A.W. COCKBURN.
Ulrich Middeldorf
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
ON THE
PICTURESQUE:
WITH AN ESSAY ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE,
AND MUCH ORIGINAL MATTER,
By SIR THOMAS DICK LAUDER, Bart.
AND SIXTY ILLUSTRATIONS, DESIGNED AND DRAWN ON THE WOOD,
BY MONTAGU STANLEY, R.S. A.
EDINBURGH: CALDWELL, LLOYD, AND CO.;
LONDON: Wm. S. ORR AND CO.
MDCCCXLII.
TO
GENERAL
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
THE EARL OF STAIR,
BARON OXENFORD OF COUSLAND,
&c. &c. &c.
My dear Lord Stair,
It gives mo very great pleasure to avail myself of
this opportunity of marking the deep sense I entertain of the
steady friendship with which you have so long honoured me, by
requesting you to accept of the Dedication of this Work, from
Your most sincerely attached,
THO s DICK LAUDER.
PREFACE
TO
THE FIRST ESSAY.
As the general plan and intention of my first publication have been a
good deal misunderstood, I wish to give a short account of them both.
The title itself might have shown that I aimed at something more
than a mere book of gardening , some, however, have conceived that I
ought to have begun by setting forth all my ideas of lawns, shrubberies,
gravel-walks, &c. ; and as my arrangement did not coincide witli their
notions of what it ought to have been, they seem to have concluded that
I had no plan at all.
I have in this Essay undertaken to treat of two subjects, distinct but
intimately connected ; and which, as I conceive, throw a reciprocal light
on each other. I have begun with that which is last mentioned in the
title, as I thought some previous discussion with regard to pictures and
picturesque scenery would most naturally lead to a particular examina-
tion of the character itself. In the first chapter, I have st;itcd the
general reasons for studying the works of eminent landscape painters,
and the principles of their art, with a view to the improvement of real
scenery ; and in order to show how little those works, or the principles
they contain, have been attended to, I have supposed the scenery in the
landscape of a great painter, to be new modelled according to the taste
of Mr. Brown. Having shown this contrast between dressed scenery
and a picture of the most ornamented kind, I have in the second chap-
ter compared together two real scenes ; the one, in its picturesque un-
viii
PREFACE.
improved state ; the other, when dressed and improved according to the
present fashion. The picturesque circumstances detailed in this scene,
very naturally lead me, in the third chapter, to investigate their general
causes and effects ; and in that, and in the six following chapters, I
have traced them, as far as my observation would enable me, through
all the works of art and of nature.
This part, the most curious and interesting to a speculative mind,
will be least so to those who think only of what has a direct and im-
mediate reference to the arrangement of scenery. That, indeed, it has
not ; but it is a discussion well calculated to give just and enlarged
ideas, of what is of no slight importance — the general character of each
place, and the particular character of each part of its scenery. Every
place, and every scene worth observing, must have something of the
sublime, the beautiful, or the picturesque ; and every man will allow,
that he would wish to preserve and to heighten — certainly not to weaken
or destroy — their prevailing character. The most obvious method of
succeeding in the one, and of avoiding the Other, is by studying their
causes and effects ; but to confine that study to scenery only, would,
like all confined studies for a particular purpose, tend to contract the
mind ; at least, when compared with a more comprehensive view of the
subject. I have therefore endeavoured to take the most enlarged view
possible, and to include in it whatever had any relation to the character
I was occupied in tracing, or which showed its distinction from those
which a very superior mind had already investigated ; and sure I am,
that he who studies the various effects and characters of form, colour,
and light and shadow, and examines and compares those characters and
effects, and the manner in which they are combined and disposed, both
in pictures and in nature, will be better qualified to arrange — certainly
to enjoy — his own and every scenery, than he who has only thought of
the most fashionable arrangement of objects; or who has looked at
nature alone, without having acquired any just principles of selection.
I believe, however, that this part of my Essay, and the very title of it,
may have given a false bias to the minds of many of my readers. I am
not surprised at such an effect, for it is a very natural conclusion, and
often justified, that an author is partial to the particular subject on which
he has written ; but mine is a particular case. The two characters which
PREFACE.
ix
Mr. Burke has so ably discussed, had, it is true, great need of investi-
gation ; but they did not want to be recommended to our attention :
what is really sublime, or beautiful, must always attract or command
it ; but the picturesque is much less obvious, less generally attractive,
and had been totally neglected and despised by professed improvers :
my business, therefore, was to draw forth and to dwell upon those less
observed beauties. From that circumstance it has been conceived, or
at least asserted, that I not only preferred such scenes as were merely
rude and picturesque, but excluded all others.
The second part is built upon the foundations laid in the first ; for I
have examined the leading features of modern gardening, in its more
extended sense, on the general principles of painting ; and I have shown
in several instances, especially in all that relates to the banks of artifi-
cial water, how much the character of the picturesque has been neglected,
or sacrificed to a false idea of beauty.
But though I take no slight interest in whatever concerns the taste
of gardening in this and every other country, and am particularly anxious
to preserve those picturesque circumstances, which are so frequently and
irrecoverably destroyed, yet in writing this Essay, I have had a more
comprehensive object in view. I have been desirous of opening new
sources of innocent and easily attained pleasures, or at least of point-
ing out how a much higher relish may be acquired for those, which,
though known, are neglected ; and it has given me no small pleasure to
find, that both my objects have in some degree been attained.
That painters do see effects in nature which men in general do not
see, we have, in the motto prefixed to this Essay, the testimony of no
common observer ; of one who was sufficiently vain of his own talents
and discernment in every way > and not likely to acknowledge a superi-
ority in other men without strong conviction. It is not a mere obser-
vation of Cicero; it is an exclamation: Quam multa tfideni pictores !
It marks his surprise at the extreme difference which the study of na-
ture, by means of the art of painting, seems to make almost in the sight
itself. It may likewise be observed, that his remark does not extend
to form — in which the ancient painters are acknowledged to be our
superiors ; not to colour — in which they are also conceived to be at
least our rivals ; but to light and shadow — the supposed triumph of
PREFACE.
modern over ancient art : on which account, the professors of painting
since its revival, have a still better right to the compliment of so illus-
trious a panegyrist, than those of his own age.
If there were no other means of seeing with the eyes of painters, than
by acquiring the practical skill of their hands, the generality of man-
kind must of course give up the point ; but luckily, we may gain no
little insight into their method of considering nature, and no inconsider-
able share of their relish for her beauties, by an easier process — by
studying their works. This study has one great advantage over most
others ; there are no dry elements to struggle with. Pictures, as likewise
drawings and prints, have in them what is suited to all ages and capa-
cities ; many of them, like Swift's Gulliver's Travels, display the most
fertile and brilliant imagination, joined to the most accurate judgment
and selection, and the deepest knowledge of nature ; like that extra-
ordinary work, they are at once the amusement of childhood and ignor-
ance, and the delight, instruction, and admiration, of the highest and
most cultivated minds.
It is not, however, to be supposed, that theory and observation alone
will enable us to judge either of pictures or of nature, with the same
skill as those who join to the practical knowledge of their art habitual
reflection on its principles, and its productions. Between such artists
and the mere lover of painting, there will always be a sufficient differ-
ence to justify the remark of Cicero ; * but by means of the study which
I have so earnestly recommended, we may greatly diminish the immense
distance that exists between the eye of a first-rate painter, and that of
a man who has never thought on the subject. Were it, indeed, possible
that a painter of great and general excellence could at once bestow on
such a man — not his power of imitating,, but of distinguishing and feel-
* There is an anecdote of Salvator Rosa, which shows the very just and natural
opinion that painters of eminence entertain of their superior judgment with regard to
their own art : it is also highly characteristic of the lively impetuous manner of the
artist of whom it is related, and whose words might no less justly be applied to real
objects, than to the imitation of them. Salvator Rosa, essendogli mostrata una singolar
pittura da un dilettante, die insiememente in estremo la lodava ; egli, con tin di quei suoi
soliti gesti spiritosi esclamo ; O pensa quel che tu diredi, >e Ui la vedessi con gli occhi di
Salvator Rosa !
PREFACE.
xi
ing the effects and combinations of form, colour, and light and shadow
— it would hardly be too much to assert, that a new appearance of
things, a new world would suddenly be opened to him ; and the be-
stower might preface the miraculous gift with the words in which Venus
addresses her son, when she removes the mortal film from his eyes.
Aspice, namque omnem quae nunc obducta tuenti
Mortales hebetat visus tibi, et humida circum
Caligat, nubem eripiam.
Vide P. 190,—" Waves beating in upon a rocky coast."
PREFACE
TO THE
EDITION OF 1810 OF THE FIRST ESSAY.
In this edition, the reader will find some considerable additions ; but
the chief difference is in the arrangement, which I am very conscious
was in many parts extremely defective. Several of the chapters in the
first volume are entirely new modelled ; and in the second, a great deal
of new arrangement has taken place, especially in the middle part of
the last Essay. Those readers only — should there be any such — who
may have the curiosity to compare the present with former editions, can
judge of the pains that the new modelling has cost me ; but I shall think
them well bestowed, if I should be less open to those criticisms, which
must have presented themselves to every reader of a methodical turn of
mind. Another alteration, which I trust will be thought ;mi improve-
ment, is that of throwing the greater part of the notes to the end of the
volumes. One note of much greater length than I could have wished
is added to the second volume, in consequence of a very pointed attack
from my friend Mr. Knight, in the second edition of the Analytical
Inquiry ; it is indeed almost a controversial dissertation on the temple
of Vesta, usually called the Sybil's temple, at Tivoli. I am persuaded,
however, that I have made no small amends for the tediousness of con-
troversy, by some very curious information I received on the subject,
the accuracy of which I have no doubt may be safely relied on. The
third volume remains nearly as it was, with scarcely any alteration :
there is, however, one addition to the Dialogue of a few last words, by
xiv
PREFACE.
way of summing up the points of the controversy, and likewise an ap-
pendix, which, like the note just mentioned, was occasioned by some
strictures of Mr. Knight's and almost equals it in length. I am still
very largely in his debt, on Mr. Burke's, as well as on my own account
and am ashamed of being so long in arrears. However slow, I hope at
last to leave nothing unpaid ; but as I have undertaken the defence of
such a man as Mr. Burke, I feel anxious that it should be as little un-
worthy of him, as it is in my power to make it.
PREFACE
TO
THE PRESENT EDITION.
The text of this Edition will be found to correspond accurately with that
of the Edition 1810, with this difference, that the numerous foot notes
which there occur, to the great inconvenience of the reader, have been
here incorporated with the text. The few remarks which the Editor
has ventured to make in his own person, have been also introduced into
the text, where they are distinguished by brackets and the letter E.
CONTENTS.
Preface to the First Essay,
Preface to Edition 1810, ....
Editor's Preface,
Introductory Essay on Origin of Taste— E
CHAPTER I.
The reasons why an improver should study pictures, as well as nature — The
artist's design in real scenery must change with the growth and decay of trees
The only unchanging compositions are in the designs of painters — Distinction
between the painter and the improver — Between looking at pictures, merely
with a reference to other pictures, and studying them with a view to the im-
provement of our ideas of nature — The general principles of both arts the same
— The manner in which a picture of Claude would probably be improved bjf
Mr. Brown — Anecdote of an improved picture of Sir Joshua Reynolds— The
Colonna, Claude — Remarks by E., 59-fi{>
CHAPTER II.
Causes of the neglect of the picturesque in modern improvement — Intricacy
and variety, characteristics of the picturesque— Monotony and baldness of im-
proved places — A dressed lane — A lane in its natural and picturesque state —
Near the house, picturesque beauty must often be sacrificed to neatness — Differ-
ent ways in which a picturesque lane might probably be improved — Examples
of two lanes that have been improved — Remarks by E., . . . . 6.0-7(1
CHAPTER III.
General meaning of the word picturesque— Mr. Gilpin's definition of it examined
—It has not an exclusive reference to painting— The beautiful and the sublime
have been pointed out and illustrated by painting, as well as the picturesque-
Apology for making use of the word picturesqueness — The picturesque as
distinct a character as either the sublime or the beautiful — The picturesque
arises from qualities directly opposite to those of beauty — What those qualities
are — Picturesque and beautiful in buildings — in water — in trees — in animals
in birds— in the human species — in the higher order of beings — in painting —
Remarks by E., 77-lV.)
CHAPTER IV.
General distinctions between the picturesque and the beautiful — Between the
picturesque and the sublime — The manner in which they operate on the mind
— Of terror, as a cause of the sublime, 90-103
PACK
vii
xiii
xv
1-58
xviii
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER V.
To create the sublime above our contracted powers — The art of improving there-
fore depends on the beautiful and the picturesque — Remarks by E. — Beauty alone
has hitherto been aimed at — But they are seldom unmixed ; and insipidity has
arisen from trying to separate them — Remarks by E. — Instance of their mixture
in the human countenance — in flowers, shrubs, and trees — in buildings — Illus-
tration from the mixture of discords with the most flowing melodies in music
—Remarks by E., 104-109
CHAPTER VI.
It has been doubted by some whether smoothness be essential to the beautiful —
Effects of smoothness, and of roughness, in producing the beautiful and the
picturesque, by means of repose and irritation — Remarks by E. — Exemplified
in scenery — Repose, the peculiar characteristic of Claude's pictures — Character
of the pleasures that arise from irritation — Remarks by E. — Character of Rubens'
light and shadow — of Correggio's — of Claude's — his landscapes compared with
those of Rubens — Illustration from the different characters of smiles — Character
of Rembrandt's light and shadow — Anecdote of Sir Joshua Reynolds — Antique
statues, standards of grandeur and beauty — The grandest style of painting, that
of the Roman and Florentine schools — The Venetian style, the ornamental, or
picturesque — Correggio's style, as described by Sir Joshua Reynolds, might justly
be called the beautiful style — Each style of painting corresponds with the cha-
racteristic marks of the grand, the beautiful, and the picturesque in real objects, 110-123
CHAPTER VII.
Breadth of light and shadow — Twilight — Quotation from Milton — Its effect should
be studied by improvers — Difficulty of uniting breadth with detail — Breadth
alone insufficient ; but preferable to detail without breadth — Application of the
principle of breadth to improvement — Objections to buildings being made too
white — Remarks by E. — Mr. Walpole's expression of the gentleman with the
foolish teeth — Distinctness — Remarks by E., 124-135
CHAPTER VIII.
On the beautiful, and what might be called the picturesque in colour — Remarks
by e. — Why autumn, and not spring, is called the painter's season — Blossoms,
which are so beautiful near the eye, have a spotty appearance in the general
landscape — The first requisite of a picture is to be a whole — The colouring of
the Venetian school formed upon the tints in autumn — The Ganymede of Titian
—That of Rubens, on the fresh colours of spring — Character of the atmosphere,
and the lights and shadows, in spring, summer, autumn, and winter — Remarks
by E., 136-146
CHAPTER IX.
On ugliness — Angles not ugly — Deformity is to ugliness what picturesqueness is
to beauty ; but has in itself no connection with the sublime — Union of defor-
mity with beauty — In what deformity consists — Ugliness and deformity in hills
and mountains — in ground — Remarks by E. — in trees — in buildings — Ugliness
in colours — Effect of ugliness and deformity compared — Illustrated by sounds
— Effects of the picturesque, when mixed with ugliness — The excess of the
qualities of beauty tend to insipidity ; those of picturesqueness to deformity —
Anecdote of an Anatomist — Application to improvements — Beauty, pictui'esque-
ness, and deformity, in the other senses— General summing up of the arguments,
to show that the picturesque has a distinct character — By what means the word
CONTENTS.
xix
came to be introduced into modern languages — The character, not less distinct
than those of envy, revenge, &c. — The reason why its distinctness has not been
so accurately marked — And why there are not more distinct terms and discri-
minations in matters of taste — Remarks by E., 147-1 '>.*>
CHAPTER X.
How far the principles of painting have been applied to improvements — Kent the
first improver on the present system — Remarks by E. — General character of
the old, and of the present system — Remarks by E. — Character of Kent, with re-
marks by E. — Reasons for having spoken of him in such strong terms — A painter,
of a liberal and comprehensive mind, the best judge of his own art, and of all
that relates to it : such was Sir Joshua Reynolds— Character of his Discourses
— Nothing so contracts the mind as mere practical dexterity — Illustration from
such dexterity in music — Want of connection the great defect of modern gar-
dening — Connection the great principle of painting — Illustrated by the con-
necting particles in language — Mr. Brown, with remark by E. — Quotation from
Ariosto — Grandeur in miniature — The clump — Anecdote of Mr. Brown, when
High Sheriff — The belt — That and the avenue compared — Further remarks
on the avenue — Remarks by E. — An avenue condemned by Mr. Brown, but
saved by the owner — Distinction between beautiful and picturesque intricacy
— Impossible to plan any forms of plantations that will suit all places — Illus-
tration from the art of medicine — Remarks by E. — The usual method of thin-
ning trees for the purpose of beauty — 111 effect of breaking an avenue into clumps
—Remarks by E., 1G4-1JI8
CHAPTER XI.
Trees considered generally — Necessary accompaniments to rocks, mountains, and
to every kind of ground and water — Remarks by E. — An exception with regard
to the sea, with remark by E. — The variety and intricacy of trees — Those which
are fullest of leaves not always preferred by painters — The reasons — Plantations
made for ornament, the least suited to the painter — The established trees of the
country ought to prevail in the new plantations — Quotation by E. — Larches,
and all pointed firs, make a bad general outline ; and, as they outgrow the oak,
&c. nothing else appears — Remarks by E. — Fascinating deformity of a clump,
compared to that of a wart or excrescence on the human face — Even large plant-
ations of firs have a harsh effect, from their not harmonising with the natural
woods of the country — The necessity of a proper balance in all scenery, both in
point of form and of colour — One cause of the heaviness of fir plantations is their
closeness — Appearance of the outside of a close fir plantation — of the inside —
Different appearance in a grove of spreading pines — Fir plantation improper
for screens — A common hedge often a most effectual screen — This points out
the necessity of a mixture of thorns, hollies, and the lower growths, in all
screens ; likewise in ornamental plantations — The advantage of such a mixture,
if a plantation should be thinned after long neglect — Contrast of such a plant-
ation with a close wood of firs only — Its variety would not arise merely from a
diversity of plants — Variety in forests produced by a few species— Continual and
unvaried diversity a source and a species of monotony — Accident and neglect
the sources of variety in unimproved parks and forests — The reasons why lawns
have so little variety — Why a lawn could hardly be made to look well in a pic-
ture — Yet their peculiar character ought not to be destroyed — Verdure and
smoothness, which are the characteristic beauties of a lawn, are in their nature
allied to monotony ; but improvers, instead of trying to lessen that defect, have
added to it — Soft and smooth colours, like soft and smooth sounds, are grateful
XX
CONTENTS.
PAOK
to the mere sense — A relish for artful combinations acquired by degrees — Such
a relish does not exclude a taste for simple scenes, and simple melodies — Re-
marks by E., 189-212
CHAPTER XII.
On the general effects of water in landscape — The beauty arising from reflections —
None in Mr. Brown's made water — The turns of a beautiful natural river com-
pared with those of Mr. Brown's artificial rivers — Remarks on certain passages
of the poets, respecting the banks of rivers — None of them applicable to those of
Mr. Brown's artificial water — No professor has endeavoured to make an arti-
ficial like a natural river ; though he would be proud of having it mistaken for
one — Mr. Brown and his followers great economists of invention — Cruelty of
destroying the retired character of a brook — Regulus — Objects of reflection,
peculiarly suited to stagnant water — Remarks on the expression of a fine sheet
of water — The great piece of water at Blenheim — The dressed bank and garden
scenery ; the reason why that part is superior to the other improved parts —
Mr. Brown did not work in that part upon principle — He does not appear to
have paid any attention to the thinning of his plantations — Anecdote of a lover
of painting : two cows can never group — Character of the water below the
cascade at Blenheim — Remarks by E., 213-226
CHAPTER XIII.
General reflections on the subject of the Essay — Mr. Mason's poem as real an
attack on Mr. Brown's system as what I have written — Something of patriotism
in Mr. Mason's and Mr. Walpole's praises — Mr. Hamilton : Painshill — Precept
of Tasso ; comment upon it — Painting tends to humanise the mind — Tribute
to the memory of a near relation — Anecdote of Sir Joshua Reynolds and Wilson
— The true proser — an emblem of Mr. Brown's performances — The opposite
character — an emblem of the picturesque — He alone deserves the name of im-
prover who leaves or creates the greatest number of pictures — But the sicken-
ing display of art, and the total want of effect tempts one to reverse the line of
Tasso, 227-235
Appendix to the First Essay, 236
ESSAY ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
Preface, . 247
Arguments that might plausibly be urged in defence of Mr. Brown's made water,
and against the imitation of the banks of natural lakes and rivers — In order to
imitate them with effect, we must inquire not how such banks may have looked
when they were first created, but how they were progressively formed — Differ-
ent accidents by which natural lakes are formed — Pieces of artificial water made
by means of a head, of digging, or of both — Their form best indicated by the
water itself — How natural lakes, which originally had no varieties, may have
acquired them, and how similar varieties may be prepared by art — What would
probably be the process of an improver who wished to prepare them where the
banks were naturally uniform— The two principal changes are by removing
earth from, or by placing it upon, or against banks — the first considered — Re-
marks by E. — Remarks on digging out the soil previous to its being disposed of
— The banks of a natural river and its varieties analysed — Such an analysis re-
commended from the example of painters — Method of imitating such a bank
by the placing of the mould — And of other objects — Of the beauty of tints —
those of stone and of broken soil— All varied banks, not merely those of water,
should be studied by the painter and the improver — Reflections on foregrounds
CONTENTS.
xxi
— their general effect, and their detail — Arguments for enriching the hanks of
made water — Different characters of hanks in natural rivers considered, with
their degrees of richness and variety — Those varieties have never been attempt-
ed in made water — Reasons for thinking they might be imitated with success —
Instance of the close affinity between landscape painters and landscape gardeners
• — And between those of Mr. Brown's school and house painters — Objection to
the style I have recommended, from the danger of its producing absurdities —
That objection obviated — The combinations that might be formed by men of real
taste, with Remarks by E. — Mr. Brown's banks though tame, not simple — Reasons
for having recommended enrichment, and not simplicity — Character of simpli-
city — Supposing the country to be perfectly flat, how are the banks to be formed 1 ?
— Reflections on Mr. Brown's method in such situations — On continuity of surface
in ground, and on the separation and connection occasioned by water and its
banks — The strong attraction of water, and its influence on all around it— Its
position of great consequence in the view from the house — The banks of a bare
natural river, compared with those of Mr. Brown's — also, supposing them both
to be planted and left to grow wild — The varieties in the rich but flat banks of a
natural river examined — Remarks by E. — They all may and should be imitated
— On planting the banks of water — On artificial hillocks, and swellings of ground
— Remarks by E. — Quotation from Mr. Mason on that subject — Ditto from the
Abbe de Lille — On the forms of artificial pieces of water — Reasons for imitating
a lake rather than a river — Remarks by E. — Excellent hints may be taken from
the forms of water in gravel-pits — Effect of the proportion of objects to the size
of water — And of their disproportion — Small pools in wooded scenes — Quotation
from Mr. Mason — On the revival of tints in water — On the use of water in pic-
tures — On a picture of Titian —Many banks spoiled by raising water too high —
The effect of torrents descending into a flat — Quotation from Macchiavelli — On
islands — Those in Lake Superior — Quotation from Morse's American Geography
— The use of islands in disguising the appearance of the head — Their own
intrinsic beauty — Of forming and planting islands — The trees most proper for
islands — Remarks by E. — Caution with regard to firs, and trees of a light
green — Of water plants — Comparison between a piece of water and a lawn —
between islands, and clumps and thickets — Circular islands in the centre — On
flowing lines and curves — Insensible transitions, not lines, the cause of beauty
in landscape — The great defect of Mr. Brown's system — Distinction between a
beautiful and a picturesque river, 858-296
ESSAY ON DECORATIONS NEAR THE HOUSE.
