FINE ARTS. WHETHER
THEY ARE PROMOTED BY ACADEMIES AND PUBLIC INSTITUTIONS
The Champion.
August 28, 1814.
THE Directors of the
British Institution conclude the preface to their catalogue of the works of
Hogarth, Wilson, &c. in the following words. The present exhibition, while
it gratifies the taste and feeling of the lover of art, may tend to excite
animating reflections in the mind of the artist: if at a time when the art
received little comparative support such works were produced, a reasonable hope
may be entertained that we shall see productions of still higher attainment,
under more encouraging circumstances.'
It should seem that a
contrary conclusion might more naturally have suggested itself from a
contemplation of the collection, with which the Directors of the Institution
have so highly gratified the public taste and feeling. When the real lover of
art looks round, and sees the works of Hogarth and of Wilson,--works which were
produced in obscurity and poverty,--and recollects the pomp and pride of
patronage under which these works are at present recommended to public notice,
the obvious inference which strikes him is, how little the production of such,
works depends on the most encouraging circumstances.¹ The visits of the gods
of old, did not always add to the felicity of those whose guests they were; nor
do we know that the countenance and favours of the great will lift the arts to
that height of excellence, or will confer all those advantages which are
expected from the proffered boon. The arts are of humble growth and station;
they are the product of labour and self-denial; they have their seat in the heart
of man, and in his imagination; it is there they labour, have their triumphs
there, and unseen and unthought of, perform their ceaseless task.--Indeed,
patronage, and works of art deserving patronage, rarely exist together; for it
is only when the arts have attracted public esteem, and reflect credit on the
patron, that they receive this flattering support, and then it generally proves
fatal to them. We really do not see how the man of genius should be improved by
being transplanted from his closet to the anti-chambers of the great, or to a
fashionable rout. He has no business therebut to bow, to flatter, to smile, to
submit to the caprice of taste, to adjust his dress, to think of nothing but
his own person and his own interest, to talk of the antique, and furnish
designs for the lids of snuff-boxes, and ladies' fans!
The passage above alluded
to evidently proceeds on the common mistaken notion, that the progress of the
arts depends entirely on the cultivation and encouragement bestowed on them; as
if taste and genius were perfectly mechanical, arbitrary things,--as if they
could be bought and sold, and regularly contracted for at a given price. It
confounds the fine arts with the mechanic arts,--art with science. It supposes
that feeling, imagination, invention, are the creatures of positive
institution; that the temples of the muses may be raised and supported by
voluntary contribution; that we can enshrine the soul of art in a stately pile
of royal patronage, inspire corporate bodies with taste, and carve out the
direction to fame in letters of stone on the front of public buildings. That
the arts in any country may be at so low an ebb as to be capable of great
improvement by positive means, so as to reach the common level to which such
means can carry them, there is no doubt or question: but after they have in any
particular instance by native genius and industry reached their highest
eminence, to say that they will, by mere artificial props and officious
encouragement, arrive at a point of still higher attainment,¹ is assuming a
good deal too much. Are we to understand that the laudable efforts of the
British Institution are likely, by the mere operation of natural causes, to
produce a greater comic painter, a more profound describer of manners than Hogarth?
Or even that the lights and expectations held out in the preface to the British
catalogue, will enable some one speedily to surpass the general excellence of
Wilson's landscapes? Is there anything in the history of art to warrant such a
conclusionto support this theory of progressive perfectibility under the
auspices of patrons and vice-patrons, presidents and select committees?
On the contrary, as far
as the general theory is concerned the traces of youth, manhood, and old age
are almost as distinctly marked in the history of the art as of the individual.
