

It requires no long disquisition to show that the dispositions which I
have stated actually subsist in the human mind. Variety reanimates the
attention, which is apt to languish under a continual sameness.
Novelty makes a more forcible impression on the mind than can be made
by the representation of what we have often seen before; and
contrasts rouse the power of comparison by opposition. All this is
obvious; but, on the other hand, it must be remembered, that the mind,
though an active principle, has likewise a disposition to indolence;
and though it loves exercise, loves it only to a certain degree,
beyond which it is very unwilling to be led or driven; the pursuit,
therefore, of novelty and variety may be carried to excess. When
variety entirely destroys the pleasure proceeding from uniformity and
repetition, and when novelty counteracts and shuts out the pleasure
arising from old habits and customs, they oppose too much the
indolence of our disposition; the mind, therefore, can bear with
pleasure but a small portion of novelty at a time. The main part of
the work must be in the mode to which we have been used. An affection
to old habits and customs I take to be the predominant disposition of
the mind, and novelty comes as an exception; where all is novelty, the
attention, the exercise of the mind is too violent. Contrast, in the
same manner, when it exceeds certain limits, is as disagreeable as a
violent and perpetual opposition; it gives to the senses, in their
progress, a more sudden change than they can bear with pleasure.

It is then apparent, that those qualities, however they contribute to
the perfection of Art, when kept within certain bounds, if they are
carried to excess, become defects, and require correction: a work
consequently will not proceed better and better as it is more varied;
variety can never be the groundwork and principle of the
performance--it must be only employed to recreate and relieve.

To apply these general observations which belong equally to all arts,
to ours in particular. In a composition, when the objects are
scattered and divided into many equal parts, the eye is perplexed and
fatigued, from not knowing where to find the principal action, or
which is the principal figure; for where all are making equal
pretensions to notice, all are in equal danger of neglect.

The expression which is used very often on these occasions is, the
piece wants repose; a word which perfectly expresses a relief of the
mind from that state of hurry and anxiety which it suffers when
looking at a work of this character.

On the other hand, absolute unity--that is, a large work, consisting
of one group or mass of light only--would be as defective as an heroic
poem without episode, or any collateral incidents to recreate the mind
with that variety which it always requires.

An instance occurs to me of two painters (Rembrandt and Poussin), of
characters totally opposite to each other in every respect, but in
nothing more than in their mode of composition, and management of light
and shadow. Rembrandt's manner is absolute unity; he often has but one
group, and exhibits little more than one spot of light in the midst of a
large quantity of shadow: if he has a second mass, that second bears no
proportion to the principal. Poussin, on the contrary, has scarce any
principal mass of light at all, and his figures are often too much
dispersed, without sufficient attention to place them in groups.

The conduct of these two painters is entirely the reverse of what
might be expected from their general style and character; the works of
Poussin being as much distinguished for simplicity as those of
Rembrandt for combination. Even this conduct of Poussin might proceed
from too great an affection to simplicity of _another kind_; too great
a desire to avoid that ostentation of art, with regard to light and
shadow, on which Rembrandt so much wished to draw the attention;
however, each of them ran into contrary extremes, and it is difficult
to determine which is the most reprehensible, both being equally
distant from the demands of nature and the purposes of art.

The same just moderation must be observed in regard to ornaments;
nothing will contribute more to destroy repose than profusion, of
whatever kind, whether it consists in the multiplicity of objects, or
the variety and brightness of colours. On the other hand, a work
without ornament, instead of simplicity, to which it makes
pretensions, has rather the appearance of poverty. The degree to which
ornaments are admissible must be regulated by the professed style of
the work; but we may be sure of this truth,--that the most ornamental
style requires repose to set off even its ornaments to advantage. I
cannot avoid mentioning here an instance of repose, in that faithful
and accurate painter of nature, Shakespeare--the short dialogue
between Duncan and Banquo, whilst they are approaching the gates of
Macbeth's castle. Their conversation very naturally turns upon the
beauty of its situation, and the pleasantness of the air; and Banquo,
observing the martlets' nests in every recess of the cornice, remarks,
that where those birds most breed and haunt the air is delicate. The
subject of this quiet and easy conversation gives that repose so
necessary to the mind, after the tumultuous bustle of the preceding
scenes, and perfectly contrasts the scene of horror that immediately
succeeds. It seems as if Shakespeare asked himself, What is a prince
likely to say to his attendants on such an occasion? The modern
writers seem, on the contrary, to be always searching for new
thoughts, such as never could occur to man in the situation
represented. This is also frequently the practice of Homer, who from
the midst of battles and horrors relieves and refreshes the mind of
the reader, by introducing some quiet rural image, or picture of
familiar domestic life. The writers of every age and country, where
taste has begun to decline, paint and adorn every object they touch;
are always on the stretch; never deviate or sink a moment from the
pompous and the brilliant. Lucan, Statius, and Claudian (as a learned
critic has observed) are examples of this bad taste and want of
judgment; they never soften their tones, or condescend to be natural;
all is exaggeration and perpetual splendour, without affording repose
of any kind.

As we are speaking of excesses, it will not be remote from our purpose
to say a few words upon simplicity; which, in one of the senses in
which it is used, is considered as the general corrector of excess. We
shall at present forbear to consider it as implying that exact conduct
which proceeds from an intimate knowledge of simple unadulterated
nature, as it is then only another word for perfection, which neither
stops short of, nor oversteps reality and truth.

In our inquiry after simplicity, as in many other inquiries of this
nature, we can best explain what is right by showing what is wrong;
and, indeed, in this case it seems to be absolutely necessary;
simplicity being only a negative virtue, cannot be described or
defined. We must therefore explain its nature, and show the advantage
and beauty which is derived from it, by showing the deformity which
proceeds from its neglect.

Though instances of this neglect might be expected to be found in
practice, we should not expect to find in the works of critics
precepts that bid defiance to simplicity and everything that relates
to it. De Piles recommends to us portrait-painters, to add grace and
dignity to the characters of those whose pictures we draw: so far he
is undoubtedly right; but, unluckily, he descends to particulars, and
gives his own idea of grace and dignity. "_If_," says he, "_you draw
persons of high character and dignity, they ought to be drawn in such
an attitude that the Portraits must seem to speak to us of themselves,
and, as it were, to say to us, 'Stop, take notice of me, I am that
invincible King, surrounded by Majesty:' 'I am that valiant commander,
who struck terror everywhere:' 'I am that great minister, who knew all
the springs of politics:' 'I am that magistrate of consummate wisdom
and probity.'_" He goes on in this manner with all the characters he
can think on. We may contrast the tumour of this presumptuous
loftiness with the natural, unaffected air of the portraits of Titian,
where dignity, seeming to be natural and inherent, draws spontaneous
reverence, and instead of being thus vainly assumed, has the
appearance of an unalienable adjunct; whereas such pompous and
laboured insolence of grandeur is so far from creating respect, that
it betrays vulgarity and meanness, and new-acquired consequence.

The painters, many of them at least, have not been backward in
adopting the notions contained in these precepts. The portraits of
Rigaud are perfect examples of an implicit observance of these rules
of De Piles; so that though he was a painter of great merit in many
respects, yet that merit is entirely overpowered by a total absence of
simplicity in every sense.

Not to multiply instances, which might be produced for this purpose,
from the works of history-painters, I shall mention only one,--a
picture which I have seen, of the Supreme Being, by Coypell.

This subject the Roman Catholic painters have taken the liberty to
represent, however indecent the attempt, and however obvious the
impossibility of any approach to an adequate representation; but here
the air and character which the Painter has given, and he has
doubtless given the highest he could conceive, are so degraded by an
attempt at such dignity as De Piles has recommended, that we are
enraged at the folly and presumption of the artist, and consider it as
little less than profanation.

As we have passed to a neighbouring nation for instances of want of
this quality, we must acknowledge at the same time that they have
produced great examples of simplicity, in Poussin and Le Sueur. But as
we are speaking of the most refined and subtle notion of perfection,
may we not inquire, whether a curious eye cannot discern some faults,
even in those great men? I can fancy that even Poussin, by abhorring
that affectation and that want of simplicity which he observed in his
countrymen, has, in certain particulars, fallen into the contrary
extreme, so far as to approach to a kind of affectation:--to what, in
writing, would be called pedantry.

When simplicity, instead of being a corrector, seems to set up for
herself; that is, when an artist seems to value himself solely upon this
quality; such an ostentatious display of simplicity becomes then as
disagreeable and nauseous as any other kind of affectation. He is,
however, in this case likely enough to sit down contented with his own
work, for though he finds the world look at it with indifference or
dislike, as being destitute of every quality that can recreate or give
pleasure to the mind, yet he consoles himself that it has simplicity, a
beauty of too pure and chaste a nature to be relished by vulgar minds.

It is in art as in morals; no character would inspire us with an
enthusiastic admiration of his virtue, if that virtue consisted only
in an absence of vice; something more is required; a man must do more
than merely his duty to be a hero.

Those works of the ancients, which are in the highest esteem, have
something beside mere simplicity to recommend them. The Apollo, the
Venus, the Laocoon, the Gladiator, have a certain composition of
action, have contrasts sufficient to give grace and energy in a high
degree; but it must be confessed of the many thousand antique statues
which we have, that their general characteristic is bordering at least
on inanimate insipidity.

Simplicity, when so very inartificial as to seem to evade the
difficulties of art, is a very suspicious virtue.

I do not, however, wish to degrade simplicity from the high estimation
in which it has been ever justly held. It is our barrier against that
great enemy to truth and nature, Affectation, which is ever clinging
to the pencil, and ready to drop in and poison everything it touches.

Our love and affection to simplicity proceeds in a great measure from
our aversion to every kind of affectation. There is likewise another
reason why so much stress is laid upon this virtue; the propensity
which artists have to fall into the contrary extreme: we therefore set
a guard on that side which is most assailable. When a young artist is
first told that his composition and his attitudes must be contrasted,
that he must turn the head contrary to the position of the body, in
order to produce grace and animation; that his outline must be
undulating, and swelling, to give grandeur; and that the eye must be
gratified with a variety of colours; when he is told this, with
certain animating words of Spirit, Dignity, Energy, Grace, greatness
of Style, and brilliancy of Tints, he becomes suddenly vain of his
newly-acquired knowledge, and never thinks he can carry those rules
too far. It is then that the aid of simplicity ought to be called in
to correct the exuberance of youthful ardour.

The same may be said in regard to colouring, which in its pre-eminence
is particularly applied to flesh. An artist, in his first essay of
imitating nature, would make the whole mass of one colour, as the
oldest painters did; till he is taught to observe not only the variety
of tints, which are in the object itself, but the differences produced
by the gradual decline of light to shadow; he then immediately puts
his instruction in practice, and introduces a variety of distinct
colours. He must then be again corrected and told, that though there
is this variety, yet the effect of the whole upon the eye must have
the union and simplicity of the colouring of nature.

And here we may observe that the progress of an individual Student
bears a great resemblance to the progress and advancement of the Art
itself. Want of simplicity would probably be not one of the defects of
an artist who had studied nature only, as it was not of the old
masters, who lived in the time preceding the great Art of Painting; on
the contrary, their works are too simple and too inartificial.

The Art in its infancy, like the first work of a Student, was dry,
hard, and simple. But this kind of barbarous simplicity would be
better named Penury, as it proceeds from mere want--from want of
knowledge, want of resources, want of abilities to be otherwise; their
simplicity was the offspring, not of choice, but necessity.

In the second stage they were sensible of this poverty; and those who
were the most sensible of the want were the best judges of the measure
of the supply. There were painters who emerged from poverty without
falling into luxury. Their success induced others, who probably never
would of themselves have had strength of mind to discover the original
defect, to endeavour at the remedy by an abuse; and they ran into the
contrary extreme. But however they may have strayed, we cannot
recommend to them to return to that simplicity which they have justly
quitted; but to deal out their abundance with a more sparing hand,
with that dignity which makes no parade, either of its riches or of
its art. It is not easy to give a rule which may serve to fix this
just and correct medium; because, when we may have fixed, or nearly
fixed, the middle point, taken as a general principle, circumstances
may oblige us to depart from it, either on the side of Simplicity, or
on that of Variety and Decoration.

I thought it necessary in a former discourse, speaking of the
difference of the sublime and ornamental style of painting--in order
to excite your attention to the more manly, noble, and dignified
manner--to leave perhaps an impression too contemptuous of those
ornamental parts of our Art, for which many have valued themselves,
and many works are much valued and esteemed.

I said then what I thought it was right at that time to say; I
supposed the disposition of young men more inclinable to splendid
negligence than perseverance in laborious application to acquire
correctness: and therefore did as we do in making what is crooked
straight, by bending it the contrary way, in order that it may remain
straight at last.

For this purpose, then, and to correct excess or neglect of any kind,
we may here add, that it is not enough that a work be learned; it must
be pleasing; the painter must add grace to strength, if he desires to
secure the first impression in his favour. Our taste has a kind of
sensuality about it, as well as a love of the sublime; both these
qualities of the mind are to have their proper consequence, as far as
they do not counteract each other; for that is the grand error which
much care ought to be taken to avoid.

There are some rules, whose absolute authority, like that of our
nurses, continues no longer than while we are in a state of childhood.
One of the first rules, for instance, that I believe every master
would give to a young pupil, respecting his conduct and management of
light and shadow, would be what Lionardo da Vinci has actually given;
that you must oppose a light ground to the shadowed side of your
figure, and a dark ground to the light side. If Lionardo had lived to
see the superior splendour and effect which has been since produced by
the exactly contrary conduct--by joining light to light and shadow to
shadow--though without doubt he would have admired it, yet, as it
ought not, so probably it would not be the first rule with which he
would have begun his instructions.

Again; in the artificial management of the figures, it is directed
that they shall contrast each other according to the rules generally
given; that if one figure opposes his front to the spectator, the next
figure is to have his back turned, and that the limbs of each
individual figure be contrasted; that is, if the right leg be put
forward, the right arm is to be drawn back.

It is very proper that those rules should be given in the Academy; it
is proper the young students should be informed that some research is
to be made, and that they should be habituated to consider every
excellence as reducible to principles. Besides, it is the natural
progress of instruction to teach first what is obvious and perceptible
to the senses, and from hence proceed gradually to notions large,
liberal, and complete, such as comprise the more refined and higher
excellencies in Art. But when students are more advanced, they will
find that the greatest beauties of character and expression are
produced without contrast; nay more, that this contrast would ruin
and destroy that natural energy of men engaged in real action,
unsolicitous of grace. St. Paul preaching at Athens, in one of the
Cartoons, far from any affected academical contrast of limbs, stands
equally on both legs, and both hands are in the same attitude: add
contrast, and the whole energy and unaffected grace of the figure is
destroyed. Elymas the sorcerer stretches both hands forward in the
same direction, which gives perfectly the expression intended. Indeed,
you never will find in the works of Raffaelle any of those school-boy
affected contrasts. Whatever contrast there is, appears without any
seeming agency of art, by the natural chance of things.

What has been said of the evil of excesses of all kinds, whether of
simplicity, variety, or contrast, naturally suggests to the painter
the necessity of a general inquiry into the true meaning and cause of
rules, and how they operate on those faculties to which they are
addressed: by knowing their general purpose and meaning he will often
find that he need not confine himself to the literal sense; it will be
sufficient if he preserve the spirit of the law.

Critical remarks are not always understood without examples: it may
not be improper, therefore, to give instances where the rule itself,
though generally received, is false, or where a narrow conception of
it may lead the artists into great errors.

It is given as a rule by Fresnoy, That _the principal figure of a
subject must appear in the midst of the picture, under the principal
light, to distinguish it from the rest_. A painter who should think
himself obliged secretly to follow this rule, would encumber himself
with needless difficulties; he would be confined to great uniformity
of composition, and be deprived of many beauties which are
incompatible with its observance. The meaning of this rule extends, or
ought to extend, no further than this:--That the principal figure
should be immediately distinguished at the first glance of the eye;
but there is no necessity that the principal light should fall on the
principal figure, or that the principal figure should be in the middle
of the picture. It is sufficient that it be distinguished by its
place, or by the attention of other figures pointing it out to the
spectator. So far is this rule from being indispensable, that it is
very seldom practised; other considerations of greater consequence
often standing in the way. Examples in opposition to this rule are
found in the Cartoons, in Christ's Charge to Peter, the Preaching of
St. Paul, and Elymas the Sorcerer, who is undoubtedly the principal
object in that picture. In none of those compositions is the principal
figure in the midst of the picture. In the very admirable composition
of the Tent of Darius, by Le Brun, Alexander is not in the middle of
the picture, nor does the principal light fall on him; but the
attention of all the other figures immediately distinguishes him, and
distinguishes him more properly; the greatest light falls on the
daughter of Darius, who is in the middle of the picture, where it is
more necessary the principal light should be placed.

It is very extraordinary that Felibien, who has given a very minute
description of this picture, but indeed such a description as may be
called rather panegyric than criticism, thinking it necessary
(according to the precept of Fresnoy) that Alexander should possess
the principal light, has accordingly given it to him; he might with
equal truth have said that he was placed in the middle of the picture,
as he seemed resolved to give this piece every kind of excellence
which he conceived to be necessary to perfection. His generosity is
here unluckily misapplied, as it would have destroyed, in a great
measure, the beauty of the composition.

Another instance occurs to me, where equal liberty may be taken, in
regard to the management of light. Though the general practice is, to
make a large mass about the middle of the picture surrounded by
shadow, the reverse may be practised, and the spirit of the rule may
still be preserved. Examples of this principle reversed may be found
very frequently in the works of the Venetian School. In the great
composition of Paul Veronese, THE MARRIAGE AT CANA, the figures are,
for the most part, in half shadow; the great light is in the sky; and,
indeed, the general effect of this picture, which is so striking, is
no more than what we often see in landscapes, in small pictures of
fairs and country feasts; but those principles of light and shadow,
being transferred to a large scale, to a space containing near a
hundred figures as large as life, and conducted to all appearance with
as much facility, and with an attention as steadily fixed upon _the
whole together_, as if it were a small picture immediately under the
eye, the work justly excites our admiration; the difficulty being
increased as the extent is enlarged.

The various modes of composition are infinite; sometimes it shall
consist of one large group in the middle of the picture, and the
smaller groups on each side; or a plain space in the middle, and the
groups of figures ranked round this vacuity.

Whether this principal broad light be in the middle space of ground,
as in THE SCHOOL OF ATHENS; or in the sky, as in THE MARRIAGE AT CANA,
in THE ANDROMEDA, and in most of the pictures of Paul Veronese; or
whether the light be on the groups; whatever mode of composition is
adopted, every variety and license is allowable: this only is
indisputably necessary, that to prevent the eye from being distracted
and confused by a multiplicity of objects of equal magnitude, those
objects, whether they consist of lights, shadows, or figures, must be
disposed in large masses and groups properly varied and contrasted;
that to a certain quantity of action a proportioned space of plain
ground is required; that light is to be supported by sufficient
shadow; and we may add, that a certain quantity of cold colours is
necessary to give value and lustre to the warm colours: what those
proportions are cannot be so well learnt by precept as by observation
on pictures, and in this knowledge bad pictures will instruct as well
as good. Our inquiry why pictures have a bad effect may be as
advantageous as the inquiry why they have a good effect; each will
corroborate the principles that are suggested by the other.

Though it is not my _business_ to enter into the detail of our Art,
yet I must take this opportunity of mentioning one of the means of
producing that great effect which we observe in the works of the
Venetian painters, as I think it is not generally known or observed.
It ought, in my opinion, to be indispensably observed, that the masses
of light in a picture be always of a warm mellow colour, yellow, red,
or a yellowish-white; and that the blue, the grey, or the green
colours be kept almost entirely out of these masses, and be used only
to support and set off these warm colours; and for this purpose, a
small portion of cold colours will be sufficient.

Let this conduct be reserved; let the light be cold, and the surrounding
colours warm, as we often see in the works of the Roman and Florentine
painters, and it will be out of the power of art, even in the hands of
Rubens or Titian, to make a picture splendid and harmonious.

Le Brun and Carlo Maratti were two painters of great merit, and
particularly what may be called Academical Merit, but were both
deficient in this management of colours; the want of observing this
rule is one of the causes of that heaviness of effect which is so
observable in their works. The principal light in the Picture of Le
Brun, which I just now mentioned, falls on Statira, who is dressed
very injudiciously in a pale blue drapery: it is true, he has
heightened this blue with gold, but that is not enough; the whole
picture has a heavy air, and by no means answers the expectations
raised by the print. Poussin often made a spot of blue drapery, when
the general hue of the picture was inclinable to brown or yellow;
which shows sufficiently that harmony of colouring was not a part of
the art that had much engaged the attention of that great painter.

The conduct of Titian in the picture of BACCHUS AND ARIADNE has been
much celebrated, and justly, for the harmony of colouring. To Ariadne
is given (say the critics) a red scarf, to relieve the figure from the
sea, which is behind her. It is not for that reason alone, but for
another of much greater consequence; for the sake of the general
harmony and effect of the picture. The figure of Ariadne is separated
from the great group, and is dressed in blue, which, added to the
colour of the sea, makes that quantity of cold colour which Titian
thought necessary for the support and brilliancy of the great group;
which group is composed, with very little exception, entirely of
mellow colours. But as the picture in this case would be divided into
two distinct parts, one half cold, and the other warm, it was
necessary to carry some of the mellow colours of the great group into
the cold part of the picture, and a part of the cold into the great
group; accordingly, Titian gave Ariadne a red scarf, and to one of
the Bacchante a little blue drapery.

The light of the picture, as I observed, ought to be of a warm colour;
for though white may be used for the principal light, as was the
practice of many of the Dutch and Flemish painters, yet it is better
to suppose _that white_ illumined by the yellow rays of the setting
sun, as was the manner of Titian. The superiority of which manner is
never more striking than when in a collection of pictures we chance to
see a portrait of Titian's hanging by the side of a Flemish picture
(even though that should be of the hand of Vandyke), which, however
admirable in other respects, becomes cold and grey in the comparison.

The illuminated parts of objects are in nature of a warmer tint than
those that are in the shade; what I have recommended, therefore, is no
more than that the same conduct be observed in the whole, which is
acknowledged to be necessary in every individual part. It is
presenting to the eye the same effect as that which it has been
_accustomed_ to feel, which, in this case, as in every other, will
always produce beauty; no principle, therefore, in our art can be more
certain, or is derived from a higher source.

When I just now mentioned of the supposed reason why Ariadne has part
of her drapery red, gives me occasion here to observe, that this
favourite quality of giving objects relief, and which De Piles and all
the Critics have considered as a requisite of the utmost importance,
was not one of those objects which much engaged the attention of
Titian; painters of an inferior rank have far exceeded him in
producing this effect. This was a great object of attention, when art
was in its infant state; as it is at present with the vulgar and
ignorant, who feel the highest satisfaction in seeing a figure,
which, as they say, looks as if they could walk round it. But however
low I may rate this pleasure of deception, I should not oppose it, did
it not oppose itself to a quality of a much higher kind, by
counteracting entirely that fulness of manner which is so difficult to
express in words, but which is found in perfection in the best works
of Correggio, and we may add, of Rembrandt. This effect is produced by
melting and losing the shadows in a ground still darker than those
shadows; whereas that relief is produced by opposing and separating
the ground from the figure, either by light, or shadow, or colour.
This conduct of in-laying, as it may be called, figures on their
ground, in order to produce relief, was the practice of the old
Painters, such as Andrea Mantegna, Pietro Perugino, and Albert Durer;
and to these we may add the first manner of Lionardo da Vinci,
Giorgione, and even Correggio; but these three were among the first
who began to correct themselves in dryness of style, by no longer
considering relief as a principal object. As those two qualities,
relief, and fulness of effect, can hardly exist together, it is not
very difficult to determine to which we ought to give the preference.
An artist is obliged forever to hold a balance in his hand, by which
he must determine the value of different qualities; that, when _some_
fault must be committed, he may choose the least. Those painters who
have best understood the art of producing a good effect have adopted
one principle that seems perfectly conformable to reason; that a part
may be sacrificed for the good of the whole. Thus, whether the masses
consist of light or shadow, it is necessary that they should be
compact and of a pleasing shape: to this end some parts may be made
darker and some lighter, and reflections stronger than nature would
warrant. Paul Veronese took great liberties of this kind. It is said,
that being once asked why certain figures were painted in shade, as no
cause was seen in the picture itself, he turned off the inquiry by
answering, "_Una nuevola che passa_"--a cloud is passing, which has
overshadowed them.

But I cannot give a better instance of this practice than a picture
which I have of Rubens; it is a representation of a Moonlight. Rubens
has not only diffused more light over the picture than is in nature, but
has bestowed on it those warm glowing colours by which his works are so
much distinguished. It is so unlike what any other painters have given
us of Moonlight, that it might be easily mistaken, if he had not
likewise added stars, for a fainter setting sun. Rubens thought the eye
ought to be satisfied in this case, above all other considerations; he
might, indeed, have made it more natural, but it would have been at the
expense of what he thought of much greater consequence--the harmony
proceeding from the contrast and variety of colours.