Difficulties in treating the subject, and whence they arise — The great defect of
modern gardening an affectation of simplicity — Mr. Mason's address to Simpli-
city objected to — The characters of Richness and Simplicity in painting — Archi-
tecture, even of the simplest kind, requires the accompaniments of art —
Gardens in Italy ; their general character — Their character when kept up, and
when neglected — Vanbrugh's answer when consulted about the garden at Blen-
heim — An account of an old-fashioned garden, which I myself destroyed, and
regret — Remarks by E. — Arguments in favour of the old Italian gardens, from
the characters of the artists employed to adorn them — The principles on which
their excellence is founded — Anecdote of Lord Stair — Gravel and terrace walk
compared — The irregular enrichments of a broken bank compared with the
regular ones of an ornamented parapet— Iole in the lion's skin — The varieties in
broken ground serve as indications where to plant with effect — In a uniform
bank no motive of preference — Leonardo da Vinci— The use of a mixture of stone
b
xxii
CONTENTS.
and wood work in the foregrounds of every style of building trellises —
Remarks by E. — Toleration in gardening — that of the Romans in religion — The
introduction of Dutch gardening probably banished the Italian style — Quotation
from Pontanus — Revolution in gai'dening and politics compared — Reformation
of Knox and Brown compared — Mr. Brown most successful in gardens, not in
grounds — His merit in gravel- walks— those at Blenheim — His ridicule of zig-zag
walks — Fountains and statues—Remarks by E. — Caution with regard to statues
in gardens — General comparison of ancient and modern gardening — Symmetry,
formality, straight lines— The Italian style of gardening most suited to stately
architecture, but there are gradations in garden ornaments, as in buildings —
How a real and progressive improvement in gardening might be made — False
idea of originality — Difference between leaving old terraces, avenues, &c. and
making them— Richmond terrace— Arguments drawn from poetry, painting,
&c. in favour of heightening and embellishing common nature — The difficulties
of gardening not in executing the parts, but in combining them into a well
connected whole — Remarks by E,, 297-327
ESSAY ON ARCHITECTURE AND BUILDINGS.
My remarks will chiefly be confined to buildings as connected with scenery — Dis-
tinction between architecture in towns, and in the country — Reasons for that
distinction — An architect should be archiletto pittore — The necessity of employing
such an architect where the building is meant to accord with the scenery — Many
who think of their house and their place separately : not of the union of their
character and effect — None so likely to produce a reform on that point as archi-
tect painters — Not even landscape painters — the reason — One cause of the naked
appearance of houses, is the hiding of the offices — Advantages that might be gained
by showing them — Remarks by E. — Another cause, the change in the style of
gardening — Genius of the lamp — Bareness of abbeys and castles that have been
improved — Also of rocks — On the mixture of trees with buildings in pictures —
and in real scenes — Turkey — Holland — Objections to them stated and consid-
ered — Trees the dress of buildings — Phryne — Bareness and monotony the dis-
eases of modern improvement— The best preservative against all extremes, is a
study of the grand, beautiful, and picturesque in buildings — The sublime in
Buildings — Mr. Burke — Succession and uniformity — The sublime of intricacy
— Effects of intricacy and uniformity compared — San Pietro Martire of Titian —
Massiveness in buildings — Lightness of style in writing — Voltaire — Paestum —
Blenheim — Anecdote of Voltaire — Massivenesss in figures — Blenheim — Analogy
between rocks and buildings — Grandeur of marked divisions, as towers — Wol-
laton House and Nottingham Castle — Vanbrugh — Character of Blenheim — Re-
marts by E. — Summits of buildings — Town of Tivoli — and of Bath — Appearance
of buildings in the general view of a city — Remark on the appearance of a man-
sion with its offices — Chimnies, with Remarks by E. — Summits of buildings in pic-
tures, &c, their various characters — The beautiful in buildings — Waving lines —
Anecdote of Hogarth — Twisted columns— Temple of the Sybil ; the qualities of
beauty according to Mr. Burke applied to it — Beauty in the surface and tint of
buildings — The buildings in Mr. Locke's Claude — By what means they might
cease to be beautiful, and become simply grand and picturesque — Symmetry —
Grecian and Gothic architecture — The doctrine of insensible transitions applied to
ruins — Association of ideas, with Remark by E. — Ruins in the pictures of Claude
— Claude and Gaspar — Conjecture why Claude so often painted ruins, and Gaspar
so rarely — One great use of buildings in landscape, a resting place for the eye
— Salvator Rosa seldom painted any buildings in his landscapes — The picturesque
CONTENTS.
xxiii
in buildings — Mixed with beauty — With grandeur — Remark by E. — Ruins of
Greek and Roman buildings — Of abbeys — Of castles — Of old mansion-houses —
Of cottages, mills, &c. — Picturesque habitable buildings — Advantages of turning
the windows towards the best points of view — Remarks by E. — On bridges —
Stupendous bridge in China — Grecian and Gothic Bridges — Lightness and
Massiveness— Quotation from Milton — Columns in bridges — Blackfriars —
Wooden Bridges — Stone and wood — Picturesque bridge at Charenton — not
however an object of imitation — Anecdote of a Chinese tailor — Stone and wood
bridge in a drawing of Claude — Remarks by E. — Character of architecture and
buildings in the pictures of great historical painters of the Roman, Florentine,
and Venetian Schools — Drawing of Tintoret — Architecture of the Venetian
School ; difference of its character from the two others — The causes — Twisted
columns in one of the cartoons — Grandeur produced by two columns in a picture
of Titian — Bolognese School of painting — Pietro da Cortona — Poussin — Flemish
School — Rubens — Landscapes — Roman and Florentine Schools — Venetian —
Titian — Two landscapes of Titian, etched by Bolognese — Application of the
principle on which the buildings in them are grouped — Landscapes of Bolognese
School — Of Poussin — Magnificent view of a city in one of his pictures — Similar
views in pictures of P. Veronese and Claude — Argument drawn from them
for varying the summits — Landscape of Sebastian Bourdon — Left as a legacy to
Sir George Beaumont — Use of the Picturesque in grand subjects — Quotation
from Diderot — Abuse of it in pictures of Boucher — Landscapes of Rubens —
Dutch School — Remarks on a passage in Mr. Burke — Ostade — Wouvermans —
Teniers — Rembrandt — On slanting roofs — Villages — No scene admits of such
various and cheap embellishments — Remarks by E. — Goldsmith — Sham villages
in China — Character of a village as distinct from a town — Of village houses —
Chimnies — Accompaniment of trees — Of climbing plants— Fruit trees — Neat-
ness pleasing, though with formality, as in clipped hedges — Churches and
church-yards — The forms and ornaments of churches — The tower, battlements,
pinnacles — Quotation from Milton — The spire — Trees in church-yards — Water
— A brook most in character with a village — Simple foot bridge — Stones placed
on each other for the purpose of washing — Picturesque circumstances they give
rise to — Remarks on Pope's translation of a passage in Homer — Tendency of
the love of painting towards benevolence — Gainsborough — Sir Joshua Reynolds
— How far a judgment in architecture may be acquired by the study of pictures
— Conclusion — Remarks by E., 908-409
Letter to Uvedale Price, Esq., 410
Letter to H. Repton, Esq. — Reason for answering Mr. Repton's Letter so much
in detail — As Mr. R. agrees with him in the general principles of improvement}
the difference between them is with regard to the propriety or possibility of
reducing them to practice — The trial as yet has never fairly been made — Mr. R.'s
principal aim throughout his Letter, is to show, that by a study of painting only,
wild ideas are acquired — Such a general notion not authorised by the works of
painters — Exemplified in those of Claude and N. Poussin — In giving the title of
" The New system of Improvement, by Neglect and Accident," Mr. R. has tried
to ridicule his own practice — The utility of that practice and method of study
discussed — Illustrated by a passage from Helvetius — Its effect in gardening —
Not attended to by Mr. Brown, and one chief cause of his defects — It is a
method of study very generally pursued by painters in their study of nature,
but not by improvers — Mr. R. however had pursued it, according to his own
account — Mr. P. had taken the liberty of recommending, in addition to it, the
study of the higher artists ; but is glad to hear Mr. R. had anticipated his ad-
xxiv
CONTENTS.
vice, and that he acknowledges it to be a study essential to the profession — In
their party down the Wye, Mr. R. treated lightly the idea of taking hints from
a natural river, towards forming an artificial one — He had found by practical
experience that there is less affinity between painting and gardening, than his
enthusiasm for the picturesque made him originally fancy — The principal aim
of Mr. R. is to weaken that affinity ; but his own method of proceeding proves
the closeness of it — That method discussed, and compared with the painter's —
In all this, convenience and propriety are not the objects of consideration,
though not to be neglected — The best landscape painters would be the best
landscape gardeners, were they to turn their minds to the practical part ; con-
sequently, a study of their works the most useful study to an improver — Mr. R.
has endeavoured to confine his reader's ideas to mere garden scenes, and to
persuade them that Mr. P. wishes that every thing should be sacrificed to pictu-
resque effect — That notion refuted by references to the Essay on the Picturesque
— Mr. R.'s illustration of a garden scene, by a didactic poem, examined— Also his
query, whether the painter's landscape is indispensable to gardening ? — as like-
wise the meaning of both those terms — Instead of the painter's landscape, Mr. R.
ought, in candour, to have put a study of the principles of painting — All painting
not rough— instances of too great smoothness — Such a painter as Van Huysum
would be a much better judge of the merits and defects of the most dressed scene
— of a mere flower-garden — than a gardener ; and, from the general principles
of the art, his judgment and that of the wildest painter — even of S. Rosa —
would probably agree — The more the scene was extended, the more it would
belong to the painter, and the less to the gardener — Mr. R. has addressed him-
self to the fears of his employers, and alarmed them for their health in pictu-
resque scenes — Dirt and rubbish not picturesque, as such — Many pleasing scenes
which cannot be painted — That notion, and the argument Mr. R. has drawn
from it, examined — Mr. P. had been warned, that the Brownists in general
would take advantage of his distinction, and give up the picturesque, and keep
to beauty only ; the advantage it would be of to him, should they do so ; his
surprise and regret that Mr. R. should have done what nearly amounts to it —
Before he says anything further on the use of the picturesque in landscape
gardening, Mr. P. wishes three points to be considered : 1st the distinct charac-
ter of the picturesque — 2dly, The vague meaning of the term gardening — And
3dly, The general mixture of the picturesque with the beautiful — Mr. R. has
always chosen to consider the picturesque in its roughest state, but has avoided
any allusion to picturesque scenery — He therefore transfers the picturesque to
gipseys, &c, not to cascades and forest scenes — Mr. R.'s criticism of Mr. P.'s
observation, on the effect of deer in groups, examined — The justness of that
observation defended, by the pictures of Claude and Berchem — The picturesque
applied to landscape gardening — Picturesque parts in the most simply beautiful
rivers — Those parts must be destroyed or concealed, if the picturesque be re-
nounced — Beauty no more the immediate result of smoothness, &c, than pictu-
resqueness is of roughness, &c. — Should Mr. R. allow of a mixture of roughness
in his idea of beauty, it is no longer unmixed, no longer separate from the pictu-
resque ; and in that case, all he has said about renouncing the latter has no
object — Proposed alteration at Powis Castle, by a professed improver — That
instance shows the danger of trying to ridicule the study of painting, and
of the picturesque — The diffidence which Mr. R. showed in consulting Mr.
Knight about the improvements at Ferney Hall, first gave Mr. P. a desire of
being acquainted with him — The character he had heard of his drawings added
to that desire — The improver not less in danger of becoming a mannerist than
the painter — Kent an example of it— Mr. P. did not intend to call in question
CONTENTS.
XXV
the respectability of Mr. R.'s profession ; but, on the contrary, to give it a respec-
tability it hitherto had not deserved — Parallel drawn by Mr. R. between the
painter's studies of wild nature, and the uncontrolled opinions of savages —
By wild nature, he probably means simple nature unimproved by art — How far
such wild nature, when arranged by the painter, may accord with dressed
scenery — Many scenes in unimproved nature highly beautiful in the strictest
sense, and which are of course produced by accident, not design, with Remark
by E Mr. R.'s parallel between modern gardening and the English constitution
— A more apt and instructive one might have been drawn between it and the
art of painting — Mr. R.'s defence of the detail of Mr. Brown's practice — the
clump — Mr. Brown studied distinctness, not connection — Connection the lead-
ing principle of the art, and the most flagrantly and systematically violated —
The two principal defects in the composition of landscapes, that of objects
being too crowded or too scattered — Mr. R.'s condemnation of single trees in
heavy fences very just — The ground must be prepared, fenced, and planted
too thick at first — Remedies proposed for the defects which that method,
though the best, will occasion — The belt — Causes assigned for its introduction
and continuance — Nothing so convienent as to work by general receipts, such
as clumps, belts, &c. — The belt a gigantic hedge — difference between that and
the accidental screens to old parks — Those are true objects of imitation to the
landscape gardeners— Mr. R.'s improved belt not properly a belt; certainly
not Mr. Brown's, &c. — Even that improved belt shown to be tedious from his
own account — Mr. P.'s recommendation to gentlemen to become their own
landscape gardeners, not likely to injure the profession, and still less the art —
No art more adapted to men of liberal education who have places in the country —
Its practice not difficult — Less danger in quacking one's self, than in trusting to
a bold empiric — Parallel between the education of a physician, and of a land-
scape gardener — The most perverse and ignorant improver of his own place,
will seldom do such extensive mischief as is produced by the regular system of
clearing and levelling — Allusion to the system of torture in the inquisition, com-
pared with the cruelty of savages — No plan, or medicine, proper in almost every
case— neither Brown's plan nor James's Powder — Prospects — Remarks by E. —
Why prospects in general are not proper subjects for painting — The same causes
equally operate on all views — Prospects are to be judged of, like any other views,
on the principles of painting — Remarks by E. — But however exquisitely painted,
will not have the effect of those in nature — They are not real, and therefore do
not excite the curiosity which reality excites — This accounts for what Mr. R.
relates of the visitors at Matlock — Mr. P. had called the two arts sisters, but
has no objection to adopting Mr. R.'s idea and calling them husband and wife —
Mr. R.'s illustration of the habit of admiring fine pictures and bold scenery, by
that of chewing of tobacco — In the same manner that Mr. R. has represented
Mr. P. as liking nothing but what is rough and picturesque, a wrong-headed
friend of Mr. Gilpin's might very plausibly represent him as loving nothing but
smoothness — Mr. R.'s examples of subjects he supposes Mr. P. to despise, because
they are incapable of being painted — They all mug be painted — Except the im-
mediate descent down a steep hill — That deficiency of the art, and the argu-
ment drawn from it, considered — Recapitulation of the contents and the design
of Mr. R.'s Letter — Remarks on the general, and on the confined, sense of the
term beautiful— Illustrated by that of virtue— A picturesque scene without any
mixture of the beautiful, contrasted with a beautiful scene, unmixed with
any thing picturesque — Effect of the different characters of light and shadow on
these two scenes — Effect of mixing the characters of the two scenes — Effect of
Mr. Brown's style of improvement on both — In what points the design of the
xxvi
CONTENTS.
PAGK
Essay on the Picturesque has been misconceived — On gravel-walks and paths
—The effect of distinct cutting lines, illustrated by a remark of A. Caracci, on
Raphael and Correggio — Gravel-walks accord more with beautiful than with
picturesque scenes — On by-roads in a dry soil, as objects of imitation at some
distance from the house — Remarks by E. — On the different effects of the scythe,
and of the bite of sheep — How banks in pleasure-grounds might be made to have
the play of wild, and the polish of dressed nature — On distinct lines, when ap-
plied to the banks of water — Effect of distinctness in the lines of gravel-walks,
and in the banks of water, considered — The picturesque and the beautiful as
separate as their respective qualities— but the art of improving depends not on
their constant separation, but on their proper mixture — still more on the higher
principles of union, connection, &c. — Controversy compared with the ancient
tournaments — The effects of connection in a more important sphere — Remarks
on Mr. Mason's expression of Silvan grace, 417-472
DIALOGUE ON THE DISTINCT CHARACTERS OF THE PICTURESQUE
AND BEAUTIFUL.
Introductory Essay,
Preface,
Note to the Second Edition of the Landscape,
Dialogue on the Picturesque and Beautiful,
Appendix to Dialogue, &c, ....
Notes and Illustrations, ....
475
498
500
505
549
557
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
The subject of Sir Uvedale Price's Essays appears to me capable of
being considered under two different views — that popular view winch
contents itself with the mere observation and enumeration of the objects
of the material world, or their combinations, which are most generally
capable of exciting in us emotions of beauty, of sublimity, or of the
picturesque — and that deeper and more philosophical view, which in-
volves the enquiry into the manner in which the human mind is affected
by such objects. Price has in a great degree contented himself with
the first of these views — and indeed when he lias ventured beyond
its limits, he has shewn indications of a disposition to be misled into
that wide and pathless wilderness of error, in which all those who
had previously written upon the subject were lost. The exquisite
and highly cultivated taste which he displays however, and the nice
discrimination which he exhibits in that range within which he confines
himself, and in which the great majority of his readers are naturally
most interested, has uniformly excited the admiration of all who have
perused his Essays, and as they will be found to contain much, if not
all that is requisite for the promotion of Landscape Gardening upon
the best principles, the circumstance of his leaving untouched the deeper
question — upon what philosophical grounds these principles really
are the best — does not render his observations the less useful, in a
practical point of view. At the same time, I am disposed to believe,
that it will not be thought his work is rendered less valuable, or the
beauty of the pictures he so liberally spreads abroad in it less enjoyable,
if I should venture to devote a few preliminary pages to an exposition
2
ON THE ORIGIN OP TASTE.
of that which is now held to he the true Theory of the process hy
which the human mind is affected hy emotions of beauty, of sublimity,
or of the picturesque — terms, which I am quite disposed to admit to
he in themselves extremely convenient, as popular classifications of those
pleasing emotions which we derive from the objects of the material
world, but which, in the strictly philosophical view of the question, must
be viewed as substantially the same, since they are found to owe their
creation to the same origin, and operation of mind.
The great error into which most of those who have treated of the
subject of Taste have fallen, is that arising from the belief that there
exists in material objects, certain inherent and invariable qualities of
beauty, of sublimity, or of picturesqueness, and this, in many instances, in
such a manner, as would have implied the existence of a peculiar sense or
faculty, for the perception of them. Now, it is obvious, that if this really
were the case, all men of perfect organization would be affected by the
same objects, with precisely the same sensations, just as all mankind
who have perfect organs, are similarly affected with the opposite sen-
sations of light and darkness, of heat and cold, of sweetness and bitter-
ness, or of those produced by the antagonist hues of black and white.
But we know that men's opinions are so far from being uniform with
regard to matters of taste, that the same object which produces one
kind of emotion in one individual, will often produce an emotion of a
very different sort in another ; that an object which in one man produces
a strong emotion, may produce no emotion at all in another. Nay more,
that the very same object which deeply affects an individual in one way
at one time, will affect him as strongly in a totally different or opposite
manner at another, while at some other period it will produce no effect
upon him at all. As it was found impossible to reconcile these facts
with any theory which assigned to objects inherent and unchangeable
qualities of beauty, of sublimity, or of picturesqueness, philosophers began
to look into the mind itself for the generation and production of these
emotions.
In the history of this question, it is a circumstance somewhat remark-
able, that the writings of Plato exhibit some faint indications of the im-
portant truth, that in the perception of beauty, the mind of man only con-
templates those pictures which its own affections have created. But
from the days of Plato downwards, nearly to our own times, nothing exists
to show that any writer had been fully enlightened on this subject. The
opinions of St. Augustin, Crouzas, Andre, Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, and
Gerard, were all visionary, and many of them wild — and even that
of Burke himself, will not be found to be such as to entitle it to
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
3
exemption from these imputations. When duly considered, Burke's
Theory may be resolved into this, that all objects appear beautiful,
which have the power of producing a particular relaxation of our nerves
and fibres, and which thus induce a certain bodily languor and sinking.
But although the eloquence of the author of the Treatise of the Sub-
lime and Beautiful, has given a charm to that work, which must always
cause it to be read with intense pleasure, and although it is full of the
most beautiful and striking remarks, yet its principle has been funda-
mentally abandoned by all, with the exception, perhaps, of Price him-
self, in whose writings somewhat of the spirit of Burke's theory may
be detected under a new character. After Burke came Diderot, and
Pere Buffier, whose theories were also untenable. Then a whole troop
of authors entered the lists, to tilt in a sort of chance-medley combat,
in which each preux chevalier fought for himself independently, and
exchanged thrusts with all the other combatants in succession. No
two individuals were engaged who had not some point of opinion to
dispute, while each seemed to have adopted for himself some favourite
theory which he believed to be infallible. But although even the errors
of these authors had some foundation in truth, that truth was so im-
perfect in itself, as to be quite tantamount to error. Their various
theories, which, according to their several opinions, made beauty to con-
sist in utility, proportion, relation, curved lines, smoothness, minuteness,
delicacy, fragility, regularity, moderate variety, and other properties be-
longing essentially to objects, when tested were proved to be utterly
fallacious as general principles, and therefore unsatisfactory. Each of
the controvertists found it an easier matter to disprove the universality
of application of the different theories of his various opponents, than to
establish that of his own.
Thus it was that the mere surface of the question continued to be
for some time agitated by controversy, without any nearer approach to
truth, till a later race of enquirers arose, who, by going deeper in their
researches into the operations of the human mind, and into the modes
in which it is affected by the objects of the material world, began to ex-
plain and to reconcile the difficulties, and seeming incongruities that
appeared among the various doctrines of former disputants. This was
done by showing, that all of them had erred in seeking for any inherent
qualities in objects, capable of being established as the sole, invariable,
and direct productive causes of beauty, of sublimity, or of the pic-
turesque — and by teaching us that our minds are affected by such im-
pressions entirely from the influence of certain associations, the filaments
of which are frequently so fine, as to be in themselves imperceptible,
4
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
and the original germs from which they spring often so deeply seated as to
he indiscoverablc, although, in other, and perhaps in most instances, a
patient and industrious investigation may enable us to trace them satis-
factorily — or in other words, our minds obey the power of these asso-
ciations, hy giving birth to the emotions which they naturally excite, and
this even in many instances where the original cause of association may
be forgotten, or extremely difficult to discover.
Mr. Alison's essays on the Principles of Taste, first published in 1 790,
afforded the earliest complete promulgation of the Theory of Association.
He was followed by Knight, and Professors Dugald Stewart and Thomas
Brown. But as Lord Jeffrey's eloquent and perspicuous article in the
Encyclopaedia Britannica is the last treatise on the subject of which I have
any knowledge, and as he there prunes some of the redundancies of Alison,
which are not only not essential to the theory itself, but which perhaps
rather weaken than add to its strength, I shall avail myself of his ob-
servations, along with those of Mr. Alison, to aid me in the following
attempt to explain and expose it in its most perfect form.
Mr. Alison tells us in his introduction, that the qualities that produce
in the mind the emotions of sublimity and beauty, are to be found in
almost every class of the objects of human observation, while the emotions
themselves afford one of the most extensive sources of human delight.
They occur to us amid every variety of external scenery, and among
many diversities of disposition and affection in the mind of man. The
merely pleasing arts of human invention are altogether directed to their
production ; and even the utilitarian arts are exalted into dignity by the
genius that can unite beauty with use. These qualities, however,
though so important to human happiness, are not the objects of imme-
diate observation ; and in the attempt to investigate them, various circum-
stances unite to perplex our research. They are not unfrequently obscured
under the number of qualities with which they are accidentally com-
bined. They result often from peculiar combinations of the qualities of
objects, or the relations of certain parts of objects to each other. They
are still oftener dependent upon the state of our minds, so as to vary in
their effects with the dispositions in which they happen to be observed
by us.