The arts have in general risen rapidly from their first obscure dawn to their
meridian height and greatest lustre, and have no sooner reached this proud
eminence than they have as rapidly hastened to decay and desolation. It is a
little extraordinary, if the real sources of perfection are to be sought, in
Schools, in Models, and Public Institutions, that whereever schools, models,
and public institutions have existed, there the arts should regularly
disappear;--that the effect should never follow from the cause. The Greek
statues remain to this day unrivalled,--the undisputed standard of the most
perfect symmetry of form. What then has the Genius of progressive improvement
been doing all this time? Has he been reposing after his labours? How is it
that the moderns are still so far behind, notwithstanding all that was done
ready to their hands by the ancients,--when they possess a double advantage
over them, and have not nature only to form themselves upon, but nature and the
antique? In Italy the art of painting has had the same fate. After its long and
painful struggles in the time of the earlier artists, Cimabue, Ghirlandaio,
Masaccio, and others, it burst out with a light almost too dazzling to behold,
in the works of Titian, Michael Angelo, Raphael, and Correggio; which was
reflected, with diminished lustre, in the productions of their immediate
disciples; lingered for a while with the school of the Carraccis, and expired
with Guido; Reni. For with him disappeared--
The last of those bright clouds,
That on the unsteady breeze of honour sailed
In long procession, calm and beautiful.¹
From that period,
painting sunk to so low a state in Italy as to excite only pity or contempt.
There is not a single name to redeem its faded glory from utter oblivion., Yet
this has not been owing to any want of Dilettanti and Della Cruscan
societies,--of academies of Florence, of Bologna, of Parma, and Pisa,--of
honorary members and Foreign Correspondentsof pupils and teachers, professors
and patrons, and the whole busy tribe of critics and connoisseurs. Art will not
be constrained by mastery, but at sight of the formidable array prepared to
receive it,
Spreads its light wings, and in a moment flies.¹
The genius of painting
lies buried under the Vatican, or skulks behind some old portrait of Titian
from which it stole out lately to paint a miniature of Lady Montagu! What is
become of the successors of Rubens, Rembrandt, and Vandyke? What have the
French Academicians done for the arts; or what will they ever do, but add
intolerable affectation and grimace to centos of heads from the antique, and
caricature Greek forms by putting them into opera attitudes? Were Claude
Lorraine, or Nicolas Poussin, formed by the rules of De Piles or Du Fresnoy?
There are no general tickets of admission to the temple of Fame, transferable
to large societies, or organised bodies,--the paths leading to it are steep and
narrow, for by the time they are worn plain and easy, the niches are full. What
extraordinary advances have we made in our own country in consequence of the
establishment of the Royal Academy? What greater names has the English School
to boast, than those of Hogarth, Reynolds, and Wilson, who owed nothing to it!
Even the venerable president of the Royal Academy was one of its founders.
It is plain then that the
sanguine anticipation of the preface-writer, however amiable and patriotic in
its motive, has little foundation in fact. It has even less in the true theory
and principles of excellence in the art.
It has been often made a
subject of complaint,¹ says a cotemporary critic, that the arts in this
country, and in modern times, have not kept pace with the general progress of
society and civilisation in other respects, and it has been proposed to remedy
the deficiency by, more carefully availing ourselves of the advantages which
time and circumstances have placed within our reach, but which we have hitherto
neglected, the study of the antique, the formation of academies, and the
distribution of prizes.
First, the complaint
itself, that the arts do not attain that progressive degree of perfection which
might reasonably be expected from them, proceeds on a false notion, for the
analogy appealed to in support of the regular advances of art to higher degrees
of excellence, totally fails; it applies to science, not to art. Secondly, the
expedients proposed to remedy the evil by adventitious means are only
calculated to confirm it. The arts hold immediate communication with nature,
and are only derived from that source. When that original impulse no longer
exists, when the inspiration of genius is fled, all the attempts to recal it
are no better than the tricks of galvanism to restore the dead to life. The
arts may be said to resemble Antreus in his struggle with Hercules, who was
strangled when he was raised above the ground, and only revived and recovered
his strength when he touched his I mother earth.'