This same picture will furnish us with another instance, where we must
depart from nature for a greater advantage. The Moon in this picture
does not preserve so great a superiority in regard to its lightness
over the subject which it illumines as it does in nature; this is
likewise an intended deviation, and for the same reason. If Rubens had
preserved the same scale of gradation of light between the Moon and
the objects which is found in nature, the picture must have consisted
of one small spot of light only, and at a little distance from the
picture nothing but this spot would have been seen. It may be said,
indeed, that this being the case, it is a subject that ought not to be
painted; but then, for the same reason, neither armour, nor anything
shining, ought ever to be painted; for though pure white is used in
order to represent the greatest light of shining objects, it will not
in the picture preserve the same superiority over flesh as it has in
nature, without keeping that flesh colour of a very low tint.
Rembrandt, who thought it of more consequence to paint light than the
objects that are seen by it, has done this in a picture of Achilles
which I have. The head is kept down to a very low tint, in order to
preserve this due gradation and distinction between the armour and the
face; the consequence of which is, that, upon the whole, the picture
is too black. Surely too much is sacrificed here to this narrow
conception of nature; allowing the contrary conduct a fault, yet it
must be acknowledged a less fault than making a picture so dark that
it cannot be seen without a peculiar light, and then with difficulty.
The merit or demerit of the different conduct of Rubens and Rembrandt
in those instances which I have given, is not to be determined by the
narrow principles of nature, separated from its effect on the human
mind. Reason and common-sense tell us, that before, and above all
other considerations, it is necessary that the work should be seen,
not only without difficulty or inconvenience, but with pleasure and
satisfaction; and every obstacle which stands in the way of this
pleasure and convenience must be removed.

The tendency of this Discourse, with the instances which have been
given, is not so much to place the Artist above rules, as to teach him
their reason; to prevent him from entertaining a narrow, confined
conception of Art; to clear his mind from a perplexed variety of rules
and their exceptions, by directing his attention to an intimate
acquaintance with the passions and affections of the mind, from which
all rules arise, and to which they are all referable. Art effects its
purpose by their means; an accurate knowledge, therefore, of those
passions and dispositions of the mind is necessary to him who desires
to affect them upon sure and solid principles.

A complete essay or inquiry into the connection between the rules of
Art and the eternal and immutable dispositions of our passions would
be indeed going at once to the foundation of criticism;[10] but I am
too well convinced what extensive knowledge, what subtle and
penetrating judgment, would be required to engage in such an
undertaking; it is enough for me if, in the language of painters, I
have produced a slight sketch of a part of this vast composition, but
that sufficiently distinct to show the usefulness of such a theory,
and its practicability.

Before I conclude, I cannot avoid making one observation on the pictures
now before us. I have observed, that every candidate has copied the
celebrated invention of Timanthes in hiding the face of Agamemnon in his
mantle; indeed, such lavish encomiums have been bestowed on this
thought, and that too by men of the highest character in critical
knowledge--Cicero, Quintilian, Valerius, Maximus, and Pliny--and have
been since re-echoed by almost every modern that has written on the
Arts, that your adopting it can neither be wondered at nor blamed. It
appears now to be so much connected with the subject, that the spectator
would perhaps be disappointed in not finding united in the picture what
he always united in his mind, and considered as indispensably belonging
to the subject. But it may be observed, that those who praise this
circumstance were not painters. They use it as an illustration only of
their own art; it served their purpose, and it was certainly not their
business to enter into the objections that lie against it in another
Art. I fear _we_ have but very scanty means of exciting those powers
over the imagination which make so very considerable and refined a part
of poetry. It is a doubt with me, whether we should even make the
attempt. The chief, if not the only occasion, which the painter has for
this artifice, is, when the subject is improper, to be more fully
represented, either for the sake of decency, or to avoid what would be
disagreeable to be seen; and this is not to raise or increase the
passions, which is the reason that is given for this practice, but, on
the contrary, to diminish their effect.

It is true, sketches, or such drawings as painters generally make for
their works, give this pleasure of imagination to a high degree. From
a slight, undetermined drawing, where the ideas of the composition and
character are, as I may say, only just touched upon, the imagination
supplies more than the painter himself, probably, could produce; and
we accordingly often find that the finished work disappoints the
expectation that was raised from the sketch; and this power of the
imagination is one of the causes of the great pleasure we have in
viewing a collection of drawings by great painters. These general
ideas, which are expressed in sketches, correspond very well to the
art often used in Poetry. A great part of the beauty of the celebrated
description of Eve in Milton's "Paradise Lost" consists in using only
general indistinct expressions, every reader making out the detail
according to his own particular imagination,--his own idea of beauty,
grace, expression, dignity, or loveliness: but a painter, when he
represents Eve on a canvas, is obliged to give a determined form, and
his own idea of beauty distinctly expressed.

We cannot on this occasion, nor indeed on any other, recommend an
undeterminate manner or vague ideas of any kind, in a complete and
finished picture. This notion, therefore, of leaving anything to the
imagination, opposes a very fixed and indispensable rule in our
art--that everything shall be carefully and distinctly expressed, as if
the painter knew, with correctness and precision, the exact form and
character of whatever is introduced into the picture. This is what with
us is called Science and Learning: which must not be sacrificed and
given up for an uncertain and doubtful beauty, which, not naturally
belonging to our Art, will probably be sought for without success.

Mr. Falconet has observed, in a note on this passage in his
translation of Pliny, that the circumstance of covering the face of
Agamemnon was probably not in consequence of any fine imagination of
the painter--which he considers as a discovery of the critics--but
merely copied from the description of the sacrifice, as it is found in

The words from which the picture is supposed to be taken are these:
_Agamemnon saw Iphigenia advance towards the fatal altar; he groaned,
he turned aside his head, he shed tears, and covered his face with his

Falconet does not at all acquiesce in the praise that is bestowed on
Timanthes; not only because it is not his invention, but because he
thinks meanly of this trick of concealing, except in instances of
blood, where the objects would be too horrible to be seen; but, says
he, "in an afflicted Father, in a King, in Agamemnon, you, who are a
painter, conceal from me the most interesting circumstance, and then
put me off with sophistry and a veil. You are (he adds) a feeble
Painter, without resource: you do not know even those of your Art: I
care not what veil it is, whether closed hands, arms raised, or any
other action that conceals from me the countenance of the Hero. You
think of veiling Agamemnon; you have unveiled your own ignorance. A
Painter who represents Agamemnon veiled is as ridiculous as a Poet
would be, who, in a pathetic situation, in order to satisfy my
expectations, and rid himself of the business, should say, that the
sentiments of his hero are so far above whatever can be said on the
occasion, that he shall say nothing."

To what Falconet has said, we may add, that supposing this method of
leaving the expression of grief to the imagination to be, as it was
thought to be, the invention of the painter, and that it deserves all
the praise that has been given it, still it is a trick that will serve
but once: whoever does it a second time will not only want novelty,
but be justly suspected of using artifice to evade difficulties. If
difficulties overcome make a great part of the merit of Art,
difficulties evaded can deserve but little commendation.



10: This was inadvertently said. I did not recollect the
admirable treatise _On the Sublime and Beautiful_.


  _Delivered at the Opening of the Royal Academy, in Somerset Place,
  October 16, 1780._


The honour which the Arts acquire by being permitted to take
possession of this noble habitation is one of the most considerable of
the many instances we have received of His Majesty's protection; and
the strongest proof of his desire to make the Academy respectable.

Nothing has been left undone that might contribute to excite our
pursuit or to reward our attainments. We have already the happiness of
seeing the Arts in a state to which they never before arrived in this
nation. This Building, in which we are now assembled, will remain to
many future ages an illustrious specimen of the Architect's[11]
abilities. It is our duty to endeavour that those who gaze with wonder
at the structure may not be disappointed when they visit the
apartments. It will be no small addition to the glory which this
nation has already acquired from having given birth to eminent men in
every part of science, if it should be enabled to produce, in
consequence of this institution, a School of English Artists. The
estimation in which we stand in respect to our neighbours, will be in
proportion to the degree in which we excel or are inferior to them in
the acquisition of intellectual excellence, of which Trade and its
consequential riches must be acknowledged to give the means; but a
people whose whole attention is absorbed in those means, and who
forget the end, can aspire but little above the rank of a barbarous
nation. Every establishment that tends to the cultivation of the
pleasures of the mind, as distinct from those of sense, may be
considered as an inferior school of morality, where the mind is
polished and prepared for higher attainments.

Let us for a moment take a short survey of the progress of the mind
towards what is, or ought to be, its true object of attention. Man, in
his lowest state, has no pleasures but those of sense, and no wants
but those of appetite; afterwards, when society is divided into
different ranks, and some are appointed to labour for the support of
others, those whom their superiority sets free from labour begin to
look for intellectual entertainments. Thus, whilst the shepherds were
attending their flocks, their masters made the first astronomical
observations; so music is said to have had its origin from a man at
leisure listening to the strokes of a hammer.

As the senses, in the lowest state of nature, are necessary to direct us
to our support, when that support is once secure there is danger in
following them further; to him who has no rule of action but the
gratification of the senses, plenty is always dangerous: it is therefore
necessary to the happiness of individuals, and still more necessary to
the security of society, that the mind should be elevated to the idea of
general beauty, and the contemplation of general truth; by this pursuit
the mind is always carried forward in search of something more excellent
than it finds, and obtains its proper superiority over the common senses
of life, by learning to feel itself capable of higher aims and nobler
enjoyments. In this gradual exaltation of human nature, every art
contributes its contingent towards the general supply of mental
pleasure. Whatever abstracts the thoughts from sensual gratifications,
whatever teaches us to look for happiness within ourselves, must advance
in some measure the dignity of our nature.

Perhaps there is no higher proof of the excellency of man than
this--that to a mind properly cultivated, whatever is bounded is
little. The mind is continually labouring to advance, step by step,
through successive gradations of excellence, towards perfection, which
is dimly seen, at a great, though not hopeless, distance, and which we
must always follow, because we never can attain; but the pursuit
rewards itself; one truth teaches another, and our store is always
increasing, though nature can never be exhausted. Our art, like all
arts which address the imagination, is applied to a somewhat lower
faculty of the mind, which approaches nearer to sensuality: but
through sense and fancy it must make its way to reason; for such is
the progress of thought, that we perceive by sense, we combine by
fancy, and distinguish by reason: and without carrying our art out of
its natural and true character, the more we purify it from everything
that is gross in sense, in that proportion we advance its use and
dignity; and in proportion as we lower it to mere sensuality, we
pervert its nature, and degrade it from the rank of a liberal art; and
this is what every artist ought well to remember. Let him remember
also, that he deserves just so much encouragement in the state as he
makes himself a member of it virtuously useful, and contributes in his
sphere to the general purpose and perfection of society.

The Art which we profess has beauty for its object; this it is our
business to discover and to express; the beauty of which we are in
quest is general and intellectual; it is an idea that subsists only in
the mind; the sight never beheld it, nor has the hand expressed it; it
is an idea residing in the breast of the artist, which he is always
labouring to impart, and which he dies at last without imparting; but
which he is yet so far able to communicate, as to raise the thoughts
and extend the views of the spectator; and which, by a succession of
art, may be so far diffused, that its effects may extend themselves
imperceptibly into public benefits, and be among the means of
bestowing on whole nations refinement of taste: which, if it does not
lead directly to purity of manners, obviates at least their greatest
depravation, by disentangling the mind from appetite, and conducting
the thoughts through successive stages of excellence, till that
contemplation of universal rectitude and harmony, which, began by
Taste, may, as it is exalted and refined, conclude in Virtue.


11: Sir William Chambers.


  _Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the Distribution of
  the Prizes, December 11, 1780._


I shall now, as it has been customary on this day, and on this
occasion, communicate to you such observations as have occurred to me
on the Theory of Art.

If these observations have hitherto referred principally to Painting,
let it be remembered that this Art is much more extensive and
complicated than Sculpture, and affords therefore a more ample field
for criticism; and as the greater includes the less, the leading
principles of Sculpture are comprised in those of Painting.

However, I wish now to make some remarks with particular relation to
Sculpture; to consider wherein, or in what manner, its principles and
those of Painting agree or differ; what is within its power of
performing, and what it is vain or improper to attempt; that it may be
clearly and distinctly known what ought to be the great purpose of the
Sculptor's labours.

Sculpture is an art of much more simplicity and uniformity than
painting; it cannot with propriety, and the best effect, be applied to
many subjects. The object of its pursuit may be comprised in two
words--Form and Character; and those qualities are presented to us but
in one manner, or in one style only; whereas the powers of Painting,
as they are more various and extensive, so they are exhibited in as
great a variety of manners. The Roman, Lombard, Florentine, Venetian,
and Flemish Schools all pursue the same end by different means. But
Sculpture having but one style, can only to one style of Painting have
any relation; and to this (which is indeed the highest and most
dignified that Painting can boast), it has a relation so close, that
it may be said to be almost the same art operating upon different
materials. The Sculptors of the last age, from not attending
sufficiently to this discrimination of the different styles of
Painting, have been led into many errors. Though they well knew that
they were allowed to imitate, or take ideas for the improvement of
their own Art from the grand style of Painting, they were not aware
that it was not permitted to borrow in the same manner from the
ornamental. When they endeavour to copy the picturesque effects,
contrasts, or petty excellencies of whatever kind, which not
improperly find a place in the inferior branches of Painting, they
doubtless imagine themselves improving and extending the boundaries of
their art by this imitation; but they are in reality violating its
essential character, by giving a different direction to its
operations, and proposing to themselves either what is unattainable,
or at best a meaner object of pursuit. The grave and austere character
of Sculpture requires the utmost degree of formality in composition;
picturesque contrasts have here no place; everything is carefully
weighed and measured, one side making almost an exact equipoise to the
other: a child is not a proper balance to a full grown figure, nor is
a figure sitting or stooping a companion to an upright figure.

The excellence of every art must consist in the complete
accomplishment of its purpose; and if by a false imitation of nature,
or mean ambition of producing a picturesque effect or illusion of any
kind, all the grandeur of ideas which this art endeavours to excite,
be degraded or destroyed, we may boldly oppose ourselves to any such
innovation. If the producing of a deception is the summit of this art,
let us at once give to statues the addition of colour; which will
contribute more towards accomplishing this end than all those
artifices which have been introduced and professedly defended, on no
other principle but that of rendering the work more natural. But as
colour is universally rejected, every practice liable to the same
objection must fall with it. If the business of Sculpture were to
administer pleasure to ignorance, or a mere entertainment to the
senses, the Venus or Medicis might certainly receive much improvement
by colour; but the character of Sculpture makes it her duty to afford
delight of a different, and, perhaps, of a higher kind; the delight
resulting from the contemplation of perfect beauty: and this, which is
in truth an intellectual pleasure, is in many respects incompatible
with what is merely addressed to the senses, such as that with which
ignorance and levity contemplate elegance of form.

The Sculptor may be safely allowed to practise every means within the
power of his art to produce a deception, provided this practice does not
interfere with or destroy higher excellencies; on these conditions he
will be forced, however loth, to acknowledge that the boundaries of his
art have long been fixed, and that all endeavours will be vain that hope
to pass beyond the best works which remain of ancient Sculpture.

Imitation is the means, and not the end of art: it is employed by the
Sculptor as the language by which his ideas are presented to the mind
of the spectator. Poetry and elocution of every sort make use of
signs, but those signs are arbitrary and conventional. The sculptor
employs the representation of the thing itself; but still as a means
to a higher end--as a gradual ascent, always advancing towards
faultless form and perfect beauty. It may be thought at the first
view, that even this form, however perfectly represented, is to be
valued and take its rank only for the sake of a still higher object,
that of conveying sentiment and character, as they are exhibited by
attitude and expression of the passions. But we are sure from
experience, that the beauty of form alone, without the assistance of
any other quality, makes of itself a great work, and justly claims our
esteem and admiration. As a proof of the high value we set on the mere
excellence of form, we may produce the greatest part of the works of
Michel Angelo, both in painting and sculpture; as well as most of the
antique statues, which are justly esteemed in a very high degree,
though no very marked or striking character or expression of any kind
is represented.

But, as a stronger instance that this excellence alone inspires
sentiment, what artist ever looked at the Torso without feeling a
warmth of enthusiasm, as from the highest efforts of poetry? From
whence does this proceed? What is there in this fragment that produces
this effect, but the perfection of this science of abstract form?

A mind elevated to the contemplation of excellence, perceives in this
defaced and shattered fragment, _disjecta membra poetæ_, the traces of
superlative genius, the reliques of a work on which succeeding ages
can only gaze with inadequate admiration.

It may be said that this pleasure is reserved only to those who have
spent their whole life in the study and contemplation of this art;
but the truth is, that all would feel its effects, if they could
divest themselves of the expectation of _deception_, and look only for
what it really is--a _partial_ representation of nature. The only
impediment of their judgment must then proceed from their being
uncertain to what rank, or rather kind of excellence, it aspires; and
to what sort of approbation it has a right. This state of darkness is,
without doubt, irksome to every mind; but by attention to works of
this kind the knowledge of what is aimed at comes of itself, without
being taught, and almost without being perceived.

The Sculptor's art is limited in comparison of others, but it has its
variety and intricacy within its proper bounds. Its essence is
correctness: and when to correct and perfect form is added the ornament
of grace, dignity of character, and appropriated expression, as in the
Apollo, the Venus, the Laocoon, the Moses of Michael Angelo, and many
others, this art may be said to have accomplished its purpose.

What Grace is, how it is to be acquired or conceived, are in
speculation difficult questions; but _causa latet, res est notissima_:
without any perplexing inquiry, the effect is hourly perceived. I
shall only observe that its natural foundation is correctness of
design; and though grace may be sometimes united with incorrectness,
it cannot proceed from it.

But to come nearer to our present subject. It has been said that the
grace of the Apollo depends on a certain degree of incorrectness: that
the head is not anatomically placed between the shoulders; and that
the lower half of the figure is longer than just proportion allows.

I know that Correggio and Parmegiano are often produced as authorities
to support this opinion; but very little attention will convince us
that the incorrectness of some parts which we find in their works does
not contribute to grace, but rather tends to destroy it. The Madonna,
with the sleeping Infant, and beautiful group of Angels, by
Parmegiano, in the Palazzo Piti, would not have lost any of its
excellence if the neck, fingers, and, indeed, the whole figure of the
Virgin, instead of being so very long and incorrect, had preserved
their due proportion.

In opposition to the first of these remarks, I have the authority of a
very able Sculptor of this Academy, who has copied that figure,
consequently measured and carefully examined it, to declare that the
criticism is not true. In regard to the last, it must be remembered that
Apollo is here in the exertion of one of his peculiar powers, which is
swiftness; he has therefore that proportion which is best adapted to
that character. This is no more incorrectness than when there is given
to an Hercules an extraordinary swelling and strength of muscles.

The art of discovering and expressing grace is difficult enough of
itself, without perplexing ourselves with what is incomprehensible. A
supposition of such a monster as Grace, begot by Deformity, is poison
to the mind of a young Artist, and may make him neglect what is
essential to his art--correctness of Design--in order to pursue a
phantom, which has no existence but in the imagination of affected and
refined speculators.

I cannot quit the Apollo without making one observation on the
character of this figure. He is supposed to have just discharged his
arrow at the Python; and, by the head retreating a little towards the
right shoulder, he appears attentive to its effect. What I would
remark is the difference of this attention from that of the
Discobolus, who is engaged in the same purpose, watching the effect of
his Discus. The graceful, negligent, though animated air of the one,
and the vulgar eagerness of the other, furnish a signal instance of
the judgment of the ancient sculptors in their nice discrimination of
character. They are both equally true to nature, and equally admirable.

It may be remarked that Grace, Character, and Expression, though words
of different sense and meaning, and so understood when applied to the
works of Painters, are indiscriminately used when we speak of
Sculpture. This indecision we may suspect to proceed from the
undetermined effects of the Art itself; those qualities are exhibited
in Sculpture rather by form and attitude than by the features, and can
therefore be expressed but in a very general manner.

Though the Laocoon and his two sons have more expression in the
countenance than perhaps any other antique statues, yet it is only the
general expression of pain; and this passion is still more strongly
expressed by the writhing and contortion of the body than by the

It has been observed in a late publication, that if the attention of
the Father in this group had been occupied more by the distress of his
children than by his own sufferings, it would have raised a much
greater interest in the spectator. Though this observation comes from
a person whose opinion, in everything relating to the Arts, carries
with it the highest authority, yet I cannot but suspect that such
refined expression is scarce within the province of this Art; and in
attempting it, the Artist will run great risk of enfeebling
expression, and making it less intelligible to the spectator.

As the general figure presents itself in a more conspicuous manner
than the features, it is there we must principally look for expression
or character; _patuit in corpore vultus_; and, in this respect, the
Sculptor's art is not unlike that of Dancing, where the attention of
the spectator is principally engaged by the attitude and action of the
performer, and it is there he must look for whatever expression that
art is capable of exhibiting. The Dancers themselves acknowledge this,
by often wearing masks, with little diminution in the expression. The
face bears so very inconsiderable a proportion to the effect of the
whole figure, that the ancient Sculptors neglected to animate the
features, even with the general expression of the passions. Of this
the group of the Boxers is a remarkable instance; they are engaged in
the most animated action with the greatest serenity of countenance.
This is not recommended for imitation (for there can be no reason why
the countenance should not correspond with the attitude and expression
of the figure), but is mentioned in order to infer from hence, that
this frequent deficiency in ancient Sculpture could proceed from
nothing but a habit of inattention to what was considered as
comparatively immaterial.

Those who think Sculpture can express more than we have allowed, may
ask, by what means we discover, at the first glance, the character
that is represented in a Bust, Cameo, or Intaglio? I suspect it will
be found, on close examination, by him who is resolved not to see more
than he really does see, that the figures are distinguished by their
_insignia_ more than by any variety of form or beauty. Take from
Apollo his Lyre, from Bacchus his Thyrsus and Vine-leaves, and
Meleager the Boar's Head, and there will remain little or no
difference in their characters. In a Juno, Minerva, or Flora, the idea
of the artist seems to have gone no further than representing perfect
beauty, and afterwards adding the proper attributes, with a total
indifference to which they gave them. Thus John de Bologna, after he
had finished a group of a young man holding up a young woman in his
arms, with an old man at his feet, called his friends together, to
tell him what name he should give it, and it was agreed to call it The
Rape of the Sabines; and this is the celebrated group which now stands
before the old Palace at Florence.[12] The figures have the same
general expression which is to be found in most of the antique
Sculpture; and yet it would be no wonder if future critics should find
out delicacy of expression which was never intended; and go so far as
to see, in the old man's countenance, the exact relation which he bore
to the woman who appears to be taken from him.

Though Painting and Sculpture are, like many other arts, governed by
the same general principles, yet in the detail, or what may be called
the by-laws of each art, there seems to be no longer any connection
between them. The different materials upon which those two arts exert
their powers must infallibly create a proportional difference in their
practice. There are many petty excellencies which the Painter attains
with ease, but which are impracticable in Sculpture; and which, even
if it could accomplish them, would add nothing to the true value and
dignity of the work.

Of the ineffectual attempts which the modern Sculptors have made by
way of improvement, these seem to be the principal; The practice of
detaching drapery from the figure, in order to give the appearance of
flying in the air;--

Of making different plans in the same bas-relievos;--

Of attempting to represent the effects of perspective;--

To these we may add the ill effect of figures clothed in a modern

The folly of attempting to make stone sport and flutter in the air is
so apparent, that it carries with it its own reprehension; and yet to
accomplish this seemed to be the great ambition of many modern
Sculptors, particularly Bernini: his art was so much set on overcoming
this difficulty, that he was forever attempting it, though by that
attempt he risked everything that was valuable in the art.

Bernini stands in the first class of modern Sculptors, and therefore
it is the business of criticism to prevent the ill effects of so
powerful an example.

From his very early work of Apollo and Daphne, the world justly expected
he would rival the best productions of ancient Greece; but he soon
strayed from the right path. And though there is in his works something
which always distinguishes him from the common herd, yet he appears in
his latter performances to have lost his way. Instead of pursuing the
study of that ideal beauty with which he had so successfully begun, he
turned his mind to an injudicious quest of novelty, attempted what was
not within the province of the art, and endeavoured to overcome the
hardness and obstinacy of his materials; which even supposing he had
accomplished, so far as to make this species of drapery appear natural,
the ill effect and confusion occasioned by its being detached from the
figure to which it belongs ought to have been alone a sufficient reason
to have deterred him from that practice.

We have not, I think, in our Academy, any of Bernini's works, except a
cast of the head of his Neptune; this will be sufficient to serve us for
an example of the mischief produced by this attempt of representing the
effects of the wind. The locks of the hair are flying abroad in all
directions, insomuch that it is not a superficial view that can discover
what the object is which is represented, or distinguish those flying
locks from the features, as they are all of the same colour, of equal
solidity, and consequently project with equal force.

The same entangled confusion which is here occasioned by the hair is
produced by drapery flying off; which the eye must, for the same reason,
inevitably mingle and confound with the principal parts of the figure.