In order to discover the causes which produce these emotions, we
must first investigate the nature of the qualities themselves, and secondly,
that of the faculty by which the emotions are received. Mr. Alison
very justly remarks, that such investigations are of value much beyond
the mere gratification of philosophical curiosity, for whatever the science
of criticism can afford for the improvement or correction of taste, must
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
5
altogether depend upon the previous knowledge of the laws of this
faculty, and, without a just and accurate conception of the nature of
these qualities, the artist must be unable to determine whether the
beauty he creates is of a temporary or permanent nature — that is to say,
whether it be merely adapted to the accidental prejudices prevalent in
his own age, or whether it be fitted to command that more permanent
approbation, which must always arise, in any age, from the uniform con-
stitution of the human mind. I beg the reader to observe, that this
observation applies to nothing more strongly than to the art of Landscape
Gardening.
The fundamental point of Mr. Alison's theory is, that all the beauty
of material objects depends on the associations that may have connected
them with the ordinary affections or emotions of our nature. In other
words, the beauty which we impute to such objects is nothing more than
the reflection of our own inward emotions. The object presented to our
eyes is associated either with pleasures, or pleasing emotions of our past
life, or by some universal analogy with some such pleasing emotions,
these are immediately suggested and renewed the moment the object
is seen by us. I say immediately suggested, because, in my mind,
it is plain that the emotions excited by these associations are in-
stantaneously suggested ; that is to say, they are suggested at the very
instant that the object is observed by us, or at the very first glimpse
we have of its appearance; for it is this immediate connection and in-
stantaneous effect produced between the objects and the mind, which
makes it so difficult for superficial enquirers to conceive that the j>/iy si cal
properties of the object are not the direct cause of our sensations, and, con-
sequently, the natural belief arises, that these physical properties are
endowed with absolute and intrinsic qualities of beauty. If, then, the
object presented to us be not altogether indifferent to us, we are at once
enabled to pronounce it to -be beautiful, or the reverse of beautiful,
because, in the one case, it immediately suggests to us an association
with some pleasing emotion of our past experience which it instan-
taneously recals, whilst, in the other, it with equal promptitude sug-
gests an association with emotions of an unpleasing nature. But Mr.
Alison is not contented to admit that an association calculated to excite
such pleasing emotions within us, may be a sufficient cause of our being
apparently conscious of perceptions of beauty in the objects of the
material world. He conceives that this our sense of beautv consists, not
merely in the suggestion of such ideas of pleasing emotion, but in the
contemplation of a connected series of such ideas ; nay, lie seems to
hold it to be essential to the production of a full perception of beauty,
6
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
that the mind should be borne away into a half active and half passive
state of dreamy imagination, in which it may generate trains of thought
allied to the character and expression of the object. Now, I think that
after the object presented to us has excited its associated emotions of
beauty, such dreamy trains of thought may be very likely to arise,
especially in a mind of strong sensibility, rich imagination, and great
reflective habits, such as that of Mr. Alison himself, and that more
particularly in moments of peculiar quiet and leisure ; and I am also
prepared to admit that the primary emotion of beauty may be thereby
very much expanded or multiplied, so as to increase the delight of the
individual in a corresponding degree. But I must agree with Lord
Jeffrey, that not only are such trains of thought not essential, but that
such a view of the question might very much endanger the evidence
as well as the consistency of the general doctrine. To use his lordship's
own words — " In the long train of interesting meditations to which Mr.
Alison refers, in the delightful reveries in which he would make the
sense of beauty consist, it is obvious that we must soon lose sight of the
external object which gave the first impulse to our thoughts, and though
we may afterwards reflect upon it with increased interest and gratitude,
as the parent of so many charming images, it is impossible, we conceive,
that the perception of its beauty can ever depend upon a long series of
various and shifting emotions." Feeling, as I do, the full force of this
observation, I am disposed to think that Mr. Alison's error may be
accounted for by the fact, that his own highly poetical and imaginative
mind must have been so prone to yield to those delightful reveries of
which he makes so much account, as to have led him to overlook
the full influence of the primary emotions of beauty by which they
were generated ; be this as it may, however, this idea of the necessity of
imaginative reveries for the production of beauty and sublimity, is so
interwoven with the beginning of his work, as to lead me, in the first
place, rather to apply to the text of Lord Jeffrey as the safest guide to
a correct view of the Theory of Association.
" The basis of this theory is, that the beauty which we impute to
outward objects is nothing more than the reflection of our own inward
emotions, and it is made up entirely of certain little portions of love,
pity, and affection, which have been connected with these objects, and
still adhere, as it were, to them, and move us anew whenever they are
presented to our observation. Before proceeding to bring any proof of
the truth of this proposition, there are two things which it may be
proper to explain a little more distinctly ; — -first, what are the primary
affections, by the suggestion of which we think the sense of beauty k
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
7
produced ? and secondly, what is the nature of the connexion by which
we suppose that the objects we call beautiful are enabled to suggest
these affections ?
u With regard to the first of these points, it fortunately is not neces-
sary either to enter into any tedious details, or to have recourse to any
nice distinctions. All sensations that are not absolutely indifferent, and
are, at the same time, either agreeable when experienced by ourselves,
or attractive when contemplated in others, may form the foundation of
the emotions of sublimity or beauty. The love of sensation seems to be
the ruling appetite of human nature, and many sensations, in which the
painful seems to bear no little share, arc consequently sought for with
avidity, and recollected with interest, even in our own persons. In the
persons of others, emotions still more painful are contemplated with
eagerness and delight ; and, therefore, we must not be surprised to find,
that many of the pleasing sensations of beauty or sublimity resolve them-
selves ultimately into recollections of feelings that may appear to have a
very opposite character. The sum of the whole is, that every feeling
which it is agreeable to experience, to recal, or to witness, may become
the source of beauty in external objects, when it is so connected with
them as that their appearance reminds us of that feeling. Now, in real
life, and from daily experience and observation, we know that it is
agreeable, in the first place, to recollect our own pleasurable sensations,
or to be able to form a lively conception of the pleasures of other men,
or even of sentient beings of any description. We know, likewise,
from the same sure authority, that there is a certain delight in the
remembrance of our past, or the conception of our future emotions, even
though attended with great pain, provided they be not forced too rudely
on the mind, and be softened by the accompaniment of any milder feel-
ing. And, finally, we know, in the same manner, that the spectacle
or conception of the emotions of others, even when in a high degree
painful, is extremely interesting and attractive, and draws us away, not
only from the consideration of indifferent objects, but even from tlie
pursuit of light or frivolous enjoyments. All these arc plain find familiar
facts, of the existence of which, however they may be explained, no
one can entertain the slightest doubt, and into which, therefore, we shall
have made no inconsiderable progress, if we can resolve the more
mysterious fact of the emotions we receive from the contemplation of
sublimity or beauty.
"Our proposition, then, is, that these emotions are not original emo-
tions, nor produced directly by any qualities in the objects which excite
them, but are the reflections or images of the more radical and familiar
8
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
emotions to which we have already alluded, and are occasioned, not by
any inherent virtue in the objects before us, but by the accidents, if we
may so express ourselves, by which these may have been enabled to
suggest or recal to us our own past sensations or sympathies. We might
almost venture, indeed, to lay it down as an axiom, that, except in the
plain and palpable case of bodily pain or pleasure, we can never be
interested in any thing but the fortunes of sentient beings, and that every
thing partaking of the nature of mental emotion must have for its object
the feelings, past, present, or possible, of something capable of sensation.
Independently, therefore, of all evidence, and without the help of any
explanation, we should have been apt to conclude that the emotions
of beauty and sublimity must have for their objects the sufferings or
enjoyments of sentient beings, and to reject, as intrinsically absurd and
incredible, the supposition, that material objects, which obviously do
neither hurt nor delight the body, should yet excite, by their mere
physical qualities, the very powerful emotions which are sometimes
excited by the spectacle of beauty.
" Of the feelings, by their connexion with which external objects be-
come beautiful, we do not think it necessary to speak more minutely,
and, therefore, it only remains, under this preliminary view of the sub-
ject, to explain the nature of that connexion by which we conceive this
effect to be produced. Here, also, there is but little need for minuteness
or fulness of enumeration. Almost every tie by which two objects can
be bound together in the imagination, in such a manner that the pre-
sentiment of the one shall recal the memory of the other, or, in other
words, almost every possible relation which can subsist between such
objects, may serve to connect the things we call sublime or beautiful
with feelings that are interesting or delightful. It may be useful, how-
ever, to class these bonds of association between mind and matter in a
rude and general way.
" It appears to us then, that objects are sublime or beautiful, first,
When they are the natural signs and perpetual concomitants of pleasur-
able sensations, or at any rate, of some lively feeling or emotion in our-
selves, or in some other sentient beings ; or secondly, When they are
the arbitrary or accidental concomitants of such feelings; or thirdly,
When they bear some analogy or fancied resemblance to things with
which these emotions are necessarily connected."
As examples of the first of these classes of association between matter
and mind, Lord Jeffrey instances those associations where the object is
necessarily and universally connected with the feeling by the law of
nature, so that it is always presented to the senses when the feeling is
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
9
presented to the mind ; as the sight or the sound of laughter, with the
feeling of gaiety ; of weeping, with distress ; of the sound of thunder,
with ideas of danger and power ; of a young and beautiful woman, as
viewed by the pure and unenvying eye of one of her own sex, with
youth and health, innocence, gaiety, sensibility, intelligence, delicacy or
vivacity ; of a cultivated landscape, with the happiness of man ; of wild
mountain scenery, with his romance ; of the season of spring, with the
renovation of life ; of childhood, with innocence. The following charm-
ing picture, illustrative of the manner in which we are affected by the
beauty of landscape, is too applicable to the subject of the present work,
to allow me to pass it over without doing justice to it in his Lordship's
own words :
" It is easy enough to understand how the sight of a picture or
statue should affect us nearly in the same way as the sight of the origi-
nal ; nor is it much more difficult to conceive, how the sight of a cottage
should give us something of the same feeling as the sight of a peasant's
family, and the aspect of a town raise many of the same ideas as the ap-
pearance of a multitude of persons. We may begin therefore with an
example a little more complicated. Take, for instance, the case of a
common English landscape; green meadows with fat cattle; canals or
navigable rivers ; well fenced, well cultivated fields ; neat, clean, scat-
tered cottages ; humble antique church, with churchyard elms, and
crossing hedge-rows, all seen under bright skies, and in good weather :
there is much beauty, as every one will acknowledge, in such a scene.
But in what does the beauty consist ? Not certainly in the mere mixture
of colours and forms ; for colours more pleasing, and lines more graceful,
(according to any theory of grace that may be preferred,) might be
spread upon a board or a painter's pallet, without engaging the eye to a
second glance, or raising the least emotion in the mind ; but in the pic-
ture of human happiness that is presented to our imaginations and affec-
tions, — and in the visible and unequivocal signs of comfort ; and cheerful
and peaceful enjoyment, — and of that secure and successful industry
that insures its continuance, — and of the piety by which it is exalted, —
and of the simplicity by which it is contrasted with the guilt and the
fever of a city life, — in the images of health and temperance and plenty
which it exhibits to every eye, — and in the glimpses which it affords to
warmer imaginations, of those primitive or fabulous times, when man was
uncorrupted by luxury and ambition, and of those humble retreats in
which we still delight to imagine that love and philosophy may find an
unpolluted asylum. At all events, however, it is human feeli ng that ex-
cites our sympathy, and forms the object of our emotions. It is matt,
10 ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
and man alone, that we see in the beauties of the earth which he in-
habits ; — or, if a more sensitive and extended sympathy connect us with
the lower families of animated nature, and make us rejoice with the
lambs that bleat on the uplands, or the cattle that ruminate in the valley,
or even with the living plants that drink the bright sun and the balmy
air beside them, it is still the idea of enjoyment — of feelings that animate
sentient beings — that calls forth all our emotions, and is the parent of
all the beauty with which we proceed to invest the inanimate creation
around us.
" Instead of this quiet and tame English landscape, let us take a Welsh
or a Highland scene, and see whether its beauties will admit of being
explained on the same principle. Here we shall have lofty mountains,
and rocky and lonely recesses, — tufted woods hung over precipices, —
lakes intersected with castled promontories, — ample solitudes of un-
ploughed and untrodden valleys, — nameless and gigantic ruins, — and
mountain echoes repeating the scream of the eagle and the roar of the
cataract. This too is beautiful ; and, to those who can interpret the
language it speaks, far more beautiful than the prosperous scene with
which we have contrasted it. Yet, lonely as it is, it is to the recollec-
tion of man and of human feelings that its beauty also is owing. The
mere forms and colours that compose its visible appearance, are no more
capable of exciting any emotion in the mind, than the forms and colours
of a Turkey carpet. It is sympathy with the present or the past, or the
imaginary inhabitants of such a region, that alone gives it either interest
or beauty ; and the delight of those who behold it, will always be found
to be in exact proportion to the force of their imaginations, and the
warmth of their social affections. The leading impressions here, are those
of romantic seclusion and primeval simplicity ; lovers sequestered in these
blissful solitudes, ' from towns and toils remote;' and rustic poets and
philosophers communing with nature, at a distance from the low pursuits
and selfish malignity of ordinary mortals ; — then there is the sublime
impression of the Mighty Power which piled the massive cliffs upon one
another, and rent the mountains asunder, and scattered their giant
fragments at their base, — and all the images connected with the monu-
ments of ancient magnificence and extinguished hostility — the feuds,
and the combats, and the triumphs of its wild and primitive inhabitants,
contrasted with the stillness and desolation of the scenes where they lie
interred, — and the romantic ideas attached to their ancient traditions
and the peculiarities of their present life, — their wild and enthusiastic
poetry, — their gloomy superstitions, — their attachment to their chiefs, —
the dangers, and the hardships, and enjoyments of their lonely huntings
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
11
and fishings, — their pastoral shielings on the mountains in summer, —
and the tales and the sports that amuse the little groups that are frozen
into their vast and trackless valleys in winter. Add to this the traces of
vast and obscure antiquity that are impressed on the language and habits
of the people, and on the cliffs, and caves, and gulfv torrents of the
land, — and the solemn and touching reflection perpetually recurring, of
the weakness and insignificance of perishable man, whose generations
thus pass away into oblivion, with all their toils and ambition, while
nature holds on her unvarying course, and pours out her streams, and
renews her forests, with undecaying activity, regardless of the fate of
her proud and perishable sovereign."
Of the second class of associations, those in which the external object
is not the natural and necessary, but only the occasional or accidental
concomitant of the emotion which it recalls, Lord Jeffrey brings forward
instances where the perception of beauty is not universal, but entirely
dependant on the opportunities which each individual has had to asso-
ciate ideas of emotion with the object to which it is ascribed. Take for
example the instance of the beauty of woman — how different and incon-
sistent are the standards fixed for it in Africa, in Asia, and in Europe ; in
Tartary and in Greece ; in Lapland, Patagonia, and Circassia. The same
national difference and opposition of taste occurs regarding landscape,
architecture, dress, and indeed every external object, so that the remark is
most natural, and the conclusion irresistible, that if there really were any
thing absolutely or intrinsically beautiful in any of the forms thus distin-
guished, it is inconceivable that men should differ so widely in their con-
ceptions of it, and if beauty were a real and independent quality, it is
impossible that it should be distinctly and clearly felt by one class of
persons, where another, altogether as sensitive, can see nothing but its
opposite — and if it were actually and inseparably attached to certain
forms, colours, or proportions, it must appear utterly inexplicable, that
it should be felt and perceived, in the most opposite forms and propor-
tions, in objects of the same description. A similar difference of taste
is to be found in individuals as well as in nations, and necessarily, in an
infinitely greater variety.
The third class of associations, is that which external objects may
have with our internal feelings, and the power they may have in suggest-
ing them, in consequence of a sort of resemblance or analoqy which they
seem to have to their natural and appropriate objects. The language
of poetry is founded upon this analogy — all language is full of it — and
numerous examples of it will exhibit themselves among those illustrations
12
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
of the theory which I shall have occasion to give in the course of my
farther and more detailed exposition.
Although Mr. Alison seems to consider that the actual character of
beauty or of sublimity never can be fully developed except when a chain
of reverie is produced, yet the necessity of such a chain being always
preceded by a primary and originating simple emotion, is fully ad-
mitted by him. He asserts that no objects or qualities of objects can
be felt to be beautiful or sublime, but such as are productive of some
simple emotion ; and that whenever we would explain the beauty or
sublimity of any object, we uniformly proceed to point out the interest-
ing or affecting quality in it which is fitted to produce this simple emo-
tion. It is not only impossible for us to imagine an object of taste that
is not a cause of emotion, but it is impossible to describe any such object
without resting the description on that quality. " Every man," says Mr.
Alison, " has had reason to observe a difference in his sentiments with
regard to the beauty of particular objects from those of other people,
either in his considering certain objects as beautiful which did not appear
so to them, or in their considering certain objects as beautiful which did
not appear so to him. There is no instance of this more common than
in the case of airs in music. In the first case of such a difference of
opinion, we generally endeavour to recollect whether there is not some
accidental association of pleasure which we have with such objects, and
which affords us that delight which other people do not share ; and it
not unfrequently happens that we assign such associations as the cause
of our pleasure, and as an apology for differing with them in opinion.
In the other case, we generally take it for granted that they who feel a
beauty where we do not, have some pleasing association with the object
in question, of which we are unconscious, and which is accordingly pro-
ductive to them of that delight in which we are unable to share. In
both cases, though we may not discover what the particular association
is, we do not fail to suppose that some such association exists which is
the foundation of the sentiment of beauty, and to consider this difference
of opinion as sufficiently accounted for on such a supposition. This very
natural kind of reasoning could not take place if we did not find, from
experience, that those objects only are productive of the sentiment of
beauty, which are capable of exciting emotion."
Just so it is that our tastes change from infancy to manhood. It is
only when we reach this mature state, that our taste, aided by edu-
cation, much observation, and perhaps, too, by travel, becomes stored
with so extensive a range of associations, as to enable us to discover and
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
IB
to relish every species of beauty and sublimity, and skilfully to select and
prefer those of highest poetical influence. And to render this state the
more complete, the individual must not have been chained down to any
one narrowing habit of thought, either professional or otherwise ; for
where large opportunities of emancipating the mind from such trammels
have not been enjoyed, the taste will always be allied to the occupation ;
and, therefore, it is chiefly in the higher stations, and more liberal profes-
sions, that delicate and coirect tastes are to be found. Original character,
or a tendency to particular emotions, has a potent effect. To quote Mr.
Alison's words : — " There are men, for instance, who, in all the varie-
ties of external nature, find nothing beautiful, but as it tends to awaken
in them a sentiment of sadness, who meet the return of spring with
minds only prophetic of its decay, and who follow the decline of autumn
with no other remembrance than that the beauties of the year are gone.
There are men, on the contrary, to whom every appearance of nature is
beautiful, as awakening a sentiment of gaiety, to whom spring and
autumn alike are welcome, because they bring to them only different
images of joy ; and who, even in the most desolate and wintry scenes,
are yet able to discover something in which their hearts may rejoice.
It is not surely that nature herself is different, that effects so different
are produced upon the imaginations of these men ; but it is because the
original constitution of their minds has led them to different habits of
emotion ; because their imaginations seize only those expressions in
nature which are allied to their prevailing dispositions ; and because
every other appearance is indifferent to them but those which fall in
with the peculiar sensibility of their hearts. The gaiety of nature is
alone beautiful to the cheerful man ; its melancholy to the man of sad-
ness, because these alone are the qualities which accord with the emo-
tions they are accustomed to cherish, and in which their imaginations
delight to indulge." Just so, are different minds affected by the gay or
the grave in poetry. Just so, when gay or when melancholy, we are
affected with pain by the very same things that gave us pleasure when
we were in an opposite state ; and there are moments when some secret
spell of listlessness hangs over our minds, so as utterly to prevent us
from reaping any enjoyment at all from our favourite airs, books, or
landscapes, or indeed from any thing pleasing within our reach. The
most glorious spectacles of nature, such as those of sunrise or sunset, will
affect the same individual in a greater or lesser degree, or it may be not at
all, precisely as his imagination may or may not be in a state for the enter-
tainment of those emotions which they arc capable of exciting, whilst
under a favourable state of the imagination, the most unpromising objects
14
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
may afford us delight. I have elsewhere illustrated this fact, by quoting
at full length that beautiful little poetical tale by Mr. Crabbe, called " The
Lover s Journey." Here I shall content myself witb shortly noticing
that the poet describes a youth mounting his steed gaily in a fine summer
morning, to ride to a neighbouring town, and meet by appointment the
lady of his love. He travels over a barren heath, through lanes of
burning sand, over a common, through fens, and solitary salt marshes ;
in short, through a wretched country, remarkable for its tedium and
monotony, -devoid of trees, meagerly covered with herbage of the worst
description, and thinly animated with figures in themselves any thing but
agreeable. Full of joyful anticipation, he sees nothing but beauty and
exhilaration in all that he looks upon. He reaches the town, and arrives
at the house of his fair one, where, instead of finding her, he receives a
note informing him that she had been carried off by a friend on an
excursion to her country house. Her note bids him follow her. Again
he mounts, though in very bad humour ; and, accordingly, while he
now rides through a range of scenery which is naturally as rich and
beautiful as the former was poor and ugly ; and although all the acci-
dental circumstances connected with it are of the most pleasing and en-
livening description, his eye, jaundiced by his unlooked for disappoint-
ment, turns all he beholds into gall, and he sees nothing but deformity,
both physical and moral, in the scenes through which he passes. He
meets his charmer at her friend's house, and returns with her through the
same lovely scenes to the town where she lives. They gave him actual
pain before, but now he is too much occupied with her conversation, and
delighted with her smiles, to notice them at all, more than if he were
passing through them blindfolded. On the morning of the ensuing day, he
returns home through the same dull scenery he had previously traversed
on his way to visit the lady, but having now left his imagination behind
with her who has his heart in keeping, he passes by all its monotonous
and naturally disagreeable features, as if the shades of night veiled
them from his view. I think that a happier illustration than this tale
affords of the fact that our emotions of beauty are altogether dependant
on the imagination, cannot be produced. To use the poet's own
words : —
" It is the soul that sees ; the outward eyes
Present the object, but the mind descries ;
And thence delight, disgust, or cool indifference rise.
When minds are joyful, then we look around,
And what is seen, is all on fairy ground ;
Again they sicken, and on every view
Cast their own dull and melancholy hue ;
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
15
Or if, absorbed by their peculiar cares,
The vacant eye on viewless matter glares,
Our feelings still upon our views attend,
And their own natures to the objects lend."
Thus it is that minds which have most leisure for the indulgence of
imagination, have the greatest aptitude for- receiving strong impressions
from such objects ; and thus it is that the attention required for the
exercise of minute criticism, is found to diminish the sense of the beau-
ties of the work which is the subject of it ; and from the same cause we
find that young people, being carried away by their imaginations, have
some difficulty in forming a judgment of the true merits of any composi-
tion of fancy. To which I may add, that much of that endless variety,
and even contrariety of opinion, which manifests itself among readers
regarding the merits of such works, may be attributed to the difference
in the nature of their minds, as well as of their degree of excitability.
Our sense of the sublimity or beauty of objects depends entirely upon
those qualities in them which we consider at the moment. On first see-
ing the Venus de Medecis, or the Apollo Belvedere, the delicacy, mo-
desty, and tenderness of the one, and the grace, dignity, and majesty of
the other, will naturally awaken sympathetic association — whilst, at
other times, the consideration of their mere forms as works of art, their
dimensions, their proportions, their state of preservation, the history of
their discovery, or even the sort of marble of which they are made, may
stifle all the emotions of beauty. The same remark is applicable to poetry
and painting; and it is thus that the too great exercise of criticism often
ends in the destruction of the sensibility of taste, and the delight pro-
duced by the perception of beauty or sublimity, ceases to affect us in
any higher degree than that which attaches to the estimation of the dex-
terity of art. Familiarity also brings us to look without emotion upon
those very objects of art or nature which once produced within us the
liveliest feelings of delight. A man of taste, taking up his residence in
a romantic district, revels at first rapturously in its scenery ; but fami-
liarity soon renders him indifferent to it, except when his attention is
called to its beauties — as, for example, when it becomes necessary to
point them out to others, or when, perhaps, in some solitary hour, he may
wander through his walks in dreamy contemplative admiration, yielding
himself up, at every turn, to the successive associations that may be
awakened within him. In the same way, the richest and most ex-
quisite specimens of art that may adorn a mansion, soon cease to com-
mand the admiring eye of the owner, except when it is thus accidentally
called to them. On the same principle, every one will see that the Ilyssus,
16
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
the Tyber, the Forum, the Capitol, could not have produced any such
emotion in the Greek or the Roman, who daily beheld them, as they do
in us, to whom they are hallowed by distance and heroic association.