We intend to offer a few
general observations in illustration of this view of the subject, which appears
to us to be just. There are three ways in which institutions for the promotion
of the fine arts may be supposed to favour the object in view; either by
furnishing the best models to the student,--or by holding out the prospect of
immediate patronage and reward,--or by diffusing a more general taste for the
arts. All of these, so far from answering the end proposed, will be found on
examination to have a contrary tendency.
The Champion
September 11, 1814.
It was ever the trick of our English nation, if they had a good
thing, to make it
too common.¹
WE observed in the
conclusion of our last article on this subject, that there were three ways in
which academies or public institutions might be supposed to promote the fine
arts,--either by furnishing the best models to the student, or by holding out
immediate emolument and patronage, or by improving the public taste. We shall
consider each of these in order.
First, a constant
reference to the best models of art necessarily tends to enervate the mind, to
intercept our view of nature, and to distract the attention by a variety of
unattainable excellence. An intimate acquaintance with the works of the
celebrated masters may, indeed, add to the indolent refinements of taste, but
will never produce one work of original geniusone great artist. In proof of
the general truth of this observation, we might cite the works of Carlo
Maratti, of Raphael Mengs, or of any of the effeminate school of critics and
copyists, who have attempted to blend the borrowed beauties of others in a
perfect whole. What do they contain, but a negation of every excellence which
they pretend to combine? Inoffensive insipidity is the utmost that can ever be
expected, because it is the utmost that ever was attained, from the desire to
produce a balance of good qualities, and to animate lifeless compositions by
the transfusion of a spirit of originality. The assiduous imitator, in his
attempts to grasp all, loses his hold of that which was placed within his
reach, and, from aspiring at universal excellence, sinks into uniform
mediocrity[1].
The student who has models of every kind of excellence constantly before him,
is not only diverted from that particular walk of art, in which, by patient exertion,
he might have obtained ultimate success, but, from having his imagination
habitually raised to an overstrained standard of refinement, by the sight of
the most exquisite examples in art, he becomes impatient and dissatisfied with
his own attempts, determines to reach the same perfection all at once, or
throws down his pencil in despair. Thus the young enthusiast, whose genius and
energy were to rival the great Masters of antiquity, or create a new aera in
the art itself, baffled in his first sanguine expectations, reposes in
indolence on what others have done; wonders how such perfection could have been
achieved,--grows familiar with the minutest peculiarities of the different
schools,--flutters between the splendour of Rubens and the grace of Raphael,
finds it easier to copy pictures than to paint them, and easier to see than to
copy them, takes infinite pains to gain admission to all the great collections,
lounges from one auction room to another, and writes newspaper criticisms on
the Fine Arts. Such was not Correggio; he saw and felt for himself; he was of
no school, but had his own world of art to create. That image of truth and
beauty, which existed in his mind, he was forced to construct for himself,
without rules or models. As it had arisen in his mind from the contemplation of
nature, so he could only hope to embody it to others, by the imitation of
nature. We can conceive the work growing under his hands by slow and patient
touches, approaching nearer to perfection, softened into finer grace, gaining
strength from delicacy, and at last reflecting the pure image of nature on the
canvass. Such is always the true progress of art; such are the necessary means
by which the greatest works of every kind have been produced. They have been
the effect of power gathering strength from exercise, and warmth from its own
impulsestimulated to fresh efforts by conscious success, and by the surprise
and strangeness of a new world of beauty, opening to the delighted imagination.
The triumphs of art were victories over the difficulties of art ; the prodigies
of genius, the result of that strength which had grappled with nature. Titian
copied even a plant or a piece of common drapery from the objects themselves;
and Raphael is known to have made elaborate studies of the principal heads in
his pictures. All the great painters of this period were thoroughly grounded in
the first principles of their art; had learned to copy a face, a hand, or an
eye, and had acquired patience to finish a single figure, before they undertook
to paint extensive compositions. They knew that though Fame is represented with
her head above the clouds, her feet rest upon the earth. Genius can only have
its full scope where, though much may have been done, more remains to do; where
models exist chiefly to shew the deficiencies of art, and where the perfect
idea is left to be filled up in the painter's imagination. When once the
stimulus of novelty and of original exertion is wanting, generations repose on
what has been done for them by their predecessors, as individuals, after a
certain period, rest satisfied with the knowledge they have already acquired.