It is a general rule, equally true in both Arts, that the form and
attitude of the figure should be seen clearly, and without any
ambiguity at the first glance of the eye. This the Painter can easily
do by colour, by losing parts in the ground, or keeping them so
obscure as to prevent them from interfering with the more principal
objects. The sculptor has no other means of preventing this confusion
than by attaching the drapery for the greater part close to the
figure; the folds of which, following the order of the limbs, whenever
the drapery is seen, the eye is led to trace the form and attitude of
the figure at the same time.

The drapery of the Apollo, though it makes a large mass, and is
separated from the figure, does not affect the present question, from
the very circumstance of its being so completely separated; and from
the regularity and simplicity of its form, it does not in the least
interfere with a distinct view of the figure. In reality, it is no
more a part of it than a pedestal, a trunk of a tree, or an animal,
which we often see joined to statues.

The principal use of those appendages is to strengthen and preserve
the statue from accidents; and many are of opinion that the mantle
which falls from the Apollo's arm is for the same end; but surely it
answers a much greater purpose, by preventing that dryness of effect
which would inevitably attend a naked arm, extended almost at full
length, to which we may add the disagreeable effect which would
proceed from the body and arm making a right angle.

The Apostles, in the church of St. John Lateran, appear to me to fall
under the censure of an injudicious imitation of the manner of the
painters. The drapery of those figures, from being disposed in large
masses, gives undoubtedly that air of grandeur which magnitude or
quantity is sure to produce. But though it should be acknowledged that
it is managed with great skill and intelligence, and contrived to
appear as light as the materials will allow, yet the weight and
solidity of stone was not to be overcome.

Those figures are much in the style of Carlo Maratti, and such as we may
imagine he would have made if he had attempted Sculpture; and when we
know he had the superintendence of that work, and was an intimate friend
of one of the principal Sculptors, we may suspect that his taste had
some influence, if he did not even give the designs. No man can look at
those figures without recognising the manner of Carlo Maratti. They have
the same defect which his works so often have, of being overlaid with
drapery, and that too artificially disposed. I cannot but believe that
if Ruscono, Le Gros, Monot, and the rest of the Sculptors employed in
that work, had taken for their guide the simple dress, such as we see in
the antique statues of the philosophers, it would have given more real
grandeur to their figures, and would certainly have been more suitable
to the characters of the Apostles.

Though there is no remedy for the ill effect of those solid
projections which flying drapery in stone must always produce in
statues, yet in bas-relievos it is totally different; those detached
parts of drapery the Sculptor has here as much power over as the
Painter, by uniting and losing it in the ground, so that it shall not
in the least entangle and confuse the figure.

But here again the Sculptor, not content with this successful
imitation, if it may be so called, proceeds to represent figures, or
groups of figures, on different plans; that is, some on the
foreground, and some at a greater distance, in the manner of Painters
in historical compositions. To do this he has no other means than by
making the distant figures of less dimensions, and relieving them in a
less degree from the surface; but this is not adequate to the end;
they will still appear only as figures on a less scale, but equally
near the eye with those in the front of the piece.

Nor does the mischief of this attempt, which never accomplishes its
intention, rest here: by this division of the work into many minute
parts, the grandeur of its general effect is inevitably destroyed.

Perhaps the only circumstance in which the Modern have excelled the
Ancient Sculptors is the management of a single group in basso-relievo;
the art of gradually raising the group from the flat surface, till it
imperceptibly emerges into alto-relievo. Of this there is no ancient
example remaining that discovers any approach to the skill which Le Gros
has shown in an Altar in the Jesuits' Church at Rome. Different plans or
degrees of relief in the same group have, as we see in this instance, a
good effect, though the contrary happens when the groups are separated,
and are at some distance behind each other.

This improvement in the art of composing a group in basso-relievo was
probably first suggested by the practice of the modern Painters, who
relieve their figures, or groups of figures, from their ground, by the
same gentle gradation; and it is accomplished in every respect by the
same general principles; but as the marble has no colour, it is the
composition itself that must give its light and shadow. The ancient
Sculptors could not borrow this advantage from their Painters, for
this was an art with which they appear to have been entirely
unacquainted: and in the bas-relievos of Lorenzo Ghiberti, the casts
of which we have in the Academy, this art is no more attempted than it
was by the Painters of his age.

The next imaginary improvement of the moderns is the representing the
effects of Perspective in bas-relief. Of this little need be said; all
must recollect how ineffectual has been the attempt of modern
Sculptors to turn the buildings which they have introduced as seen
from their angle, with a view to make them appear to recede from the
eye in perspective. This, though it may show indeed their eager desire
to encounter difficulties, shows at the same time how inadequate their
materials are even to this their humble ambition.

The Ancients, with great judgment, represented only the elevation of
whatever architecture they introduced into their bas-reliefs, which is
composed of little more than horizontal or perpendicular lines;
whereas the interruption of crossed lines, or whatever causes a
multiplicity of subordinate parts, destroys that regularity and
firmness of effect on which grandeur of style so much depends.

We come now to the last consideration; in what manner Statues are to
be dressed, which are made in honour of men, either now living, or
lately departed.

This is a question which might employ a long discourse of itself; I
shall at present only observe, that he who wishes not to obstruct the
Artist, and prevent his exhibiting his abilities to their greatest
advantage, will certainly not desire a modern dress.

The desire of transmitting to posterity the shape of modern dress must
be acknowledged to be purchased at a prodigious price, even the price
of everything that is valuable in art.

Working in stone is a very serious business; and it seems to be scarce
worth while to employ such durable materials in conveying to posterity
a fashion of which the longest existence scarce exceeds a year.

However agreeable it may be to the Antiquary's principles of equity
and gratitude, that as he has received great pleasure from the
contemplation of the fashions of dress of former ages, he wishes to
give the same satisfaction to future Antiquaries; yet, methinks,
pictures of an inferior style, or prints, may be considered as quite
sufficient, without prostituting this great art to such mean purposes.

In this town may be seen an Equestrian Statue in a modern dress, which
may be sufficient to deter future artists from any such attempt: even
supposing no other objection, the familiarity of the modern dress by
no means agrees with the dignity and gravity of Sculpture.

Sculpture is formal, regular, and austere; disdains all familiar
objects, as incompatible with its dignity; and is an enemy to every
species of affectation, or appearance of academical art. All contrast,
therefore, of one figure to another, or of the limbs of a single
figure, or even in the folds of the drapery, must be sparingly
employed. In short, whatever partakes of fancy or caprice, or goes
under the denomination of Picturesque (however to be admired in its
proper place), is incompatible with that sobriety and gravity which is
peculiarly the characteristic of this art.

There is no circumstance which more distinguishes a well-regulated and
sound taste, than a settled uniformity of design, where all the parts
are compact, and fitted to each other, everything being of a piece.
This principle extends itself to all habits of life, as well as to all
works of art. Upon this general ground therefore we may safely venture
to pronounce, that the uniformity and simplicity of the materials on
which the Sculptor labours (which are only white marble), prescribes
bounds to his art, and teaches him to confine himself to a
proportionable simplicity of design.


12: In the Loggia dei Lauzi at Florence.--Note, Ed.


  _Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the Distribution of
  the Prizes, December 10, 1782._


The highest ambition of every Artist is to be thought a man of Genius.
As long as this flattering quality is joined to his name, he can bear
with patience the imputation of carelessness, incorrectness, or
defects of whatever kind.

So far, indeed, is the presence of Genius from implying an absence of
faults, that they are considered by many as its inseparable
companions. Some go such lengths as to take indication from them, and
not only excuse faults on account of Genius, but presume Genius from
the existence of certain faults.

It is certainly true, that a work may justly claim the character of
Genius, though full of errors; and it is equally true, that it may be
faultless, and yet not exhibit the least spark of Genius. This
naturally suggests an inquiry, a desire, at least, of inquiring, what
qualities of a work and of a workman may justly entitle a Painter to
that character.

I have in a former discourse[13] endeavoured to impress you with a
fixed opinion, that a comprehensive and critical knowledge of the
works of nature is the only source of beauty and grandeur. But when we
speak to Painters, we must always consider this rule, and all rules,
with a reference to the mechanical practice of their own particular
Art. It is not properly in the learning, the taste, and the dignity of
the ideas, that Genius appears as belonging to a Painter. There is a
Genius particular appropriated to his own trade, (as I may call it)
distinguished from all others. For that power, which enables the
Artist to conceive his subject with dignity, may be said to belong to
general education; and is as much the Genius of a Poet, or the
professor of any other liberal Art, or even a good critic in any of
those arts, as of a Painter. Whatever sublime ideas may fill his mind,
he is a Painter, only as he can put in practice what he knows, and
communicate those ideas by visible representation.

If my expression can convey my idea, I wish to distinguish excellence
of this kind by calling it the Genius of mechanical performance. This
Genius consists, I conceive, in the power of expressing that which
employs your pencil, whatever it may be, _as a whole_; so that the
general effect and power of the whole may take possession of the mind,
and for a while suspend the consideration of the subordinate and
particular beauties or defects.

The advantage of this method of considering objects is what I wish now
more particularly to enforce. At the same time I do not forget, that a
Painter must have the power of contracting as well as dilating his
sight; because, he that does not at all express particulars, expresses
nothing; yet it is certain, that a nice discrimination of minute
circumstances, and a punctilious delineation of them, whatever
excellence it may have (and I do not mean to detract from it) never
did confer on the Artist the character of Genius.

Beside those minute differences in things which are frequently not
observed at all, and when they are, made little impression, there are
in all considerable objects great characteristic distinctions, which
press strongly on the senses, and therefore fix the imagination. These
are by no means, as some persons think, an aggregate of all the small
discriminating particulars: nor will such an accumulation of
particulars ever express them. These answer to what I have heard great
lawyers call the leading points in a case, or the leading cases
relative to those points.

The detail of particulars, which does not assist the expression of the
main characteristic, is worse than useless, it is mischievous, as it
dissipates the attention, and draws it from the principal point. It
may be remarked, that the impression which is left on our mind even of
things which are familiar to us, is seldom more than their general
effect; beyond which we do not look in recognising such objects. To
express this in Painting, is to express what is congenial and natural
to the mind of man, and what gives him by reflection his own mode of
conceiving. The other presupposes _nicety_ and _research_, which are
only the business of the curious and attentive, and therefore does not
speak to the general sense of the whole species; in which common, and,
as I may so call it, mother tongue, everything grand and comprehensive
must be uttered.

I do not mean to prescribe what degree of attention ought to be paid
to the minute parts; this it is hard to settle. We are sure that it is
expressing the general effect of the whole, which alone can give to
objects their true and touching character; and wherever this is
observed, whatever else may be neglected, we acknowledge the hand of a
Master. We may even go further, and observe, that when the general
effect only is presented to us by a skilful hand, it appears to
express the object represented in a more lively manner than the
minutest resemblance would do.

These observations may lead to very deep questions, which I do not
mean here to discuss; among others, it may lead to an inquiry, Why we
are not always pleased with the most absolute possible resemblance of
an imitation to its original object? Cases may exist in which such a
resemblance may be even disagreeable. I shall only observe that the
effect of figures in waxwork, though certainly a more exact
representation than can be given by Painting or Sculpture, is a
sufficient proof that the pleasure we receive from imitation is not
increased merely in proportion as it approaches to minute and detailed
reality; we are pleased, on the contrary, by seeing ends accomplished
by seemingly inadequate means.

To express protuberance by actual relief--to express the softness of
flesh by the softness of wax, seems rude and inartificial, and creates
no grateful surprise. But to express distances on a plain surface,
softness by hard bodies, and particular colouring by materials which
are not singly of that colour, produces that magic which is the prize
and triumph of art.

Carry this principle a step further. Suppose the effect of imitation
to be fully compassed by means still more inadequate; let the power of
a few well-chosen strokes, which supersede labour by judgment and
direction, produce a complete impression of all that the mind demands
in an object; we are charmed with such an unexpected happiness of
execution, and begin to be tired with the superfluous diligence, which
in vain solicits an appetite already satiated.

The properties of all objects, as far as a Painter is concerned with
them, are, the outline or drawing, the colour, and the light and
shade. The drawing gives the form, the colour its visible quality, and
the light and shade its solidity.

Excellence in any one of these parts of art will never be acquired by
an artist, unless he has the habit of looking upon objects at large,
and observing the effect which they have on the eye when it is
dilated, and employed upon the whole, without seeing any one of the
parts distinctly. It is by this that we obtain the ruling
characteristic, and that we learn to imitate it by short and dexterous
methods. I do not mean by dexterity a trick or mechanical habit,
formed by guess, and established by custom; but that science, which,
by a profound knowledge of ends and means, discovers the shortest and
surest way to its own purpose.

If we examine with a critical view the manner of those painters whom
we consider as patterns, we shall find that their great fame does not
proceed from their works being more highly finished than those of
other artists, or from a more minute attention to details, but from
that enlarged comprehension which sees the whole object at once, and
that energy of art which gives its characteristic effect by adequate

Raffaelle and Titian are two names which stand the highest in our art;
one for Drawing, the other for Painting. The most considerable and the
most esteemed works of Raffaelle are the Cartoons, and his Fresco
works in the Vatican; those, as we all know, are far from being
minutely finished: his principal care and attention seems to have been
fixed upon the adjustment of the whole, whether it was the general
composition, or the composition of each individual figure; for every
figure may be said to be a lesser whole, though, in regard to the
general work to which it belongs, it is but a part; the same may be
said of the head, of the hands, and feet. Though he possessed this art
of seeing and comprehending the whole, as far as form is concerned, he
did not exert the same faculty in regard to the general effect, which
is presented to the eye by colour, and light and shade. Of this the
deficiency of his oil pictures, where this excellence is more expected
than in Fresco, is a sufficient proof.

It is to Titian we must turn our eyes to find excellence with regard
to colour, and light and shade, in the highest degree. He was both the
first and the greatest master of this art. By a few strokes he knew
how to mark the general image and character of whatever object he
attempted; and produced, by this alone, a truer representation than
his master Giovanni Bellino, or any of his predecessors, who finished
every hair. His great care was to express the general colour, to
preserve the masses of light and shade, and to give by opposition the
idea of that solidity which is inseparable from natural objects. When
those are preserved, though the work should possess no other merit, it
will have in a proper place its complete effect; but where any of
these are wanting, however minutely laboured the picture may be in the
detail, the whole will have a false and even an unfinished appearance,
at whatever distance, or in whatever light, it can be shown.

It is in vain to attend to the variation of tints, if, in that
attention, the general hue of flesh is lost; or to finish ever so
minutely the parts, if the masses are not observed, or the whole not
well put together.

Vasari seems to have had no great disposition to favour the Venetian
Painters, yet he everywhere justly commends _il modo di fare, la
maniera, la bella practica_; that is, the admirable manner and
practice of that school. On Titian, in particular, he bestows the
epithets of _giudicioso_, _bello_, _e stupendo_.

This manner was then new to the world, but that unshaken truth on
which it is founded has fixed it as a model to all succeeding
Painters; and those who will examine into the artifice will find it to
consist in the power of generalising, and in the shortness and
simplicity of the means employed.

Many artists, as Vasari likewise observes, have ignorantly imagined
they are imitating the manner of Titian when they leave their colours
rough, and neglect the detail; but, not possessing the principles on
which he wrought, they have produced what he calls _goffe pitture_,
absurd, foolish pictures; for such will always be the consequence of
affecting dexterity without science, without selection, and without
fixed principles.

Raffaelle and Titian seem to have looked at nature for different
purposes; they both had the power of extending their view to the
whole; but one looked only for the general effect as produced by form,
the other as produced by colour.

We cannot entirely refuse to Titian the merit of attending to the
general _form_ of his object, as well as colour; but his deficiency
lay, a deficiency, at least, when he is compared with Raffaelle, in
not possessing the power like him of correcting the form of his model
by any general idea of beauty in his own mind. Of this his St.
Sebastian is a particular instance. This figure appears to be a most
exact representation both of the form and the colour of the model,
which he then happened to have before him; it has all the force of
nature, and the colouring is flesh itself; but, unluckily, the model
was of a bad form, especially the legs. Titian has with as much care
preserved these defects, as he has imitated the beauty and brilliancy
of the colouring. In his colouring he was large and general, as in his
design he was minute and partial: in the one he was a genius, in the
other not much above a copier. I do not, however, speak now of all
his pictures: instances enough may be produced in his works, where
those observations on his defects could not with any propriety be
applied; but it is in the manner or language, as it may be called, in
which Titian and others of that school express themselves, that their
chief excellence lies. This manner is in reality, in painting, what
language is in poetry; we are all sensible how differently the
imagination is affected by the same sentiment expressed in different
words, and how mean or how grand the same object appears when
presented to us by different Painters. Whether it is the human figure,
an animal, or even inanimate objects, there is nothing, however
unpromising in appearance, but may be raised into dignity, convey
sentiment and produce emotion, in the hands of a Painter of genius.
What was said of Virgil, that he threw even the dung about the ground
with an air of dignity, may be applied to Titian: whatever he touched,
however naturally mean and habitually familiar, by a kind of magic he
invested with grandeur and importance.

I must here observe, that I am not recommending a neglect of the
detail; indeed, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to prescribe
_certain_ bounds, and tell how far, or when, it is to be observed or
neglected; much must, at last, be left to the taste and judgment of
the artist. I am well aware that a judicious detail will sometimes
give the force of truth to the work, and consequently interest the
spectator. I only wish to impress on your minds the true distinction
between essential and subordinate powers; and to show what qualities
in the art claim your _chief_ attention, and what may, with the least
injury to your reputation, be neglected. Something, perhaps, always
must be neglected; the lesser ought then to give way to the greater;
and since every work can have but a limited time allotted to it (for
even supposing a whole life to be employed about one picture, it is
still limited), it appears more reasonable to employ that time to the
best advantage, in contriving various methods of composing the
work,--in trying different effects of light and shadow,--and employing
the labour of correction in heightening, by a judicious adjustment of
the parts, the effects of the whole,--than that the time should be
taken up in minutely finishing those parts.

But there is another kind of high finishing, which may safely be
condemned, as it seems to counteract its own purpose; that is, when the
artist, to avoid that hardness which proceeds from the outline cutting
against the ground, softens and blends the colours to excess; this is
what the ignorant call high finishing, but which tends to destroy the
brilliancy of colour, and the true effect of representation; which
consists very much in preserving the same proportion of sharpness and
bluntness that is found in natural objects. This extreme softening,
instead of producing the effect of softness, gives the appearance of
ivory, or some other hard substance, highly polished.

The portraits of Cornelius Jansen appear to have this defect, and
consequently want that suppleness which is the characteristic of
flesh; whereas, in the works of Vandyke we find the true mixture of
softness and hardness perfectly observed. The same defect may be found
in the manner of Vanderwerf, in opposition to that of Teniers; and
such also, we may add, is the manner of Raffaelle in his oil pictures,
in comparison with that of Titian.

The name which Raffaelle has so justly maintained as the first of
Painters, we may venture to say was not acquired by this laborious
attention. His apology may be made by saying that it was the manner of
his country; but if he had expressed his ideas with the facility and
eloquence, as it may be called, of Titian, his works would certainly
not have been less excellent; and that praise, which ages and nations
have poured out upon him, for possessing Genius in the higher
attainments of art, would have been extended to them all.

Those who are not conversant in works of art, are often surprised at the
high value set by connoisseurs on drawings which appear careless, and in
every respect unfinished; but they are truly valuable; and their value
arises from this, that they give the idea of an whole; and this whole is
often expressed by a dexterous facility which indicates the true power
of a Painter, even though roughly exerted; whether it consists in the
general composition, or the general form of each figure, or the turn of
the attitude which bestows grace and elegance. All this we may see fully
exemplified in the very skilful drawings of Parmegiano and Correggio. On
whatever account we value these drawings, it is certainly not for high
finishing, or a minute attention to particulars.

Excellence in every part, and in every province of our art, from the
highest style of history down to the resemblances of still-life, will
depend on this power of extending the attention at once to the whole,
without which the greatest diligence is vain.

I wish you to bear in mind, that when I speak of an whole, I do not
mean simply an _whole_ as belonging to composition, but an _whole_
with respect to the general style of colouring; an _whole_ with regard
to the light and shade; an _whole_ of everything which may separately
become the main object of a Painter.

I remember a Landscape-painter in Rome, who was known by the name of
STUDIO, from his patience in high finishing, in which he thought the
whole excellence of art consisted; so that he once endeavoured, as he
said, to represent every individual leaf on a tree. This picture I
never saw; but I am very sure that an artist who looked only at the
general character of the species, the order of the branches, and the
masses of the foliage, would in a few minutes produce a more true
resemblance of trees than this Painter in as many months.

A Landscape-painter certainly ought to study anatomically (if I may
use the expression) all the objects which he paints; but when he is to
turn his studies to use, his skill, as a man of genius, will be
displayed in showing the general effect, preserving the same degree of
hardness and softness which the objects have in nature; for he applies
himself to the imagination, not to the curiosity, and works not for
the Virtuoso or the Naturalist, but for the common observer of life
and nature. When he knows his subject, he will know not only what to
describe, but what to omit: and this skill in leaving out is, in all
things, a great part of knowledge and wisdom.

The same excellence of manner which Titian displayed in History or
Portrait-painting is equally conspicuous in his Landscapes, whether
they are professedly such, or serve only as backgrounds. One of the
most eminent of this latter kind is to be found in the picture of St.
Pietro Martire. The large trees, which are here introduced, are
plainly distinguished from each other by the different manner with
which the branches shoot from their trunks, as well as by their
different foliage; and the weeds in the foreground are varied in the
same manner, just as much as variety requires, and no more. When
Algarotii, speaking of this picture, praises it for the minute
discriminations of the leaves and plants, even, as he says, to excite
the admiration of a Botanist, his intention was undoubtedly to give
praise even at the expense of truth; for he must have known that this
is not the character of the picture; but connoisseurs will always find
in pictures what they think they ought to find: he was not aware that
he was giving a description injurious to the reputation of Titian.

Such accounts may be very hurtful to young artists, who never have had
an opportunity of seeing the work described; and they may possibly
conclude that this great Artist acquired the name of the Divine Titian
from his eminent attention to such trifling circumstances, which in
reality would not raise him above the level of the most ordinary

We may extend these observations even to what seems to have but a
single, and that an individual object. The excellence of
Portrait-painting, and, we may add, even the likeness, the character,
and countenance, as I have observed in another place, depend more upon
the general effect produced by the Painter than on the exact expression
of the peculiarities, or minute discrimination of the parts. The chief
attention of the artist is therefore employed in planting the features
in their proper places, which so much contributes to giving the effect
and true impression of the whole. The very peculiarities may be reduced
to classes and general descriptions; and there are therefore large ideas
to be found even in this contracted subject. He may afterwards labour
single features to what degree he thinks proper, but let him not forget
continually to examine, whether in finishing the parts he is not
destroying the general effect.

It is certainly a thing to be wished, that all excellence were applied
to illustrate subjects that are interesting and worthy of being
commemorated; whereas, of half the pictures that are in the world, the
subject can be valued only as an occasion which set the artist to
work; and yet, our high estimation of such pictures, without
considering, or perhaps without knowing the subject, shows how much
our attention is engaged by the art alone.

Perhaps nothing that we can say will so clearly show the advantage and
excellence of this faculty, as that it confers the character of Genius
on works that pretend to no other merit; in which is neither
expression, character, or dignity, and where none are interested in
the subject. We cannot refuse the character of Genius to the marriage
of Paolo Veronese without opposing the general sense of mankind (great
authorities have called it the triumph of Painting), or to the altar
of St. Augustine at Antwerp, by Rubens, which equally deserves that
title, and for the same reason. Neither of those pictures have any
interesting story to support them. That of Paolo Veronese is only a
representation of a great concourse of people at a dinner; and the
subject of Rubens, if it may be called a subject where nothing is
doing, is an assembly of various Saints that lived in different ages.
The whole excellence of those pictures consists in mechanical
dexterity, working, however, under the influence of that comprehensive
faculty which I have so often mentioned.

It is by this, and this alone, that the mechanical power is ennobled,
and raised much above its natural rank. And it appears to me, that
with propriety it acquires this character, as an instance of that
superiority with which mind predominates over matter, by contracting
into one whole what nature has made multifarious.

The great advantage of this idea of a whole is, that a greater
quantity of truth may be said to be contained and expressed in a few
lines or touches than in the most laborious finishing of the parts
where this is not regarded. It is upon this foundation that it stands;
and the justness of the observation would be confirmed by the
ignorant in art, if it were possible to take their opinions unseduced
by some false notion of what they imagine they ought to see in a
Picture. As it is an art, they think they ought to be pleased in
proportion as they see that art ostentatiously displayed; they will,
from this supposition, prefer neatness, high-finishing, and gaudy
colouring, to the truth, simplicity, and unity of nature. Perhaps,
too, the totally ignorant beholder, like the ignorant artist, cannot
comprehend an whole, nor even what it means. But if false notions do
not anticipate their perceptions, they who are capable of observation,
and who, pretending to no skill, look only straight forward, will
praise and condemn in proportion as the Painter has succeeded in the
effect of the whole. Here, general satisfaction, or general dislike,
though perhaps despised by the Painter, as proceeding from the
ignorance of the principles of art, may yet help to regulate his
conduct, and bring back his attention to that which ought to be his
principal object, and from which he has deviated for the sake of
minuter beauties.