Fashion, too, makes us one day admire that which on another day we
despise, and which again finds favour in our sight from the mere
arbitrary circumstance, that it is the custom of the great. The reign-
ing mode, both as to form and colour, is held to be intrinsically ele-
gant and beautiful by the young and the frivolous of both sexes, while
they are prone to ridicule those of their fathers. But had they been
born in the days of their fathers, they would have just as certainly
admired that which they now laugh at as absurd. Those who are
most liable to the education of fashion, therefore, are the people on
whom the slighter kinds of associations have a strong effect. In the
words of Mr. Alison — " A plain man is incapable of such associations —
a man of sense is above them — but the young and the frivolous, whose
principles of taste are either unformed, or whose minds are unable to
sustain any settled opinions, are apt to lose sight of every other quality
in such objects, but their relation to the practice of the great, and, of
course, to suffer their sentiments of beauty to vary with the caprice of
this practice. It is the same cause that attaches the old to the fashions
of their youth. They are associated with the memory of their better days
— with a thousand recollections of happiness, and gaiety, and heartfelt
pleasures, which they now no longer feel. The fashions of modern times
have no such pleasing associations for them. They are connected to
them only with ideas of thoughtless gaiety, or childish caprice. It is the
fashion of their youth alone that they consider as beautiful."
It is plain, then, that there can be no intrinsic beauty or deformity in
any of those fashions, and that the forms, colours, and materials, that are
felt to be so decidedly beautiful when they are in fashion, are sure to
lose all their beauty when the fashion has passed away. The full-bot-
tomed wigs under which the heroic generals of Louis XIV. and our own
William fought, had no doubt a noble effect in the eyes of the people of
the age in which they were worn, but, when so used, they appear ridicu-
lous in our eyes from their inseparable association with the ecclesiastical
warriors, and forensic combatants by whom they have been now exclu-
sively adopted.
Mr. Alison happily observes, that " the scenes which have been dis-
tinguished by the residence of any one whose memory we love to che-
rish, or whose character we admire, produce in us the strongest emotions
of beauty and sublimity — ' Movemur enim, nescio quo pacto, locis ipsis,
in quibus eorum, quos diligimus, aut admiramur, adsunt vestigia' The
ON THK ORIGIN OF TASTE.
17
scenes themselves may be little beautiful, but the delight with which we
recollect the traces of their lives, blends itself insensibly with the emo-
tions which the scenery itself excites ; and the admiration which these
recollections afford, seems to give a kind of sanctity to the place where
they dwelt, and converts every thing into beauty that appears to have
been connected with them. There are scenes undoubtedly more beau-
tiful than Runnymede, yet to those who recollect the great event which
passed there, there is no scene perhaps which so strongly seizes upon
the imagination, and although the emotions this recollection produces are
of a very different kind from those which the mere natural scenery can
excite, yet they unite themselves so well with these inferior emotions,
and spread so venerable a charm over the whole, that one can hardly
persuade oneself that the scene itself is not entitled to this admiration.
The valley of Vaucluse is celebrated for its beauty, yet how much of it
has been owing to its being the residence of Petrarch !"
This species of association must have been frequently recognized by
every one of the smallest observation, and every such person must ad-
mit the truth of Mr. Alison's remark, that " the majesty of the Alps
themselves is increased by the remembrance of Hannibal's march over
them ; and who is there who can stand on the bank of the Rubicon,
without feeling his imagination kindle, and his heart beat high !"
Such associations have the most wonderful effect in augmenting the
impression of beauty or sublimity received from musical composition.
The effects of the Rcnz des Vaches on the men of the Swiss regiment
in the service of France, are well known. I may also instance what has
frequently come under my own observation — the stirring effect produced
on the officers and men of a regiment by its regimental tune, though it
had in it no merit but that of association to give it any such influence.
" The beauty of any scene in nature," says Mr. Alison, M is seldom so
striking to others as it is to a landscape painter, or to those who profess
the beautiful art of laying out grounds. The difficulties both of inven-
tion and execution, which, from their professions arc familiar to them,
render the profusion with which nature often scatters the most pictures-
que beauties, little less than miraculous. Every little circumstance of
form and perspective, and light and shade, which are unnoticed by a
common eye, are important in theirs, and mingling in their minds the
ideas of difficulty and facility in overcoming it, produce altogether an
emotion of delight incomparably more animated than the gencrahtij of
mankind usually derive from it."
The pleasure derived by the antiquary from the contemplation of an-
cient relics, arises from his imagination being carried back to the times
B
18
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
of chivalry and patriotism. There are few indeed who have not felt
somewhat of the delight which is thus excited. In the language of Mr.
Alison — " Even the peasant, whose knowledge of former times extends
but to a few generations,, has yet in his village some monument of the
deeds or virtues of his forefathers, and cherishes with a fond veneration
the memorial of those good old times to which his imagination returns
with delight, and of which he loves to recount the simple tales that
tradition has brought him. And what is it that constitutes the emotion
of sublime delight, which every man of common sensibility feels upon
the first prospect of Rome ? It is not the scene of destruction which is
before him. It is not the Tyber, diminished in his imagination to a paltry
stream, flowing amidst the ruins of that magnificence which it once
adorned. It is not the triumph of superstition over the wreck of human
greatness, and its monuments erected upon the very spot where the first
honours of humanity have been gained. It is ancient Rome which fills
his imagination. It is the country of Caesar, of Cicero, and Virgil, which
is before him. It is the mistress of the world which he sees, and who
seems to him to rise again from her tomb to give laws to the universe.
All that the labours of his youth, or the studies of his maturer age have
acquired, with regard to the history of this great people, open at once on
his imagination, and present him with a field of high and solemn imagery
which can never be exhausted. Take from him these associations — con-
ceal from him that it is Rome that he sees, and how different would be
his emotion ! "
As the great mass of mankind live in the world without receiving any
kind of delight from the various scenes of beauty which it displays, so we
may all remember a period of our lives when our minds were quite as
callous. But from early education, an acquaintance with poetry, with
the romantic part of history, with painting, and with a thousand other
causes productive of associations, this new and invaluable source of delight
was gradually opened to us. " Associations of this kind," says Mr.
Alison, « when acquired in early life, are seldom altogether lost ; and
whatever inconveniences they may sometimes have with regard to the
general character, or however much they may be ridiculed by those who
do not experience them, they are yet productive, to those who possess
them, of a perpetual and innocent delight. Nature herself is their
friend. In her most dreadful, as well as her most lovely scenes, they can
discover something either to elevate their imaginations, or to move their
hearts ; and amid every change of scenery, or of climate, they can still find
themselves among the early objects of their admiration or their love."
The great source of the superiority of good Landscape Gardening lies in
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
19
the artist removing from the scene of his operations whatever is hostile to
its effect or unsuited to its character, and by selecting or adding only
such circumstances as accord with the general expression of the scene,
to awaken emotions more full, more simple, and more harmonious, than
any we can receive from the scenes of nature herself. The same prin-
ciples apply to the artist's choice of subjects from nature for land-
scape painting — the very nature of which, however, yields him infinitely
greater facilities. But his happy selection must also be accompanied by
pure, simple, and consistent composition. The unlearned eye first ad-
mires painting merely as an art of imitation — it is only from the progress
of our sensibility, and the poetical cultivation of our minds, that we be-
gin to comprehend the greater compositions of genius, after which the
unity of expression is felt to be the great secret of the power of painting.
As the painter enjoys much greater facilities than the landscape gar-
dener, so the poet, by speaking directly to the imagination, has immense
advantages over the painter, who addresses himself to the eye. But he is
subjected to the same rules for selection, and for the preservation of
unity of character and expression, by which, indeed, the degree of the
excellence of poetical description is chiefly determined. In short, in
Mr. Alison's words — " In all the Fine Arts, that composition is most
excellent, in which the different parts most fully unite in the production
of one unmingled emotion, and that taste the most perfect, where the
perception of this relation of objects, in point of expression, is most deli-
cate and precise."
In his second essay Mr. Alison asks the question — What is the source
of the sublimity and beauty of the material world ? Many objects of the
material world are productive of the emotions of sublimity and beauty.
Yet matter in itself is unfitted to produce any kind of emotion. The
qualities of mere matter are known to us only by means of our external
senses, which can merely convey to us sensation and perception, and never
emotion. The smell of a rose, the colour of scarlet, the taste of a pine-
apple, produce agreeable sensations, not agreeable emotions ; whilst
assafoetida or aloes produce disagreeable sensations, but not disagreeable
emotions. Now, although the qualities of matter are incapable of pro-
ducing emotion, or the exercise of any affection, it is yet obvious that
they may produce this effect from their association with other qualities,
and as being the signs or expressions of such qualities as are fitted, by
the constitution of our nature, to produce emotion. " Thus," to use
Mr. Alison's words, " in the human body, particular forms or colours
are the signs of particular passions or affections. In works of art, par-
ticular forms are the signs of dexterity, of taste, of convenience, of utility.
20
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
In the works of nature, particular sounds and colours, &c. are the signs
of peace, or danger, or plenty, or desolation, &c. In such cases the
constant connection we discover between the sign and the thing signified,
— between the material quality, and the quality productive of emotion, —
renders at last the one expressive of the other, and very often disposes
us to attribute to the sign, that effect which is produced only by the
quality signified. The material qualities which distinguish a ship, a
plough, a printing press, or a musical instrument, do not solely afford us
the perception of certain colours or forms ; but, along with this percep-
tion, bring with it the conception of the different uses or pleasures which
such compositions of material qualities produce, and excite in us the same
emotion with the uses or pleasures thus signified. As in this manner
the utilities or pleasures of all external objects are expressed to us by
their material signs of colour and of form, such signs are naturally pro-
ductive of the emotions which properly arise from the qualities signified.
All our knowledge of the minds of other men, and of their various qualities,
is gained by means of material signs. Power, strength, wisdom, forti-
tude, justice, benevolence, magnanimity, gentleness, tenderness, love, sor-
row, are all known to us by the external signs of them in the countenance,
gesture, or voice. Such material signs are therefore very early associated
in our minds with the qualities they signify ; and as they are constant
and invariable, they soon become productive to us of the same emotions
with the qualities themselves." We learn by experience that certain
qualities of mind are signified by certain qualities of body. When we
find similar qualities of body in inanimate matter, we are apt to attribute
to them the same expression, and to conceive them as signifying the same
qualities in this case, as in those cases where they derive their expres-
sion immediately from mind. Thus the strength, delicacy, boldness, and
modesty of mind, are naturally and invariably applied to inanimate
forms. The strength of the oak, the delicacy of the myrtle, the boldness
of a rock, and the modesty of the violet, are expressions common to all
languages, and so " common that they are scarcely in any considered
as figurative ; yet every man knows, that strength and weakness, bold-
ness and modesty, are qualities not of matter biit of mind, and that with-
out our knowledge of mind, it is impossible that we should ever have
had any conception of them. How much the effect of descriptions of
natural scenery arises from that personification which is founded upon
such associations, I believe there is no man of common taste who must
not often have been sensible."
The very constitution of our nature leads us to perceive resemblances
between our sensations and emotions, and consequently between the ob-
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
21
jects that produce them. u Thus/' says Mr. Alison, " there is some ana-
logy between the sensation of gradual ascent, and the emotion of am-
bition, — between the sensation of gradual descent, and the emotion of
decay, — between the lively sensation of sunshine, and the cheerful
emotion of joy, — between the painful sensation of darkness, and the di-
spiriting emotion of sorrow. In the same manner, there are analogies
between silence and tranquillity, — between the lustre of morning, and
the gaiety of hope, — between softness of colouring, and gentleness of
character, — between slenderness of form, and delicacy of mind, &e. The
objects, therefore, which produce such sensations, though in themselves
not the immediate signs of such interesting or affecting qualities ; yet,
in consequence of this resemblance, become generally expressive of them ;
and if not always, yet at those times, at least, when we are under the
dominion of any emotion, serve to bring to our minds the images of those
affecting or interesting qualities which we have been accustomed to sup-
pose they resemble. How extensive this source of association is, may
easily be observed in the extent of such kinds of figurative expression in
every language."
To these sources of general association we must add those which pecu-
liarly belong to individuals. There is not one who has not from accident —
from his studies — or from some circumstances of his life — established cer-
tain agreeable or disagreeable associations with particular colours, sounds,
or forms, which never fail to operate the moment he sees or hears them.
These examples are enough to show how numerous and extensive
those associations are which arc awakened by matter, and its qualities
which have resemblance to qualities capable of producing emotion. The
perception of the one immediately suggests the other ; and so early are
these associations formed that it becomes difficult for us to avoid attribut-
ing to the sign that effect which is alone produced by the quality signified.
" If," says Mr. Alison, " the qualities of matter are in themselves fitted
to produce the emotions of sublimity or beauty, (or, in other words, are
in themselves beautiful or sublime,) I think it is obvious that they must
produce these emotions independently of any association. If, on the con-
trary, it is found that these qualities only produce such emotions when
they are associated with interesting or affecting qualities, and that when
such associations are destroyed they no longer produce the same emo-
tions, I think it must also be allowed that their beauty or sublimity is to
be ascribed, not to the material, but to the associated qualities"
Now the senses by which we discover beauty or sublimity in material
objects are those of hearing and seeing. The objects of the first are
sounds, simple or compound ; of the second, colours, forms, and motion.
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
Of simple sounds we have those which occur in inanimate nature —
the notes and cries of animals — and the tones of the human voice. Now,
if any of these are really intrinsically suhlime or beautiful in themselves,
how does it happen that we find contrary sounds producing the same
effect, and the same sounds producing different effects, according to the
associations with which they are connected ? All sounds are sublime
which are associated with ideas of danger, as thunder — the howling of
a storm — the rombo of an earthquake — and the roar of artillery : or
with ideas of power or might, as the rushing sound of a torrent — the
fall of a cataract — the uproar of a tempest — the explosion of gunpowder
— and the dashing of the waves : or with ideas of majesty, solemnity,
or deep melancholy, or any other such strong emotion, as the sound of the
trumpet and other warlike instruments — the tones of the organ — the
sound of the curfew — and the tolling of the passing bell. Now, if such
sounds as these had any inherent character of sublimity in them, the
same sounds would at all times produce the same emotions. But let us
take for example the sound of thunder, which is perhaps of all others in
nature the most sublime. " In the generality of mankind," says Mr.
Alison, " this sublimity is founded on awe, and some degree of terror.
Yet how different is the emotion which it gives to the peasant who sees
at last, after a long drought, the consent of Heaven to his prayers for
rain, — to the philosopher, who, from the height of the Alps, hears it roll
beneath his feet, — to the soldier, who, under the impression of ancient
superstition, welcomes it upon the moment of engagement as the omen
of victory ! In all these cases the sound itself is the same ; but how
different the nature of the sublimity it produces ! There is nothing
more common than for people who are afraid of thunder to mistake some
very common and indifferent sound for it ; as the rumbling of a cart, or
the rattling of a carriage. While their mistake continues they feel the
sound as sublime. The moment they are undeceived, they are the first
to laugh at their error, and to ridicule the sound that occasioned it.
Children at first are as much alarmed at the thunder of the stage as at
real thunder. Whenever they find that it is only a deception, they amuse
themselves with mimicking it. It may be observed, also, that very young
children show no symptoms of fear or admiration at thunder, unless, per-
haps, when it is painfully loud, or when they see other people alarmed
about them, obviously from their not having yet associated with it the
idea of danger — and perhaps, also, from this cause, that our imagination
assists the report, and makes it appear much louder than it really is, a
circumstance which seems to be confirmed by the common mistake we
make of taking very inconsiderable noises for it." In support of this
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
23
observation of Mr. Alison, I may mention a common trick of my boy-
hood, which I often performed to the infinite alarm of certain ladies.
I used stealthily to hold a sheet of drawing paper over the window,
and whilst I pretended to listen as if I had heard thunder afar off, I
gently agitated the paper, and so produced an exact imitation of the
sound of its distant rolling, to the great discomfiture of my audience.
In the same way the sound of cannon is sublime from the destructive
power we associate with it. But although the noise of artillery and
musquetry in a distant engagement, associated as it is with the fell work
that is doing, is awfully sublime, the same sound when heard in a review
loses all such effect ; and, if not painful to the ear, is more likely to pro-
mote laughter than any other feeling. So it is with all the other sounds
that have been mentioned. Whilst loud and tumultuous sounds very gen-
erally produce emotions of sublimity, we often find the same emotions
produced by low and feeble sounds. That low moaning which precedes
the burst of the storm is often more sublime than the burst of the storm
itself. The buzz of flies in the deep silence of a summer's day, associated
as it is with the power of the Great Creator of all things, who has thus
called so incalculable an exuberance of happy animal life into being, to
exist only for a brief space, as if it were a type of the brevity of the
life of man, is truly sublime to the reflective mind. The falling of a drop
of water, a sound most insignificant in itself at all other times, becomes
sublime when heard at intervals descending from the vaulted roof of
some lofty cathedral or cavern. Nay, even the vulgar sound of a ham-
mer becomes sublime when we know that it is employed in the erec-
tion of the scaffold on which mistaken or misled patriotism is about to
suffer ; or when heard, as in Shakspeare, during the night previous to a
battle, when
" from the tents
The armourers accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation."
The buzz of flies, the dropping of water, and the sound of a hammer,
are sounds so truly uninteresting in themselves, that their sublimity
in the instances quoted can only be attributed to the qualities of which
they are the signs. The trumpet becomes sublime or ludicrous, just as
it is used in battle or at a raree-show ; and in the same way the sound
of a bell becomes sublime or the reverse, as it may be carried before a
funeral, as we often see it in Roman Catholic processions, or hung to a
dustman's cart.
The sounds productive of the emotion of Beauty, such as that of the
24
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
gentle waterfall — the murmuring of a rivulet — the soft whispering of a
zephyr — the sheep-fold bell — the sound of the curfew — are all subject
to the same changes. The curfew, for instance, which
w tolls the knell of parting day,"
and which is so beautiful in moments of melancholy or tranquillity, is
directly the reverse in joyful or cheerful moments. The sound of the
waterfall is delightful or disagreeable, just as it is heard amidst the luxu-
riance of summer scenery, or the rigors of winter. The sound of the
hunting-horn, so exhilarating and picturesque in seasons of gaiety, is in-
supportable in hours of melancholy. There is but little beauty in the
harsh twang of the postman's horn ; but associated, as it is by Cowper,
with the
" news from all nations lumbering at his back,"
and the quiet domestic enjoyment of the evening tea-table party, where
they are about to be eagerly perused, it receives a charm which partakes
of the beautiful. But it is only when we happen to be in that temper
and condition of mind which suits with the emotions of which they are
expressive, that such sounds are capable of exciting them. Whilst in
such a condition, the sound of a cascade or a hunting-horn might even
be imitated so as to awaken all those emotions which would arise from
the real sounds, but the moment the trick was discovered, emotions of
ridicule alone would be produced.
The notes or cries of some animals are highly sublime ; such as the
roar of the lion — the growl of the bear — the howl of the wolf — the
scream of the eagle — because associated with animals remarkable for
their strength, and formidable from their ferocity. There is not one of
these sounds that may not be exactly imitated ; and whilst the deception
is kept up, the sublime emotions will be produced, to cease, and to be
converted into those of ridicule the moment the deceit is discovered.
" Then," says Mr. Alison, " the howl of the wolf is little distinguished
from the howl of the dog, either in its tone or in its strength ; but there is
no comparison between their sublimity. There are few, if any, of these
sounds so loud as the most common of all sounds, the lowing of a cow.
Yet this is the very reverse of sublimity. Imagine this sound, on the con-
trary, expressive of fierceness or strength, and there can be no doubt that
it would become sublime. The hooting of the owl at midnight, or amid
ruins, is strikingly sublime ; the same sound at noon, or during the day, is
very far from being so. The scream of the eagle is simply disagreeable
when the bird is either tame or confined ; it is sublime only when it is
heard amid rocks and deserts, and when it is expressive to us of liberty and
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
95
independence,, and savage majesty. The neighing of a war-horse in the
field of battle, or of a young and untamed horse when at large among
mountains, is powerfully sublime. The same sound in a cart-horse, or
a horse in the stable, is simply indifferent, if not disagreeable. No
sound is more absolutely mean than the grunting, of swine. The same
sound in the wild boar — an animal remarkable both for fierceness and
strength — is sublime. The low and feeble sounds of animals which are
generally considered the reverse of sublime, are rendered so by associa-
tion. The hissing of a goose, and the rattle of a child's play-thing, are
both contemptible sounds ; but when the hissing sound comes from the
mouth of a dangerous serpent, and the noise of the rattle is that of the
rattlesnake, although they do not differ from the others in intensity,
they are both of them highly sublime."
That it is from association alone that the beauty of the notes of ani-
mals arises, will appear evident from the following examples. Nothing
can be more silly or absurd than the imitated sounds of the notes of the
cuckoo as emitted by a child's toy, or by the machinery of a German
clock. But when we hear the bird itself in the beginning of spring,
how sweetly its notes fall upon the ear, associated as they are with
primroses, and all the other budding beauties of nature ! And then,
suppose that whilst walking abroad at such a season, some one were to
deceive us by means of the wooden toy, would not all these exquisite
feelings rush upon our minds, as certainly as if we were listening to the
real notes of the bird ? and would they not all fly from us at once the
moment that the deception should be discovered ? Then we know that
those who from youth, from lack of education, or from other circum-
stances, have formed no such associations, feel no such emotions of beauty
from sounds which deeply affect those who are more favourably circum-
stanced. A peasant laughs if you ask him to admire the call of a goat,
the bleat of a sheep, or the lowing of a cow, yet association makes all
these delightful to cultivated minds. A child shows no symptom of
admiration at those sounds in rural scenery, which to other people arc
most affecting, and we can all look back to a period in our lives when
we were altogether unaffected by those beautiful sounds which occur in
the country, and we shall find that the period when we first became
sensible of their beauty, was that when we first began to feel them as
expressive of those associations which we have acquired either from our
own observation of nature, or from the perusal of poetical works. And
then, when we travel into distant countries, we find ourselves shocked
with the notes of animals, which, from certain associations, arc parti-
cularly agreeable to the natives. The cry of the stork, for instance, is
26
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
any thing but pleasing to us, whilst to the Hollander it is singularly
beautiful, owing to the bird being with him the object of a pleasing
popular superstition. The bleating of a lamb is beautiful on the hillside
in a fine spring day, but it fills us with the most disagreeable emotions
when we hear it in a town, in winter, coming from the condemned cell
of the butcher. The lowing of a cow is beautiful in a pastoral scene,
but it is absolutely disagreeable in the farm-yard, and most painful when
it comes from within the walls of the shambles. Even the song of the
nightingale, so charming in the twilight or night, is so much disregarded
during the day, as to give rise to the common mistake that it never sings but
at night. If such sounds as these, which have been now enumerated, were
beautiful in themselves, they would necessarily be at all times beautiful.
On the principle of the absolute and independent sublimity or beauty
inherent in sounds, it is impossible to explain the fact of the same effect
being produced by sounds very opposite in their nature. Mr. Alison
tells us, that " there is certainly no resemblance, as sounds, between the
noise of thunder and the hissing of a serpent — between the growling of
a tiger and the explosion of gunpowder — between the scream of the
eagle and the shouting of a multitude ; yet all of these are sublime. In
the same manner, there is as little resemblance between the tinkling of
the sheep-fold bell and the murmuring of the breeze — between the hum
of the beetle and the song of the lark — between the twitter of the swallow
and the sound of the curfew; yet all these are beautiful." But the
various modes by which they excite in us the same emotions, are easily
explained and accounted for on the principle of association.