To proceed to the
supposed advantages to be derived, in a pecuniary point of view, from the
public patronage of the arts. It in this respect unfortunately defeats itself;
for it multiplies its objects faster than it can satisfy their claims, and
raises up a swarm of competitors for the prize of genius from the dregs of
idleness and dulness. The real patron is anxious to reward merit, not to encourage
gratuitous pretensions to it; to see that the man of genius takes no
detriment, that another Wilson is
not left to perish for want; not to propagate the breed, for that he knows to
be impossible. But there are some persons who think it as essential to the
interests of art, to keep up an airy of children,¹the young fry of embryo
candidates for fame,as others think it essential to the welfare of the kingdom
to preserve the spawn of the herring fisheries. In general, public, that is,
indiscriminate patronage is, and can be nothing better than a species of
intellectual seduction; by administering provocatives to vanity and avarice, it
is leading astray the youth of this nation by fallacious hopes, which can
scarcely ever be realized. It is beating up for raw dependants, sending out
into the highways for the halt, the lame, and the, blind, and making a scramble
among a set of idle boys for prizes of the first, second, and third class, like
those we make among children for gingerbread toys. True patronage does not
consist in ostentatious professions of high keeping, and promiscuous
intercourse with the arts. At the same time, the good that might be done by
private taste and benevolence is in a great measure defeated. The moment that a
few individuals of discernment and liberal spirit become members of a public
body, they are no longer anything more than parts of a machine, which is
usually wielded at will by some officious, over-weening pretender; their
good-sense and good-nature are lost in a mass of ignorance and presumptio;
their names only serve to reflect credit on proceedings in which they have no
share, and which are determined on by a majority of persons who have no
interest in the arts but what arises from the importance attached to them by
regular organisation, and no opinions but what are dictated to them by some
self-constituted judge. Whenever vanity and self-importance are (as in general
they must be) the governing principles of systems of public patronage, there is
an end at once of all can dour and directness of conduct. Their decisions are
before the public: and the individuals who take the lead in these decisions are
responsible for them. They have therefore to manage the public opinion, in
order to secure that of their own body. Hence, instead of giving a firm, manly,
and independent tone to that opinion, they make it their business to watch all
its caprices, and follow it in every casual turning. They dare not give their
sanction to sterling merit, struggling with difficulties, but take advantage of
its success, to reflect credit on their own reputation for sagacity. Their
taste is a servile dependant on their vanity, and their patronage has an air of
pauperism about it. They neglect or treat with insult the favourite whom they
suspect of having fallen off in the opinion of the public; but, if he is able
to recover his ground without their assistance, are ready to heap their
mercenary bounties upon those of others, greet him with friendly
congratulations, and share his triumph with him. Perhaps the only public
patronage which was ever really useful to the arts, or worthy of them, was that
which they received first in Greece, and afterwards in Italy, from the
religious institutions of the country; when the artist felt himself, as it
were, a servant at the altar; when his hand gave a visible form to Gods or
Heroes, Angels or Apostles; and when the enthusiasm of genius was exalted by
mingling with the flame of national devotion. The artist was not here degraded,
by being made the dependant on the caprice of wealth or fashion, but felt
himself at once the servant and the benefactor of the public. He had to embody,
by the highest efforts of his art, subjects which were sacred to the
imagination and feelings of the spectators; there was a common link, a mutual
sympathy between them in their common faith[2].