An instance of this right judgment I once saw in a child, in going
through a gallery where there were many portraits of the last ages,
which, though neatly put out of hand, were very ill put together. The
child paid no attention to the neat finishing or naturalness of any bit
of drapery, but appeared to observe only the ungracefulness of the
persons represented, and put herself in the posture of every figure
which she saw in a forced and awkward attitude. The censure of nature,
uninformed, fastened upon the greatest fault that could be in a picture,
because it related to the character and management of the whole.

I should be sorry if what has been said should be understood to have
any tendency to encourage that carelessness which leaves work in an
unfinished state. I commend nothing for the want of exactness; I mean
to point out that kind of exactness which is the best, and which is
alone truly to be esteemed.

So far is my disquisition from giving countenance to idleness, that
there is nothing in our art which enforces such continual exertion and
circumspection, as an attention to the general effect of the whole. It
requires much study and much practice; it requires the Painter's entire
mind; whereas the parts may be finishing by nice touches, while his mind
is engaged on other matters; he may even hear a play or a novel read
without much disturbance. The artist who flatters his own indolence will
continually find himself evading this active exertion, and applying his
thoughts to the ease and laziness of highly finishing the parts,
producing at last what Cowley calls "laborious effects of idleness."

No work can be too much finished, provided the diligence employed be
directed to its proper object; but I have observed that an excessive
labour in the detail has, nine times in ten, been pernicious to the
general effect, even when it has been the labour of great masters. It
indicates a bad choice, which is an ill setting out in any undertaking.

To give a right direction to your industry has been my principal
purpose in this discourse. It is this which I am confident often makes
the difference between two Students of equal capacities, and of equal
industry. While the one is employing his labour on minute objects of
little consequence, the other is acquiring the art, and perfecting the
habit, of seeing nature in an extensive view, in its proper
proportions, and its due subordination of parts.

Before I conclude, I must make one observation sufficiently connected
with the present subject.

The same extension of mind which gives the excellence of Genius to the
theory and mechanical practice of the art, will direct him likewise in
the method of study, and give him the superiority over those who
narrowly follow a more confined track of partial imitation. Whoever,
in order to finish his education, should travel to Italy, and spend
his whole time there only in copying pictures, and measuring statues
or buildings (though these things are not to be neglected), would
return with little improvement. He that imitates the _Iliad_, says Dr.
Young, is not imitating Homer. It is not by laying up in the memory
the particular details of any of the great works of art that any man
becomes a great artist, if he stops without making himself master of
the general principles on which these works are conducted. If he even
hopes to rival those whom he admires, he must consider their works as
the means of teaching him the true art of seeing nature. When this is
acquired, he then may be said to have appropriated their powers, or,
at least, the foundation of their powers, to himself; the rest must
depend upon his own industry and application. The great business of
study is, to form a _mind_, adapted and adequate to all times and all
occasions; to which all nature is then laid open, and which may be
said to possess the key of her inexhaustible riches.


13: Discourse III.


  _Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the Distribution
  of the Prizes, December 10, 1784._


In consequence of the situation in which I have the honour to be
placed in this Academy, it has often happened that I have been
consulted by the young Students who intend to spend some years in
Italy, concerning the method of regulating their studies. I am, as I
ought to be, solicitously desirous to communicate the entire result of
my experience and observation; and though my openness and facility in
giving my opinions might make some amends for whatever was defective
in them, yet I fear my answers have not often given satisfaction.
Indeed, I have never been sure that I understood perfectly what they
meant, and was not without some suspicion that they had not themselves
very distinct ideas of the object of their inquiry.

If the information required was, by what means the path that leads to
excellence could be discovered; if they wished to know whom they were
to take for their guides; what to adhere to, and what to avoid; where
they were to bait, and where they were to take up their rest; what was
to be tasted only, and what should be their diet; such general
directions are certainly proper for a Student to ask, and for me, to
the best of my capacity, to give; but these rules have been already
given; they have, in reality, been the subject of almost all my
Discourses from this place. But I am rather inclined to think, that by
_method of study_, it was meant (as several do mean) that the times
and the seasons should be prescribed, and the order settled, in which
everything was to be done: that it might be useful to point out to
what degree of excellence one part of the Art was to be carried before
the Student proceeded to the next; how long he was to continue to draw
from the ancient statues, when to begin to compose, and when to apply
to the study of colouring.

Such a detail of instruction might be extended with a great deal of
plausible and ostentatious amplification. But it would at best be
useless. Our studies will be forever, in a very great degree, under
the direction of chance; like travellers, we must take what we can
get, and when we can get it; whether it is or is not administered to
us in the most commodious manner, in the most proper place, or at the
exact minute when we would wish to have it.

Treatises on education and method of study have always appeared to me to
have one general fault. They proceed upon a false supposition of life;
as if we possessed not only a power over events and circumstances, but
had a greater power over ourselves than I believe any of us will be
found to possess. Instead of supposing ourselves to be perfect patterns
of wisdom and virtue, it seems to me more reasonable to treat ourselves
(as I am sure we must now and then treat others) like humorsome
children, whose fancies are often to be indulged, in order to keep them
in good humour with themselves and their pursuits. It is necessary to
use some artifice of this kind in all processes which by their very
nature are long, tedious, and complex, in order to prevent our taking
that aversion to our studies which the continual shackles of methodical
restraint are sure to produce.

I would rather wish a student, as soon as he goes abroad, to employ
himself upon whatever he has been incited to by any immediate impulse,
than to go sluggishly about a prescribed task; whatever he does in such
a state of mind, little advantage accrues from it, as nothing sinks deep
enough to leave any lasting impression; and it is impossible that
anything should be well understood, or well done, that is taken into a
reluctant understanding, and executed with a servile hand.

It is desirable, and indeed is necessary to intellectual health, that
the mind should be recreated and refreshed with a variety in our
studies; that in the irksomeness of uniform pursuit we should be
relieved, and, if I may so say, deceived, as much as possible.
Besides, the minds of men are so very differently constituted, that it
is impossible to find one method which shall be suitable to all. It is
of no use to prescribe to those who have no talents; and those who
have talents will find methods for themselves--methods dictated to
them by their own particular dispositions, and by the experience of
their own particular necessities.

However, I would not be understood to extend this doctrine to the
younger students. The first part of the life of a student, like that
of other school-boys, must necessarily be a life of restraint. The
grammar, the rudiments, however unpalatable, must at all events be
mastered. After a habit is acquired of drawing correctly from the
model (whatever it may be) which he has before him, the rest, I think,
may be safely left to chance; always supposing that the student is
_employed_, and that his studies are directed to the proper object.

A passion for his art, and an eager desire to excel, will more than
supply the place of method. By leaving a student to himself he may
possibly indeed be led to undertake matters above his strength; but
the trial will at least have this advantage--it will discover to
himself his own deficiencies; and this discovery alone is a very
considerable acquisition. One inconvenience, I acknowledge, may attend
bold and arduous attempts; frequent failure may discourage. This evil,
however, is not more pernicious than the slow proficiency which is the
natural consequence of too easy tasks.

Whatever advantages method may have in despatch of business (and there
it certainly has many), I have but little confidence of its efficacy
in acquiring excellence in any art whatever. Indeed, I have always
strongly suspected that this love of method, on which some persons
appear to place so great independence, is, in reality, at the bottom,
a love of idleness, a want of sufficient energy to put themselves into
immediate action: it is a sort of an apology to themselves for doing
nothing. I have known artists who may truly be said to have spent
their whole lives, or at least the most precious part of their lives,
in planning methods of study, without ever beginning; resolving,
however, to put it all in practice at some time or other--when a
certain period arrives--when proper conveniences are procured--or when
they remove to a certain place better calculated for study. It is not
uncommon for such persons to go abroad with the most honest and
sincere resolution of studying hard, when they shall arrive at the end
of their journey. The same want of exertion, arising from the same
cause which made them at home put off the day of labour until they
had found a proper scheme for it, still continues in Italy, and they
consequently return home with little, if any, improvement.

In the practice of art, as well as in morals, it is necessary to keep
a watchful and jealous eye over ourselves; idleness, assuming the
specious disguise of industry, will lull to sleep all suspicion of our
want of an active exertion of strength. A provision of endless
apparatus, a bustle of infinite inquiry and research, or even the mere
mechanical labour of copying, may be employed, to evade and shuffle
off real labour--the real labour of thinking.

I have declined for these reasons to point out any particular method
and course of study to young Artists on their arrival in Italy. I have
left it to their own prudence, a prudence which will grow and improve
upon them in the course of unremitted, ardent industry, directed by a
real love of their profession, and an unfeigned admiration of those
who have been universally admitted as patterns of excellence in the art.

In the exercise of that general prudence, I shall here submit to their
consideration such miscellaneous observations as have occurred to me
on considering the mistaken notions or evil habits, which have
prevented that progress towards excellence, which the natural
abilities of several Artists might otherwise have enabled them to make.

False opinions and vicious habits have done far more mischief to
students, and to Professors too, than any wrong methods of study.

Under the influence of sloth, or of some mistaken notion, is that
disposition which always wants to lean on other men. Some Students are
always talking of the prodigious progress they should make, if they
could but have the advantage of being taught by some particular eminent
Master. To him they would wish to transfer that care which they ought
and must take of themselves. Such are to be told, that after the
rudiments are past, very little of our Art can be taught by others. The
most skilful Master can do little more than put the end of the clue into
the hands of his Scholar, by which he must conduct himself.

It is true, the beauties and defects of the works of our predecessors
may be pointed out; the principles on which their works are conducted
may be explained; the great examples of Ancient Art may be spread out
before them; but the most sumptuous entertainment is prepared in vain,
if the guests will not take the trouble of helping themselves.

Even the Academy itself, where every convenience for study is procured
and laid before them, may, from that very circumstance, from leaving
no difficulties to be encountered in the pursuit, cause a remission of
their industry. It is not uncommon to see young artists, whilst they
are struggling with every obstacle in their way, exert themselves with
such success as to outstrip competitors possessed of every means of
improvement. The promising expectation which was formed, on so much
being done with so little means, has recommended them to a Patron, who
has supplied them with every convenience of study; from that time
their industry and eagerness of pursuit has forsaken them; they stand
still, and see others rush on before them.

Such men are like certain animals, who will feed only when there is but
little provender, and that got at with difficulty through the bars of a
rack, but refuse to touch it when there is an abundance before them.

Perhaps such a falling off may proceed from the faculties being
overpowered by the immensity of the materials; as the traveller despairs
ever to arrive at the end of his journey when the whole extent of the
road which he is to pass is at once displayed to his view.

Among the first moral qualities, therefore, which a Student ought to
cultivate, is a just and manly confidence in himself, or rather in the
effects of that persevering industry which he is resolved to possess.

When Raffaelle, by means of his connection with Bramante, the Pope's
Architect, was fixed upon to adorn the Vatican with his works, he had
done nothing that marked in him any great superiority over his
contemporaries; though he was then but young, he had under his direction
the most considerable Artists of his age; and we know what kind of men
those were; a lesser mind would have sunk under such a weight; and if we
should judge from the meek and gentle disposition which we are told was
the character of Raffaelle, we might expect this would have happened to
him; but his strength appeared to increase in proportion as exertion was
required; and it is not improbable that we are indebted to the good
fortune which first placed him in that conspicuous situation for those
great examples of excellence which he has left us.

The observations to which I formerly wished, and now desire, to point
your attention, relate not to errors which are committed by those who
have no claim to merit, but to those inadvertencies into which men of
parts only can fall by the overrating or the abuse of some real,
though perhaps subordinate, excellence. The errors last alluded to are
those of backward, timid characters; what I shall now speak of belong
to another class--to those Artists who are distinguished for the
readiness and facility of their invention. It is undoubtedly a
splendid and desirable accomplishment to be able to design
instantaneously any given subject. It is an excellence that I believe
every Artist would wish to possess; but unluckily, the manner in
which this dexterity is acquired habituates the mind to be contented
with first thoughts without choice or selection. The judgment, after
it has been long passive, by degrees loses its power of becoming
active when exertion is necessary.

Whoever, therefore, has this talent, must in some measure undo what he
has had the habit of doing, or at least give a new turn to his mind:
great works, which are to live and stand the criticism of posterity,
are not performed at a heat. A proportionable time is required for
deliberation and circumspection. I remember when I was at Rome looking
at the fighting Gladiator, in company with an eminent Sculptor, and I
expressed my admiration of the skill with which the whole is composed,
and the minute attention of the Artist to the change of every muscle
in that momentary exertion of strength: he was of opinion that a work
so perfect required nearly the whole life of man to perform.

I believe, if we look around us, we shall find, that in the sister art
of Poetry, what has been soon done has been as soon forgotten. The
judgment and practice of a great Poet on this occasion is worthy
attention. Metastasio, who has so much and justly distinguished
himself throughout Europe, at his outset was an _Improvvisatore_, or
extempore Poet, a description of men not uncommon in Italy: it is not
long since he was asked by a friend, if he did not think the custom of
inventing and reciting _extempore_, which he practised when a boy in
his character of an _Improvvisatore_, might not be considered as a
happy beginning of his education; he thought it, on the contrary, a
disadvantage to him: he said that he had acquired by that habit a
carelessness and incorrectness, which it cost him much trouble to
overcome, and to substitute in the place of it a totally different
habit, that of thinking with selection, and of expressing himself with
correctness and precision.

However extraordinary it may appear, it is certainly true, that the
inventions of the _Pittori improvvisatori_, as they may be called,
have--notwithstanding the common boast of their authors, that all is
spun from their own brain--very rarely anything that has in the least
the air of originality:--their compositions are generally commonplace,
uninteresting, without character or expression; like those flowery
speeches that we sometimes hear, which impress no new ideas on the mind.

I would not be thought, however, by what has been said, to oppose the
use, the advantage, the necessity there is, of a Painter's being
readily able to express his ideas by sketching. The further he can
carry such designs the better. The evil to be apprehended is, his
resting there, and not correcting them afterwards from nature, or
taking the trouble to look about him for whatever assistance the works
of others will afford him.

We are not to suppose that when a Painter sits down to deliberate on
any work, he has all his knowledge to seek; he must not only be able
to draw _extempore_ the human figure in every variety of action, but
he must be acquainted likewise with the general principles of
composition, and possess a habit of foreseeing, while he is composing,
the effect of the masses of light and shadow that will attend such a
disposition. His mind is entirely occupied by his attention to the
whole. It is a subsequent consideration to determine the attitude and
expression of individual figures. It is in this period of his work
that I would recommend to every artist to look over his portfolio, or
pocket-book, in which he has treasured up all the happy inventions,
all the extraordinary and expressive attitudes, that he has met with
in the course of his studies; not only for the sake of borrowing from
those studies whatever may be applicable to his own work, but likewise
on account of the great advantage he will receive by bringing the
ideas of great Artists more distinctly before his mind, which will
teach him to invent other figures in a similar style.

Sir Francis Bacon speaks with approbation of the pro-visionary methods
Demosthenes and Cicero employed to assist their invention; and
illustrates their use by a quaint comparison after his manner. These
particular _Studios_ being not immediately connected with our art, I
need not cite the passage I allude to, and shall only observe that
such preparation totally opposes the general received opinions that
are floating in the world concerning genius and inspiration. The same
great man in another place, speaking of his own essays, remarks, that
they treat of "those things, wherein both men's lives and persons are
most conversant, whereof a man shall find much in experience, but
little in books:" they are then what an artist would naturally call
invention; and yet we may suspect that even the genius of Bacon, great
as it was, would never have been enabled to have made those
observations, if his mind had not been trained and disciplined by
reading the observations of others. Nor could he without such reading
have known that those opinions were not to be found in other books.

I know there are many Artists of great fame who appear never to have
looked out of themselves, and who probably would think it derogatory
to their character to be supposed to borrow from any other Painter.
But when we recollect, and compare the works of such men with those
who took to their assistance the inventions of others, we shall be
convinced of the great advantage of this latter practice.

The two men most eminent for readiness of invention, that occur to me,
are Luca Giordano and La Fage; one in painting, and the other in

To such extraordinary powers as were possessed by both of those
Artists, we cannot refuse the character of Genius; at the same time,
it must be acknowledged, that it was that kind of mechanic Genius
which operates without much assistance of the head. In all their
works, which are (as might be expected) very numerous, we may look in
vain for anything that can be said to be original and striking; and
yet, according to the ordinary ideas of originality, they have as good
pretensions as most Painters; for they borrowed very little from
others, and still less will any Artist, that can distinguish between
excellence and insipidity, ever borrow from them.

To those men, and all such, let us oppose the practice of the first of
Painters. I suppose we shall all agree, that no man ever possessed a
greater power of invention, and stood less in need of foreign
assistance, than Raffaelle; and yet, when he was designing one of his
greatest as well as latest works, the Cartoons, it is very apparent
that he had the studies which he had made from Masaccio before him.
Two noble figures of St. Paul, which he found there, he adopted in his
own work: one of them he took for St. Paul preaching at Athens; and
the other for the same Saint when chastising the sorcerer Elymas.
Another figure in the same work, whose head is sunk in his breast,
with his eyes shut, appearing deeply wrapt up in thought, was
introduced amongst the listeners to the preaching of St. Paul. The
most material alteration that is made in those two figures of St. Paul
is the addition of the left hands, which are not seen in the original.
It is a rule that Raffaelle observed (and, indeed, ought never to be
dispensed with), in a principal figure, to show both hands; that it
should never be a question, what is become of the other hand. For the
sacrifice at Listra, he took the whole ceremony much as it stands in
an ancient Basso-relievo, since published in the ADMIRANDA.

I have given examples from those pictures only of Raffaelle which we
have among us, though many other instances might be produced of this
great painter's not disdaining assistance; indeed, his known wealth was
so great, that he might borrow where he pleased without loss of credit.

It may be remarked, that this work of Masaccio, from which he has
borrowed so freely, was a public work, and at no farther distance from
Rome than Florence; so that if he had considered it a disgraceful
theft, he was sure to be detected; but he was well satisfied that his
character for Invention would be little affected by such a discovery;
nor is it, except in the opinion of those who are ignorant of the
manner in which great works are built.

Those who steal from mere poverty; who having nothing of their own,
cannot exist a minute without making such depredations; who are so
poor that they have no place in which they can even deposit what they
have taken; to men of this description nothing can be said; but such
artists as those to whom I suppose myself now speaking, men whom I
consider as completely provided with all the necessaries and
conveniences of art, and who do not desire to steal baubles and common
trash, but wish only to possess peculiar rarities which they select to
ornament their cabinets, and take care to enrich the general store
with materials of equal or of greater value than what they have taken;
such men surely need not be ashamed of that friendly intercourse which
ought to exist among artists, of receiving from the dead and giving
to the living, and perhaps to those who are yet unborn.

The daily food and nourishment of the mind of an artist is found in
the great works of his predecessors. There is no other way for him to
become great himself. _Serpens, nisi serpentem comederit, non fit
draco_,[14] is a remark of a whimsical natural history, which I have
read, though I do not recollect its title; however false as to
dragons, it is applicable enough to artists.

Raffaelle, as appears from what has been said, had carefully studied
the works of Masaccio; and, indeed, there was no other, if we except
Michel Angelo (whom he likewise imitated), so worthy of his attention;
and though his manner was dry and hard, his compositions formal, and
not enough diversified according to the custom of Painters in that
early period, yet his works possess that grandeur and simplicity which
accompany, and even sometimes proceed from, regularity and hardness of
manner. We must consider the barbarous state of the Arts before his
time, when skill in drawing was so little understood that the best of
the painters could not even foreshorten the foot, but every figure
appeared to stand upon his toes; and what served for drapery, had,
from the hardness and smallness of the folds, too much the appearance
of cords clinging round the body. He first introduced large drapery
flowing in an easy and natural manner: indeed, he appears to be the
first who discovered the path that leads to every excellence to which
the Arts afterwards arrived, and may, therefore, be justly considered
as one of the great Fathers of modern Art.

Though I have been led on to a longer digression respecting this great
Painter than I intended, yet I cannot avoid mentioning another
excellence which he possessed in a very eminent degree; he was as much
distinguished among his contemporaries for his diligence and industry
as he was for the natural faculties of his mind. We are told that his
whole attention was absorbed in the pursuit of his art, and that he
acquired the name of Masaccio,[15] from his total disregard to his
dress, his person, and all the common concerns of life. He is, indeed,
a signal instance of what well-directed diligence will do in a short
time; he lived but twenty-seven years; yet in that short space carried
the art so far beyond what it had before reached, that he appears to
stand alone as a model for his successors. Vasari gives a long
catalogue of Painters and Sculptors, who formed their taste, and
learned their Art, by studying his works; among those, he names Michel
Angelo, Lionardi da Vinci, Pietro Perugino, Raffaelle, Bartolomeo,
Andrea del Sarto, Il Rosso, and Pierino del Vaga.

The habit of contemplating and brooding over the ideas of great
geniuses, till you find yourself warmed by the contact, is the true
method of forming an artist-like mind; it is impossible, in the
presence of those great men, to think, or invent in a mean manner; a
state of mind is acquired that receives those ideas only which relish
of grandeur and simplicity.

Besides the general advantage of forming the taste by such an
intercourse, there is another of a particular kind, which was suggested
to me by the practice of Raffaelle, when imitating the work of which I
have been speaking. The figure of the Proconsul, Sergius Paulus, is
taken from the Felix of Masaccio, though one is a front figure, and the
other seen in profile; the action is likewise somewhat changed; but it
is plain Raffaelle had that figure in his mind. There is a circumstance
indeed, which I mention by-the-bye, which marks it very particularly:
Sergius Paulus wears a crown of laurel; this is hardly reconcileable to
strict propriety, and the _costume_, of which Raffaelle was in general a
good observer; but he found it so in Masaccio, and he did not bestow so
much pains in disguise as to change it. It appears to me to be an
excellent practice, thus to suppose the figures which you wish to adopt
in the works of those great Painters to be statues; and to give, as
Raffaelle has here given, another view, taking care to preserve all the
spirit and grace you find in the original.

I should hope, from what has been lately said, that it is not
necessary to guard myself against any supposition of recommending an
entire dependence upon former masters. I do not desire that you should
get other people to do your business, or to think for you; I only wish
you to consult with, to call in, as counsellors, men the most
distinguished for their knowledge and experience, the result of which
counsel must ultimately depend upon yourself. Such conduct in the
commerce of life has never been considered as disgraceful, or in any
respect to imply intellectual imbecility; it is a sign, rather, of
that true wisdom, which feels individual imperfection; and is
conscious to itself how much collective observation is necessary to
fill the immense extent, and to comprehend the infinite variety of
nature. I recommend neither self-dependence nor plagiarism. I advise
you only to take that assistance which every human being wants, and
which, as appears from the examples that have been given, the greatest
painters have not disdained to accept. Let me add, that the diligence
required in the search, and the exertion subsequent in accommodating
those ideas to your own purpose, is a business which idleness will
not, and ignorance cannot, perform. But in order more distinctly to
explain what kind of borrowing I mean, when I recommend so anxiously
the study of the works of great masters, let us, for a minute, return
again to Raffaelle, consider his method of practice, and endeavour to
imitate him, in his manner of imitating others.

The two figures of St. Paul which I lately mentioned are so nobly
conceived by Masaccio, that perhaps it was not in the power even of
Raffaelle himself to raise and improve them, nor has he attempted it;
but he has had the address to change in some measure without
diminishing the grandeur of their character; he has substituted, in
the place of a serene composed dignity, that animated expression which
was necessary to the more active employment he assigned them.

In the same manner he has given more animation to the figure of
Sergius Paulus, and to that which is introduced in the picture of St.
Paul preaching, of which little more than hints are given by Masaccio,
which Raffaelle has finished. The closing the eyes of this figure,
which in Masaccio might be easily mistaken for sleeping, is not in the
least ambiguous in the Cartoon: his eyes, indeed, are closed, but they
are closed with such vehemence, that the agitation of a mind
_perplexed in the extreme_ is seen at the first glance; but what is
most extraordinary, and I think particularly to be admired, is, that
the same idea is continued through the whole figure, even to the
drapery, which is so closely muffled about him, that even his hands
are not seen; by this happy correspondence between the expression of
the countenance, and the disposition of the parts, the figure appears
to think from head to foot. Men of superior talents alone are capable
of thus using and adapting other men's minds to their own purposes, or
are able to make out and finish what was only in the original a hint
or imperfect conception. A readiness in taking such hints, which
escape the dull and ignorant, makes, in my opinion, no inconsiderable
part of that faculty of the mind which is called Genius.

It often happens that hints may be taken and employed in a situation
totally different from that in which they were originally employed.
There is a figure of a Bacchante leaning backward, her head thrown
quite behind her, which seems to be a favourite invention, as it is so
frequently repeated in basso-relievos, cameos, and intaglios; it is
intended to express an enthusiastic, frantic kind of joy. This figure
Baccio Bandinelli, in a drawing that I have of that Master of the
Descent from the Cross, has adopted (and he knew very well what was
worth borrowing) for one of the Marys, to express frantic agony of
grief. It is curious to observe, and it is certainly true, that the
extremes of contrary passions are, with very little variation,
expressed by the same action.