The tones of the human voice are associated in our imaginations with
the qualities of mind of which they are in general expressive ; and the
beauty or sublimity of such tones arises from the nature of the qualities
they express, and not from the nature of the sounds themselves. Such
sounds are beautiful or sublime only as they express passions or affec-
tions which excite our sympathy. The tones peculiar to anger, peevish-
ness, malice, envy, misanthropy, deceit, &c, are neither agreeable nor
beautiful. That of good nature is agreeable at particular seasons, but
we regret the want of it more than we enjoy its presence. On the con-
trary, the tones expressive of hope, joy, humility, gentleness, modesty,
melancholy, &c, though all very different, are all beautiful, because the
qualities they express are the objects of interest and approbation. For a
similar reason, the tones expressive of magnanimity, fortitude, self-denial,
patience, resignation, &c, are all sublime. But the effect of such sounds
is limited by the temper of mind in which we happen to be. To a man
in grief, the tone of cheerfulness is painful — that of indignation is un-
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
27
pleasant to the man in a state of placidity of temper — that of patience is
contemptible to an irritated man — to the peevish the voice of humility
is provoking. Now, if the beauty or sublimity of such tones were inde-
pendent of the qualities of mind we associate with them, the same sounds
would uniformly produce the same emotions.
Sounds united by certain laws produce music. Its essence consists
in continued sounds, which must have a relation to each other. What
thought is to the arrangement of words, the key or fundamental tone is
to the arrangement of sounds, and to it all the other sounds in the series
must bear relation. The succession of the sounds must possess a regu-
larity as to time. The two circumstances, therefore, which determine
the nature or character of every musical composition, are the nature of
the key, and the nature of the progress — the nature of the fundamental
governing sound, and the nature of the time of the succession. The
relation of the fundamental tone, in musical compositions, to the ex-
pression of the qualities of mind, is so strong that all musicians under-
stand what keys or tones are fitted for the expression of those affections.
We may find a difference of opinion as to whether any piece of music is
beautiful or not ; but whether its sounds are gay or solemn — cheerful
or melancholy — elevating or depressing — is seldom matter of dispute.
When any musical composition affects us with the emotions of beauty
or sublimity, it must be from the associations which we connect with it,
or the qualities of which it is expressive to us. If the beauty of music
arose from the regularity of its composition, according to the laws which
are necessary to the constitution of music, every composition where
those laws were observed would be beautiful. But if a composition ex-
presses no sentiment, a common hearer feels no beauty in it ; and if it
possesses neither novelty nor skill, a connoisseur in music feels as little
of its emotion, and, consequently, all the world pronounce it to be bad
music. If any one were asked what it was that rendered an air so
beautiful, he would answer, because it was so plaintive, solemn, cheer-
ful, tender, gay, or elevating, &c. ; but he would never think of describ-
ing its peculiar nature as a composition of sounds. Music then is pro-
ductive of two distinct pleasures — that mechanical pleasure which, by
the constitution of our nature, accompanies the perception of a regular suc-
cession of related sounds — and that pleasure which originates the emotions
of sublimity or beauty, by the expression of some pathetic or interesting
affection, or by being the sign of some pleasing or valuable quality.
In addition to these remarks, I may observe that early individual
associations with certain airs, will always excite the strongest emotions
of beauty or sublimity in our minds, and will melt us to tenderness, or
28
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
excite us to fury. In illustration of this, I may here repeat an anecdote
which I have given in another work. Some Scottish officers were coast-
ing along the shores of the Mediterranean in a felucca ; a woman's voice
came warbling on their ears from the hosom of a grove ; the air was
that lovely, simple, and touching melody of their native land, The Broom
of the Cowdenknowes. The associations it awakened were such as to
make every chord of their manly hearts vibrate with emotion, and they
wept. They landed in quest of the songstress, when, to their surprise,
they discovered an old Scottish woman, seated at her cottage door,
twirling her distaff, and lightening her task with these long-cherished
strains of her youth. She was the widow of a soldier who had been
killed in battle, and she had been thrown by the tide of accident into
the spot where the gentlemen found her. Their grateful feelings
prompted them to offer to convey her to her native country, in return
for the delight they had experienced from the pleasurable associations
with home which her notes had awakened. But, alas ! all her friends
were dead — her native country was no longer her country — she was,
as it were, rooted in the soil where she now vegetated, and, perhaps, she
enjoyed her indulgence in those visionary visitations to the scenes of her
youth, which the singing of its ballads procured for her, more than she
could have done the really visiting her native land.
The sense of sight enables us to discover beauty or sublimity in a
much greater number of external objects than any of the other senses —
a circumstance which inclines us to give greater confidence to that sense
than to the rest ; and thus it is that the visible qualities of objects be-
come in a great measure the signs of all their other qualities. Mr.
Alison thus explains this proposition : — " Not only the smell of the rose
or the violet, is expressed to us by their colours and forms ; but the
utility of a machine — the elegance of a design — the proportion of a
column — the speed of the horse — the ferocity of the lion— even all the
qualities of the human mind, are naturally expressed to us by certain
visible appearances, because our experience has taught us that such
qualities are connected with such appearances, and the presence of the
one immediately suggests to us the idea of the other. Such visible quali-
ties, therefore, are gradually considered as the signs of other qualities,
and are productive to us of the same emotions with the qualities they
signify. But, besides this, it is also to be observed, that by this sense
we not only discover the nature of individual objects, and therefore
naturally associate their qualities with their visible appearance, but that
by it also we discover the relation of objects to each other ; and that
hence a great variety of objects in nature become expressive of qualities
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
29
which do not immediately belong to themselves, but to the objects with
which we have found them connected. Thus, for instance, it is by this
sense that we discover that the eagle inhabits among rocks and moun-
tains — that the redbreast leaves the woods in winter to seek shelter and
food among the dwellings of men — that the song of the nightingale is
peculiar to the evening and the night, &c. In consequence of this per-
manent connection, these animals acquire a character from the scenes
they inhabit, or the seasons in which they appear, and are expressive to
us in some measure of the character of these seasons and scenes. It is
hence that so many objects become expressive, which perhaps in them-
selves could never have been so — that the curfew is so solemn from ac-
companying the close of day — the twitter of the swallow so cheerful
from its being heard in the morning — the bleating of sheep, the call of
the goat, and the lowing of kine, so beautiful from their occurring in
pastoral or romantic situations ; — in short, that the greatest number of
natural objects acquire their expression from their connection with par-
ticular or affecting scenes."
Colours have the power of exciting emotions, from associations arising
from the nature of objects permanently coloured. White is expressive
of the cheerfulness which the return of day brings with it; black, as
the colour of darkness, is expressive of gloom or melancholy ; blue, the
colour of a serene sky, is expressive of something of the same pleasing
and temperate character; green is associated with spring and all its
charms. Many colours derive expression from their analogies with
certain affections of the human mind ; soft or strong, mild or bold, gay
or gloomy, cheerful or solemn, are terms applied to colours in all lan-
guages. Others acquire character from accidental association; purple
and ermine have their dignity from association with the robes of kings ;
scarlet, as the dress of our army, has a character correspondent to its
employment, and, perhaps, it was this association that induced the blind
man to liken his notion of scarlet to the sound of a trumpet. It is pos-
sible that certain colours may, of themselves, produce agreeable or dis-
agreeable physical sensations in the organs of vision, just as there may
be painful sounds, but this circumstance does not affect the question.
Most colours are considered beautiful in one country, and not so in
another ; black, which is to us unpleasant, as associated with death, is
otherwise to the Spaniard or Venetian, with whom it is the dress of the
great ; yellow in dress is to us disagreeable, whilst in China it is the
favourite colour, and sacred to the empire. To us white is beautiful,
in China it is disagreeable, as being the colour of mourning. A new
colour in dress is never admired till it has been worn by persons of rank
30
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
and elegance, and thus become associated with them ,* and so, when they
cease to wear it, we find it sink into neglect and contempt, to be suc-
ceeded by some other colour, Those colours which association has
taught us to admire in one thing, are, from the same cause, hideous to
us in another. Rose colour, which is so beautiful in the flower, or in a
damask curtain, would be horrible in the grass of the field, or in a
table, or a door, or a window. Suppose the army and navy dressed
in black, and the church and bar in scarlet, how ludicrous would be
the effect of this violation of association. Nay, it is so difficult to re-
concile us to any change, however small, that I must confess the red
collar recently applied to the old true blue dress coat of our navy
captains, though understood to be only a restoration from more an-
cient times, is to me a disagreeable innovation, as breaking in upon
my associations with the simplicity of those distinguished uniforms in
which our brave countrymen achieved the victories of the Nile and
Trafalgar. Select all those colours which might be considered in them-
selves to be most beautiful when seen on the painter's pallet, and paint
with them the rocks, the trees, or the animals of nature, how outrage-
ously offensive would be the attempt ! Mr. Alison tells us the interest-
ing fact, that Dr. Blacklock the poet, though blind from infancy, learned
the distinguishing colours of objects from books of poetry read to him,
and that he thus acquired the same associations with the words expres-
sive of them, as those who see have done with the colours themselves,
so that by these means he has composed poems from which no reader
could possibly gather that he was blind. This is a strong confirmation
of the opinion, that the beauty of such qualities arises from the associa-
tions we connect with them, and not from any original or independent
beauty in the colours themselves.
Form is that quality of matter which of all others produces the most
general and natural emotions of sublimity and beauty. The sublimity
and beauty of forms arise altogether from the associations we connect
with them, or the qualities of which they are expressive to us — the
expressions of such qualities as arise from the nature of the objects
distinguished by such forms, and the expressions of such qualities as
arise from their being the subject or the production of art. The first is
their natural beauty, the second their relative beauty. Besides these,
there is another source of expression in such qualities from accidental
association, which may be termed accidental beauty.
Sublimity of form arises from the nature of the objects distinguished
by that form, and from the quantity or magnitude of the form itself.
Forms distinguishing objects associated with ideas of danger or of power,
ON THE ORIGIN OP TASTE.
31
are sublime — such as cannons, mortars, military ensigns, armour, arms,
&c. — forms distinguishing bodies of great duration, and consequently
expressing power or strength. Hence forms of trees are sublime exact-
ly in proportion to their expression of this quality ; and rocks, appearing
coeval with creation, and which have outlived all the convulsions of
nature, are sublime. So, architecture is the sublimest of arts ; and the
Gothic castle is especially sublime, from its association with the many
battle tides which have raged up ineffectually against its defences. The
forms of the throne, the sceptre, the diadem, the triumphal car, and the
triumphal arch, are sublime, from association with ideas of power and
magnificence. Forms connected with ideas of awe or solemnity are
sublime, such as the forms of temples ; and what, for example, can be
more sublime than the Psestan temples, the very origin of which can be
only guessed at, and which have outlived even the dust into which the
city that once surrounded them has been crumbled by time.
" They stand, between the mountains and the sea,
Awful memorials, but of whom we know not.
The seaman passing, gazes from the deck —
The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak,
Points to the work of magic, and moves on.
Time was they stood along the crowded street,
Temples of gods ! And on their ample steps
What various habits, various tongues beset
The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice V
The thunderbolt of Jupiter, and the trident of Neptune, were sub-
lime forms to the ancients, though utterly insignificant in themselves.
The pall, the hearse, the robes of mourning, are sublime from this cause
— and even the white plumes that nod over the car of death, are power-
fully sublime, though their colour is in general so cheerful under other
circumstances. The sublimity of these forms, therefore, clearly arises
from the qualities which they express. In many forms we find their
magnitude bestowing sublimity, for with magnitude we have many dis-
tinct and powerful associations. In animal forms, it is associated with
power and strength — for animals of great size that are feeble and harm-
less are contemptible, even in the eyes of children. Magnitude of height
is expressive of elevation of soul or magnanimity. Magnitude in depth
is expressive of danger or terror, so that in all countries hell is considered
to be an unfathomable abyss. Magnitude in breadth is expressive of
stability, duration, and superiority to destruction ; hence towers, forts,
and castles are sublime, and of all other works of art, the Pyramids are
most sublime, not only because of their magnitude, and that their form
32
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
is of so enduring a nature, but also from their mysterious origin, and the
immense duration of their existence. It is from such associations alone,
and from no original fitness in the quality itself, that magnitude is sub-
lime ; for there is no determinate degree of magnitude that constitutes
sublimity, and the same visible magnitude which is sublime in one sub-
ject, is often very far from being sublime in another.
Form is matter bounded by lines, which may be either angular or
curved. Most bodies in nature possessing hardness, strength, or dura-
bility, are distinguished by angular forms, such as rocks, stones, metals,
strong and durable plants, &c. Those possessing weakness, fragility or
delicacy, have winding or curvilinear forms, such as the feeble and
more delicate race of plants. The same holds in the animal kingdom.
The infancy of plants and animals is generally distinguished by winding
or serpentine forms, and thence arise the associations expressive of in-
fancy, tenderness, and delicacy, with curvilinear forms — and of matu-
rity, strength, and vigour, with those which are more angular. Besides
this, our sense of touch early informs us that angular forms are expres-
sive of roughness, sharpness, harshness — and winding forms, of softness,
smoothness, delicacy, and fineness. Hence associations with these qua-
lities are easily caught by the eye from the forms of the bodies before
us, and the epithets bold, harsh, gentle, delicate, are universally applied
to forms in all languages. " Among these qualities," says Mr. Alison,
" those of gentleness, fineness, or delicacy, are the most remarkable, and
the most generally expressed in common language. In describing the
beautiful forms of ground, we speak of gentle declivities, and gentle
swells. In describing the beautiful forms of water, we speak of a mild
current, gentle falls, soft windings, a tranquil stream. In describing the
beautiful forms of the vegetable kingdom, we use a similar language.
The delicacy of flowers, of foliage, of the young shoots of trees and
shrubs, are expressions every where to be heard, and which every where
convey the belief of beauty in these forms. In the same manner, in
those ornamental forms which are the production of art, we employ the
same language to express our opinion of their beauty. The delicacy of
a wreath, of a festoon, of drapery, of a column, or of a vase, are terms
universally employed, and employed to signify the reason of our admira-
tion of their forms. If we were to describe the most beautiful vase in
technical terms, and according to the distinguished characteristics of its
form, no one but an artist would have any tolerable conception of its
beauty ; but if we were simply to describe it as peculiarly delicate in all
its parts, we should probably leave with every one the impression of the
beauty of its form." To children, every form of things which they love
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
33
or take pleasure in, is beautiful ; and so also with common people. If
there really were any original and independent beauty in form, the pre-
ference of this form would be early and distinctly marked in the language
of children, and in the opinions of mankind.
In the greater part of beautiful forms, whether in nature or art, lines
of different descriptions unite. The greater part of the forms of nature
and art possess an union or composition of uniformity and variety, of
similarity and dissimilarity of forms. But were such a composition in
itself beautiful, it would necessarily follow, that, in every case where it
was found, beauty would be the result. This is not the case, however,
as will be seen from the following passage from Mr. Alison's work,
which I extract verbatim at the greater length, because it bears so par-
ticularly on the subject of the present work : — " Every one knows that
the mere union of similarity and dissimilarity does not constitute a beau-
tiful form. In the forms of ground, of water, of vegetables, of orna-
ments, &c, it is difficult to find any instance of a perfectly simple form,
or in which lines of different descriptions do not unite. It is obvious,
however, that such objects are not beautiful in so great a proportion, and
that, on the contrary, in all of them there are cases where this mixture
is mere confusion, and in no respect considered as beautiful. If we en-
quire farther, what is the circumstance which distinguishes beautiful ob-
jects of these kinds, it will be found, I believe, that it is some deter-
mined character or expression which they have to us, and that when this
expression is once perceived we immediately look for and expect some
relation among the different parts to this general character. It is almost
impossible, for instance, to find any form of ground w r hich is not com-
plex, or in which different forms do not unite. Amid a great extent of
landscape, however, there are few spots in which we are sensible of
beauty in their original formation, and wherever such spots occur, they
are always distinguished by some prominent character, such as great-
ness, wildness, gaiety, tranquillity, or melancholy. As soon as this
impression is made, as soon as we feel the expression of the scene,
we immediately become sensible that the different forms that com-
pose it are suited to this character ; we perceive, and very often we
imagine, a correspondence among these parts, and we say accordingly
that there is a relation and harmony among them, and that nature
has been kind in combining different circumstances with so much pro-
priety for the production of one effect. We amuse ourselves also
in imagining improvements to the scenes, either in throwing out some
circumstances which do not correspond, or in introducing new ones, by
which the general character may be more effectually supported. All
c
34
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
this beauty of composition, however, would have been unheeded, if the
scene itself had not some determinate character ; and all that we intend
by these imaginary improvements, either in the preservation of greater
uniformity, or in the introduction of greater variety, is to establish a
more perfect relation among the different parts to this peculiar character.
In the laying out of grounds, in the same manner, every one knows,
that the mere composition of similar and dissimilar forms, does not con-
stitute Beauty ; that some character is necessary to which we may refer
the relation of the different parts ; and that where no such character can
be created, the composition itself is only confusion. It is upon these
principles accordingly, that we uniformly judge of the beauty of such
scenes. If there is no character discernible, no general expression which
may afford our imaginations the key of the scene, although we may be
pleased with its neatness, or its cultivation, we feel no beauty whatever
in its composition ; and we leave it with no other impression than that
of regret, that so much labour and expense should be thrown away upon
so confused and ungrateful a subject. If, on the other hand, the scene
is expressive, if the general form is such as to inspire some peculiar
emotion ; and the different circumstances, such as to correspond to this
effect, or to increase it, we immediately conclude that the composition is
good, and yield ourselves willingly to its influence. If, lastly, amid such
a scene, we find circumstances introduced which have no relation to the
general character or expression ; if forms of gaiety and gloom — greatness
and ornament — rudeness and tranquillity, &c. are mingled together with-
out any attention to one determinate effect, Ave turn with indignation from
the confusion, and conclude that the composition is defective in its first
principles. In all cases of this kind we become sensible of the beauty
of composition only when the scene has some general character, to which
the different forms in composition can refer ; and we determine its beauty
by the effect of this union in maintaining or promoting this general ex-
pression. The same observation may be extended to the forms of wood
and water. * * * In the vegetable world, also, if the mere composition
of uniformity and variety were sufficient to constitute beauty, it would
be almost impossible to find any instance where vegetable forms should
not be beautiful. That this is not the case every one knows ; and the
least attention to the language of mankind will show, that, wherever such
forms are beautiful, they are felt as characteristic or expressive, and that
the beauty of the composition is determined by the same principle which
regulates our opinions with regard to the compositions of the forms of
ground. The beautiful forms which we ourselves remark in this king-
dom — the forms which have been selected by sculptors for embellish-
ment or ornament — by painters for the effect of landscape — by poets for
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
35
description or allusion — are all such as have some determinate expression
or association ; their heauty is generally expressed by epithets significant
of this character ; and if we are asked the reason of our admiration, we
immediately assign this expression as a reason satisfactory to ourselves
for the beauty we discover in them. As soon also as we find this expression
in any vegetable form, we perceive, or we demand, a relation among the
different parts to this peculiar character. If this relation is maintained,
we feel immediately that the composition of the form is good. We
show it as a beautiful instance of the operation of nature ; and we speak
of it as a form in which the utmost harmony and felicity of composition
is displayed. If, on the contrary, the different parts do not seem ad-
justed to the general character, — if, instead of an agreement among those
parts in the maintaining or promoting this expression, there appears only
a mixture of similar and dissimilar parts, without any correspondence or
alliance, we reject it as a confused and insignificant form, without mean-
ing or beauty. If, in the same manner, the general form has no expres-
sion, we pass it by without attention, and with a conviction, that where
there is no character to which the relation of the different parts may be
referred, there can be no propriety or beauty in its composition. In the
different species of vegetables which possess expression, and which con-
sequently admit of beauty in composition, it is observable, also, that
every individual does not possess this beauty, and it is the same prin-
ciple which determines our opinion of the beauty of individuals, that
determines our opinion of the beauty of different species. The oak,
the myrtle, the weeping willow, the vine, the ivy, the rose, &c. are
beautiful classes of plants ; but every oak and myrtle, &c. does not con-
stitute a beautiful form. The many physical causes which affect their
growth, affect also their expression ; and it is only when they possess in
purity the peculiar character of the class, that the individuals are felt as
beautiful. In the judgment accordingly that we form of this beauty,
we are uniformly guided by the circumstance of the expression. When,
in any of these instances, we find an accumulation of forms, different
from what we generally meet with, we feel a kind of disappointment,
and however much the composition may exhibit of mere uniform and
varied parts, we pass it by with some degree of indignation. When the
discordant parts are few, we lament that accident should have introduced
a variety which is so prejudicial, and we amuse ourselves with fancy-
ing how beautiful the form would be, if these parts were omitted.
It is only when we discover a general correspondence among the differ-
ent parts to the whole of the character, and perceive the uniformity of
this character maintained amidst all their varieties, that we are fully satis-
36
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
fied with the heauty of form. The superiority of the productions of
sculpture and painting to their originals in nature, altogether consists in
the power which artists have to correct their accidental defects, in keep-
ing out every circumstance which can interrupt the general expression of
the subject or the form ; and in presenting, pure and unmixed, the
character which we have associated with the objects in real nature. * * * *
I believe it will be found that different proportions of uniformity and
variety are required in forms of different characters ; and that the prin-
ciple from which we determine the beauty of such proportion, is from its
correspondence to the nature of the peculiar emotion which the form it-
self is fitted to excite. Every one knows that some emotions require a
greater degree of uniformity, and others a greater degree of variety in
their objects ; and perhaps, in general, all strong or powerful emotions,
and all emotions which border upon pain, demand uniformity or same-
ness ; and all weak emotions, and all emotions which belong to positive
pleasure, demand variety or novelty in the objects of them. Upon this
constitution of our nature the beauty of composition seems chiefly to de-
pend ; and the judgment we form of this beauty appears in all cases to
be determined by the correspondence of the different parts of the com-
position in preserving or promoting the peculiar expression by which the
object itself is distinguished. In the forms of ground, for instance, there
is very obviously no certain proportion of uniformity and variety which
is permanently beautiful. The same degree of uniformity which is
pleasing in a scene of greatness or melancholy, would be disagreeable or
dull in a scene of gaiety or splendour. The same degree of variety that
would be beautiful in these, would be distressing in the others. By what
rule, however, do we determine the different beauty of these proportions ?
Not, surely, by the composition itself, else one determinate composition
would be permanently beautiful ; but by the relation of this composition
to the expression or character of the scene ; by its according with the
demand and expectation of our minds ; and by its being suited to that
particular state of attention or of fancy, which is produced by the emotion
that the scene inspires. When this effect is accordingly produced, when
the proportion either of uniformity or variety corresponds to the nature
of this emotion, we conclude that the composition is good. When this
proportion is violated, when there is more uniformity of expression
than we choose to dwell upon, or more variety than we can follow with-
out distraction, we conclude that the composition is defective, and speak
of it as either dull or confused. Whatever may be the number of dis-
tinct characters which the forms of ground possess, there is an equal
number of different proportions required in the composition of them ;
ON THE ORIOIN OF TASTE.
37
and so strong is this natural determination of the beauty of composition,
that, after admiring the composition of one scene, we very often, in a few
minutes afterwards, find equal beauty in a composition of a totally dif-
ferent kind, when it distinguishes a scene of an opposite character."