Every other mode of patronage, but that which arises, either from the general
institutions and manners of a people, or from the real unaffected taste of
individuals, must, we conceive, be illegitimate, corrupted in its source, and
either ineffectual or injurious to its professed object. Positive
encouragements and rewards will not make an honest man, or a great artist. The
assumed familiarity and condescending goodness of patrons and vice-patrons will
serve to intoxicate rather than to sober the mind, and a card to dinner in
Cleveland-row or Portland-place will have a tendency to divert the student's
thoughts from his morning's work, rather than to rivet, them upon it. The
device by which a celebrated painter has represented the Virgin teaching the
infant Christ to read by pointing with a butterfly to the letters of the
alphabet, has not been thought a very wise one. Correggio is the most
melancholy instance on record of the want of a proper encouragement of the
arts: but a golden shower of patronage, tempting as that which fell into the
lap of his own Danae, and dropping prize medals and epic mottoes, would not
produce another Correggio!,
We shall conclude with
offering some remarks on the question, Whether Academies and Institutions must
not be supposed to assist the progress of the fine arts, by promoting them.
In general, it must
happen in the first stages of the arts, that as none but those who had a
natural genius for them would attempt to practise them, so none but those who
had a natural taste for them would pretend to judge of or criticise them. This
must be an incalculable advantage to the man of true genius; for it is no other
than the privilege of being tried by his peers. In an age when connoisseurship
had not become a fashion; when religion, war, and intrigue occupied the time and thoughts of the great, only
those minds of superior refinement would be led to notice the works of art, who
had a real sense of their excellence; and, in giving way to the powerful bent
of his own genius, the painter was most likely to consult the taste of his
judges. He had not to deal with pretenders to taste, through vanity,
affectation, and idleness. He had to appeal to the higher faculties of the
soul,--to that deep and innate sensibility to truth and beauty, which required
only fit objects to have its enthusiasm excited,--and to that independent
strength of mind, which, in the midst of ignorance and barbarism, hailed and
fostered genius wherever it met with it. Titian was patronised by Charles V.
Count Castiglione was the friend of Raphael. These were true patrons and true
critics; and, as there were no others (for the world, in general, merely looked
on and wondered), there can be little doubt that such a period of dearth of
factitious patronage would be most favourable to the full development of the
greatest talents, and to the attainment of the highest excellence.
The diffusion of taste is not, then, the same thing as the
improvement of taste; but it is only the former of these objects that is
promoted by public institutions and other artificial means. Thus the number of
candidates for fame, and pretenders to criticism, is increased beyond all
calculation, while the quantity of genius and feeling remain much the same as
before; with these disadvantages, that the man of original genius is often lost
among the crowd of competitors who would never have become such, but from
encouragement and example, and that the voice of the few whom nature intended
for judges, is apt to be drowned in the noisy and forward suffrages of shallow
smatterers in taste. The principle of universal suffrage, however applicable to
matters of government, which concern the common feelings and common interests
of society, is by no means applicable to matters of taste, which can only be
decided upon by the most refined understandings. It is throwing down the
barriers which separate knowledge and feeling from ignorance and vulgarity, and
proclaiming a Bartholomew-fair-show of the fine arts
And fools rush in where angels fear to tread.¹
The public taste is,
therefore, necessarily vitiated, in proportion as it is public; it is lowered
with every infusion it receives of common opinion. The greater the number of
judges, the less capable must they be of judging, for the addition to the
number of good ones will always be small, while the multitude of bad ones is
endless, and thus the decay of art may be said to be the necessary consequence
of its progress.