If I were to recommend method in any part of the study of a Painter,
it would be in regard to invention; that young Students should not
presume to think themselves qualified to invent till they were
acquainted with those stores of invention the world already possesses,
and had by that means accumulated sufficient materials for the mind to
work with. It would certainly be no improper method of forming the
mind of a young artist, to begin with such exercises as the Italians
call a _Pasticcio_ composition of the different excellencies which are
dispersed in all other works of the same kind. It is not supposed that
he is to stop here, but that he is to acquire by this means the art of
selecting, first, what is truly excellent in Art, and then, what is
still more excellent in Nature; a task which, without this previous
study, he will be but ill qualified to perform.

The doctrine which is here advanced is acknowledged to be new, and to
many may appear strange. But I only demand for it the reception of a
stranger; a favourable and attentive consideration, without that entire
confidence which might be claimed under authoritative recommendation.

After you have taken a figure, or any idea of a figure, from any of
those great Painters, there is another operation still remaining,
which I hold to be indispensably necessary--that is, never to neglect
finishing from nature every part of the work. What is taken from a
model, though the first idea may have been suggested by another, you
have a just right to consider as your own property. And here I cannot
avoid mentioning a circumstance in placing the model, though to some
it may appear trifling. It is better to possess the model with the
attitude you require, than to place him with your own hands: by this
means it happens often that the model puts himself in an action
superior to your own imagination. It is a great matter to be in the
way of accident, and to be watchful and ready to take advantage of it:
besides, when you fix the position of a model, there is danger of
putting him in an attitude into which no man would naturally fall.
This extends even to drapery. We must be cautious in touching and
altering a fold of the stuff, which serves as a model, for fear of
giving it inadvertently a forced form; and it is perhaps better to
take the chance of another casual throw, than to alter the position in
which it was at first accidentally cast.

Rembrandt, in order to take the advantage of accident, appears often
to have used the pallet-knife to lay his colours on the canvas,
instead of the pencil. Whether it is the knife or any other
instrument, it suffices if it is something that does not follow
exactly the will. Accident in the hands of an artist who knows how to
take the advantage of its hints, will often produce bold and
capricious beauties of handling and facility, such as he would not
have thought of, or ventured, with his pencil, under the regular
restraint of his hand. However, this is fit only on occasions where no
correctness of form is required, such as clouds, stumps of trees,
rocks, or broken ground. Works produced in an accidental manner will
have the same free, unrestrained air as the works of nature, whose
particular combinations seem to depend upon accident.

I again repeat, you are never to lose sight of nature; the instant you
do, you are all abroad, at the mercy of every gust of fashion, without
knowing or seeing the point to which you ought to steer. Whatever
trips you make, you must still have nature in your eye. Such
deviations as art necessarily requires, I hope in a future Discourse
to be able to explain. In the meantime, let me recommend to you, not
to have too great dependence on your practice or memory, however
strong those impressions may have been which are there deposited. They
are for ever wearing out, and will be at last obliterated, unless they
are continually refreshed and repaired.

It is not uncommon to meet with artists who, from a long neglect of
cultivating this necessary intimacy with Nature, do not even know her
when they see her; she appearing a stranger to them, from their being
so long habituated to their own representation of her. I have heard
Painters acknowledge, though in that acknowledgment no degradation of
themselves was intended, that they could do better without Nature than
with her; or, as they expressed it themselves, _that it only put them
out_. A painter with such ideas and such habits is indeed in a most
hopeless state. _The art of seeing Nature_, or, in other words, the
art of using Models, is in reality the great object, the point to
which all our studies are directed. As for the power of being able to
do tolerably well, from practice alone, let it be valued according to
its worth. But I do not see in what manner it can be sufficient for
the production of correct, excellent, and finished Pictures. Works
deserving this character never were produced, nor ever will arise,
from memory alone; and I will venture to say, that an artist who
brings to his work a mind tolerably furnished with the general
principles of Art, and a taste formed upon the works of good
Artists--in short, who knows in what excellence consists, will, with
the assistance of Models, which we will likewise suppose he has learnt
the art of using, be an overmatch for the greatest painter that ever
lived who should be debarred such advantages.

Our neighbours, the French, are much in this practice of _extempore_
invention, and their dexterity is such as even to excite admiration,
if not envy; but how rarely can this praise be given to their finished

The late Director of their Academy, _Boucher_, was eminent in this
way. When I visited him some years since in France, I found him at
work on a very large Picture, without drawings or models of any kind.
On my remarking this particular circumstance, he said, when he was
young, studying his art, he found it necessary to use models; but he
had left them off for many years.

Such Pictures as this was, and such as I fear always will be produced by
those who work solely from practice or memory, may be a convincing proof
of the necessity of the conduct which I have recommended. However, in
justice I cannot quit this Painter without adding, that in the former
part of his life, when he was in the habit of having recourse to nature,
he was not without a considerable degree of merit--enough to make half
the Painters of his country his imitators; he had often grace and
beauty, and good skill in composition; but I think all under the
influence of a bad taste: his imitators are indeed abominable.

Those Artists who have quitted the service of nature (whose service,
when well understood, is _perfect freedom_), and have put themselves
under the direction of I know not what capricious fantastical
mistress, who fascinates and overpowers their whole mind, and from
whose dominion there are no hopes of their being ever reclaimed (since
they appear perfectly satisfied, and not at all conscious of their
forlorn situation), like the transformed followers of Comus--

      "Not once perceive their foul disfigurement;
      But boast themselves more comely than before."

Methinks, such men, who have found out so short a path, have no reason
to complain of the shortness of life, and the extent of art; since
life is so much longer than is wanted for their improvement, or,
indeed, is necessary for the accomplishment of their idea of
perfection. On the contrary, he who recurs to nature, at every
recurrence renews his strength. The rules of art he is never likely to
forget; they are few and simple; but nature is refined, subtle, and
infinitely various, beyond the power and retention of memory; it is
necessary, therefore, to have continual recourse to her. In this
intercourse there is no end of his improvement; the longer he lives,
the nearer he approaches to the true and perfect idea of art.


14: In Ben Jonson's "Catiline" we find this aphorism, with a
slight variation:--

      "A serpent, ere he comes to be a dragon,
      Must eat a bat."

15: The addition of _accio_ denotes contempt, or some
deformity or imperfection attending the person to whom it is applied.


  _Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the Distribution of
  the Prizes, December 11, 1786._


To discover beauties, or to point out faults, in the works of
celebrated Masters, and to compare the conduct of one Artist with
another, is certainly no mean or inconsiderable part of criticism; but
this is still no more than to know the art through the Artist. This
test of investigation must have two capital defects; it must be
narrow, and it must be uncertain. To enlarge the boundaries of the Art
of Painting, as well as to fix its principles, it will be necessary
that _that_ art, and _those_ principles, should be considered in their
correspondence with the principles of the other arts, which, like
this, address themselves primarily and principally to the imagination.
When those connected and kindred principles are brought together to be
compared, another comparison will grow out of this; that is, the
comparison of them all with those of human nature, from whence arts
derive the materials upon which they are to produce their effects.

When this comparison of art with art, and of all arts with the nature
of man, is once made with success, our guiding lines are as well
ascertained and established as they can be in matters of this

This, as it is the highest style of criticism, is at the same time the
soundest; for it refers to the eternal and immutable nature of things.

You are not to imagine that I mean to open to you at large, or to
recommend to your research, the whole of this vast field of science.
It is certainly much above my faculties to reach it; and though it may
not be above yours to comprehend it fully, if it were fully and
properly brought before you, yet perhaps the most perfect criticism
requires habits of speculation and abstraction, not very consistent
with the employment which ought to occupy, and the habits of mind
which ought to prevail, in a practical Artist. I only point out to you
these things, that when you do criticise (as all who work on a plan
will criticise more or less), your criticism may be built on the
foundation of true principles; and that though you may not always
travel a great way, the way that you do travel may be the right road.

I observe, as a fundamental ground, common to all the Arts with which we
have any concern in this discourse, that they address themselves only to
two faculties of the mind--its imagination and its sensibility.

All theories which attempt to direct or to control the Art, upon any
principles falsely called rational, which we form to ourselves upon a
supposition of what ought in reason to be the end or means of Art,
independent of the known first effect produced by objects on the
imagination, must be false and delusive. For though it may appear bold
to say it, the imagination is here the residence of truth. If the
imagination be affected, the conclusion is fairly drawn; if it be not
affected, the reasoning is erroneous, because the end is not obtained;
the effect itself being the test, and the only test, of the truth and
efficacy of the means.

There is in the commerce of life, as in Art, a sagacity which is far
from being contradictory to right reason, and is superior to any
occasional exercise of that faculty; which supersedes it; and does not
wait for the slow progress of deduction, but goes at once, by what
appears a kind of intuition, to the conclusion. A man endowed with this
faculty feels and acknowledges the truth, though it is not always in his
power, perhaps, to give a reason for it; because he cannot recollect and
bring before him all the materials that gave birth to his opinion; for
very many and very intricate considerations may unite to form the
principle, even of small and minute parts, involved in, or dependent on,
a great system of things: though these in process of time are forgotten,
the right impression still remains fixed in his mind.

This impression is the result of the accumulated experience of our whole
life, and has been collected, we do not always know how, or when. But
this mass of collective observation, however acquired, ought to prevail
over that reason, which, however powerfully exerted on any particular
occasion, will probably comprehend but a partial view of the subject;
and our conduct in life, as well as in the Arts, is, or ought to be,
generally governed by this habitual reason: it is our happiness that we
are enabled to draw on such funds. If we were obliged to enter into a
theoretical deliberation on every occasion, before we act, life would be
at a stand, and Art would be impracticable.

It appears to me, therefore, that our first thoughts, that is, the
effect which anything produces on our minds, on its first appearance,
is never to be forgotten; and it demands for that reason, because it
is the first, to be laid up with care. If this be not done, the Artist
may happen to impose on himself by partial reasoning; by a cold
consideration of those animated thoughts which proceed, not perhaps
from caprice or rashness (as he may afterwards conceit), but from the
fulness of his mind, enriched with the copious stores of all the
various inventions which he had ever seen, or had ever passed in his
mind. These ideas are infused into his design, without any conscious
effort; but if he be not on his guard, he may reconsider and correct
them, till the whole matter is reduced to a commonplace invention.

This is sometimes the effect of what I mean to caution you against;
that is to say, an unfounded distrust of the imagination and feeling,
in favour of narrow, partial, confined, argumentative theories; and of
principles that seem to apply to the design in hand; without
considering those general impressions on the fancy in which real
principles of _sound reason_, and of much more weight and importance,
are involved, and, as it were, lie hid under the appearance of a sort
of vulgar sentiment.

Reason, without doubt, must ultimately determine everything; at this
minute it is required to inform us when that very reason is to give
way to feeling.

Though I have often spoken of that mean conception of our art which
confines it to mere imitation, I must add, that it may be narrowed to
such a mere matter of experiment, as to exclude from it the application
of science, which alone gives dignity and compass to any art. But to
find proper foundations for science is neither to narrow or to vulgarise
it; and this is sufficiently exemplified in the success of experimental
philosophy. It is the false system of reasoning, grounded on a partial
view of things, against which I would most earnestly guard you. And I do
it the rather, because those narrow theories, so coincident with the
poorest and most miserable practices, and which are adopted to give it
countenance, have not had their origin in the poorest minds, but in the
mistakes, or possibly in the mistaken interpretations, of great and
commanding authorities. We are not, therefore, in this case misled by
feeling, but by false speculation.

When such a man as Plato speaks of Painting as only an imitative art,
and that our pleasure proceeds from observing and acknowledging the
truth of the imitation, I think he misleads us by a partial theory. It
is in this poor, partial, and, so far, false view of the art, that
Cardinal Bembo has chosen to distinguish even Raffaelle himself, whom
our enthusiasm honours with the name of Divine. The same sentiment is
adopted by Pope in his epitaph on Sir Godfrey Kneller; and he turns
the panegyric solely on imitation, as it is a sort of deception.

I shall not think my time misemployed, if by any means I may
contribute to confirm your opinion of what ought to be the object of
your pursuit; because, though the best critics must always have
exploded this strange idea, yet I know that there is a disposition
towards a perpetual recurrence to it, on account of its simplicity and
superficial plausibility. For this reason I shall beg leave to lay
before you a few thoughts on this subject; to throw out some hints
that may lead your minds to an opinion (which I take to be the truth),
that Painting is not only to be considered as an imitation, operating
by deception, but that it is, and ought to be, in many points of view,
and strictly speaking, no imitation at all of external nature. Perhaps
it ought to be as far removed from the vulgar idea of imitation as the
refined civilised state in which we live is removed from a gross state
of nature; and those who have not cultivated their imaginations, which
the majority of mankind certainly have not, may be said, in regard to
arts, to continue in this state of nature. Such men will always
prefer imitation to that excellence which is addressed to another
faculty that they do not possess; but these are not the persons to
whom a Painter is to look, any more than a judge of morals and manners
ought to refer controverted points upon those subjects to the opinions
of people taken from the banks of the Ohio, or from New Holland.

It is the lowest style only of arts, whether of Painting, Poetry, or
Music, that may be said, in the vulgar sense, to be naturally
pleasing. The higher efforts of those arts, we know by experience, do
not affect minds wholly uncultivated. This refined taste is the
consequence of education and habit: we are born only with a capacity
of entertaining this refinement, as we are born with a disposition to
receive and obey all the rules and regulations of society; and so far
it may be said to be natural to us, and no further.

What has been said may show the Artist how necessary it is, when he
looks about him for the advice and criticism of his friends, to make
some distinction of the character, taste, experience, and observation
in this Art, of those from whom it is received. An ignorant,
uneducated man may, like Apelles's critic, be a competent judge of the
truth of the representation of a sandal; or, to go somewhat higher,
like Molière's old woman, may decide upon what is nature, in regard to
comic humour; but a critic in the higher style of art ought to possess
the same refined taste which directed the Artist in his work.

To illustrate this principle by a comparison with other Arts, I shall
now produce some instances to show that they, as well as our own Art,
renounce the narrow idea of nature, and the narrow theories derived
from that mistaken principle, and apply to that reason only which
informs us not what imitation is--a natural representation of a given
object--but what it is natural for the imagination to be delighted
with. And perhaps there is no better way of acquiring this knowledge
than by this kind of analogy: each art will corroborate and mutually
reflect the truth on the other. Such a kind of juxtaposition may
likewise have this use, that whilst the Artist is amusing himself in
the contemplation of other Arts, he may habitually transfer the
principles of those Arts to that which he professes: which ought to be
always present to his mind, and to which everything is to be referred.

So far is Art from being derived from, or having any immediate
intercourse with particular nature as its model, that there are many
Arts that set out with a professed deviation from it.

This is certainly not so exactly true in regard to Painting and
Sculpture. Our elements are laid in gross common nature--an exact
imitation of what is before us; but when we advance to the higher
state, we consider this power of imitation, though first in the order
of acquisition, as by no means the highest in the scale of perfection.

Poetry addresses itself to the same faculties and the same
dispositions as Painting, though by different means. The object of
both is to accommodate itself to all the natural propensities and
inclinations of the mind. The very existence of Poetry depends on the
license it assumes of deviating from actual nature, in order to
gratify natural propensities by other means, which are found by
experience full as capable of affording such gratification. It sets
out with a language in the highest degree artificial, a construction
of measured words, such as never is, nor ever was, used by man. Let
this measure be what it may, whether hexameter or any other metre used
in Latin or Greek--or Rhyme, or Blank Verse varied with pauses and
accents, in modern languages--they are all equally removed from
nature, and equally a violation of common speech. When this artificial
mode has been established as the vehicle of sentiment, there is
another principle in the human mind to which the work must be
referred, which still renders it more artificial, carries it still
further from common nature, and deviates only to render it more
perfect. That principle is the sense of congruity, coherence, and
consistency, which is a real existing principle in man; and it must be
gratified. Therefore, having once adopted a style and a measure not
found in common discourse, it is required that the sentiments also
should be in the same proportion elevated above common nature, from
the necessity of there being an agreement of the parts among
themselves, that one uniform whole may be produced.

To correspond, therefore, with this general system of deviation from
nature, the manner in which poetry is offered to the ear, the tone in
which it is recited, should be as far removed from the tone of
conversation as the words of which that Poetry is composed. This
naturally suggests the idea of modulating the voice by art, which, I
suppose, may be considered as accomplished to the highest degree of
excellence in the recitative of the Italian Opera; as we may
conjecture it was in the Chorus that attended the ancient drama. And
though the most violent passions, the highest distress, even death
itself, are expressed in singing or recitative, I would not admit as
sound criticism the condemnation of such exhibitions on account of
their being unnatural.

If it is natural for our senses, and our imaginations, to be delighted
with singing, with instrumental music, with poetry, and with graceful
action, taken separately (none of them being in the vulgar sense
natural, even in that separate state); it is conformable to
experience, and therefore agreeable to reason as connected and
referred to experience, that we should also be delighted with this
union of music, poetry, and graceful action, joined to every
circumstance of pomp and magnificence calculated to strike the senses
of the spectator. Shall reason stand in the way, and tell us that we
ought not to like what we know we do like, and prevent us from feeling
the full effect of this complicated exertion of art? This is what I
would understand by poets and painters being allowed to dare
everything; for what can be more daring than accomplishing the purpose
and end of art, by a complication of means, none of which have their
archetypes in actual nature?

So far, therefore, is servile imitation from being necessary, that
whatever is familiar, or in any way reminds us of what we see and hear
every day, perhaps does not belong to the higher provinces of art,
either in poetry or painting. The mind is to be transported, as
Shakespeare expresses it, _beyond the ignorant present_, to ages past.
Another and a higher order of beings is supposed; and to those beings
everything which is introduced into the work must correspond. Of this
conduct, under these circumstances, the Roman and Florentine schools
afford sufficient examples. Their style by this means is raised and
elevated above all others; and by the same means the compass of art
itself is enlarged.

We often see grave and great subjects attempted by artists of another
school; who, though excellent in the lower class of art, proceeding on
the principles which regulate that class, and not recollecting, or not
knowing, that they were to address themselves to another faculty of
the mind, have become perfectly ridiculous.

The picture which I have at present in my thoughts is a sacrifice of
Iphigenia, painted by Jan Steen, a painter of whom I have formerly had
occasion to speak with the highest approbation; and even in this
picture, the subject of which is by no means adapted to his genius,
there is nature and expression; but it is such expression, and the
countenances are so familiar, and consequently so vulgar, and the
whole accompanied with such finery of silks and velvets, that one
would be almost tempted to doubt whether the artist did not purposely
intend to burlesque his subject.

Instances of the same kind we frequently see in poetry. Parts of
Hobbes's translation of Homer are remembered and repeated merely for
the familiarity and meanness of their phraseology, so ill
corresponding with the ideas which ought to have been expressed, and,
as I conceive, with the style of the original.

We may proceed in the same manner through the comparatively inferior
branches of art. There are, in works of that class, the same
distinction of a higher and a lower style; and they take their rank
and degree in proportion as the artist departs more, or less, from
common nature, and makes it an object of his attention to strike the
imagination of the spectator by ways belonging especially to
art--unobserved and untaught out of the school of its practice.

If our judgments are to be directed by narrow, vulgar, untaught, or
rather ill-taught, reason, we must prefer a portrait by Denner, or any
other high finisher, to those of Titian or Vandyke; and a landscape of
Vanderheyden to those of Titian or Rubens; for they are certainly more
exact representations of nature.

If we suppose a view of nature represented with all the truth of the
_camera obscura_, and the same scene represented by a great artist,
how little and mean will the one appear in comparison of the other,
where no superiority is supposed from the choice of the subject! The
scene shall be the same, the difference only will be in the manner in
which it is presented to the eye. With what additional superiority,
then, will the same artist appear when he has the power of selecting
his materials as well as elevating his style? Like Nicholas Poussin,
he transports us to the environs of ancient Rome, with all the objects
which a literary education makes so precious and interesting to man;
or, like Sebastian Bourdon, he leads us to the dark antiquity of the
pyramids of Egypt; or, like Claude Lorrain, he conducts us to the
tranquillity of Arcadian scenes and fairy-land.

Like the history-painter, a painter of landscapes, in this style and
with this conduct, sends the imagination back into antiquity; and, like
the poet, he makes the elements sympathise with his subject: whether the
clouds roll in volumes like those of Titian or Salvator Rosa, or like
those of Claude, are gilded with the setting sun; whether the mountains
have sudden and bold projections, or are gently sloped; whether the
branches of his trees shoot out abruptly in right angles from their
trunks, or follow each other with only a gentle inclination. All these
circumstances contribute to the general character of the work, whether
it be of the elegant or of the more sublime kind. If we add to this the
powerful materials of lightness and darkness, over which the artist has
complete dominion, to vary and dispose them as he pleases; to diminish
or increase them as will best suit his purpose, and correspond to the
general idea of his work; a landscape thus conducted, under the
influence of a poetical mind will have the same superiority over the
more ordinary and common views, as Milton's _Allegra_ and _Penseroso_
have over a cold prosaic narration or description; and such a picture
would make a more forcible impression on the mind than the real scenes,
were they presented before us.

If we look abroad to other arts, we may observe the same distinction,
the same division into two classes; each of them acting under the
influence of two different principles, in which the one follows
nature, the other varies it, and sometimes departs from it.

The theatre, which is said _to hold the mirror up to nature_,
comprehends both those ideas. The lower kind of comedy, or farce, like
the inferior style of painting, the more naturally it is represented,
the better; but the higher appears to me to aim no more at imitation,
so far as it belongs to anything like deception, or to expect that the
spectators should think that the events there represented are really
passing before them, than Raffaelle in his Cartoons, or Poussin in his
Sacraments, expected it to be believed, even for a moment, that what
they exhibited were real figures.

For want of this distinction the world is filled with false criticism.
Raffaelle is praised for naturalness and deception, which he certainly
has not accomplished, and as certainly never intended; and our late
great actor, Garrick, has been as ignorantly praised by his friend
Fielding; who doubtless imagined he had hit upon an ingenious device, by
introducing, in one of his novels (otherwise a work of the highest
merit), an ignorant man mistaking Garrick's representation of a scene in
"Hamlet" for reality. A very little reflection will convince us, that
there is not one circumstance in the whole scene that is of the nature
of deception. The merit and excellence of Shakespeare, and of Garrick,
when they were engaged in such scenes, is of a different and much higher
kind. But what adds to the falsity of this intended compliment is, that
the best stage-representation appears even more unnatural to a person of
such a character, who is supposed never to have seen a play before, than
it does to those who have had a habit of allowing for those necessary
deviations from nature which the Art requires.

In theatric representation great allowances must always be made for
the place in which the exhibition is represented; for the surrounding
company, the lighted candles, the scenes visibly shifted in your
sight, and the language of blank verse, so different from common
English; which merely as English must appear surprising in the mouths
of Hamlet, and all the court and natives of Denmark. These allowances
are made; but their being made puts an end to all manner of deception:
and further, we know that the more low, illiterate, and vulgar any
person is, the less he will be disposed to make these allowances, and
of course to be deceived by any imitation; the things in which the
trespass against nature and common probability is made in favour of
the theatre being quite within the sphere of such uninformed men.

Though I have no intention of entering into all the circumstances of
unnaturalness in theatrical representations, I must observe that even
the expression of violent passion is not always the most excellent in
proportion as it is the most natural; so, great terror and such
disagreeable sensations may be communicated to the audience, that the
balance may be destroyed by which pleasure is preserved and holds its
predominancy in the mind: violent distortion of action, harsh
screamings of the voice, however great the occasions, or however
natural on such occasions, are therefore not admissible in the
theatric art. Many of these allowed deviations from nature arise from
the necessity which there is, that everything should be raised and
enlarged beyond its natural state; that the full effect may come home
to the spectator, which otherwise would be lost in the comparatively
extensive space of the Theatre. Hence the deliberate and stately step,
the studied grace of action, which seems to enlarge the dimensions of
the actor, and alone to fill the stage. All this unnaturalness, though
right and proper in its place, would appear affected and ridiculous in
a private room: _quid enim deformius quàm scenam, in vitam transferre?_

And here I must observe, and I believe it may be considered as a
general rule, that no Art can be grafted with success on another Art.
For though they all profess the same origin, and to proceed from the
same stock, yet each has its own peculiar modes both of imitating
nature, and of deviating from it, each for the accomplishment of its
own particular purpose. These deviations, more especially, will not
bear transplantation to another soil.

If a Painter should endeavour to copy the theatrical pomp and parade
of dress, and attitude, instead of that simplicity, which is not a
greater beauty in life than it is in Painting, we should condemn such
pictures, as painted in the meanest style.