In following up this part of his subject, Mr. Alison quotes Mr. Wheat-
ley, who, when treating of ground in his work upon gardening, says, that,
— " The style of every part must be accommodated to the character of
the whole ; for every piece of ground is distinguished by certain pro-
perties ; it is either tame or bold — gentle or rude — continued or broken ;
and if any variety inconsistent with these properties be obtruded, it has
no other effect than to weaken one idea, without raising another. The in-
sipidity of a flat, is not taken away by the introduction of a few scattered
hillocks ; a continuation of uneven ground can alone give the idea of
inequality. A large deep abrupt break among easy swells and falls,
seems at best but a piece left unfinished, and which ought to have been
softened ; it is not more natural because it is more rude. On the other
hand, a small, fine, polished form, in the midst of rough misshapen ground;
though more elegant than all about it, is generally no better than a
patch, itself disgraced, and disfiguring the scene. A thousand instances
might be added, to show, that the prevailing idea ought to pervade
every part, so far at least indispensably, as to exclude whatever distracts
it ; and as much farther as possible, to accommodate the character of
the ground to the character of the scene it belongs to." The same prin-
ciple extends to the proportion , and to the number of the parts. " Ground
is seldom beautiful or natural without variety, or even without contrast ;
and the precautions which have been given, extend no farther than to
prevent variety from degenerating into inconsistency, and contrast into
contradiction. Within the extremes nature supplies an inexhaustible
fund ; and variety thus limited, so far from destroying, improves the
general effect. Each distinguished part makes a separate impression,
and all bearing the same stamp, all concurring towards the same end,
every one is an additional support to the prevailing idea. An accurate
observer will see in every form several circumstances by which it is dis-
tinguished from every other. If the scene be mild and quiet, he will
place together those that do not differ widely, and he will gradually
depart from the similitude. In ruder scenes the succession will be less
regular, and the transitions more sudden. The character of the place
must determine the degree of difference between contiguous forms.
An assemblage of the most elegant forms, in the happiest situations, is to a
degree indiscriminate, if they have not been selected and arranged with
a design to produce certain expressions ; an air of magnificence — or of
38
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
simplicity — of cheerfulness — of tranquillity, — or some other general char-
acter ought to pervade the whole ; and objects however pleasing in them-
selves, if they contradict that character, should therefore be excluded ;
those which are only indifferent must sometimes make room for such
as are more significant ; many will often be introduced for no other
merit than their expression ; and some which are in general rather
disagreeable, may occasionally be recommended by it. Barrenness itself
may be an acceptable circumstance in a spot dedicated to solitude
and melancholy." The great secret of good Landscape Gardening,
seems thus to consist in the accurate preservation of the character of
every scene, whether that character be originally there, or created in it.
The same observations which are applicable to landscape in general,
will be found to apply to the different classes of trees, as well as to the
individuals of the several species. " All these individuals," says Mr.
Alison, " are not beautiful, and wherever they appear as beautiful, it
is when their forms adhere perfectly to their character ; when no
greater degree either of uniformity or variety is assumed than suits that
peculiar emotion, which their expression excites in our minds. An oak
which wreaths not into vigorous or fantastic branches — a yew which
grows into thin or varied forms — a plane tree or a horse chestnut, which
assumes not a deep and almost solid mass of foliage, &c, appear to us
as imperfect and deformed productions. They seem to aim at an expres-
sion which they do not reach, and we speak of them accordingly, as
wanting the beauty, because they want the character of their class."
There is no one determinate proportion of uniformity and variety then,
which invariably constitutes beauty. There are in fact as many varieties
of beautiful compositions, as there are varieties of character, and the
beauty is constituted by the correspondence of the composition to the
character. The vase, for example, may be either magnificent, elegant,
simple, gay, or melancholy. In all these cases the composition is differ-
ent. A greater proportion of uniformity distinguishes it when destined
to the expression of magnificence, simplicity or melancholy ; and a
greater proportion of variety, when the expression of elegance or gaiety
is sought for. There is a propriety and a beauty in this difference of
composition, according to the peculiar character which the form is des-
tined to have. But if the vase on a tomb has all the varieties of the
goblet, or the latter all the uniformity of the funereal urn, the composition
is unfitted to the expression which the object is intended to have. In
the orders of architecture the Tuscan is distinguished by its severity —
the Doric by its massive simplicity — the Ionic by its elegance — the Corin-
thian and Composite by their lightness, gaiety, and richness. To these
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
39
characters their several ornaments are adapted with consummate taste.
* Change these ornaments/' says Mr. Alison, ee give to the Tuscan the
Corinthian capital, or to the Corinthian the Tuscan, and every person
would feel not only disappointment from this unexpected composition,
but a sentiment also of impropriety from the appropriation of a grave or
sober ornament to a subject of splendour, and of a rich and gaudy orna-
ment to a subject of severity."
Forms have a relative beauty from their being the subjects of art, or
produced by wisdom or design for some end. Whatever is the effect of
art, naturally leads us to the consideration of that art which is its cause,
and of that end or purpose for which it was produced. The discovery
of skill or wisdom in the one, or of usefulness or propriety in the other,
makes us conscious of a very pleasing emotion, and the forms which
experience has taught us are associated with such qualities, become natu-
rally and necessarily expressive of them, and affect us with the emotions
which properly belong to the qualities they signify. Design, fitness, and
utility, may be considered as the three great causes of the relative beauty
of forms, and in many cases this beauty arises from all these expressions
together. The beauty of design in a poem, in a painting, in a musical
composition, or in a machine, is perpetually sought for, and admired
when found. Design is inferred from fitness or utility ; for they are to
us signs of the design or thought which produced them. Yet we often
perceive design in forms both in art and nature, where we can discover
no fitness or utility, and in such cases, we must look for that material
quality, which is most naturally and most powerfully expressive to us
of design, that is uniformity or regularity. This view seems to account
for the circumstance, of the universal prevalence of uniformity in the
earliest periods of the arts. It was natural, that in the infancy of society
when art was first cultivated, and the attention of mankind was first
directed to works of design, that such forms would be selected for
those arts which were intended to please, as were capable of most strongly
expressing the design or skill of the artist. What the spectator would
then most admire, in the arts of sculpture and painting, where they
imitated the human form, would be the invention or art which pro-
duced the resemblance to man, whilst the study of the artist would
naturally be, to make his work as expressive of this skill as possible.
The surest mode of effecting this would be by uniformity, and by making
use of an attitude, in which both sides of the body were perfectly similar
in form, position, and drapery. The Egyptian, and even the earlier
period of the Grecian art of sculpture, was distinguished by the
same character, all the parts being subjected to the highest degree of
40
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
finishing and polish. The history of painting, too, shows that the first
periods of this art were distinguished by the same character. Mr.
Alison says, that " the art of gardening seems to have been governed,
and long governed by the same principle. When men first began to
consider a garden as a subject capable of beauty, or of bestowing
any distinction on its possessor, it was natural that they should render
its form as different as possible from that of the country around it ; and
to mark to the spectator as strongly as they could, both the design,
and the labour they had bestowed upon it. Irregular forms, however
convenient or agreeable, might still be the production of nature. But
forms perfectly regular, and divisions completely uniform, immediately
excited the belief of design, and with this belief, all the admiration
which follows the employment of skill, or even of expense. That
this principle would naturally lead the first artists in gardening to
the production of uniformity, may easily be conceived, as even at
present, when so different a system of gardening prevails, the com-
mon people universally follow the first system. *******
As gardens, however, are both a costly and permanent subject, and
are consequently less liable to the influence of fashion, this taste would
not easily be altered, and the principal improvements which they would
receive^ would consist rather in the greater employment of uniformity
and expense, than in the introduction of any new design. The whole
history of antiquity, accordingly, contains not, I believe, a single instance
where this character was deviated from in a spot considered solely as a
garden ; and till within this century, and in this country, it seems not
anywhere to have been imagined that a garden was capable of any other
beauty than what might arise from utility, and from the display of art
and design. It deserves, also, farther to be remarked, that the addi-
tional ornaments of gardening have in every country partaken of the
same character, and have been directed to the purpose of increasing the
appearance and the beauty of design. Hence jets d* Eau, artificial
fountains, regular cascades, trees in the form of animals, &c, have in all
countries been the principal ornaments of gardening. The violation of
the usual appearances of nature in such objects, strongly exhibited the
employment of art. They accorded perfectly, therefore, with the charac-
ter which the scene was intended to have ; and they increased its beauty,
as they increased the effect of that quality upon which this beauty was
founded."
The same principle very probably caused the invention of rhyme and
measure in poetry, and may also account for the precedence which poetry
has so long enjoyed over prosaic composition. To show design in his
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
41
laws, even the lawgiver was compelled to promulgate them in rhyme,
as, for the same reason, the sage used it for the promulgation of his
aphorisms. The invention of writing, which in itself sufficiently proved
design, produced a revolution in composition, though the permanence of
poetical models, and the real difficulty of the art of poetry itself, still
gives to it a very high value in this respect. But when painters and
sculptors had so far advanced in their several arts as to render pre-
eminence in either impossible, whilst uniformity was adhered to, they
began to deviate from it, and to imitate the most beautiful attitudes of
the human form. And then perceiving the influence which the passions
and affections had upon it, they sought to imitate such attitudes and ex-
pressions as were the signs of them ; and finding the forms of real life
frequently deficient, they gradually sought for and found out ideal beauty.
Thus was uniformity naturally deserted, and the variety of real life in-
troduced, and the admiration of the spectator kept pace with its intro-
duction, because, besides the additional pleasure he received from the
expression of these forms, that of the design, and skill, and dexterity of
the artist, was greater than before. This would naturally take place
with the other arts, and as the love of uniformity distinguished the
earlier periods of society, so that of variety would come to distinguish
the periods of cultivation and refinement. We may therefore assert, in
the words of Mr. Alison, that " wherever in the arts t)f any country
variety is found to predominate, it may be safely inferred that they have
long been cultivated in that country ; as, on the other hand, wherever
the love of uniformity prevails, it may with equal safety be inferred that
they are in that country but in the first stage of their improvement."
Mr. Alison's views of the causes of the tardy improvement of the art
of gardening, are curious and ingenious, I therefore give them in his own
words : — w There is one art, however, in which the same effect seems
to have arisen from very different causes. The variety which distin-
guishes the modern art of gardening in this island, beautiful as it un-
doubtedly is, appears not to be equally natural to this art as it has been
shown to be to others. It is at least of a very late origin — it is to be
found in no other country — and those nations of antiquity who had car-
ried the arts of taste to the greatest perfection which they have ever yet
attained, while they had arrived at beauty in every other species of
form, seem never to have imagined that the principle of variety was ap-
plicable to gardening, or to have deviated in any respect from the regu-
larity or uniformity of their ancestors. Nor does it indeed seem to be
either a very natural or a very obvious invention. A garden is a spot
surrounding or contiguous to a house, and cultivated for the convenience
42
ON THE ORIGIN OP TASTE.
or pleasure of the family. When men first began to ornament such a
spot, it was natural that they should do with it as they did with the house
to which it was subordinate, viz. by giving it every possible appearance
of uniformity, to show that they had bestowed labour and expense on
the improvement of it. In the countries that were most proper for
gardening, in those distinguished by a fine climate and beautiful scenery,
this labour and expense could in fact be expressed in no other way than
by the production of such uniformity. To imitate the beauty of nature
in the small scale of a garden, would have been ridiculous in a country
where this beauty was to be found upon the great scale of nature ; and
for what purpose should they bestow labour or expense, for which every
man expects credit, in creating a scene which, as it could be little supe-
rior to the general scenery around them, could consequently but partially
communicate to the spectator the belief of this labour or this expense
having been bestowed ? The beauty of landscape, nature has sufficiently
provided. The beauty, therefore, that was left for man to create, was
the beauty of convenience or magnificence, both of them dependent on
the employment of art and expense, and both of them best expressed by
such forms as immediately signified the employment of such means. In
such a situation, therefore, it does not seem natural that men should
think of proceeding in this art beyond the first and earliest forms which
it had acquired, or that any farther improvement should be attempted in
it, than merely in the extension of the scale of this design." Mr. Alison
then goes on to tell us, that in this view it is probable that the modern
taste in gardening, or the art of creating landscape, may owe its origin
to two circumstances, which may at first appear paradoxical, viz. to the
accidental circumstance of our taste in natural beauty being founded
upon foreign models, from early association with the Greek and Roman
compositions, and from the effects of the influence of the great Italian
masters ; and, secondly, to the difference or inferiority of the scenery of
our own country to that which we were thus accustomed to admire. He
then proceeds to say, that " it was very natural for the inhabitants of a
country of which the scenery, however beautiful in itself, was yet, in
many respects, very different from that which they were accustomed to
consider as solely or supremely beautiful — to attempt to imitate what
they did not possess — to impart, as it were, the beauties which were not
of their own growth ; and, in fact, to create that scenery which nature
and fortune had denied them. Such improvements, however, as ex-
tremely expensive, could not be at first on a very large scale ; they
would, for various reasons, occupy only that spot of ground which sur-
rounded the house, and as they thus supplanted what had formerly been
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
43
the garden, they came very naturally to he considered only as another
species of gardening. A scene of so peculiar a kind could not well unite
with the country around. It would gradually, therefore, extend so as
to embrace all the ground that was within view, or in the possession of
the improver. From the garden, therefore, it naturally extended to the
park, which therefore also became the subject of this new improvement.
* * * * The first attempts of this kind in England, were very far
from being an imitation of the general scenery of nature. It was solely
the imitation of Italian scenery — statues, temples, urns, ruins, colonnades,
&c., were the first ornaments of all such scenes. Whatever distinguished
the real scenes of nature in Italy, was here employed in artificial
scenery with the most thoughtless profusion ; and the object of the art
in general, was the creation, not of natural, but of Italian landscape. It
was but a short step, however, from this state of the art to the pursuit
of general beauty. The great step had already been made in the de-
struction of the regular forms, which constituted the former system of
gardening, and in the imitation of nature, which, though foreign and very
different from the appearance or character of nature in our own country,
was yet still the imitation of nature. The profusion with which temples,
ruins, statues, and all the other adventitious articles of Italian scenery
were lavished, became soon ridiculous. The destruction of these, it
was found, did not destroy the beauty of landscape. The power of
simple nature was felt and acknowledged ; and the removal of the articles
of acquired expression, led men only more strongly to attend to the
natural expression of scenery, and to study the means by which it might
be maintained or improved. The publication also at this time of The
Seasons of Thomson, in the opinion of Dr. Warton, a very competent
judge, contributed in no small degree both to influence and direct the
taste of men in this art. The peculiar merit of the work itself, the sin-
gular felicity of its descriptions, and above all, the fine enthusiasm which
it displays, and which it is so fitted to excite with regard to the works
of nature, were most singularly adapted to promote the growth of an
infant art, which had for its object the production of natural beauty ; and
by diffusing everywhere both the admiration of nature, and the know-
ledge of its expression, prepared, in a peculiar degree, the minds of men
in general, both to feel the effects and to judge of the fidelity of those
scenes in which it was imitated. By these means the art of gardening
has gradually ascended from the pursuit of general beauty — to realize
whatever the fancy of the painter has imagined, and to create a scenery
more pure, more harmonious, and more expressive, than any that is to
be found in nature itself."
44
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
As uniformity was the distinguishing form of beauty in the first periods
of the various arts, variety is the distinguishing form in their later pe-
riods. Uniformity and variety, then, in conjunction, are beautiful when
correspondent to the character or expression of the subject ; and again,
when they are expressive of the skill or taste of the artist. It is in the
power of the artist either to sacrifice the beauty of design to that of cha-
racter or expression, or to sacrifice the beauty of character to that of
design. The beauty of design produces less affecting emotions than the
beauty of expression or character. It is fully felt only by proficients in
the art, and whilst its duration depends upon the period of the art, the
permanence of the beauty of expression and character rests upon certain
invariable and indestructible principles of our nature. The expression
of design, therefore, in the arts, should always be subordinate or subject
to the expression of character.
Fitness, or the proper adaptation of means to an end, is the great
source of the relative beauty of forms. The greater part of the emotion
of beauty which we feel in regarding furniture, machines, and instru-
ments, has its origin in this cause. Even the most common and disre-
garded articles of convenience are felt as beautiful, when we forget their
familiarity, and consider them only in relation to the purposes they serve.
A physician even tells us of a beautiful theory of dropsies or fevers — a
surgeon of a beautiful instrument for operations — an anatomist of a beau-
tiful subject or preparation ; — instances which show that even objects
which are disgusting in themselves, become beautiful when regarded only
in the light of their usefulness or fitness. The beauty of proportion is
also to be ascribed to this cause, that is, from certain proportions being
expressive of the fitness of the parts to the end designed. The want of
this gives us that dissatisfaction which we feel when means appear to be
unfitted to their end. " In all the orders of architecture," to use Mr.
Alison's words, " the fitness of the parts to the support of the particu-
lar weight in the entablature, is apparent to every one, and constitutes
an undoubted part of the pleasure we receive from them. In the
Tuscan, where the entablature is heavier than the rest, the column
and base are proportioriably stronger. In the Corinthian, where the
entablature is lightest, the column and base are proportionably slighter.
In the Doric and Ionic, which are between these extremes, the forms
of the column and base, are, in the same manner, proportioned to
the reciprocal weights of their entablatures — being neither so strong
as the one nor so slight as the other." To this we may add, that we
have pleasure in looking at a justly proportioned peristyle of Doric, or
other columns, very much because experience has taught us that such a
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
45
quantity of such material, in such forms, is amply sufficient to give
security to the superstructure. But let the same actual security be given
by means of thin iron pillars, and although reason may convince us that it
really is sufficient, our eyes have been so long accustomed to such pro-
portions as are required for the weaker materials of stone or marble,
that any thing thinner appears deficient and disproportionate, and so
offends the eye. A much longer experience of iron supports, and a
much greater familiarity with them will be required, before the eye be
reconciled to the thinness of their proportions, and when the time does
arrive when it shall be so, proportions in general will become variable
in the estimation of different people. Utility, when evidently expressed,
is sufficient to give beauty to forms of the most different and even oppo-
site kinds.
Forms have what may be termed their accidental beauty from asso-
ciations not common to all, but peculiar to the individual. They take
their rise from education — from peculiar habits of thought — from situa-
tion — from profession, and the beauty they produce is felt only by those
whom similar causes have led to the formation of similar associations.
Motion is in many cases productive of emotions of sublimity and
beauty. The associations connected with it arise cither from the nature
of motion itself, or from the nature of the bodies moved. I agree with
Mr. Alison, that motion which is sublime, is that which is expressive to
us of the exertion of power ; but I cannot so readily concur with him in
the proposition — " that there is no instance where motion, which is the
apparent effect of force, is beautiful or sublime," for I apprehend that
the flight of an arrow is beautiful, and that of a cannonball or of a
blazing bombshell sublime. Rapid motion is sublime — slow motion in
small bodies beautiful, though in great bodies it is sublime, as in the
movement of a first-rate man-of-war, — the ascent of a great balloon, —
the slow march of an immense embattled army, — or the motion of stu-
pendous clouds, to which I may add the slow, gradual, but terrific ad-
vance of a stream of lava from a volcano, — or the tardy yet certain
descent of the side of a Swiss mountain on the cultivated and thickly
peopled valley below.
Mr. Alison devotes a large portion of the latter part of his work to a
consideration of the origin of the beauty or sublimity to be perceived in
the countenance and form of man, as well as in his attitudes and ges-
tures, all of which he treats with the same perspicuity of argument, and
luxuriance of felicitous illustration, as the examples I have given so
abundantly prove that his essays are replete with. But on this part
of the subject I shall content myself with stating, that he proves very
46
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
satisfactorily, that it is in perfect harmony with the general theory of asso-
ciation, and that the beauty or sublimity of the human countenance or
form, does not arise from any original or essential beauty in either — that
there is a negative species of beauty necessary to every beautiful form or
face, but not constituting it, which arises from the expression of physical
fitness or propriety — that the real and positive beauty of the form or face
arises from its expression of some amiable or interesting character of
mind, and that the degree of this beauty is proportionate to the degree in
which this character is interesting or affecting to us ; — and, finally, that
the beauty of composition in the human face and form arises, as in all
other cases, from the unity of expression, and that the law by which we
determine the beauty of their several members, is that of their corres-
pondence to the peculiar nature of the characteristic expression. I dis-
miss this part of the subject so shortly, from no want of a due notion of
its great importance to the general question, but because it does not bear
so directly on the immediate object of this work. As it regards the doc-
trine of association, I am disposed to consider it so very essential, that I
believe that those emotions of beauty or sublimity which are excited in
us by the other objects of the material world, inanimate as well as ani-
mate, are invariably produced by associations which all, in some way,
originate in our early formed mental impressions of the varieties of human
character, passions, and emotions.
Mr. Alison sums up his work by stating, that " the illustrations he has
offered in the course of his essay upon the origin of the sublimity and
beauty of some of the principal qualities of matter, seem to afford evi-
dence for the following conclusions : — I. That each of these qualities is
either from nature, from experience, or from accident, the sign of some
quality capable of producing emotion, or the exercise of some moral
affection ; — and II. That when these associations are dissolved, or, in
other words, when the material qualities cease to be significant of the
associated qualities, they cease also to produce the emotions either of
sublimity or beauty. If these conclusions are admitted, it appears neces-
sarily to follow, that the beauty and sublimity of such objects is to be
ascribed, not to the material qualities themselves, but to the qualities they
signify ; and, of consequence, that the qualities of matter are not to be
considered as sublime or beautiful in themselves, but as being the signs
or expressions of such qualities as, by the constitution of our nature, are
fitted to produce pleasing or interesting emotion." In short, " that the
beauty and sublimity which is felt in the various appearances of matter,
are finally to be ascribed to their expression of mind, or to their being
either directly or indirectly the signs of those qualities of mind, which
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
47
are fitted by the constitution of our nature, to affect us with pleasing or
interesting emotion."
The view which Mr. Alison thus takes of the manner in which we
are affected by the objects of the material world, will at once be per-
ceived to be that which is most consonant to the goodness and wisdom
of the beneficent Creator of the universe, who has thereby made provision
for the general diffusion of human happiness, so far as it may depend on
the pleasures of taste. Mr. Alison gives a beautiful and convincing
exposition of this in the following sentences.
" If the emotions of taste, and all the happiness they give, are pro-
duced by the perpetual expression of mind, the accommodation of this
system to the happiness of human nature, is not only in itself simple,
but it may be seen in the simplest instances. Wherever the appearances
of the material world are expressive to us of qualities we love or admire ;
wherever, from our education or connections, or habits, or our pursuits,
its qualities are associated in our minds with affecting or interesting
emotions, there the pleasures of beauty or sublimity are felt, or at least
are capable of being felt. Our minds instead of being governed by the
character of external objects, are enabled to bestow upon them a char-
acter which does not belong to them ; and even with the rudest, or the
commonest appearances of nature, to connect feelings of a nobler or a
more interesting kind, than any that the mere influences of matter can
ever convey. It is hence that the inhabitant of savage and barbarous
countries, clings to the rocks and the deserts in which he was nursed,
so, that if the pursuit of fortune forces him into the regions of fertility
and cultivation, he sees in them no memorials of early love, or of ancient
independence ; and that he hastens to return to his rocks, and the
deserts which spoke to his infant heart, amidst which he recognizes his
first affections, and his genuine home. It is hence that in the coun-
tenance of her dying infant, the eyes of the mother discover beauties
which she feels not in those who require not her care, and that the
bosom of the husband or friend glows with deeper affection when he
marks the advances of age or disease, over those features which first
awakened the emotions of love or of friendship. , It is hence, in the
same manner, that the eye of admiration turns involuntarily from the
forms of those who possess only the advantages of physical beauty, or
the beauty of fitness or proportion, to rest upon the humble or less
favoured forms which are expressive of genius, of knowledge, or of
virtue ; and that in the public assemblies of every country, the justice
of national taste neglects all the external advantages of youth, of rank,
or of grace, to bestow the warmth of its enthusiasm upon the mutilated
48
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
form of the warrior who has extended its power, or the grey hairs of the
statesman who has maintained its liberty. *******
It is by means of this constitution of our nature, that the emotions of
taste are blended with moral sentiments, and that one of the greatest
pleasures of which we are susceptible, is made finally subservient to
moral improvement. If the beauty of the material world were altogether
independent of expression ; if any original law had imperiously pre-
scribed the objects in which the eye and the ear could alone find delight,
the pleasures of taste must have been independent of all moral emotion,
and the qualities of beauty and sublimity would have been as distinct
from moral sensibility as those of number or of figure. The scenery of
nature would have produced only an organic pleasure, which would have
expired with the moment in which it was felt ; and the compositions of
the artist, instead of awakening all the enthusiasm of fancy and of feeling,
must have been limited to excite only the cold approbation of faithful
outline, and accurate detail. No secret analogies, no silent expressions,
would then have connected enjoyment with improvement ; and in con-
tradiction to every other appearance of human nature, an important
source of pleasure would have been bestowed without any relation to
the individual, or the social advantage of the human race. In the system
which is established, on the contrary — in that system which makes matter
sublime or beautiful, only as it is significant of mind — we perceive the
lofty end which is pursued ; and that pleasure is here, as in every other
case, made instrumental to the moral purposes of our being. While the
objects of the material world are made to attract our infant eyes, there
are latent ties by which they reach our hearts ; and wherever they afford
us delight, they are always the signs or expressions of higher qualities,
by which our moral sensibilities are called forth. It may not be our
fortune perhaps to be born amid its nobler scenes. But wander where
we will, trees wave, rivers flow, mountains ascend, clouds darken, or
winds animate the face of heaven ; and over the whole scenery the Sun
sheds the cheerfulness of his morning, the splendour of his noonday, or
the tenderness of his evening light. There is not one of these features
of scenery which is not fitted to awaken us to moral emotion ; to lead
us, when once the key of our imagination is struck, to trains of fas-
cinating and of endless imagery ; and in the indulgence of these, to
make our bosoms either glow with conceptions of mental excellence, or
melt in the dreams of moral good. Even upon the man of the most
uncultivated taste the scenes of nature have some inexplicable charm.