Can there be a greater
confirmation of these remarks than to look at the texture of that assemblage of
select critics, who every year visit the exhibition at Somerset-house from all
parts of the metropolis of this united kingdom? Is it at all wonderful that for
such a succession of connoisseurs, such a collection of works of art should be
provided; where the eye in vain seeks relief from the glitter of the frames in
the glare of the pictures; where vermillion cheeks make vermillion lips look
pale; where the merciless splendour of the painter's pallet puts nature out of
countenance; and where the unmeaning grimace of fashion and folly is almost the
only variety in the wide dazzling waste of colour. Indeed, the great error of
British art has hitherto been a desire to produce popular effect by the cheapest
and most obvious means, and at the expence of every thing else;--to lose all
the delicacy and variety of nature in one undistinguished bloom of florid
health, and all precision, truth, and refinement of character in the same
harmless mould of smiling, self-complacent insipidity,
Pleased with itself, that all the world can
please.¹
It is probable that in
all that stream of idleness and curiosity which flows in, hour after hour, and
day after day, to the richly hung apartments of Somerset-house, there are not
fifty persons to be found who can really distinguish a Guido from a Daub,¹ or
who would recognise a work of the most refined genius from the most common and
everyday performance. Come, then, ye banks of Wapping, and classic haunts of
Ratcliffe-highway, and join thy fields, blithe Tothilllet the postchaises, gay
with oaken boughs, be put in requisition for school-boys from Eton and Harrow,
and school-girls from Hackney and Mile-end,and let a jury be empannelled to
decide on the merits of Raphael, and-----. The verdict will be infallible. We
remember having been formerly a good deal amused with seeing a smart,
handsome-looking Quaker lad, standing before a picture of Christ as the saviour
of the world, with a circle of young female friends around him, and a newspaper
in his hand, out of which he read to his admiring auditors a criticism on the
picture ascribing to it every perfection, human and divine. Now, in truth, the
colouring was any thing but solemn, the drawing any thing but grand, the expression
any thing but sublime. The friendly critic had, however, bedaubed it so with
praise, that it was not easy to gainsay its wondrous excellence. In fact, one
of the worst consequences of the establishment of academies, &c. is, that
the rank and station of the painter throw a lustre round his pictures, which
imposes completely on the herd of spectators, and makes it a kind of treason
against the art, for anyone to speak his mind freely, or detect the imposture.
If, indeed, the election to title and academic honours went by merit, this
might form a kind of clue or standard for the public to decide justly
upon:--but we have heard that genius and taste determine precedence there,
almost as little as at court; and that modesty and talent stand very little chance
indeed with interest, cabal, impudence, and cunning. The purity or liberality
of professional decisions cannot, therefore, in such cases be expected to
counteract the tendency which an appeal to the public has to lower the standard
of taste. The artist, to succeed, must let himself down to the level of his
judges, for he cannot raise them up to his own. The highest efforts of genius,
in every walk of art, can never be properly understood by mankind in general:
there are numberless beauties and truths which lie far beyond their
comprehension. It is only as refinement or sublimity are blended with other
qualities of a more obvious and common nature, that they pass current with the
world. Common sense, which has been
sometimes appealed to as the criterion of taste, is nothing but the common
capacity, applied to common facts and feelings; but it neither is, nor pretends
to be, the judge of any thing else.-To suppose that it can really appreciate
the excellence of works of high art, is as absurd as to suppose that it could
produce them.
Taste is the highest
degree of sensibility, or the impression made on the most cultivated and
sensible of minds, as genius is the result of the highest powers both of
feeling and invention. It may be objected, that the public taste is capable of
gradual improvement, because, in the end, the public do justice to works of the
greatest merit. This is a mistake. The reputation ultimately, and often slowly
affixed to works of genius is stamped upon them by authority, not by popular consent
or the common sense of the world. We imagine that the admiration of the works
of celebrated men has become common, because the admiration of their names has
become so. But does not every ignorant connoisseur pretend the same veneration,
and talk with the same vapid assurance of Michael Angelo, though he has never
seen even a copy of any of his pictures, as if he had studied them
accurately,--merely because Sir Joshua Reynolds has praised him? Is Milton more
popular now than when the Paradise Lost was first published? Or does he not rather owe his reputation to the
judgment of a few persons in every successive period, accumulating in his
favour, and overpowering by its weight the public indifference? Why is
Shakspeare popular? Not from his
refinement of character, or sentiment, so much as from his power of telling a
story, the variety and invention, the tragic catastrophe and broad farce of his
plays. Spenser is not yet understood. Does not Boccaccio pass to this day for a
writer of ribaldry, because his jests and lascivious tales were all that caught
the vulgar ear, while the story of the Falcon is forgotten!