So, also, Gardening, as far as Gardening is an Art, or entitled to
that appellation, is a deviation from nature; for if the true taste
consists, as many hold, in banishing every appearance of Art, or any
traces of the footsteps of man, it would then be no longer a Garden.
Even though we define it, "Nature to advantage dressed," and in
some sense is such, and much more beautiful and commodious
for the recreation of man; it is, however, when so dressed, no
longer a subject for the pencil of a Landscape-Painter, as all
Landscape-Painters know, who love to have recourse to Nature herself,
and to dress her according to the principles of their own Art;
which are far different from those of Gardening, even when
conducted according to the most approved principles; and such as a
Landscape-Painter himself would adopt in the disposition of his own
grounds, for his own private satisfaction.

I have brought together as many instances as appear necessary to make
out the several points which I wished to suggest to your consideration
in this Discourse; that your own thoughts may lead you further in the
use that may be made of the analogy of the Arts; and of the restraint
which a full understanding of the diversity of many of their
principles ought to impose on the employment of that analogy.

The great end of all those arts is, to make an impression on the
imagination and the feeling. The imitation of nature frequently does
this. Sometimes it fails, and something else succeeds. I think,
therefore, the true test of all the arts is not solely whether the
production is a true copy of nature, but whether it answers the end of
art, which is, to produce a pleasing effect upon the mind.

It remains only to speak a few words of Architecture, which does not
come under the denomination of an imitative art. It applies itself,
like Music (and, I believe, we may add Poetry), directly to the
imagination, without the intervention of any kind of imitation.

There is in Architecture, as in Painting, an inferior branch of art,
in which the imagination appears to have no concern. It does not,
however, acquire the name of a polite and liberal art from its
usefulness, or administering to our wants or necessities, but from
some higher principle; we are sure that in the hands of a man of
genius it is capable of inspiring sentiment, and of filling the mind
with great and sublime ideas.

It may be worth the attention of Artists to consider what materials
are in their hands, that may contribute to this end; and whether this
art has it not in its power to address itself to the imagination with
effect, by more ways than are generally employed by Architects.

To pass over the effect produced by that general symmetry and
proportion, by which the eye is delighted, as the ear is with music,
Architecture certainly possesses many principles in common with Poetry
and Painting. Among those which may be reckoned as the first, is, that
of affecting the imagination by means of association of ideas. Thus,
for instance, as we have naturally a veneration for antiquity,
whatever building brings to our remembrance ancient customs and
manners, such as the castles of the Barons of ancient Chivalry, is
sure to give this delight. Hence it is that _towers and
battlements_[16] are so often selected by the Painter and the Poet to
make a part of the composition of their ideal Landscape; and it is
from hence, in a great degree, that, in the buildings of Vanbrugh, who
was a Poet as well as an Architect, there is a greater display of
imagination than we shall find, perhaps, in any other, and this is the
ground of the effect we feel in many of his works, notwithstanding the
faults with which many of them are justly charged. For this purpose,
Vanbrugh appears to have had recourse to some of the principles of the
Gothic Architecture; which, though not so ancient as the Grecian, is
more so to our imagination, with which the Artist is more concerned
than with absolute truth.

The Barbaric splendour of those Asiatic Buildings, which are now
publishing by a member of this Academy,[17] may possibly, in the same
manner, furnish an Architect, not with models to copy, but with hints of
composition and general effect, which would not otherwise have occurred.

It is, I know, a delicate and hazardous thing (and, as such, I have
already pointed it out) to carry the principles of one art to another,
or even to reconcile in one object the various modes of the same art,
when they proceed on different principles. The sound rules of the
Grecian Architecture are not to be lightly sacrificed. A deviation
from them, or even an addition to them, is like a deviation or
addition to, or from, the rules of other Arts--fit only for a great
master, who is thoroughly conversant in the nature of man, as well as
all combinations in his own Art.

It may not be amiss for the Architect to take advantage _sometimes_ of
that to which I am sure the Painter ought always to have his eyes
open--I mean the use of accidents: to follow when they lead, and to
improve them, rather than always to trust to a regular plan. It often
happens that additions have been made to houses, at various times, for
use or pleasure. As such buildings depart from regularity, they now
and then acquire something of scenery by this accident, which I should
think might not unsuccessfully be adopted by an Architect, in an
original plan, if it does not too much interfere with convenience.
Variety and intricacy is a beauty and excellence in every other of the
arts which address the imagination: and why not in Architecture?

The forms and turnings of the streets of London and other old towns
are produced by accident, without any original plan or design, but
they are not always the less pleasant to the walker or spectator on
that account. On the contrary, if the city had been built on the
regular plan of Sir Christopher Wren, the effect might have been, as
we know it is in some new parts of the town, rather unpleasing; the
uniformity might have produced weariness, and a slight degree of

I can pretend to no skill in the detail of Architecture. I judge now
of the art, merely as a Painter. When I speak of Vanbrugh, I mean to
speak of him in the language of our art. To speak, then, of Vanbrugh
in the language of a painter, he had originality of invention, he
understood light and shadow, and had great skill in composition. To
support his principal object, he produced his second and third groups
or masses; he perfectly understood in his art what is the most
difficult in ours, the conduct of the background; by which the design
and invention is set off to the greatest advantage. What the
background is in Painting, in Architecture is the real ground on which
the building is erected; and no Architect took greater care than he
that his work should not appear crude and hard; that is, it did not
abruptly start out of the ground without expectation or preparation.

This is a tribute which a Painter owes to an Architect who composed
like a painter; and was defrauded of the due reward of his merit by
the wits of his time, who did not understand the principles of
composition in poetry better than he; and who knew little, or nothing,
of what he understood perfectly--the general ruling principles of
Architecture and Painting. His fate was that of the great Perrault;
both were the objects of the petulant sarcasms of factious men of
letters; and both have left some of the fairest ornaments which to
this day decorate their several countries; the façade of the Louvre,
Blenheim, and Castle Howard.

Upon the whole it seems to me, that the object and intention of all
the Arts is to supply the natural imperfection of things, and often to
gratify the mind by realising and embodying what never existed but in
the imagination.

It is allowed on all hands, that facts, and events, however they may
bind the Historian, have no dominion over the Poet or the Painter.
With us, History is made to bend and conform to this great idea of
Art. And why? Because these Arts, in their highest province, are not
addressed to the gross senses; but to the desires of the mind, to that
spark of divinity which we have within, impatient of being
circumscribed and pent up by the world which is about us. Just so much
as our Art has of this, just so much of dignity, I had almost said of
divinity, it exhibits; and those of our Artists who possessed this
mark of distinction in the highest degree, acquired from thence the
glorious appellation of DIVINE.



      "Towers and Battlements it sees
      Bosom'd high in tufted trees."--MILTON, L'ALL.

17: Mr. Hodges.


  _Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the Distribution of
  the Prizes, December 10, 1788._


In the study of our art, as in the study of all arts, something is the
result of _our own_ observation of nature; something, and that not a
little, the effect of the example of those who have studied the same
nature before us, and who have cultivated before us the same art, with
diligence and success. The less we confine ourselves in the choice of
those examples, the more advantage we shall derive from them; and the
nearer we shall bring our performances to a correspondence with nature
and the great general rules of art. When we draw our examples from
remote and revered antiquity--with some advantage, undoubtedly, in that
selection--we subject ourselves to some inconveniencies. We may suffer
ourselves to be too much led away by great names, and to be too much
subdued by overbearing authority. Our learning, in that case, is not so
much an exercise of our judgment as a proof of our docility. We find
ourselves, perhaps, too much overshadowed; and the character of our
pursuits is rather distinguished by the tameness of the follower than
animated by the spirit of emulation. It is sometimes of service that our
examples should be _near_ us; and such as raise a reverence, sufficient
to induce us carefully to observe them, yet not so great as to prevent
us from engaging with them in something like a generous contention.

We have lately lost Mr. Gainsborough, one of the greatest ornaments of
our Academy. It is not our business here to make Panegyrics on the
living, or even on the dead who were of our body. The praise of the
former might bear the appearance of adulation; and the latter of
untimely justice; perhaps of envy to those whom we have still the
happiness to enjoy, by an oblique suggestion of invidious comparisons.
In discoursing, therefore, on the talents of the late Mr. Gainsborough,
my object is, not so much to praise or to blame him, as to draw from his
excellencies and defects matter of instruction to the Students in our
Academy. If ever this nation should produce genius sufficient to acquire
to us the honourable distinction of an English School, the name of
Gainsborough will be transmitted to posterity, in the history of the
art, among the very first of that rising name. That our reputation in
the Arts is now only rising must be acknowledged; and we must expect our
advances to be attended with old prejudices, as adversaries, and not as
supporters; standing in this respect in a very different situation from
the late artists of the Roman School, to whose reputation ancient
prejudices have certainly contributed; the way was prepared for them,
and they may be said rather to have lived in the reputation of their
country than have contributed to it; whilst whatever celebrity is
obtained by English Artists can arise only from the operation of a fair
and true comparison. And when they communicate to their country a share
of their reputation, it is a portion of fame not borrowed from others,
but solely acquired by their own labour and talents. As Italy has
undoubtedly a prescriptive right to an admiration bordering on
prejudice, as a soil peculiarly adapted, congenial, and, we may add,
destined to the production of men of great genius in our Art, we may
not unreasonably suspect that a portion of the great fame of some of
their late artists has been owing to the general readiness and
disposition of mankind to acquiesce in their original prepossessions in
favour of the productions of the Roman School.

On this ground, however unsafe, I will venture to prophesy, that two
of the last distinguished painters of that country, I mean Pompeio
Battoni and Raffaelle Mengs, however great their names may at present
sound in our ears, will very soon fall into the rank of Imperiale,
Sebastian Concha, Placido Constanza, Masaccio, and the rest of their
immediate predecessors; whose names, though equally renowned in their
lifetime, are now fallen into what is little short of total oblivion.
I do not say that those painters were not superior to the artist I
allude to, and whose loss we lament, in a certain routine of practice,
which, to the eyes of common observers, has the air of a learned
composition, and bears a sort of superficial resemblance to the manner
of the great men who went before them. I know this perfectly well; but
I know likewise, that a man looking for real and lasting reputation
must unlearn much of the commonplace method so observable in the works
of the artists whom I have named. For my own part, I confess, I take
more interest in and am more captivated with the powerful impression
of nature which Gainsborough exhibited in his portraits and in his
landscapes, and the interesting simplicity and elegance of his little
ordinary beggar-children, than with any of the works of that School,
since the time of Andrea Sacchi, or perhaps we may say Carlo Maratti;
two painters who may truly be said to be ULTIMI ROMANORUM.

I am well aware how much I lay myself open to the censure and ridicule
of the academical professors of other nations, in preferring the
humble attempts of Gainsborough to the works of those regular
graduates in the great historical style. But we have the sanction of
all mankind in preferring genius in a lower rank of art to feebleness
and insipidity in the highest.

It would not be to the present purpose, even if I had the means and
materials, which I have not, to enter into the private life of Mr.
Gainsborough. The history of his gradual advancement, and the means by
which he acquired such excellence in his art, would come nearer to our
purposes and wishes, if it were by any means attainable; but the slow
progress of advancement is in general imperceptible to the man himself
who makes it; it is the consequence of an accumulation of various
ideas which his mind has received, he does not perhaps know how or
when. Sometimes, indeed, it happens that he may be able to mark the
time when, from the sight of a picture, a passage in an author, or a
hint in conversation, he has received, as it were, some new and
guiding light, something like inspiration, by which his mind has been
expanded; and is morally sure that his whole life and conduct has been
affected by that accidental circumstance. Such interesting accounts we
may, however, sometimes obtain from a man who has acquired an uncommon
habit of self-examination, and has attended to the progress of his own

It may not be improper to make mention of some of the customs and
habits of this extraordinary man; points which come more within the
reach of an observer: I, however, mean such only as are connected with
his art, and indeed were, as I apprehend, the causes of his arriving
to that high degree of excellence which we see and acknowledge in his
works. Of these causes we must state, as the fundamental, the love
which he had to his art; to which, indeed, his whole mind appears to
have been devoted, and to which everything was referred; and this we
may fairly conclude from various circumstances of his life, which were
known to his intimate friends. Among others, he had a habit of
continually remarking to those who happened to be about him whatever
peculiarity of countenance, whatever accidental combination of figure,
or happy effects of light and shadow, occurred in prospects, in the
sky, in walking the streets, or in company. If, in his walks, he found
a character that he liked, and whose attendance was to be obtained, he
ordered him to his house: and from the fields he brought into his
painting-room stumps of trees, weeds, and animals of various kinds;
and designed them, not from memory, but immediately from the objects.
He even framed a kind of model of landscapes on his table; composed of
broken stones, dried herbs, and pieces of looking-glass, which he
magnified and improved into rocks, trees, and water. How far this
latter practice may be useful in giving hints, the professors of
landscape can best determine. Like every other technical practice, it
seems to me wholly to depend on the general talent of him who uses it.
Such methods may be nothing better than contemptible and mischievous
trifling; or they may be aids. I think, upon the whole, unless we
constantly refer to real nature, that practice may be more likely to
do harm than good. I mention it only, as it shows the solicitude and
extreme activity which he had about everything that related to his
art; that he wished to have his objects embodied, as it were, and
distinctly before him; that he neglected nothing which could keep his
faculties in exercise, and derived hints from every sort of combination.

We must not forget, whilst we are on this subject, to make some
remarks on his custom of painting by night, which confirms what I
have already mentioned,--his great affection to his art; since he
could not amuse himself in the evening by any other means so agreeable
to himself. I am, indeed, much inclined to believe that it is a
practice very advantageous and improving to an artist; for by this
means he will acquire a new and a higher perception of what is great
and beautiful in nature. By candle-light, not only objects appear more
beautiful, but from their being in a greater breadth of light and
shadow, as well as having a greater breadth and uniformity of colour,
nature appears in a higher style; and even the flesh seems to take a
higher and richer tone of colour. Judgment is to direct us in the use
to be made of this method of study; but the method itself is, I am
sure, advantageous. I have often imagined that the two great
colourists, Titian and Correggio, though I do not know that they
painted by night, formed their high ideas of colouring from the
effects of objects by this artificial light; but I am more assured
that whoever attentively studies the first and best manner of
Guercino, will be convinced that he either painted by this light, or
formed his manner on this conception.

Another practice Gainsborough had, which is worth mentioning, as it is
certainly worthy of imitation; I mean his manner of forming all the
parts of his picture together; the whole going on at the same time, in
the same manner as nature creates her works. Though this method is not
uncommon to those who have been regularly educated, yet probably it
was suggested to him by his own natural sagacity. That this custom is
not universal appears from the practice of a painter whom I have just
mentioned, Pompeio Battoni, who finished his historical pictures part
after part, and in his portraits completely finished one feature
before he proceeded to another. The consequence was as might be
expected; the countenance was never well expressed; and, as the
painters say, the whole was not well put together.

The first thing required to excel in our art, or I believe in any art,
is not only a love for it, but even an enthusiastic ambition to excel
in it. This never fails of success proportioned to the natural
abilities with which the artist has been endowed by Providence. Of
Gainsborough, we certainly know, that his passion was not the
acquirement of riches, but excellence in his art; and to enjoy that
honourable fame which is sure to attend it.--That _he felt this ruling
passion strong in death_ I am myself a witness. A few days before he
died, he wrote me a letter, to express his acknowledgments for the
good opinion I entertained of his abilities, and the manner in which
(he had been informed) I always spoke of him; and desired he might see
me once more before he died. I am aware how flattering it is to myself
to be thus connected with the dying testimony which this excellent
painter bore to his art. But I cannot prevail on myself to suppress
that I was not connected with him, by any habits of familiarity: if
any little jealousies had subsisted between us, they were forgotten in
those moments of sincerity; and he turned towards me as one who was
engrossed by the same pursuits, and who deserved his good opinion, by
being sensible of his excellence. Without entering into a detail of
what passed at this last interview, the impression of it upon my mind
was, that his regret at losing life was principally the regret of
leaving his art; and more especially as he now began, he said, to see
what his deficiencies were; which, he said, he flattered himself in
his last works were in some measure supplied.

When such a man as Gainsborough arrives to great fame, without the
assistance of an academical education, without travelling to Italy, or
any of those preparatory studies which have been so often recommended,
he is produced as an instance how little such studies are necessary;
since so great excellence may be acquired without them. This is an
inference not warranted by the success of any individual; and I trust
it will not be thought that I wish to make this use of it.

It must be remembered that the style and department of art which
Gainsborough chose, and in which he so much excelled, did not require
that he should go out of his own country for the objects of his study;
they were everywhere about him; he found them in the streets and in
the fields, and from the models thus accidentally found, he selected
with great judgment such as suited his purpose. As his studies were
directed to the living world principally, he did not pay a general
attention to the works of the various masters, though they are, in my
opinion, always of great use, even when the character of our subject
requires us to depart from some of their principles. It cannot be
denied, that excellence in the department of the art which he
professed may exist without them; that in such subjects, and in the
manner that belongs to them, the want of them is supplied, and more
than supplied, by natural sagacity, and a minute observation of
particular nature. If Gainsborough did not look at nature with a
poet's eye, it must be acknowledged that he saw her with the eye of a
painter; and gave a faithful, if not a poetical, representation of
what he had before him.

Though he did not much attend to the works of the great historical
painters of former ages, yet he was well aware that the language of
the art--the art of imitation--must be learned somewhere; and as he
knew that he could not learn it in an equal degree from his
contemporaries, he very judiciously applied himself to the Flemish
School, who are undoubtedly the greatest masters of one necessary
branch of art; and he did not need to go out of his own country for
examples of that school; from that he learnt the harmony of colouring,
the management and disposition of light and shadow, and every means
which the masters of it practised, to ornament and give splendour to
their works. And to satisfy himself as well as others how well he knew
the mechanism and artifice which they employed to bring out that tone
of colour which we so much admire in their works, he occasionally made
copies from Rubens, Teniers, and Vandyke, which it would be no
disgrace to the most accurate connoisseur to mistake, at the first
sight, for the works of those masters. What he thus learned, he
applied to the originals of nature, which he saw with his own eyes;
and imitated, not in the manner of those masters, but in his own.

Whether he most excelled in portraits, landscapes, or fancy pictures,
it is difficult to determine: whether his portraits were most
admirable for exact truth of resemblance, or his landscapes for a
portrait-like representation of nature, such as we see in the works of
Rubens, Ruysdaal, and others of those schools. In his fancy pictures,
when he had fixed on his object of imitation, whether it was the mean
and vulgar form of a wood-cutter, or a child of an interesting
character, as he did not attempt to raise the one, so neither did he
lose any of the natural grace and elegance of the other; such a grace,
and such an elegance, as are more frequently found in cottages than in
courts. This excellence was his own, the result of his particular
observation and taste; for this he was certainly not indebted to the
Flemish School, nor, indeed, to any school; for his grace was not
academical or antique, but selected by himself from the great school
of nature; and there are yet a thousand modes of grace, which are
neither theirs, nor his, but lie open in the multiplied scenes and
figures of life, to be brought out by skilful and faithful observers.

Upon the whole, we may justly say, that whatever he attempted he carried
to a high degree of excellence. It is to the credit of his good sense
and judgment, that he never did attempt that style of historical
painting for which his previous studies had made no preparation.

And here it naturally occurs to oppose the sensible conduct of
Gainsborough in this respect to that of our late excellent Hogarth,
who, with all his extraordinary talents, was not blessed with this
knowledge of his own deficiency, or of the bounds which were set to
the extent of his own powers. After this admirable artist had spent
the greater part of his life in an active, busy, and, we may add,
successful attention to the ridicule of life; after he had invented a
new species of dramatic painting, in which probably he will never be
equalled, and had stored his mind with infinite materials to explain
and illustrate the domestic and familiar scenes of common life, which
were generally, and ought to have been always, the subject of his
pencil; he very imprudently, or rather presumptuously, attempted the
great historical style, for which his previous habits had by no means
prepared him: he was indeed so entirely unacquainted with the
principles of this style, that he was not even aware that any
artificial preparation was at all necessary. It is to be regretted
that any part of the life of such a genius should be fruitlessly
employed. Let his failure teach us not to indulge ourselves in the
vain imagination, that by a momentary resolution we can give either
dexterity to the hand, or a new habit to the mind.

I have, however, little doubt, but that the same sagacity which
enabled those two extraordinary men to discover their true object, and
the peculiar excellence of that branch of art which they cultivated,
would have been equally effectual in discovering the principles of the
higher style, if they had investigated those principles with the same
eager industry which they exerted in their own department. As
Gainsborough never attempted the heroic style, so neither did he
destroy the character and uniformity of his own style by the idle
affectation of introducing mythological learning in any of his
pictures. Of this boyish folly we see instances enough, even in the
works of great painters. When the Dutch School attempt this poetry of
our art in their landscapes, their performances are beneath criticism;
they become only an object of laughter. This practice is hardly
excusable even in Claude Lorrain, who had shown more discretion if he
had never meddled with such subjects.

Our late ingenious Academician, Wilson, has, I fear, been guilty, like
many of his predecessors, of introducing gods and goddesses, ideal
beings, into scenes which were by no means prepared to receive such
personages. His landscapes were in reality too near common nature to
admit supernatural objects. In consequence of this mistake, in a very
admirable picture of a storm, which I have seen of his hand, many
figures are introduced in the foreground, some in apparent distress,
and some struck dead, as a spectator would naturally suppose, by the
lightning; had not the painter injudiciously (as I think) rather
chosen that their death should be imputed to a little Apollo, who
appears in the sky, with his bent bow, and that those figures should
be considered as the children of Niobe.

To manage a subject of this kind, a peculiar style of art is required;
and it can only be done without impropriety, or even without ridicule,
when we adapt the character of the landscape, and that, too, in all
its parts, to the historical or poetical representation. This is a
very difficult adventure, and it requires a mind thrown back two
thousand years, and, as it were, naturalised in antiquity, like that
of Nicolo Poussin, to achieve it. In the picture alluded to, the first
idea that presents itself is that of wonder, at seeing a figure in so
uncommon a situation as that in which the Apollo is placed; for the
clouds on which he kneels have not the appearance of being able to
support him; they have neither the substance nor the form fit for the
receptacle of a human figure; and they do not possess in any respect
that romantic character which is appropriated to such an object, and
which alone can harmonise with poetical stories.

It appears to me that such conduct is no less absurd than if a plain
man, giving a relation of real distress occasioned by an inundation
accompanied with thunder and lightning, should, instead of simply
relating the event, take it into his head, in order to give a grace to
his narration, to talk of Jupiter Pluvius, or Jupiter and his
thunderbolts, or any other figurative idea; an intermixture which,
though in poetry, with its proper preparations and accompaniments, it
might be managed with effect, yet in the instance before us would
counteract the purpose of the narrator, and, instead of being
interesting, would be only ridiculous.

The Dutch and Flemish style of landscape, not even excepting those of
Rubens, is unfit for poetical subjects; but to explain in what this
ineptitude consists, or to point out all the circumstances that give
nobleness, grandeur, and the poetic character, to style, in
landscape, would require a long discourse of itself; and the end would
be then perhaps but imperfectly attained. The painter who is ambitious
of this perilous excellence must catch his inspiration from those who
have cultivated with success the poetry, as it may be called, of the
art; and they are few indeed.

I cannot quit this subject without mentioning two examples which occur
to me at present, in which the poetical style of landscape may be seen
happily executed: the one is Jacob's Dream, by Salvator Rosa, and the
other the return of the Ark from Captivity, by Sebastian Bourdon. With
whatever dignity those histories are presented to us in the language
of Scripture, this style of painting possesses the same power of
inspiring sentiments of grandeur and sublimity, and is able to
communicate them to subjects which appear by no means adapted to
receive them. A ladder against the sky has no very promising
appearance of possessing a capacity to excite any heroic ideas; and
the Ark, in the hands of a second-rate master, would have little more
effect than a common waggon on the highway: yet those subjects are so
poetically treated throughout, the parts have such a correspondence
with each other, and the whole and every part of the scene is so
visionary, that it is impossible to look at them without feeling, in
some measure, the enthusiasm which seems to have inspired the painters.

By continual contemplation of such works, a sense of the higher
excellencies of art will by degrees dawn on the imagination; at every
review that sense will become more and more assured, until we come to
enjoy a sober certainty of the real existence (if I may so express
myself) of those almost ideal beauties; and the artist will then find
no difficulty in fixing in his mind the principles by which the
impression is produced; which he will feel and practise, though they
are perhaps too delicate and refined, and too peculiar to the
imitative art, to be conveyed to the mind by any other means.

To return to Gainsborough; the peculiarity of his manner, or style, or
we may call it--the language in which he expressed his ideas, has been
considered by many as his greatest defect. But without altogether
wishing to enter into the discussion--whether this peculiarity was a
defect or not, intermixed, as it was, with great beauties, of some of
which it was probably the cause, it becomes a proper subject of
criticism and inquiry to a painter.