There is not a chord perhaps of the human heart which may not be
awakened by their influence ; and I believe there is no man of genuine
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
49
taste, who has not often felt, in the lone majesty of nature, some unseen
spirit to dwell, which, in his happier hours, touched as if with magic
hand, all the springs of his moral sensibility, and rekindled in his heart
those origina conceptions of the moral or intellectual excellence of his
nature, which it is the melancholy tendency of the vulgar pursuits of life
to diminish, if not altogether to destroy. ********
" There is yet, however, a greater expression which the appearances of
the material world are fitted to convey, and a more important influence,
which, in the design of nature, they are destined to produce upon us —
their influence in leading us to religious sentiment. — Had organic enjoy-
ment been the only object of our formation, it would have been sufficient
to have established senses for the reception of these enjoyments. But
if the promises of our nature are greater ; — if it is destined to a nobler
conclusion ; — if it is enabled to look to the Author of Being himself, and
to feel its proud relation to Him ; then nature, in all its aspects around
us, ought only to be felt as signs of his providence, and as conducting
us, by the universal language of these signs, to the throne of the Deity."
Having now, I hope, succeeded in giving a somewhat satisfactory digest
of the arguments and examples by which Mr. Alison supports this theory
of association, together with a very liberal production of quotation from
those more beautiful or striking passages in his work, by which, in his
own person as a writer, he so happily illustrates the doctrines which
he teaches ; it may not be out of place to remark, that the acute per-
ceptive powers of the poetical mind of Burns, were immediately unfolded
for the reception of this theory, the moment it was presented to him. —
Professor Dugald Stewart, thus notices this fact. — " The last time I saw
Burns was during the winter 1788-89, or 1789-90, when he passed an
evening with me at Drumsheugh, in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh,
where I was then living.* My friend Mr. Alison was the only other
person in company. I never saw him more agreeable or interesting.
A present which Mr. Alison sent him afterwards of his Essays on Taste,
drew from Burns a letter of acknowledgment, which I remember to
have read, with some degree of surprise at the distinct conception he
appeared from it to have formed of the general principles of the doctrine
of association." — I cannot say that I at all participate in the surpi-ise
which Professor Stewart here expresses, for I think the highly imagina-
tive mind of Burns, was of all others the most likely to catch immediate
* Then in the neighbourhood of the city, but now altogether absorbed within it by
its great extension.
1)
50
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
illumination from the first flash of the light of the truth of this theory.
The letter is as follows. —
"Ellisland, near Dumfries, \ith February 1791.
" Sir, — You must, by this time, have set me down as one of the most
ungrateful of men. You did me the honour to present me with a book
which does honour to science and the intellectual powers of man, and
I have not even so much as acknowledged the receipt of it. The
fact is, you yourself are to blame for it. Flattered as I was by your
telling me that you wished to have my opinion of the work, the
old spiritual enemy of mankind, who knows well that vanity is one
of the sins that most easily beset me, put it into my head to ponder
over the performance with the look-out of a critic ; and to draw up,
forsooth, a deep-learned digest of strictures on a composition of which,
in fact, until I read the book, I did not even know the first principles.
I own, Sir, that, at first glance, several of your propositions startled me
as paradoxical. That the martial clangour of a trumpet had something in
it vastly more grand, heroic, and sublime, than the twingle-twangle of a
Jew's harp ; that the delicate flexure of a rose-twig, when the half-blown
flower is heavy with the tears of the dawn, was infinitely more beautiful
and elegant than the upright stub of a burdock ; and that from something
innate and independent of all association of ideas : — these I had set down
as irrefragable, orthodox truths, until perusing your book shook my faith.
In short, Sir, except Euclid's Elements of Geometry — which I made a
shift to unravel by my father's fireside, in the winter evenings of the first
season I held the plough — I never read a book which gave me such a
quantum of information, and added so much to my stock of ideas, as
your ' Essays on the Principles of Taste.' One thing you must forgive
my mentioning as an uncommon merit in the work, — I mean the lan-
guage. To clothe abstract philosophy in elegance of style, sounds some-
thing like a contradiction in terms ; but you have convinced me that
they are quite compatible. — I am, Sir, &c. Robert Burns."
I am now desirous of adding to the other authorities I have adduced
in support of the associative theory of taste, the powerful testimony of
Professor Wilson, whose opinion, whether we consider it as coming
from him as a poet or as a philosopher, must, on such a subject as this, be
universally regarded as of the greatest weight, and in the highest degree
valuable. I quote the following from an article of his in the number of
Blackwood's Magazine for January 1 839, and the reader will find from
it that the Professor, whilst he coincides with Lord Jeffrey in denying
the necessity of Mr. Alison's trains of thought, fully subscribes to the
truth of the doctrine of association.
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
51
" It is the theory of Mr. Alison,, that all heauty and sublimity in ex-
ternal nature are but the reflections of mental qualities, and that the
pleasures of the imagination consist of those emotions which arise in us
during our association of mental qualities with lifeless things. This
theory — so beautifully illustrated by Mr. Alison — is certainly in a great
measure true ; and therefore almost every word we use, and every feel-
ing which we express, is a proof of the discernment by the mind in a
state of imagination, of analogies subsisting between the objects of the
external world and the attributes of our moral and intellectual being.
" We said that Mr. Alison's theory is in a great measure true. The
principle is true ; but we suspect that there is something fallacious in
its application. There is a popular opinion, or rather an unconsidered
impression, that sights and sounds are beautiful and sublime in themselves,
but this disappears before examination. A sound is or is not sublime,
as it is or is not apprehended to be thunder. That is association. But
thunder itself would not be sublime, if there were no more than the in-
tellectual knowledge of its physical cause, — if there were not ideas of
power, wrath, death, included in it. The union of these ideas with
thunder is association. These ideas, by association, carry their own
ideas with them. All fixed conjunction, therefore, of ideas with ideas,
and of feelings with ideas, is the work of association, — nor is it possible
to dispute it. But when the advocates of this theory assert, that trains of
thought, or distinct personal recollections, are absolutely necessary to make
up the emotion ; then they assert what appears to us to be contradicted
by the experience of every man. The impression is collective and im-
mediate. We know that all our acquired perceptions are at first gained
by long processes of association — that the eye does not of itself see form
or figure. When, therefore, we see a rose to be a rose, it may as well
be said that we do so by a process of association, as that we see it to be
beautiful by & process of association. In both cases the perception of
the rose, and the emotion of its beauty is equally instantaneous, and in-
dependent of any process of association, though we know that both our
perception of it and our emotion, could only have been formed originally
by such a process. As, therefore, we cannot be said, by our instructed
senses, to perform any mental operation when we see an object to be
round, so neither can we be said to perform any, when we feel an object
to be beautiful. Voluntary associations, may, doubtless, be added to
our unreasoned and unwilled perception of beauty, as of a rose, or a
human countenance — and these trains of thought, of which Mr. Alison
so finely speaks, will add to the emotion. But the emotion arises inde-
pendently of them. We admire the beauty of a rose just as thoughtlessly
52
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
as we see it to have a slender stalk, circular flower, and serrated leaves.
While, therefore, we admit the truth of the principle of Mr. Alison's
theory, we seek to limit the application of it."
There are some remarks with which Lord Jeffrey terminates his
article on Beauty in the Encyclopaedia Britannica, which I think so
highly essential, that I am led to quote them at length. They refer to
the necessary consequences of the adoption of this theory, upon other
controversies of a kindred description.
" In the first place, then," says his Lordship, " we conceive that it
establishes the substantial identity of the sublime, the beautiful, and the
picturesque, and, consequently, puts an end to all controversy that is not
purely verbal as to the difference of those several qualities. Every
material object that interests without actually hurting or gratifying our
bodily feelings, must do so, according to this theory, in one and the same
manner — that is, by suggesting or recalling some emotion or affection of
ourselves, or some other sentient being, and presenting, to our imagina-
tion at least, some natural object of love, pity, admiration, or awe. The
interest of material objects, therefore, is always the same, and arises, in
every case, not from any physical qualities they may possess, but from
their association with some idea of emotion. But, though material
objects have but one means of exciting emotion, the emotions they do
excite are infinite. They are mirrors that may reflect all shades and all
colours, and, in point of fact, do seldom reflect the same hues twice.
No two interesting objects, perhaps, whether known by the name of
beautiful, sublime, or picturesque, ever produced exactly the same emo-
tion in the beholder ; and no one object, it is most probable, ever moved
any two persons to the very same conceptions. As they may be asso-
ciated with all the feelings and affections of which the human mind is
susceptible, so they may suggest those feelings in all their variety ; and, in
fact, do daily excite all sorts of emotions, running through every gradation,
from extreme gaiety and elevation, to the borders of horror and disgust.
" Now it is certainly true, that all the variety of emotions raised in this
way, on the single basis of association, may be classed in a rude way
under the denominations of sublime, beautiful, and picturesque, accord-
ing as they partake of awe, tenderness, or admiration ; and we have no
other objection to this nomenclature, except its extreme imperfection,
and the delusions to which we know it has given occasion. If objects
that interest by their association with ideas of power, and danger, and
terror, are to be distinguished by the peculiar name of sublime, why
should there not be a separate name also for objects that interest by
associations of mirth and gaiety — another for those that please by sug-
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
53
gestions of softness and melancholy — another for such as are connected
with impressions of comfort and tranquillity — and another for those that
are related to pity, and admiration, and love, and regret, and all the
other distinct emotions and affections of our nature ? These are not in
reality less distinguishable from each other than from the emotions of
awe and veneration that confer the title of sublime on their representa-
tives ; and while all the former are confounded under the comprehen-
sive appellation of beauty, this partial attempt at distinction is only apt
to mislead us into an erroneous opinion of our accuracy, and to make us
believe both that there is a greater conformity among the things that
pass under the same name, and a greater difference between those that
pass under different names, than is really the case. We have seen
already that the radical error of almost all preceding inquirers, has lain
in supposing that every thing that passed under the name of beautiful
must have some real and inherent quality in common with every thing
else that obtained that name. And it is scarcely necessary for us to
observe, that it has been almost as general an opinion, that sublimity
was not only something radically different from beauty, but actually
opposite to it ; whereas the fact is, that it is far more related to some
sorts of beauty than many sorts of beauty are to each other ; and that
both are founded exactly upon the same principle of suggesting some
past or possUjle emotion of some sentient being.
" Upon this important point, we are happy to find our opinions con-
firmed by the authority of Mr. Stewart, who, in his Essay on the Beau-
tiful, has observed, not only that there appears to him to be no incon-
sistency or impropriety in such expressions as the sublime beauties of
nature, or of the sacred scriptures ; but has added, in express terms,
that " to oppose the beautiful to the sublime, or to the picturesque,
strikes him as something analogous to a contrast between the beautiful
and the comic — the beautiful and the tragic — the beautiful and the
pathetic — or the beautiful and the romantic.
" The only other advantage which we shall specify as likely to result
from the general adoption of the theory we have been endeavouring to
illustrate, is, that it seems calculated to put an end to all these perplex-
ing and vexatious questions about the standard of taste, which have
given occasion to so much impertinent and so much elaborate discussion.
If things are not beautiful in themselves, but only as they serve to sug-
gest interesting conceptions to the mind, then every thing which does, in
point of fact, suggest such a conception to any individual, is beautiful to
that individual; and it is not only quite true that there is no room for
disputing about tastes, but that all tastes are equally just and correct, in
54
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
as far as each individual speaks only of his own emotions. When a
man calls a thing beautiful, however, he may indeed mean to make two
very different assertions ; — he may mean that it gives him pleasure by
suggesting to him some interesting emotion ; and, in this sense, there
can be no doubt that, if he merely speak truth, the thing is beautiful,
and that it pleases him precisely in the same way that all other things
please those to whom they appear beautiful. But if he mean further to
say, that the thing possesses some quality which should make it appear
beautiful to every other person, and that it is owing to some prejudice
or defect in them if it appear otherwise, then he is as unreasonable and
absurd as he would think those who should attempt to convince him
that he felt no emotion of beauty.
" All tastes, then, are equally just and true, in as far as concerns the
individual whose taste is in question ; and what a man feels distinctly
to be beautiful, is beautiful to him, whatever other people may think of it.
All this follows clearly from the theory now in question : but it does not
follow from it that all tastes are equally good or desirable, or that there
is any difficulty in describing that which is really the best, and the most
to be envied. The only use of the faculty of taste is to afford an inno-
cent delight, and to aid the cultivation of a finer morality ; and that
man will certainly have the most delight from this faculty who has the
most numerous and the most powerful perceptions of beauty. But if
beauty consist in the reflection of our affections and sympathies, it is
plain that he will always see the most beauty whose affections are
warmest and most exercised, whose imagination is the most power-
ful, and who has most accustomed himself to attend to the objects by
which he is surrounded.. In as far as mere feeling and enjoyment are
concerned, therefore, it seems evident that the best taste must be that
which belongs to the best affections, the most active fancy, and the
most attentive habits of observation. It will follow pretty exactly, too,
that all men's perceptions of beauty will be nearly in proportion to the
degree of their sensibility and social sympathies; and that those who
have no affections towards sentient beings, will be just as insensible to
beauty in external objects, as he who cannot hear the sound of his
friend's voice must be deaf to its echo.
" In so far as the sense of beauty is regarded as a mere source of en-
joyment, this seems to be the only distinction that deserves to be at-
tended to ; and the only cultivation that taste should ever receive, with
a view to the gratification of the individual, should be through the in-
direct channel of cultivating the affections and powers of observation.
If we aspire, however, to be creators as well as observers of beauty,
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
55
and place any part of our happiness in ministering to the gratification of
others — as artists, or poets,, or authors of any sort — then, indeed, a new
distinction of tastes, and a far more laborious system of cultivation will
be necessary. A man who pursues only his ov/n delight will be as
much charmed with objects that suggest powerful emotions, in conse-
quence of personal and accidental associations, as with those that intro-
duce similar emotions, by means of associations that are universal and
indestructible. To him, all objects of the former class are really as
beautiful as those of the latter — and, for his own gratification, the
creation of that sort of beauty is just as important an occupation ; but
if he conceive the ambition of creating beauties for the admiration of
others, he must be cautious to employ only such objects as are the
natural signs, or the inseparable concomitants of emotions, of which
the greater part of mankind are susceptible ; and his taste will then
deserve to be called bad and false, if he obtrude upon the public, as
beautiful, objects that are not likely to be associated in common minds
with any interesting impressions.
" For a man himself, then, there is no taste that is either bad or false;
and the only difference worthy of being attended to, is that between a
great deal and a very little. Some who have cold affections — sluggish
imaginations, and no habits of observation, can with difficulty discern
beauty in anything ; while others, who are full of kindness and sensi-
bility, and who have been accustomed to attend to all the objects around
them, feel it almost in everything. It is no matter what other people
may think of the objects of their admiration ; nor ought it to be any
concern of theirs, that the public would be astonished or offended if
they were called upon to join in that admiration. As long as no such
call is made, this anticipated discrepancy of feeling need give them no
uneasiness ; and the suspicion of it should produce no contempt in any
other person. It is a strange aberration, indeed, of vanity, that makes
us despise persons for being happy — for having sources of enjoyment in
which we cannot share ; and yet this is the true account of the ridicule
which is so generally poured upon individuals who seek only to enjoy
their peculiar tastes unmolested ; for, if there be any truth in the theory
we have been expounding, no taste is bad for any other reason than
because it is peculiar, as the objects in which it delights must actually
serve to suggest to the individual those common emotions and universal
affections upon which the sense of beauty is everywhere founded. The
misfortune is, however, that we are apt to consider all persons who
make known their peculiar relishes, and especially all who create any
objects for their gratification, as in some measure dictating to the public,
56
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
and setting up an idol for general adoration ; and hence this intolerant
interference with almost all peculiar perceptions of beauty, and the un-
sparing derision that pursues all deviations from acknowledged standards.
This intolerance, we admit, is often provoked by something of a spirit of
proselytism and arrogance, in those who mistake their own casual asso-
ciations for natural or universal relations ; and the consequence is, that
mortified vanity dries up the fountain of their peculiar enjoyment, and
disenchants, by a new association of general contempt or ridicule, the
scenes that had been consecrated by some innocent but accidental
emotion.
"As all men must have some peculiar associations, all men must have
some peculiar notions of 'beauty , and, of course, to a certain extent, a
taste that the public would be entitled to consider as false or vitiated.
For those who make no demands on public admiration, however, it is
hard to be obliged to sacrifice this source of enjoyment ; and even for
those who labour for applause, the wisest course, perhaps, if it were
only practicable, would be to have two tastes — one to enjoy, and one to
work by — one founded upon universal associations, according to which
they finished those performances for which they challenged universal
praise, and another guided by all casual and individual associations,
through which they looked fondly upon nature, and upon the objects
of their secret admiration."
I have now endeavoured to present to the reader an ample analysis
of the opinions of those who have written most correctly — with the
most philosophical views — and who, from the great authority of their
names, are most worthy of being listened to on this highly interesting
subject, the Origin of Taste. From their united judgment it seems now
to be established, that there really are no intrinsic or inherent qualities
of sublimity or beauty actually existing in the objects of material creation,
but that the emotions of sublimity or beauty which we experience whilst
regarding them, are immediately excited in us by the material qualities
of those objects being associated in our minds with the mental qualities
— the virtues, the vices, the passions, the happiness, or the misery of
man — for it is man and his concerns alone that can rouse us to yield
that degree of interest which is capable of sympathetically awakening
human feelings. The associations so formed may be either certain or
accidental, general or particular, permanent or temporary. The material
object is, as it were, but the mirror that reflects the emotions which
have been instantaneously awakened by association in our own bosoms.
But this development of the mode by which the human mind is affected
with emotions of sublimity or beauty by the objects of the material
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
57
world, by no means does away with the necessity of the cultivation of
the art of selecting, of creating, or of combining objects, for the purpose
of giving delight to man. For, as that individual will certainly have
the most delight from the contemplation of the works of nature or of
art who has the most numerous and the most powerful associative per-
ceptions of Beauty, so it is evident that those objects which are capable of
exciting the widest range of association throughout the entire mass of the
human race, will always be the most generally pleasing and acceptable to
mankind, whilst those objects which are most capable of touching respon-
sive chords of general association among the educated portion of man-
kind, must necessarily be most generally acceptable to all who belong to
this more cultivated cast. He, therefore, who has the taste and the
discernment to discover these, to classify and to combine them, and to
point out how they may be so placed before us — so classed and so
combined — as to afford the greatest quantum of pleasure to persons of
such refinement who may contemplate them, must necessarily deserve
the attention as well as the thanks of those for whose delight he labours.
Sir Uvedale Price has conferred this boon upon us in a very high degree
by his Observations on Landscape Gardening, in which the acuteness of
his perception, the nicety of his discrimination, and the highly cultivated
delicacy of his taste, have enabled him to give the happiest selection of
the liveliest and most pleasing pictures, illustrative of all that this fas-
cinating art ought truly to be ; and it is impossible to doubt, that the
more general perusal of such a work by those who are blessed with the
possession of parts of the surface of our native soil upon which they
may work their will, and who have also the means of improving them,
must ultimately tend greatly to spread and to enrich that beauty for
which the face of this happy country of ours is already so generally
celebrated. For, rich as these happy islands of ours are in natural scenery,
and much as has been done within them by the hand of man to aid and
embellish nature, no one possessed of good taste in landscape gardening
can travel throughout the length and breadth of our land, without being
satisfied that much yet remains to be done, and, perhaps, not a little to
be undone. Let me, then, earnestly call upon all such highly privileged
individuals as have landed estates, and sufficient means to enable them
to embellish them, to bear in mind, that amongst the many duties which
in reason and justice appear to be entailed upon them by the very cir-
cumstance of their being the lords of a portion of their native soil, that
of their obligation to contribute to the general improvement of the face
of the country is not to be neglected. And, as this can be effected
solely by the exertions of individuals, each in his own particular sphere,
58
ON THE ORIGIN OF TASTE.
every landed proprietor is bound, as far as his subject will admit of it,
or his means allow him, to do all in his power to bestow upon his pos-
session, whether it be small, or whether it be great, the fullest enrich-
ment of which good taste would pronounce that its features may be
capable. He can have little feeling for his country who does not admit
the truth as well as the importance of this view of the matter, in which
no account is taken of that exquisite self-gratification which every one
devoted to the practical pursuits of landscape gardening must reap from
this most delightful, as well as most innocent and rational of all rural
employments — a self-gratification, be it remembered, which cannot be
indulged in without producing effects that must give the widest pleasure
to all the rest of mankind who may have an opportunity of looking upon
them, not only in our own time, but for generations to come. Indeed,
it is natural for every Briton to feel a sort of national, if not an
individual appropriation, in all the finest and most remarkable places,
which, as it were, belong to the nation. Every actual proprietor, there-
fore, ought to feel that the eyes of his country are upon him and upon
his place — that, in fact, he holds it for his country — and that, farther,
the tenure by which he holds it is that of an obligation to do all for it
that industry, guided by the best taste, can effect, to make it a feature
worthy of British landscape.
ON THE PICTURESQUE, &c.
CHAPTER I.
There is no country, I believe — if we except China — where the art of
laying out grounds is so much cultivated as it now is in England. For-
merly the decorations near the house were infinitely more magnificent
and expensive than they are at present ; but the embellishments of
what are called the grounds, and of all the extensive scenery round the
place were much less attended to ; and, in general, the jmrk, with all
its timber and thickets, was left in a state of picturesque neglect. As
these embellishments are now extended over a whole district, and as
they give a new and peculiar character to the general face of the country,
it is well worth considering whether they give a natural and a beautiful
one — and whether the present system of improving — to use a short,
though often an inaccurate term — is founded on any just principles of
taste.
60
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
In order to examine this question, the first inquiry will naturally be,
whether there is any standard to which, in point of grouping and of
general composition, works of this sort can be referred ; any authority
higher than that of the persons who have gained the most general and
popular reputation by those works, and whose method of conducting
them has had the most extensive influence on the general taste ? I
think there is a standard — there are authorities of an infinitely higher
kind — the authorities of those great artists who have most diligently
studied the beauties of nature, both in their grandest and most general
effects, and in their minutest detail — who have observed every variety
of form and of colour — have been able to select and combine, and then,
by the magic of their art, to fix upon the canvass all these various
beauties.