The Champion.
October 2, 1814.
Sir,--I beg to offer one or two explanations with
respect to the article on the subject of public institutions for the promotion
of the Fine Arts, which does not appear to me to have been exactly understood
by A Student of the Royal Academy.¹
The whole drift of that article is to explode the visionary theory, that art
may go on in an infinite series of imitation and improvement. This theory has
not a single fact or argument to support it. All the highest efforts of art
originate in the imitation of nature, and end there. No imitation of the others
can carry us beyond this point, or ever enable us to reach it. The imitation of the works of genius
facilitates the acquisition of a certain degree of excellence, but weakens and
distracts while it facilitates, and renders the acquisition of the highest
degree of excellence impossible. Wherever the greatest individual genius has
been exerted upon the finest models of nature, there the greatest works of art
have been produced,--the Greek statues and the Italian pictures. There is no
substitute in art for nature; in proportion as we remove from this original
source, we dwindle into mediocrity and flimsiness, and whenever the artificial
and systematic assistance afforded to genius becomes extreme, it overlays it
altogether. We cannot make use of other men¹s minds, any more than of their
limbs[3].
Art is not science, nor is the progress made in the one ever like the progress
made in the other: The one is retrograde for the very same reason that the
other is progressive; because science is mechanical, and art is not, and in
proportion as we rely on mechanical means, we lose the essence. Is there a
single exception to this rule? The worst artists in the world are the modern
Italians, who lived in the midst of the finest works of art:--the persons least
like the Greek sculptors are the modern French painters, who copy nothing but
the antique. Velasquez might be improved by a pilgrimage to the Vatican, but if
it had been his morning¹s lounge, it would have ruined him. Michael Angelo, the
cartoons of Leonardi da Vinci, and the antique, your correspondent tells us,
produced Raphael. Why have they produced no second Raphael? What produced
Michael Angelo, Leonardi da Vinci, and the antique? Surely not Michael Angelo,
Leonardi da Vinci, and the antique! If Sir Joshua Reynolds would never have
observed a certain expression in nature, if he had not seen it in Correggio, it
is tolerably certain that he would never execute it so well; and in fact,
though Sir Joshua was largely indebted to Correggio, yet his imitations are not
equal to the originals. The two little boys in Correggio's Danae are worth all the children Sir Joshua ever
painted: and the Hymen in the same picture, (with leave be it spoken,) is worth
all his works put together. But the Student of the Royal Academy thinks that
Carlo Maratti, and Raphael Mengs are only exceptions to the common rule of
progressive improvement in the art. If these are the exceptions, where are the
examples? If we are to credit him, and it would be uncivil not to do it, they
are to be found in the, present students of the Royal Academy, whom, he says,
it would be unreasonable to confound with such minds as those of Carlo Maratti
and Raphael Mengs. Be it so. This
is a point to be decided by time.
The whole question was at once decided by the person who
said that, to imitate the Iliad, was not to imitate Homer.¹ After this has once been stated, it is quite in
vain to argue the point farther. The idea of piling art on art, and heaping
excellence on excellence, is a mere fable; and we may very safely say, that the
frontispiece of all such pretended institutions and academies for the promotion
of the fine arts, founded on this principle, and pointing to the skies,¹
should be
Like a tall bully,
lifts the head, and lies.¹
Absurd as this theory is,
it flatters our vanity and our indolence, and these are two great points
gained. It is gratifying to suppose that art may have gone on from the
beginning, reposing upon art, like the Indian elephant and the tortoise, that
it has improved, and will still go on improving, without the trouble of going
back to nature. By these theorists, Nature is always kept in the background, or
does not even terminate the vista in their prospects. She is a mistress too
importunate, and who requires too great sacrifices from the effeminacy of
modern amateurs. They will only see her in company, or by proxy, and are as
much afraid of being reduced to their shifts with her in private, as Tattle in Love for Love was afraid of being left alone with a pretty
girl.