A novelty and peculiarity of manner, as it is often a cause of our
approbation, so likewise it is often a ground of censure; as being
contrary to the practice of other painters, in whose manner we have
been initiated, and in whose favour we have perhaps been prepossessed
from our infancy; for, fond as we are of novelty, we are upon the
whole creatures of habit. However, it is certain, that all those odd
scratches and marks, which, on a close examination, are so observable
in Gainsborough's pictures, and which even to experienced painters
appear rather the effect of accident than design: this chaos, this
uncouth and shapeless appearance, by a kind of magic, at a certain
distance assumes form, and all the parts seem to drop into their
proper places, so that we can hardly refuse acknowledging the full
effect of diligence, under the appearance of chance and hasty
negligence. That Gainsborough himself considered this peculiarity in
his manner, and the power it possesses of exciting surprise, as a
beauty in his works, I think may be inferred from the eager desire
which we know he always expressed, that his pictures, at the
Exhibition, should be seen near, as well as at a distance.

The slightness which we see in his best works cannot always be imputed
to negligence. However they may appear to superficial observers,
painters know very well that a steady attention to the general effect
takes up more time, and is much more laborious to the mind, than any
mode of high finishing, or smoothness, without such attention. His
_handling_, _the manner of leaving the colours_, or, in other words,
the methods he used for producing the effect, had very much the
appearance of the work of an artist who had never learned from others
the usual and regular practice belonging to the art; but still, like a
man of strong intuitive perception of what was required, he found out
a way of his own to accomplish his purpose.

It is no disgrace to the genius of Gainsborough to compare him to such
men as we sometimes meet with, whose natural eloquence appears even in
speaking a language which they can scarce be said to understand; and
who, without knowing the appropriate expression of almost any one
idea, contrive to communicate the lively and forcible impressions of
an energetic mind.

I think some apology may reasonably be made for his manner without
violating truth, or running any risk of poisoning the minds of the
younger students, by propagating false criticism, for the sake of
raising the character of a favourite artist. It must be allowed, that
this hatching manner of Gainsborough did very much contribute to the
lightness of effect which is so eminent a beauty in his pictures; as,
on the contrary, much smoothness, and uniting the colours, is apt to
produce heaviness. Every artist must have remarked how often that
lightness of hand which was in his dead colour, or first painting,
escaped in the finishing when he had determined the parts with more
precision; and another loss he often experiences, which is of greater
consequence: whilst he is employed in the detail, the effect of the
whole together is either forgotten or neglected. The likeness of a
portrait, as I have formerly observed, consists more in preserving the
general effect of the countenance than in the most minute finishing of
the features, or any of the particular parts. Now Gainsborough's
portraits were often little more, in regard to finishing, or
determining the form of the features, than what generally attends a
dead colour; but as he was always attentive to the general effect, or
whole together, I have often imagined that this unfinished manner
contributed even to that striking resemblance for which his portraits
are so remarkable. Though this opinion may be considered as fanciful,
yet I think a plausible reason may be given why such a mode of
painting should have such an effect. It is presupposed that in this
undetermined manner there is in the general effect enough to remind
the spectator of the original; the imagination supplies the rest, and
perhaps more satisfactorily to himself, if not more exactly, than the
artist, with all his care, could possibly have done. At the same time
it must be acknowledged there is one evil attending this mode; that if
the portrait were seen previous to any knowledge of the original,
different persons would form different ideas, and all would be
disappointed at not finding the original correspond with their own
conceptions; under the great latitude which indistinctness gives to
the imagination to assume almost what character or form it pleases.

Every artist has some favourite part, on which he fixes his attention,
and which he pursues with such eagerness, that it absorbs every other
consideration; and he often falls into the opposite error of that
which he would avoid, which is always ready to receive him. Now
Gainsborough, having truly a painter's eye for colouring, cultivated
those effects of the art which proceed from colours: and sometimes
appears to be indifferent to or to neglect other excellencies.
Whatever defects are acknowledged, let him still experience from us
the same candour that we so freely give upon similar occasions to the
ancient masters; let us not encourage that fastidious disposition,
which is discontented with everything short of perfection, and
unreasonably require, as we sometimes do, a union of excellencies, not
perhaps quite compatible with each other. We may, on this ground, say
even of the divine Raffaelle, that he might have finished his picture
as highly and as correctly, as was his custom, without heaviness of
manner; and that Poussin might have preserved all his precision
without hardness or dryness.

To show the difficulty of uniting solidity with lightness of manner,
we may produce a picture of Rubens in the church of St. Gudule, at
Brussels, as an example; the subject is "Christ's Charge to Peter;"
which, as it is the highest and smoothest finished picture I remember
to have seen of that master, so it is by far the heaviest; and if I
had found it in any other place, I should have suspected it to be a
copy; for painters know very well, that it is principally by this air
of facility, or the want of it, that originals are distinguished from
copies. A lightness of effect produced by colour, and that produced by
facility of handling, are generally united; a copy may preserve
something of the one, it is true, but hardly ever of the other; a
connoisseur, therefore, finds it often necessary to look carefully
into the picture before he determines on its originality. Gainsborough
possessed this quality of lightness of manner and effect, I think, to
an unexampled degree of excellence; but it must be acknowledged, at
the same time, that the sacrifice which he made to this ornament of
our art was too great; it was, in reality, preferring the lesser
excellencies to the greater.

To conclude. However we may apologise for the deficiencies of
Gainsborough (I mean particularly his want of precision and
finishing), who so ingeniously contrived to cover his defects by his
beauties; and who cultivated that department of art, where such
defects are more easily excused; you are to remember, that no apology
can be made for this deficiency, in that style which this Academy
teaches, and which ought to be the object of your pursuit. It will be
necessary for you, in the first place, never to lose sight of the
great rules and principles of the art, as they are collected from the
full body of the best general practice, and the most constant and
uniform experience; this must be the groundwork of all your studies:
afterwards you may profit, as in this case I wish you to profit, by
the peculiar experience and personal talents of artists, living and
dead; you may derive lights, and catch hints, from their practice; but
the moment you turn them into models, you fall infinitely below them;
you may be corrupted by excellencies, not so much belonging to the
art, as personal and appropriated to the artist; and become bad copies
of good painters, instead of excellent imitators of the great
universal truth of things.


  _Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the Distribution of
  the Prizes, December 10, 1790._


The intimate connection which I have had with the Royal Academy ever
since its establishment, the social duties in which we have all
mutually engaged for so many years, make any profession of attachment
to this Institution, on my part, altogether superfluous; the influence
of habit alone in such a connection would naturally have produced it.

Among men united in the same body, and engaged in the same pursuit,
along with permanent friendship occasional differences will arise. In
these disputes men are naturally too favourable to themselves, and
think, perhaps, too hardly of their antagonists. But composed and
constituted as we are, those little contentions will be lost to
others, and they ought certainly to be lost amongst ourselves in
mutual esteem for talents and acquirements: every controversy ought to
be, and I am persuaded will be, sunk in our zeal for the perfection of
our common Art.

In parting with the Academy, I shall remember with pride, affection,
and gratitude, the support with which I have almost uniformly been
honoured from the commencement of our intercourse. I shall leave you,
Gentlemen, with unaffected cordial wishes for your future concord, and
with a well-founded hope, that in that concord the auspicious and not
obscure origin of our Academy may be forgotten in the splendour of
your succeeding prospects.

My age, and my infirmities still more than my age, make it probable that
this will be the last time I shall have the honour of addressing you
from this place. Excluded as I am, _spatiis iniquis_, from indulging my
imagination with a distant and forward perspective of life, I may be
excused if I turn my eyes back on the way which I have passed.

We may assume to ourselves, I should hope, the credit of having
endeavoured, at least, to fill with propriety that middle station
which we hold in the general connection of things. Our predecessors
have laboured for our advantage, we labour for our successors; and
though we have done no more in this mutual intercourse and
reciprocation of benefits than has been effected by other societies
formed in this nation for the advancement of useful and ornamental
knowledge, yet there is one circumstance which appears to give us an
higher claim than the credit of merely doing our duty. What I at
present allude to is the honour of having been, some of us, the first
contrivers, and all of us the promoters and supporters, of the annual
Exhibition. This scheme could only have originated from Artists
already in possession of the favour of the public, as it would not
have been so much in the power of others to have excited curiosity. It
must be remembered that, for the sake of bringing forward into notice
concealed merit, they incurred the risk of producing rivals to
themselves; they voluntarily entered the lists, and ran the race a
second time for the prize which they had already won.

When we take a review of the several departments of the Institution, I
think we may safely congratulate ourselves on our good fortune in having
hitherto seen the chairs of our Professors filled with men of
distinguished abilities, and who have so well acquitted themselves of
their duty in their several departments. I look upon it to be of
importance, that none of them should be ever left unfilled: a neglect to
provide for qualified persons is to produce a neglect of qualifications.

In this honourable rank of Professors I have not presumed to class
myself; though in the Discourses which I have had the honour of
delivering from this place, while in one respect I may be considered
as a volunteer, in another view it seems as if I was involuntarily
pressed into this service. If prizes were to be given, it appeared not
only proper, but almost indispensably necessary, that something should
be said by the President on the delivery of those prizes: and the
President, for his own credit, would wish to say something more than
mere words of compliment, which, by being frequently repeated, would
soon become flat and uninteresting, and by being uttered to many,
would at last become a distinction to none: I thought, therefore, if I
were to preface this compliment with some instructive observations on
the Art, when we crowned merit in the Artists whom we rewarded, I
might do something to animate and guide them in their future attempts.

I am truly sensible how unequal I have been to the expression of my
own ideas. To develop the latent excellencies, and draw out the
interior principles of our art requires more skill and practice in
writing than is likely to be possessed by a man perpetually occupied
in the use of the pencil and the pallet. It is for that reason,
perhaps, that the sister Art has had the advantage of better
criticism. Poets are naturally writers of prose. They may be said to
be practising only an inferior department of their own art, when they
are explaining and expatiating upon its most refined principles. But
still such difficulties ought not to deter Artists, who are not
prevented by other engagements, from putting their thoughts in order
as well as they can, and from giving to the public the result of their
experience. The knowledge which an Artist has of his subject will more
than compensate for any want of elegance in the manner of treating it,
or even of perspicuity, which is still more essential; and I am
convinced that one short essay written by a Painter will contribute
more to advance the theory of our art than a thousand volumes such as
we sometimes see; the purpose of which appears to be rather to display
the refinement of the Author's own conceptions of impossible practice,
than to convey useful knowledge or instruction of any kind whatever.
An Artist knows what is, and what is not, within the province of his
art to perform; and is not likely to be for ever teasing the poor
Student with the beauties of mixed passions, or to perplex him with an
imaginary union of excellencies incompatible with each other.

To this work, however, I could not be said to come totally unprovided
with materials. I had seen much, and I had thought much upon what I
had seen; I had something of an habit of investigation, and a
disposition to reduce all that I observed and felt in my own mind to
method and system; but never having seen what I myself knew distinctly
placed before me on paper, I knew nothing correctly. To put those
ideas into something like order was, to my inexperience, no easy task.
The composition, the _ponere totum_ even of a single Discourse, as
well as of a single statue, was the most difficult part, as perhaps it
is of every other art, and most requires the hand of a master.

For the manner, whatever deficiency there was, I might reasonably
expect indulgence; but I thought it indispensably necessary well to
consider the opinions which were to be given out from this place, and
under the sanction of a Royal Academy; I therefore examined not only
my own opinions, but likewise the opinions of others. I found in the
course of this research many precepts and rules established in our
art, which did not seem to me altogether reconcilable with each other,
yet each seemed in itself to have the same claim of being supported by
truth and nature; and this claim, irreconcilable as they may be
thought, they do in reality alike possess.

To clear away those difficulties, and reconcile those contrary
opinions, it became necessary to distinguish the greater truth, as it
may be called, from the lesser truth; the larger and more liberal idea
of nature from the more narrow and confined; that which addresses
itself to the imagination from that which is solely addressed to the
eye. In consequence of this discrimination, the different branches of
our art, to which those different truths were referred, were perceived
to make so wide a separation, and put on so new an appearance, that
they seemed scarcely to have proceeded from the same general stock.
The different rules and regulations which presided over each
department of art followed of course: every mode of excellence, from
the grand style of the Roman and Florentine Schools down to the lowest
rank of still life, had its due weight and value--fitted some class or
other; and nothing was thrown away. By this disposition of our art
into classes, that perplexity and confusion, which I apprehend every
Artist has at some time experienced from the variety of styles and the
variety of excellence with which he is surrounded, is, I should hope,
in some measure removed, and the student better enabled to judge for
himself what peculiarly belongs to his own particular pursuit.

In reviewing my Discourses, it is no small satisfaction to be assured
that I have, in no part of them, lent my assistance to foster
_newly-hatched unfledged_ opinions, or endeavoured to support
paradoxes, however tempting may have been their novelty, or however
ingenious I might, for the minute, fancy them to be; nor shall I, I
hope, anywhere be found to have imposed on the minds of young Students
declamation for argument, a smooth period for a sound precept. I have
pursued a plain and _honest method_: I have taken up the art simply as
I found it exemplified in the practice of the most approved Painters.
That approbation which the world has uniformly given, I have
endeavoured to justify by such proofs as questions of this kind will
admit; by the analogy which Painting holds with the sister Arts, and,
consequently, by the common congeniality which they all bear to our
nature. And though in what has been done no new discovery is
pretended, I may still flatter myself, that from the discoveries which
others have made by their own intuitive good sense and native
rectitude of judgment, I have succeeded in establishing the rules and
principles of our art on a more firm and lasting foundation than that
on which they had formerly been placed.

Without wishing to divert the Student from the practice of his Art to
speculative theory, to make him a mere Connoisseur instead of a
Painter, I cannot but remark, that he will certainly find an account
in considering, once for all, on what ground the fabric of our art is
built. Uncertain, confused, or erroneous opinions are not only
detrimental to an Artist in their immediate operation, but may
possibly have very serious consequences; affect his conduct, and give
a peculiar character (as it may be called) to his taste, and to his
pursuits, through his whole life.

I was acquainted at Rome, in the early part of my life, with a Student
of the French Academy, who appeared to me to possess all the qualities
requisite to make a great Artist, if he had suffered his taste and
feelings, and I may add even his prejudices, to have fair play. He saw
and felt the excellencies of the great works of Art with which we were
surrounded, but lamented that there was not to be found that Nature
which is so admirable in the inferior schools; and he supposed with
Felibien, De Piles, and other Theorists, that such an union of
different excellencies would be the perfection of Art. He was not
aware that the narrow idea of nature, of which he lamented the absence
in the works of those great Artists, would have destroyed the grandeur
of the general ideas which he admired, and which was, indeed, the
cause of his admiration. My opinions being then confused and
unsettled, I was in danger of being borne down by this kind of
plausible reasoning, though I remember I then had a dawning of
suspicion that it was not sound doctrine; and at the same time I was
unwilling obstinately to refuse assent to what I was unable to confute.

That the young Artist may not be seduced from the right path by
following what, at first view, he may think the light of Reason, and
which is indeed Reason in part, but not in the whole, has been much
the object of these Discourses.

I have taken every opportunity of recommending a rational method of
study, as of the last importance. The great, I may say the sole use of
an Academy is, to put, and for some time to keep, Students in that
course, that too much indulgence may not be given to peculiarity, and
that a young man may not be taught to believe, that what is generally
good for others is not good for him.

I have strongly inculcated in my former Discourses, as I do in this,
my last, the wisdom and necessity of previously obtaining the
appropriated instruments of the Art, in a first correct design, and a
plain manly colouring before anything more is attempted. But by this I
would not wish to cramp and fetter the mind, or discourage those who
follow (as most of us may at one time have followed) the suggestion of
a strong inclination: something must be conceded to great and
irresistible impulses: perhaps every Student must not be strictly
bound to general methods, if they strongly thwart the peculiar turn of
his own mind. I must confess that it is not absolutely of much
consequence whether he proceeds in the general method of seeking first
to acquire mechanical accuracy, before he attempts poetical flights,
provided he diligently studies to attain the full perfection of the
style he pursues; whether, like Parmegiano, he endeavours at grace and
grandeur of manner before he has learned correctness of drawing, if
like him he feels his own wants, and will labour, as that eminent
artist did, to supply those wants; whether he starts from the East or
from the West, if he relaxes in no exertion to arrive ultimately at
the same goal. The first public work of Parmegiano is the St.
Eustachius, in the church of St. Petronius in Bologna, and was done
when he was a boy; and one of the last of his works is the Moses
breaking the tables in Parma. In the former there is certainly
something of grandeur in the outline, or in the conception of the
figure, which discovers the dawnings of future greatness; of a young
mind impregnated with the sublimity of Michel Angelo, whose style he
here attempts to imitate, though he could not then draw the human
figure with any common degree of correctness. But this same
Parmegiano, when in his more mature age he painted the Moses, had so
completely supplied his first defects, that we are here at a loss
which to admire most, the correctness of drawing or the grandeur of
the conception. As a confirmation of its great excellence, and of the
impression which it leaves on the minds of elegant spectators, I may
observe, that our great Lyric Poet, when he conceived his sublime idea
of the indignant Welsh Bard, acknowledged, that though many years had
intervened, he had warmed his imagination with the remembrance of this
noble figure of Parmegiano.

When we consider that Michel Angelo was the great archetype to whom
Parmegiano was indebted for that grandeur which we find in his works,
and from whom all his contemporaries and successors have derived
whatever they have possessed of the dignified and the majestic; that he
was the bright luminary, from whom Painting has borrowed a new lustre;
that under his hands it assumed a new appearance, and is become another
and superior art; I may be excused if I take this opportunity, as I have
hitherto taken every occasion, to turn your attention to this exalted
Founder and Father of Modern Art, of which he was not only the inventor,
but which, by the divine energy of his own mind, he carried at once to
its highest point of possible perfection.

The sudden maturity to which Michel Angelo brought our Art, and the
comparative feebleness of his followers and imitators, might perhaps
be reasonably, at least plausibly explained, if we had time for such
an examination. At present I shall only observe, that the subordinate
parts of our Art, and perhaps of other Arts, expand themselves by a
slow and progressive growth; but those which depend on a native vigour
of imagination generally burst forth at once in fulness of beauty. Of
this Homer probably, and Shakespeare more assuredly, are singular
examples. Michel Angelo possessed the poetical part of our art in a
most eminent degree; and the same daring spirit which urged him first
to explore the unknown regions of the imagination, delighted with the
novelty, and animated by the success of his discoveries, could not
have failed to stimulate and impel him forward in his career beyond
those limits which his followers, destitute of the same incentives,
had not strength to pass.

To distinguish between correctness of drawing and that part which
respects the imagination, we may say the one approaches to the
mechanical (which in its way, too, may make just pretensions to
genius), and the other to the poetical. To encourage a solid and
vigorous course of study, it may not be amiss to suggest, that perhaps
a confidence in the mechanic produces a boldness in the poetic. He
that is sure of the goodness of his ship and tackle puts out
fearlessly from the shore; and he who knows that his hand can execute
whatever his fancy can suggest, sports with more freedom in embodying
the visionary forms of his own creation. I will not say Michel Angelo
was eminently poetical, only because he was greatly mechanical; but I
am sure that mechanic excellence invigorated and emboldened his mind
to carry painting into the regions of poetry, and to emulate that art
in its most adventurous flights. Michel Angelo equally possessed both
qualifications. Yet of mechanic excellence there were certainly great
examples to be found in Ancient Sculpture, and particularly in the
fragment known by the name of the Torso of Michel Angelo; but of that
grandeur of character, air, and attitude, which he threw into all his
figures, and which so well corresponds with the grandeur of his
outline, there was no example; it could therefore proceed only from
the most poetical and sublime imagination.

It is impossible not to express some surprise that the race of
Painters who preceded Michel Angelo, men of acknowledged great
abilities, should never have thought of transferring a little of that
grandeur of outline which they could not but see and admire in Ancient
Sculpture, into their own works; but they appear to have considered
Sculpture as the later Schools of Artists look at the inventions of
Michel Angelo--as something to be admired, but with which they have
nothing to do: _quod super nos, nihil ad nos_.--The Artists of that
age, even Raffaelle himself, seemed to be going on very contentedly in
the dry manner of Pietro Perugino; and if Michel Angelo had never
appeared, the Art might still have continued in the same style.

Beside Rome and Florence, where the grandeur of this style was first
displayed, it was on this Foundation that the Caracci built the truly
great Academical Bolognian school, of which the first stone was laid
by Pellegrino Tibaldi. He first introduced this style amongst them;
and many instances might be given in which he appears to have
possessed, as by inheritance, the true, genuine, noble, and elevated
mind of Michel Angelo. Though we cannot venture to speak of him with
the same fondness as his countrymen, and call him, as the Caracci did,
_Nostro Michel Angelo riformato_, yet he has a right to be considered
amongst the first and greatest of his followers; there are certainly
many drawings and inventions of his, of which Michel Angelo himself
might not disdain to be supposed the author, or that they should be,
as in fact they often are, mistaken for his. I will mention one
particular instance, because it is found in a book which is in every
young Artist's hand;--Bishop's _Ancient Statues_. He there has
introduced a print, representing Polyphemus, from a drawing of
Tibaldi, and has inscribed it with the name of Michel Angelo, to whom
he has also in the same book attributed a Sybil of Raffaelle. Both
these figures, it is true, are professedly in Michel Angelo's style
and spirit, and even worthy of his hand. But we know that the former
is painted in the _Institute a Bologna_ by Tibaldi, and the other in
the _Pace_ by Raffaelle.

The Caracci, it is acknowledged, adopted the mechanical part with
sufficient success. But the divine part which addresses itself to the
imagination, as possessed by Michel Angelo or Tibaldi, was beyond
their grasp: they formed, however, a most respectable school, a style
more on the level, and calculated to please a greater number; and if
excellence of this kind is to be valued according to the number rather
than the weight and quality of admirers, it would assume even a higher
rank in art. The same, in some sort, may be said of Tintoret, Paolo
Veronese, and others of the Venetian Painters. They certainly much
advanced the dignity of their style by adding to their fascinating
powers of colouring something of the strength of Michel Angelo; at the
same time it may still be a doubt how far their ornamental elegance
would be an advantageous addition to his grandeur. But if there is any
manner of Painting which may be said to unite kindly with his style,
it is that of Titian. His handling, the manner in which his colours
are left on the canvas, appears to proceed (as far as that goes) from
a congenial mind, equally disdainful of vulgar criticism.

MICHEL ANGELO'S strength thus qualified, and made more palatable to the
general taste, reminds me of an observation which I heard a learned
critic make, when it was incidentally remarked that our translation of
Homer, however excellent, did not convey the character, nor had the
grand air of the original. He replied, that if Pope had not clothed the
naked Majesty of Homer with the graces and elegancies of modern
fashions--though the real dignity of Homer was degraded by such a dress,
his translation would not have met with such a favourable reception, and
he must have been contented with fewer readers.

Many of the Flemish painters, who studied at Rome in that great era of
our art, such as Francis Rloris, Hemskirk, Michael Coxis, Jerom Cock,
and others, returned to their own country with as much of this
grandeur as they could carry. But like seeds falling on a soil not
prepared or adapted to their nature, the manner of Michel Angelo
thrived but little with them; perhaps, however, they contributed to
prepare the way for that free, unconstrained, and liberal outline,
which was afterwards introduced by Rubens through the medium of the
Venetian Painters.

The grandeur of style has been in different degrees disseminated over
all Europe. Some caught it by living at the time, and coming into
contact with the original author, whilst others received it at second
hand; and being everywhere adopted, it has totally changed the whole
taste and style of design, if there could be said to be any style
before his time. Our art, in consequence, now assumes a rank to which
it could never have dared to aspire, if Michel Angelo had not
discovered to the world the hidden powers which it possessed. Without
his assistance we never could have been convinced that Painting was
capable of producing an adequate representation of the persons and
actions of the heroes of the Iliad.

I would ask any man qualified to judge of such works, whether he can
look with indifference at the personification of the Supreme Being in
the centre of the Capella Sestina, or the figures of the Sybils which
surround that chapel, to which we may add the statue of Moses; and
whether the same sensations are not excited by those works, as what he
may remember to have felt from the most sublime passages of Homer? I
mention those figures more particularly, as they come nearer to a
comparison with his Jupiter, his demi-gods, and heroes; those Sybils
and Prophets being a kind of intermediate beings between men and
angels. Though instances may be produced in the works of other
Painters, which may justly stand in competition with those I have
mentioned--such as the Isaiah, and the vision of Ezekiel, by
Raffaelle, the St. Mark of Frate Bartolomeo, and many others; yet
these, it must be allowed, are inventions so much in Michel Angelo's
manner of thinking, that they may be truly considered as so many rays,
which discover manifestly the centre from whence they emanated.

The sublime in Painting, as in Poetry, so overpowers, and takes such a
possession of the whole mind, that no room is left for attention to
minute criticism. The little elegancies of art in the presence of these
great ideas thus greatly expressed, lose all their value, and are, for
the instant, at least, felt to be unworthy of our notice. The correct
judgment, the purity of taste which characterise Raffaelle, the
exquisite grace of Correggio and Parmegiano, all disappear before them.

That Michel Angelo was capricious in his inventions cannot be denied;
and this may make some circumspection necessary in studying his works;
for though they appear to become him, an imitation of them is always
dangerous, and will prove sometimes ridiculous. "Within that circle
none durst walk but he." To me, I confess his caprice does not lower
the estimation of his genius, even though it is sometimes, I
acknowledge, carried to the extreme: and however those eccentric
excursions are considered, we must at the same time recollect that
those faults, if they are faults, are such as never could occur to a
mean and vulgar mind: that they flowed from the same source which
produced his greatest beauties, and were, therefore, such as none but
himself was capable of committing: they were the powerful impulses of
a mind unused to subjection of any kind, and too high to be controlled
by cold criticism.

Many see his daring extravagance who can see nothing else. A young
Artist finds the works of Michel Angelo so totally different from
those of his own master, or of those with whom he is surrounded, that
he may be easily persuaded to abandon and neglect studying a style
which appears to him wild, mysterious, and above his comprehension,
and which he therefore feels no disposition to admire; a good
disposition, which he concludes that he should naturally have, if the
style deserved it. It is necessary, therefore, that students should be
prepared for the disappointment which they may experience at their
first setting out; and they must be cautioned, that probably they will
not, at first sight, approve.

It must be remembered, that this great style itself is artificial in
the highest degree: it presupposes in the spectator, a cultivated and
prepared artificial state of mind. It is an absurdity, therefore, to
suppose that we are born with this taste, though we are with the seeds
of it, which, by the heat and kindly influence of this genius, may be
ripened in us.

A late Philosopher and Critic[18] has observed, speaking of taste,
that _we are on no account to expect that fine things should descend
to us_--our taste, if possible, must be made to ascend to them. The
same learned writer recommends to us _even to feign a relish, till we
find a relish come_; _and feel, that what began in fiction,
terminates in reality_. If there be in our Art anything of that
agreement or compact, such as I apprehend there is in music, with
which the Critic is necessarily required previously to be acquainted,
in order to form a correct judgment: the comparison with this art will
illustrate what I have said on these points, and tend to show the
probability, we may say the certainty, that men are not born with a
relish for those arts in their most refined state, which, as they
cannot understand, they cannot be impressed with their effects. This
great style of Michel Angelo is as far removed from the simple
representation of the common objects of nature, as the most refined
Italian music is from the inartificial notes of nature, from whence
they both profess to originate. But without such a supposed compact,
we may be very confident that the highest state of refinement in
either of those arts will not be relished without a long and
industrious attention.

In pursuing this great Art, it must be acknowledged that we labour
under greater difficulties than those who were born in the age of its
discovery, and whose minds from their infancy were habituated to this
style; who learned it as language, as their mother tongue. They had no
mean taste to unlearn; they needed no persuasive discourse to allure
them to a favourable reception of it, no abstruse investigation of its
principles to convince them of the great latent truths on which it is
founded. We are constrained, in these latter days, to have recourse to
a sort of Grammar and Dictionary, as the only means of recovering a
dead language. It was by them learned by rote, and perhaps better
learned that way than by precept.

The style of Michel Angelo, which I have compared to language, and
which may, poetically speaking, be called the language of the Gods,
now no longer exists, as it did in the fifteenth century; yet, with
the aid of diligence, we may in a great measure supply the deficiency
which I mentioned--of not having his works so perpetually before our
eyes--by having recourse to casts from his models and designs in
Sculpture; to drawings, or even copies of those drawings; to prints,
which, however ill executed, still convey something by which this
taste may be formed, and a relish may be fixed and established in our
minds for this grand style of invention. Some examples of this kind we
have in the Academy, and I sincerely wish there were more, that the
younger students might in their first nourishment imbibe this taste,
whilst others, though settled in the practice of the commonplace style
of Painters, might infuse, by this means, a grandeur into their works.

I shall now make some remarks on the course which I think most proper
to be pursued in such a study. I wish you not to go so much to the
derivative streams, as to the fountain-head; though the copies are not
to be neglected; because they may give you hints in what manner you
may copy; and how the genius of one man may be made to fit the
peculiar manner of another.

To recover this lost taste, I would recommend young Artists to study
the works of Michel Angelo, as he himself did the works of the ancient
Sculptors; he began when a child a copy of a mutilated Satyr's head,
and finished in his model what was wanting in the original. In the
same manner, the first exercise that I would recommend to the young
artist when he first attempts invention is, to select every figure, if
possible, from the inventions of Michel Angelo. If such borrowed
figures will not bend to his purpose, and he is constrained to make a
change to supply a figure himself, that figure will necessarily be in
the same style with the rest; and his taste will by this means be
naturally initiated, and nursed in the lap of grandeur. He will sooner
perceive what constitutes this grand style by one practical trial than
by a thousand speculations, and he will in some sort procure to
himself the advantage which in these later ages has been denied
him--the advantage of having the greatest of Artists for his master
and instructor.

The next lesson should be, to change the purpose of the figures
without changing the attitude, as Tintoret has done with the Samson of
Michel Angelo. Instead of the figure which Samson bestrides, he has
placed an eagle under him: and instead of the jaw-bone, thunder and
lightning in his right hand; and thus it becomes a Jupiter. Titian, in
the same manner, has taken the figure which represents God dividing
the light from the darkness in the vault of the Capella Sestina, and
has introduced it in the famous battle of Cadore, so much celebrated
by Vasari; and extraordinary as it may seem, it is here converted to a
general falling from his horse. A real judge who should look at this
picture would immediately pronounce the attitude of that figure to be
in a greater style than any other figure of the composition. These two
instances may be sufficient, though many more might be given in their
works, as well as in those of other great Artists.

When the Student has been habituated to this grand conception of the
Art, when the relish for this style is established, makes a part of
himself, and is woven into his mind, he will, by this time, have got a
power of selecting from whatever occurs in nature that is grand, and
corresponds with that taste which he has now acquired, and will pass
over whatever is commonplace and insipid. He may then bring to the
mart such works of his own proper invention as may enrich and increase
the general stock of invention in our Art.

I am confident of the truth and propriety of the advice which I have
recommended; at the same time I am aware how much by this advice I
have laid myself open to the sarcasms of those critics who imagine our
Art to be a matter of inspiration. But I should be sorry it should
appear even to myself that I wanted that courage which I have
recommended to the Students in another way; equal courage, perhaps, is
required in the adviser and the advised; they both must equally dare
and bid defiance to narrow criticism and vulgar opinion.

That the Art has been in a gradual state of decline, from the age of
Michel Angelo to the present, must be acknowledged; and we may
reasonably impute this declension to the same cause to which the
ancient Critics and Philosophers have imputed the corruption of
eloquence. Indeed, the same causes are likely at all times and in all
ages to produce the same effects; indolence--not taking the same pains
as our great predecessors took--desiring to find a shorter way--are
the general imputed causes. The words of Petronius[19] are very
remarkable. After opposing the natural chaste beauty of the eloquence
of former ages to the strained, inflated style then in fashion,
"neither," says he, "has the Art of Painting had a better fate, after
the boldness of the Egyptians had found out a compendious way to
execute so great an art."

By _compendious_, I understand him to mean a mode of Painting such as
has infected the style of the later Painters of Italy and France;
commonplace, without thought, and with as little trouble, working as
by a receipt; in contradistinction to that style for which even a
relish cannot be acquired without care and long attention, and most
certainly the power of executing cannot be obtained without the most
laborious application.

I have endeavoured to stimulate the ambition of Artists to tread in
this great path of glory, and, as well as I can, have pointed out the
track which leads to it, and have at the same time told them the price
at which it may be obtained. It is an ancient saying, that labour is
the price which the gods have set upon everything valuable.

The great Artist who has been so much the subject of the present
Discourse, was distinguished even from his infancy for his
indefatigable diligence; and this was continued through his whole
life, till prevented by extreme old age. The poorest of men, as he
observed himself, did not labour from necessity more than he did from
choice. Indeed, from all the circumstances related of his life, he
appears not to have had the least conception that his art was to be
acquired by any other means than great labour; and yet he, of all men
that ever lived, might make the greatest pretensions to the efficacy
of native genius and inspiration. I have no doubt that he would have
thought it no disgrace that it should be said of him, as he himself
said of Raffaelle, that he did not possess his art from nature, but by
long study.[20] He was conscious that the great excellence to which he
arrived was gained by dint of labour, and was unwilling to have it
thought that any transcendent skill, however natural its effects might
seem, could be purchased at a cheaper price than he had paid for it.
This seems to have been the true drift of his observation. We cannot
suppose it made with any intention of depreciating the genius of
Raffaelle, of whom he always spoke, as Coudivi says, with the greatest
respect: though they were rivals, no such illiberality existed between
them; and Raffaelle, on his part, entertained the greatest veneration
for Michel Angelo, as appears from the speech which is recorded of
him, that he congratulated himself, and thanked God, that he was born
in the same age with that painter.

If the high esteem and veneration in which Michel Angelo has been held
by all nations and in all ages should be put to the account of
prejudice, it must still be granted that those prejudices could not have
been entertained without a cause: the ground of our prejudice, then,
becomes the source of our admiration. But from whatever it proceeds, or
whatever it is called, it will not, I hope, be thought presumptuous in
me to appear in the train, I cannot say of his imitators, but of his
admirers. I have taken another course, one more suited to my abilities,
and to the taste of the times in which I live. Yet however unequal I
feel myself to that attempt, were I now to begin the world again, I
would tread in the steps of that great master: to kiss the hem of his
garment, to catch the slightest of his perfections, would be glory and
distinction enough for an ambitious man.

I feel a self-congratulation in knowing myself capable of such
sensations as he intended to excite. I reflect, not without vanity,
that these Discourses bear testimony of my admiration of that truly
divine man; and I should desire that the last words which I should
pronounce in this Academy, and from this place, might be the name


18: James Harris.

19: Pictura quoque non alium exitum fecit, postquam
Ægyptiorum audacia tam magnæ artis compendiariam invenit.

20: _Che Raffaelle non ebbe quest' arte da natura, ma per
lungo studio._

21: Unfortunately for mankind, these _were_ the last words
pronounced by this great Painter from the Academical chair. He died
about fourteen months after this Discourse was delivered.





  NUMBER 76.      _Saturday, September 29, 1759._


SIR--I was much pleased with your ridicule of those shallow Critics,
whose judgment, though often right as far as it goes, yet reaches only
to inferior beauties; and who, unable to comprehend the whole, judge
only by parts, and from thence determine the merit of extensive works.
But there is another kind of Critic still worse, who judges by narrow
rules, and those too often false, and which though they should be
true, and founded on nature, will lead him but a very little way
towards the just estimation of the sublime beauties in works of
Genius; for whatever part of an art can be executed or criticised by
rules, that part is no longer the work of Genius, which implies
excellence out of the reach of rules. For my own part, I profess
myself an Idler, and love to give my judgment, such as it is, from my
immediate perceptions, without much fatigue of thinking; and I am of
opinion, that if a man has not those perceptions right, it will be
vain for him to endeavour to supply their place by rules; which may
enable him to talk more learnedly, but not to distinguish more
acutely. Another reason which has lessened my affection for the study
of Criticism is, that Critics, so far as I have observed, debar
themselves from receiving any pleasure from the polite arts, at the
same time that they profess to love and admire them; for these rules
being always uppermost, give them such a propensity to criticise, that
instead of giving up the reins of their imagination into their
author's hands, their frigid minds are employed in examining whether
the performance be according to the rules of art.

To those who are resolved to be Critics in spite of nature, and at the
same time have no great disposition to much reading and study, I would
recommend to assume the character of Connoisseur, which may be purchased
at a much cheaper rate than that of a Critic in poetry. The remembrance
of a few names of Painters, with their general characters, and a few
rules of the Academy, which they may pick up among the Painters, will go
a great way towards making a very notable Connoisseur.

With a gentleman of this cast I visited last week the Cartoons at
Hampton Court; he was just returned from Italy, a Connoisseur, of
course, and of course his mouth full of nothing but the Grace of
Raffaelle, the Purity of Domenichino, the Learning of Poussin, the Air
of Guido, the greatness of Taste of the Caraccis, and the Sublimity
and grand Contorno of Michel Angelo; with all the rest of the cant of
Criticism, which he emitted with that volubility which generally those
orators have, who annex no ideas to their words.

As we were passing through the rooms, in our way to the Gallery, I
made him observe a whole length of Charles the First, by Vandyke, as a
perfect representation of the character as well as the figure of the
man. He agreed it was very fine, but it wanted spirit and contrast,
and had not the flowing line, without which a figure could not
possibly be graceful. When we entered the Gallery, I thought I could
perceive him recollecting his Rules by which he was to criticise
Raffaelle. I shall pass over his observation of the boats being too
little, and other criticisms of that kind, till we arrived at St.
_Paul preaching_. "This," says he, "is esteemed the most excellent of
all the Cartoons: what nobleness, what dignity there is in that figure
of St. Paul! and yet what an addition to that nobleness could
Raffaelle have given, had the art of Contrast been known in his time;
but above all, the flowing line, which constitutes Grace and Beauty!
You would not then have seen an upright figure standing equally on
both legs, and both hands stretched forward in the same direction, and
his drapery, to all appearance, without the least art of disposition."
The following Picture is the _Charge to Peter_. "Here," says he, "are
twelve upright figures; what a pity it is that Raffaelle was not
acquainted with the pyramidal principle! he would then have contrived
the figures in the middle to have been on higher ground, or the
figures at the extremities stooping or lying; which would not only
have formed the group into the shape of a pyramid, but likewise
contrasted the standing figures. Indeed," added he, "I have often
lamented that so great a genius as Raffaelle had not lived in this
enlightened age, since the art has been reduced to principles, and had
his education in one of the modern Academies; what glorious works
might we then have expected from his divine pencil!"

I shall trouble you no longer with my friend's observations, which, I
suppose, you are now able to continue by yourself. It is curious to
observe, that at the same time that great admiration is pretended for
a name of fixed reputation, objections are raised against those very
qualities by which that great name was acquired.

These Critics are continually lamenting that Raffaelle had not the
Colouring and Harmony of Rubens, or the Light and Shadow of Rembrandt,
without considering how much the gay harmony of the former, and
affectation of the latter, would take from the Dignity of Raffaelle;
and yet Rubens had great Harmony, and Rembrandt understood Light and
Shadow; but what may be an excellence in a lower class of Painting,
becomes a blemish in a higher; as the quick, sprightly turn, which is
the life and beauty of epigrammatic compositions, would but ill suit
with the majesty of heroic Poetry.

To conclude; I would not be thought to infer from anything that has
been said, that Rules are absolutely unnecessary, but to censure
scrupulosity, a servile attention to minute exactness, which is
sometimes inconsistent with higher excellence, and is lost in the
blaze of expanded genius.

I do not know whether you will think Painting a general subject. By
inserting this letter, perhaps you will incur the censure a man would
deserve, whose business being to entertain a whole room, should turn
his back on a company, and talk to a particular person.

                                                 I am, Sir, etc.

  NUMBER 79.      _Saturday, October 20, 1759._


SIR--Your acceptance of a former letter on Painting gives me
encouragement to offer a few more sketches on the same subject.

Amongst the Painters and the writers on Painting there is one maxim
universally admitted and continually inculcated. _Imitate Nature_ is
the invariable rule; but I know none who have explained in what manner
this rule is to be understood; the consequence of which is, that every
one takes it in the most obvious sense--that objects are represented
naturally, when they have such relief that they seem real. It may
appear strange, perhaps, to hear this sense of the rule disputed; but
it must be considered, that if the excellency of a Painter consisted
only in this kind of imitation, Painting must lose its rank, and be no
longer considered as a liberal art, and sister to Poetry: this
imitation being merely mechanical, in which the slowest intellect is
always sure to succeed best; for the Painter of genius cannot stoop to
drudgery, in which the understanding has no part; and what pretence
has the Art to claim kindred with Poetry, but by its power over the
imagination? To this power the Painter of genius directs his aim; in
this sense he studies Nature, and often arrives at his end, even by
being unnatural, in the confined sense of the word.

The grand style of Painting requires this minute attention to be
carefully avoided, and must be kept as separate from it as the style of
Poetry from that of History. Poetical ornaments destroy that air of
truth and plainness which ought to characterise History; but the very
being of Poetry consists in departing from this plain narration, and
adopting every ornament that will warm the imagination. To desire to see
the excellencies of each style united, to mingle the Dutch with the
Italian School, is to join contrarieties which cannot subsist together,
and which destroy the efficacy of each other. The Italian attends only
to the invariable, the great and general ideas which are fixed and
inherent in universal Nature; the Dutch, on the contrary, to literal
truth and a minute exactness in the detail, as I may say, of Nature,
modified by accident. The attention to these petty peculiarities is the
very cause of this naturalness so much admired in the Dutch pictures,
which, if we suppose it to be a beauty is certainly of a lower order,
that ought to give place to a beauty of a superior kind, since one
cannot be obtained but by departing from the other.

If my opinion were asked concerning the works of Michel Angelo, whether
they would receive any advantage from possessing this mechanical merit,
I should not scruple to say they would lose, in a great measure, the
effect which they now have on every mind susceptible of great and noble
ideas. His works may be said to be all genius and soul; and why should
they be loaded with heavy matter, which can only counteract his purpose
by retarding the progress of the imagination?

If this opinion should be thought one of the wild extravagancies of
enthusiasm, I shall only say, that those who censure it are not
conversant in the works of the great Masters. It is very difficult to
determine the exact degree of enthusiasm that the arts of Painting and
Poetry may admit. There may perhaps be too great an indulgence, as
well as too great a restraint of imagination; and if the one produces
incoherent monsters, the other produces what is full as bad, lifeless
insipidity. An intimate knowledge of the passions and good sense, but
not common sense, must at last determine its limits. It has been
thought, and I believe with reason, that Michel Angelo sometimes
transgressed those limits; and I think I have seen figures by him, of
which it was very difficult to determine whether they were in the
highest degree sublime or extremely ridiculous. Such faults may be
said to be the ebullition of genius; but at least he had this merit,
that he never was insipid; and whatever passion his works may excite,
they will always escape contempt.

What I have had under consideration is the sublimest style,
particularly that of Michel Angelo, the Homer of Painting. Other kinds
may admit of this naturalness, which of the lowest kind is the chief
merit; but in Painting, as in Poetry, the highest style has the least
of common nature.

One may safely recommend a little more enthusiasm to the modern
Painters; too much is certainly not the vice of the present age. The
Italians seem to have been continually declining in this respect from
the time of Michel Angelo to that of Carlo Maratti, and from thence to
the very bathos of insipidity to which they are now sunk; so that
there is no need of remarking, that where I mentioned the Italian
Painters in opposition to the Dutch, I mean not the moderns, but the
heads of the old Roman and Bolognian Schools; nor did I mean to
include in my idea of an Italian Painter, the Venetian School, which
may be said to be the Dutch part of the Italian Genius. I have only
to add a word of advice to the Painters--that however excellent they
may be in painting naturally, they would not flatter themselves very
much upon it; and to the Connoisseurs, that when they see a cat or a
fiddle painted so finely, that, as the phrase is, _it looks as if you
could take it up_, they would not for that reason immediately compare
the Painter to Raffaelle and Michel Angelo.

  NUMBER 82.      _Saturday, November 10, 1759._


SIR--Discoursing in my last letter on the different practice of the
Italian and Dutch Painters, I observed that "the Italian Painter
attends only to the invariable, the great, and general ideas, which
are fixed and inherent in universal nature."

I was led into the subject of this letter by endeavouring to fix the
original cause of this conduct of the Italian Masters. If it can be
proved that by this choice they selected the most beautiful part of the
creation, it will show how much their principles are founded on reason,
and, at the same time, discover the origin of our ideas of beauty.

I suppose it will be easily granted that no man can judge whether any
animal be beautiful in its kind, or deformed, who has seen only one of
that species; this is as conclusive in regard to the human figure; so
that if a man, born blind, were to recover his sight, and the most
beautiful woman were brought before him, he could not determine
whether she was handsome or not; nor if the most beautiful and most
deformed were produced, could he any better determine to which he
should give the preference, having seen only those two. To distinguish
beauty, then, implies the having seen many individuals of that
species. If it is asked, how is more skill acquired by the observation
of greater numbers? I answer, that, in consequence of having seen
many, the power is acquired, even without seeking after it, of
distinguishing between accidental blemishes and excrescences which are
continually varying the surface of Nature's works, and the invariable
general form which Nature most frequently produces, and always seems
to intend in her productions.

Thus amongst the blades of grass or leaves of the same tree, though no
two can be found exactly alike, the general form is invariable: a
Naturalist, before he chose one as a sample, would examine many; since
if he took the first that occurred, it might have by accident or
otherwise such a form as that it would scarce be known to belong to
that species; he selects as the Painter does, the most beautiful, that
is, the most general form of nature.

Every species of the animal as well as the vegetable creation may be
said to have a fixed or determinate form, towards which Nature is
continually inclining, like various lines terminating in the centre;
or it may be compared to pendulums vibrating in different directions
over one central point: and as they all cross the centre, though only
one passes through any other point, so it will be found that perfect
beauty is oftener produced by Nature than deformity: I do not mean
than deformity in general, but than any one kind of deformity. To
instance in a particular part of a feature; the line that forms a
ridge of the nose is beautiful when it is straight; this, then, is the
central form, which is oftener found than either concave, convex, or
any other irregular form that shall be proposed. As we are then more
accustomed to beauty than deformity, we may conclude that to be the
reason why we approve and admire it, as we approve and admire customs
and fashions of dress for no other reason than that we are used to
them; so that though habit and custom cannot be said to be the cause
of beauty, it is certainly the cause of our liking it; and I have no
doubt but that if we were more used to deformity than beauty,
deformity would then lose the idea now annexed to it, and take that of
beauty: as if the whole world should agree, that _yes_ and _no_ should
change their meaning; _yes_ would then deny, and _no_ would affirm.

Whoever undertakes to proceed further in this argument, and endeavours
to fix a general criterion of beauty respecting different species, or to
show why one species is more beautiful than another, it will be required
from him first to prove that one species is really more beautiful than
another. That we prefer one to the other, and with very good reason,
will be readily granted; but it does not follow from thence that we
think it a more beautiful form; for we have no criterion of form by
which to determine our judgment. He who says a swan is more beautiful
than a dove, means little more than that he has more pleasure in seeing
a swan than a dove, either from the stateliness of its motions, or its
being a more rare bird; and he who gives the preference to the dove,
does it from some association of ideas of innocence which he always
annexes to the dove; but if he pretends to defend the preference he
gives to one or the other by endeavouring to prove that this more
beautiful form proceeds from a particular gradation of magnitude,
undulation of a curve, or direction of a line, or whatever other conceit
of his imagination he shall fix on, as a criterion of form, he will be
continually contradicting himself, and find at last that the great
Mother of Nature will not be subjected to such narrow rules. Among the
various reasons why we prefer one part of her works to another, the most
general, I believe, is habit and custom; custom makes, in a certain
sense, white black, and black white; it is custom alone determines our
preference of the colour of the Europeans to the Ethiopians, and they,
for the same reason, prefer their own colour to ours. I suppose nobody
will doubt, if one of their Painters were to paint the Goddess of
Beauty, but that he would represent her black, with thick lips, flat
nose, and woolly hair; and, it seems to me, he would act very
unnaturally if he did not, for by what criterion will anyone dispute the
propriety of his idea? We indeed say that the form and colour of the
European is preferable to that of the Ethiopian; but I know of no other
reason we have for it, but that we are more accustomed to it. It is
absurd to say that beauty is possessed of attractive powers, which
irresistibly seize the corresponding mind with love and admiration,
since that argument is equally conclusive in favour of the white and the
black philosophers.

The black and white nations must, in respect of beauty, be considered as
of different kinds, at least a different species of the same kind; from
one of which to the other, as I observed, no inference can be drawn.

Novelty is said to be one of the causes of beauty. That novelty is a
very sufficient reason why we should admire is not denied; but because
it is uncommon, is it therefore beautiful? The beauty that is produced
by colour, as when we prefer one bird to another, though of the same
form, on account of its colour, has nothing to do with the argument,
which reaches only to form. I have here considered the word Beauty as
being properly applied to form alone. There is a necessity of fixing
this confined sense; for there can be no argument, if the sense of the
word is extended to everything that is approved. A rose may as well be
said to be beautiful because it has a fine smell, as a bird because of
its colour. When we apply the word Beauty, we do not mean always by
it a more beautiful form, but something valuable on account of its
rarity, usefulness, colour, or any other property. A horse is said to
be a beautiful animal; but had a horse as few good qualities as a
tortoise, I do not imagine that he would then be deemed beautiful.

A fitness to the end proposed is said to be another cause of beauty;
but supposing we were proper judges of what form is the most proper in
an animal to constitute strength or swiftness, we always determine
concerning its beauty, before we exert our understanding to judge of
its fitness.

From what has been said, it may be inferred, that the works of Nature,
if we compare one species with another, are all equally beautiful, and
that preference is given from custom or some association of ideas; and
that, in creatures of the same species, beauty is the medium or centre
of all its various forms.

To conclude, then, by way of corollary: if it has been proved that the
Painter, by attending to the invariable and general ideas of Nature,
produce beauty, he must, by regarding minute particularities, and
accidental discriminations, deviate from the universal rule, and
pollute his canvas with deformity.

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