I can only recollect one
other thing to reply to. Your correspondent objects to my having said, All the great painters of this period
were thoroughly grounded in the first principles of their art; had learned to
copy a head, a hand, or an eye,¹ &c. All this knowledge of detail he
attributes to academical instruction, and quotes Sir Joshua Reynolds, who says
of himselfNot having had the advantage of an early academical education, I
never had that facility in drawing the naked figure which an artist ought to
have.¹ First, I might answer, that the drawing from casts can never assist the
student in copying the face, the eye, or the extremities; and that it was only
of service in the knowledge of the trunk, and the general proportions, which
are comparatively lost in the style of English art, which is not naked, but
clothed. Secondly, I would say, with respect to Sir Joshua, that his inability
to draw the naked figure arose from his not having been accustomed to draw it;
and that drawing from the antique would not have enabled either him or anyone
else to draw from the naked figure. The difficulty of copying from nature, or
in other words of doing any thing that has not been done before, or that is
worth doing, is that of combining many ideas at once, or of reconciling things
in motion: whereas in copying from the antique, you have only to copy still
life, and in proportion as you get a knack at the one, you disqualify yourself
for the other.
As to what your correspondent adds of painting and poetry being the same thing, it is an old story which I do not believe. But who would ever think of setting up a school of poetry? Byshe¹s Art of Poetry and the Gradus ad Parnassum are a jest. Royal Academies and British Institutions are to painting, what Byshe's Art of Poetry and the Gradus ad Parnassum are to the sister art.¹ Poetry, as it becomes artificial, becomes bad, instead of goodthe poetry of words, instead of things. Milton is the only poet who gave to borrowed materials the force of originality. I am, Sir, Your humble Servant, W. H.
[1] There is a certain pedantry, a given division of labour, an almost exclusive attention to some one object, which is necessary in Art, as in all the works of man. Without this, the unavoidable consequence is a gradual dissipation and prostitution of intellect, which leaves the mind without energy to devote to any pursuit the pains necessary to excel in it, and suspends every purpose in irritable imbecility. But the modern painter is bound not only to run the circle of his own art, but of all others. He must be 'statesman, chemist, fiddler, and buffoon.' He must have too many accomplishments to excel in his profession. When every one is bound to know every thing, there is no time to do any thing.
[2] Of the effect of the authority of the subject of a composition, in suspending the exercise of personal taste and feeling in the spectators, we have a striking instance in our own country, where this cause must, from collateral circumstances, operate less forcibly. Mr. West's pictures would not be tolerated but from the respect inspired by the subjects of which he treats. When a young lady and her mother, the wife and daughter of a clergyman, are told, that a gawky ill-favoured youth is the beloved disciple of Christ, and that a tall, starched figure of a woman visible near him is the Virgin Mary, whatever they might have thought before, they can no more refrain from shedding tears than if they had seen the very persons recorded in sacred history. It is not the picture, but the associations connected with it, that produce the effect. Just as if the same young lady and her mother had been told, that is the Emperor Alexander,' they would say, 'what a handsome man!¹ or if they were shown the Prince Regent, would exclaim 'how elegant!'
[3] Occasional assistance may be derived from both, but, in general, we must trust to our own strength. We cannot hope to become rich by living upon alms. Constant assistance is the worst incumbrance. The accumulation of models, and erection of universal schools for art, improves the genius of the student much in the same way that the encouragement of night-cellars and gin-shops improves the health and morals of the people.