But however highly I may think of the art of painting, compared
with that of improving, nothing can be farther from my intention — and
I wish to impress it in the strongest manner on the reader's mind — than
to recommend the study of pictures in preference to that of nature,
much less to the exclusion of it. Whoever studies art alone, will have
a narrow pedantic manner of considering all objects, and of referring
them solely to the minute and practical purposes of that art — whatever
it be — to which his attention has been particularly directed. Of this
Mr. Brown's followers afford a very striking example ; and if it be
right that every thing should be referred to art, at least let it be referred
to one, whose variety, compared to the monotony of what is called im-
provement, appears infinite, but which again falls as short of the bound-
less variety of the mistress of all art.
The use, therefore, of studying pictures, is not merely to make us ac-
quainted with the combinations and effects that are contained in them,
but to guide us, by means of those general heads — as they may be called
— of composition, in our search of the numberless and untouched varieties
and beauties of nature ; for as he who studies art only will have a con-
fined taste, so he who looks at nature only, will have a vague and un-
settled one ; and in this more extended sense I shall interpret the Italian
proverb, " Chi sinsegna, ha un pazzo per maestro" — He is a fool who
does not profit by the experience of others.
We are therefore to profit by the experience contained in pictures,
but not to content ourselves with that experience only ; nor are we to
consider even those of the highest class as absolute and infallible stand-
ards, but as the best and the only standards we have ; as compositions,
which, like those of the great classical authors, have been consecrated
by long uninterrupted admiration, and which therefore have a similar
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
61
claim to influence our judgment, and to form our taste in all that is
within their province. These are the reasons for studying copies of na-
ture, though the original is before us, that we may not lose the benefit
of what is of such great moment in all arts and sciences, the accumulated
experience of past ages ; and with respect to the art of improving, we
may look upon pictures as a set of experiments of the different ways in
which trees, buildings, water, &c. may be disposed, grouped, and ac-
companied, in the most beautiful and striking manner, and in every
style, from the most simple and rural, to the grandest and most orna-
mental. Many of those objects, that are scarcely marked as they lie
scattered over the face of nature, when brought together in the compass
of a small space of canvass are forcibly impressed upon the eye, which
by that means learns how to separate, to select, and to combine.
Who can doubt whether Shakspeare and Fielding had not infinitely
more amusement from society in all its various views than common ob-
servers ? I believe it can be as little doubted, that the having read such
authors must give any man, however acute his penetration, more enlarged
views of human nature in general, as well as a more intimate acquaintance
with particular characters, than he would have had from the observation
of nature only ; that many combinations of characters and of incidents,
which might otherwise have escaped his notice, would forcibly strike
him, from the recollection of scenes and passages in such writers ; that
in all these cases, the pleasure we receive from what passes in real life
is rendered infinitely more poignant, by a resemblance to what we
have read, or have seen on the stage. Such an observer will not
divide what passes into scenes and chapters, and be pleased with it in
proportion as it will do for a novel or a play, but he will be pleased on
the same principles as Shakspeare or Fielding would have been. The
parallel that I wish to establish is very obvious : the works of genius
in writing awaken and direct our attention towards many striking scenes
and characters, which might otherwise escape us in real life, and the
works of genius in painting point out to our notice a thousand effects
and combinations of the happiest, though not of the most obvious kind,
in real scenery.
Had the art of improving been cultivated for as long a time, and upon
as settled principles as that of painting, and were there extant various
works of genius, which, like those of the other art, had stood the test of
ages (though from the great change which the growth and decay of
trees must produce in the original design of the artist, this is hardly
possible) there would not be the same necessity of referring and com-
paring the works of reality to those of imitation ; but as the case stands
62
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
at present, the only models of composition that approach to perfection,
the only fixed and unchanging selections from the works of nature united
with those of art, are in the pictures and designs of the most eminent
masters.
But although certain happy compositions, detached from the general
mass of objects and considered by themselves, have the greatest and
most lasting effect both in nature and painting ; and though the painter,
in respect to his own art, may think of those only, and give himself no
concern about the rest, he cannot do so if he be an improver as well as a
painter ; for he might then neglect or injure what was essential to the
whole, by attending only to a part. By this we may perceive a great
and obvious difference between a painter who confines himself to his own
profession, and one who should add to it that of an improver ; the first
would only have to observe what formed a single composition or picture,
which he might transfer upon his canvass ; the second must consider
the whole range of scenery in which not only the most striking pictures
or compositions are to be shown to advantage, but where all the inter-
mediate parts, with all their bearings, relations, and connections, must
be taken into the account. I have supposed, what I wish were oftener
the case, an union of the two professions ; for it can hardly be doubted,
that he who can best select the happiest compositions from the general
mass of objects, and knows the principles on which he makes those se-
lections, must also be the best qualified, should he turn his thoughts that
way, to arrange the connections throughout an extensive scenery. He
must likewise be the most competent judge — and nothing in the whole
art of improvement requires a nicer discrimination — where, and in what
degree, some inferior beauties should be sacrificed, in order to give
greater effect to those of a higher order. I am far from meaning by
this, that every painter is capable of becoming an improver in the good
sense of the word, but only such as to a liberal mind, join a strong feel-
ing for nature as well as art, and have directed their attention to the
arrangement of real scenery ; for there is a wide difference between
looking at nature merely with a view to making pictures, and looking
at pictures with a view to the improvement of our ideas of nature : the
former often does contract the taste when pursued too closely; the
latter, I believe, as generally refines and enlarges it. The greatest
painters were men of enlarged and liberal minds, and well acquainted
with many arts besides their own. Leonardo da Vinci, Michael An-
gelo, Raphael, Titian, were not merely patronised by the sovereigns of
that period ; they were considered almost as friends by such men as
Leo, Francis, and Charles, and were intimately connected with Aretino,
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
63
Castiglione, and all the eminent wits of that time. Those great artists
— nor need I have gone so far back for examples — considered pictures
and nature as throwing a reciprocal light on each other, and as connected
with history, poetry, and all the fine arts ; but the practice of too many
lovers of painting has been very different, and has, I believe, contributed
in a great degree, and with great reason, to give a prejudice against the
study of pictures as a preparation to that of nature. In the same man-
ner that many painters consider natural scenery merely with a reference
to their own practice, many connoisseurs consider pictures merely with
a reference to other pictures, as a school in which they may learn the
routine of their connoisseurship — that is an acquaintance with the most
prominent marks and peculiarities of different masters : but they rarely
look upon them in that point of view in which alone they can produce
any real advantage — as a school in which we may learn to enlarge, re-
fine, and correct our ideas of nature, and in return, may qualify ourselves
by this more liberal course of study, to be real judges of what is excel-
lent in imitation. This reflection may account for what otherwise seems
quite unaccountable — namely, that many enthusiastic admirers and col-
lectors of Claude, Poussin, &c. should have suffered professed improvers
to deprive the general and extended scenery of their places of all that
those painters would have most admired and copied.
The great object of our present inquiry seems to be, what is that
mode of study which will best enable a man, of a liberal and intelligent
mind, to judge of the forms, colours, effects, and combinations of visible
objects — to judge of them either as single compositions, which may be
considered by themselves without reference to what surrounds them,
or else as parts of scenery, the arrangement of which must be more or
less regulated and restrained by what joins them, and the connection of
which with the general scenery must be constantly attended to ? Such
knowledge and judgment comprehend the whole science of improve-
ment with regard to its effect on the eye ; and I believe can never be
perfectly acquired, unless to the study of natural scenery, and of the
various styles of gardening at different periods, the improver adds the
theory at least of that art, the very essence of which is connection — a
principle of all others the most adapted to correct the chief defects of
improvers. Connection is a principle always present to the painter's
mind, if he deserve that name ; and by the guidance of which he con-
siders all sets of objects, whatever may be their character or boundaries,
from the most extensive prospect to the most confined wood scene :
neither referring every thing to the narrow limits of his canvass, nor
despising what will not suit it, unless, indeed, the limits of his mind be
64
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
equally narrow and contracted ; for when I speak of a painter, I mean
an artist, not a mechanic.
Whatever minute and partial objections may be made to the study
of pictures for the purpose of improvement — many of which I have dis-
cussed in my letter to Mr. Repton — yet certainly the great leading
principles of the one art — as general composition — grouping the sepa-
rate parts — harmony of tints — unity of character, are equally applicable
to the other. I may add also, what is so very essential to the painter,
though at first sight it seems hardly within the province of the improver
— breadth and effect of light and shade.
These are called the principles of painting, because that art has
pointed them out more clearly, by separating what was most striking
and well combined, from the less interesting and scattered objects of
general scenery ; but they are in reality the general principles on
which the effect of all visible objects must depend, and to which it must
be referred.
Nothing can be more directly at war with all these principles, founded
as they are in truth and in nature, than the present system of laying
out grounds. A painter, or whoever views objects with a painter's eye,
looks with indifference, if not with disgust, at the clumps, the belts, the
made water, and the eternal smoothness and sameness of a finished
place. An improver, on the other hand, considers these as the most
perfect embellishment, as the last finishing touches that nature can re-
ceive from art ; and, consequently, must think the finest composition of
Claude, whom I mention as the most ornamented of all the great mas-
ters, comparatively rude and imperfect ; though he probably might
allow, in Mr. Brown's phrase, that it had " capabilities."
The account in Peregrine Pickle, of the gentleman who had improved
Vandyke's portraits of his ancestors, used to strike me as rather outre ;
but I met with a similar instance some years ago, that makes it appear
much less so. I was looking at a collection of pictures with Gains-
borough ; among the rest the housekeeper showed us a portrait of her
master, which she said was by Sir Joshua Reynolds : we both stared,
for not only the touch and the colouring, but the whole style of the
drapery and the general effect had no resemblance to his manner.
Upon examining the housekeeper more particularly, we disco vered that
her master had had every thing but the face — not retouched from the
colours having faded — but totally changed, and newly composed, as well
as painted, by another — and, I need not add, an inferior hand.
Such a man would have felt as little scruple in making a Claude like
his own place, as in making his own portrait like a scare-crow.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
65
But no one, I believe, has as yet been daring enough to improve a
picture of Claude, or at least to acknowledge it ; yet I do not think it
extravagant to suppose that a man, thoroughly persuaded, from his own
taste and from the authority of such a writer as Mr. Walpole, that an
art unknown to every age and climate — that of creating landscapes —
had advanced with master-steps to vigorous perfection ; that enough
had been done to establish such a school of landscape as cannot be found
in the rest of the globe ; and that Milton's description of Paradise
seems to have been copied from some piece of modern gardening ; — that
such a man, full of enthusiasm for this new art, and with little venera-
tion for that of painting, should choose to show the world what Claude
might have been, had he had the advantage of seeing the works of Mr.
Brown. The only difference he would make between improving a pic-
ture and a real scene, would be that of employing a painter instead of
a gardener.
What would more immediately strike him would be the total want
of that leading feature of all modern improvements — the clump ; and
of course he would order several of them to be placed in the most open
and conspicuous spots, with, perhaps, here and there a patch of larches,
as forming a strong contrast in shape and colour to the Scotch firs. His
eye, which had been used to see even the natural groups of trees in
improved places, made as separate and clump-like as possible, would be
shocked to see those of Claude — some with their stems half concealed
by bushes and thickets ; others standing alone, but, by means of those
thickets, or of detached trees, connected with other groups of various
sizes and shapes. All this rubbish must be totally cleared away, the
ground made everywhere quite smooth and level, and each group left
upon the grass perfectly distinct and separate.
Having been accustomed to whiten all distant buildings, those of
Claude, from the effect of his soft vapoury atmosphere, would appear
to him too indistinct ; the painter, of course, would be ordered to give
them a smarter appearance, which might possibly be communicated to
the nearer buildings also. Few modern houses or ornamental buildings
are so placed among trees, and partially hidden by them, as to conceal
much of the skill of the architect, or the expense of the possessor ; but
in Claude, not only ruins, but temples and palaces, are often so mixed
with trees, that the tops overhang their balustrades, and the luxuriant
branches shoot between the openings of their magnificent columns and
porticos ; as he would not suffer his own buildings to be so masked,
neither would he those of Claude ; and these luxuriant boughs, with all
E
66
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
that obstructed a full view of them, the painter would be told to ex-
punge, and carefully to restore the ornaments they had concealed.
The last finishing, both to places and pictures, is water. In Claude,
it partakes of the general softness and dressed appearance of his scenes,
and the accompaniments have, perhaps, less of rudeness than in any
other master. One of my countrymen at Rome was observing, that
the water in the Colonna Claude had rather too dressed and artificial
an appearance. A Frenchman, who was also looking at the picture,
cried out, " Cependant, Monsieur, on pourroit y donner une si belle
fete V This was very characteristic of that gay nation, but it is equally
so of a number of Claude's pictures. They have an air de fete beyond
all others ; and there is no painter whose works ought to be so much
studied for highly dressed yet varied ^nature. Yet, compared with those
of a piece of made water, or of an improved river, his banks are per-
fectly savage ; parts of them covered with trees and bushes that hang
over the water ; and near the edge of it, tussucks of rushes, large stones,
and stumps ; the ground sometimes smooth, sometimes broken and ab-
rupt, and seldom keeping, for a long space, the same level from the
water — no curves that answer each other — no resemblance, in short, to
what the improver had been used to admire : a few strokes of the
painter's brush would reduce the bank on each side to one level, to one
green ; would make curve answer curve, without bush or tree to hinder
the eye from enjoying the uniform smoothness and verdure, and from
pursuing without interruption the continued sweep of these serpentine
lines ; — a little cleaning and polishing of the foreground, would give
the last touches of improvement, and complete the picture.
There is not a person, in the smallest degree conversant with painting,
who would not at the same time be shocked and diverted at the black
spots and the white spots — the naked water — the naked buildings — the
scattered unconnected groups of trees, and all the gross and glaring
violations of every principle of the art ; and yet this, without any ex-
aggeration, is the method in which many scenes worthy of Claude's
pencil, have been improved. Is it then possible to imagine, that the
beauties of imitation should be so distinct from those of reality, nay, so
completely at variance, that what disgraces and makes a picture ridicu-
lous, should become ornamental when applied to nature ?
[[From my own knowledge I can say, that however valuable the
study of pictures may be for giving perfection to professors of landscape
gardening, the painting of them does not always produce this effect.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
67
Artists, and especially young artists, have, not unfrequently, their
tastes so much narrowed by their devotion to certain styles of subject,
as to be incapable of enjoying, or even of tolerating any thing in nature,
however excellent it may be, if it be of a different character from that
which they affect in their works. By attempting to become artists,
they have ceased to be men, or to be able to sympathise with the uni-
versality of human feeling. It would be vain to expect that landscape
gardeners could be made of such men, with the hope of their producing
scenes which should give general delight to minds expanded by educa-
tion, and the love of nature. I have sometimes travelled through the
most interesting countries with individuals of this cast, and found that-
great as was the delight which I was experiencing from the contem-
plation of the scenes we passed through, nothing could call forth one
exclamation of pleasure from my companions, until something chanced
to arise before their eyes of a character in harmony with that of the
subjects they, were most prone to paint. Such men would pass over
nine-tenths of the finest places in England, and refuse to give any other
opinion than that all was barren. That artist, indeed, who has followed
and observed nature throughout all her different walks — who can draw
enjoyment from associating himself with her in her softest and quietest
scenes, and in her more placid moods, as well as when she wildly wan-
ders amid the dark woods and rocky fastnesses, and by the thundering
cataracts of her mountains — such a man as this, I say, may well prove
a profound master, not only in the composition of pictures on canvass,
but in that also of those which may be created in actual landscape ; but
for excellence in that generalization necessary for landscape gardening,
I consider that a very universal study of pictures will do more to accom-
plish the individual, than the particular practice of any one style of
painting them. It appears indeed to me, that nothing can possibly
tend more to educate the mind, for the just conception of such a true
taste in landscape gardening as may enable its possessor to prosecute
this delightful art with the hope of generally awakening agreeable
associations in cultivated minds, than the frequent and extensive study
of the works of the best landscape painters, modern as well as ancient.
Nay, I cannot doubt that the great growth of the art of landscape
painting, and the immense multiplication of that art in our days, as
well as of the art of landscape drawing and engraving, all of which arc
daily increasing the taste for the enjoyment of the works produced by
them, must have a tendency to augment the general love of nature, and
so to multiply the individuals of that cultivated class who are prepared
to receive agreeable impressions from its happier combinations ; and
68
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
thus, by reaction, to foster and to perfect the art of landscape gardening
itself. Indeed, if the more general acquaintance which mankind are
gradually obtaining with graphic scenes, should have no other effect
than that of arresting the hideous strides of the demon of false taste in
gardening, whose footsteps have disfigured so much of the face of our
country, we shall have good reason to be thankful. But I am sanguine
enough to anticipate that it may do much more than this, and that
through this influence of the graphic art, landscape gardening may in
future be expected to be widely extended upon those just and natural
principles which can alone make its very existence desirable. — E.]
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
69
CHAPTER II.
It seems to me that the neglect — which prevails in the works of modern
improvers — of all that is picturesque, is owing to their exclusive atten-
tion to high polish and flowing lines — the charms of which they are so
engaged in contemplating, that they overlook two of the most fruitful
sources of human pleasure : the first, that great and universal source of
pleasure, variety — the power of which is independent of beauty, but
without which even beauty itself soon ceases to please ; the second, in-
tricacy — a quality which, though distinct from variety, is so connected
and blended with it, that the one can hardly exist without the other.
According to the idea I have formed of it, intricacy in landscape
might be defined, that disposition of objects, which, by a partial and
uncertain concealment, excites and nourishes curiosity. Many per
sons, who take little concern in the intricacy of oaks, beeches, and
thorns, may feel the effects of partial concealment in more interesting
objects, and may have experienced how differently the passions are
70
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
moved by an open licentious display of beauties, and by the unguarded
disorder which sometimes escapes the care of modesty, and which
coquetry so successfully imitates : —
Parte appar delle mamme acerbe et crude,
Parte altrui ne ricuopre invida veste ;
Invida si, ma se agli occhi il varco chiude,
L'amoroso pensier gia non s'arresta.
Variety can hardly require a definition, though from the practice of
many layers-out of ground, one might suppose it did. Upon the whole,
it appears to me, that as intricacy in the disposition, and variety in the
forms, the tints, and the lights and shadows of objects, are the great
characteristics of picturesque scenery ; so monotony and baldness, are
the great defects of improved places.
Nothing would place this in so distinct a point of view, as a com-
parison between some familiar scene in its natural and picturesque
state, and in that which would be its improved state according to the
present mode of gardening. All painters who have imitated the more
confined scenes of nature, have been fond of making studies from old
neglected bye-roads and hollow- ways ; and perhaps there are few spots
that, in so small a compass, have a greater variety of that sort of beauty
called picturesque ; but, I believe, the instances are very rare of pain-
ters, who have turned out volunteers into a gentleman's walk or drive,
either when made between artificial banks, or when the natural sides or
banks have been improved. I shall endeavour to examine whence it
happens, that a painter looks coldly on what is very generally admired,
and discovers a thousand interesting objects, where an improver passes
on with indifference, if not with disgust.
Perhaps what is most immediately striking in a lane of this kind is
its intricacy. Any winding road, indeed, especially where there are
banks, must necessarily have some degree of intricacy ; but in a dressed
lane every effort of art seems directed against that disposition of the
ground — the sides are so regularly sloped, so regularly planted, and the
space, when there is any, between them and the road, so uniformly
levelled ; the sweeps of the road so plainly artificial, the verges of grass
that bound it so nicely edged — the whole, in short, has such an appear-
ance of having been made by a receipt, that curiosity, that most active
principle of pleasure, is almost extinguished.
But in hollow-lanes and by-roads, all the leading features, and a
thousand circumstances of detail, promote the natural intricacy of the
ground : the turns are sudden and unprepared — the banks sometimes
broken and abrupt — sometimes smooth and gently, but not uniformly
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
71
sloping — now wildly overhung with thickets of trees and bushes — now
loosely skirted with wood — no regular verge of grass, no cut edges, no
distinct lines of separation — all is mixed and blended together, and the
border of the road itself, shaped by the mere tread of passengers and
animals, is as unconstrained as the footsteps that formed it. Even the
tracks of the wheels — for no circumstance is indifferent — contribute to
the picturesque effect of the whole ; the varied lines they describe just
mark the way among trees and bushes — often some obstacle, a cluster
of low thorns, a furze bush, a tussuck, a large stone, forces the wheels
into sudden and intricate turns — often a group of trees or a thicket,
occasions the road to separate into two parts, leaving a sort of island in
the middle.
These are a few of the picturesque accidents, which, in lanes and
by-roads, attract the notice of painters. In many scenes of that kind,
the varieties of form, of colour, and of light and shade, which present
themselves at every step, are numberless ; and it is a singular circum-
stance, that some of the most striking among them should be owing to
the indiscriminate hacking of the peasant, nay, to the very decay that
is occasioned by it. When opposed to the tameness of the poor pinioned
trees — whatever their age — of a gentleman's plantation drawn up straight
and even together,, there is often a sort of spirit and animation in the
manner in which old neglected pollards stretch out their limbs quite
across these hollow roads, in every wild and irregular direction ; on
some, the large knots and protuberances add to the ruggedness of their
twisted trunks ; in others, the deep hollow of the inside, the mosses on
the bark, the rich yellow of the touch-wood, with the blackness of the
more decayed substance, afford such variety of tints, of brilliant and
mellow lights, with deep and peculiar shades, as the finest timber tree,
however beautiful in other respects, with all its health and vigour can-
not exhibit.
This careless method of cutting, just as the farmer happened to want
a few stakes or poles, gives infinite variety to the general outline of the
banks. Near to one of these " unwedgeable and gnarled oaks," often
rises the slender elegant form of a young beech, ash, or birch, that had
escaped the axe, whose tender bark and light foliage appear still more
delicate and airy, when seen sideways against the rough bark and
massy head of the oak — sometimes it rises alone from the bank — some-
times from amid a cluster of rich hollies or wild junipers — sometimes
its light and upright stem is embraced by the projecting cedar-like
boughs of the yew.
The ground itself in these lanes is as much varied in form, tint, and
72
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
light and shade, as the plants that grow upon it ; this, as usual, instead
of owing any thing to art, is, on the contrary, occasioned by accident
and neglect. The winter torrents in some places wash down the mould
from the upper grounds, and form projections of various shapes, which,
from the fatness of the soil, are generally enriched with the most luxu-
riant vegetation ; in other parts they tear the banks into deep hollows,
discovering the different strata of earth, and the shaggy roots of trees.
These hollows are frequently overgrown with wild roses, with honey-
suckles, periwincles, and other trailing plants, which, with their flowers
and pendant branches, have quite a different effect when hanging loosely
over one of these recesses, opposed to its deep shade, and mixed with
the fantastic roots of trees and the varied tints of the soil, from that
which they produce when they are trimmed into bushes, or crawl along
a shrubbery, where the ground has been worked into one uniform slope.
In the summer time these little caverns afford a cool retreat for the
sheep ; and it is difficult to imagine a more beautiful foreground than
is formed by the different groups of them in one of these lanes ; some
feeding on the patches of turf, that in the wider parts are intermixed
with the fern and bushes ; some lying in the niches they have worn in
the banks among the roots of trees, and to which they have made many
sidelong paths ; some reposing in these deep recesses, their bowers
O'er-canopied with luscious eglantine.
Near the house, picturesque beauty must, in many cases, be sacrificed
to neatness ; but it is a sacrifice, and one which should not wantonly
be made. A gravel walk cannot have the playful variety of a by-
road ; there must be a border to the gravel, and that and the sweeps
must, in great measure, be regular, and consequently formal. I am
convinced, however, that many of the circumstances which give variety
and spirit to a wild spot, might be successfully imitated in a dressed
place ; but it must be done by attending to the principles, not by copy-
ing the particulars. It is not necessary to model a gravel walk or drive
after a sheep track or a cart rut, though very useful hints may be taken
from them both ; and without having water-docks or thistles before one's
door, their effect in a painter s foreground may be produced by plants
that are considered as ornamental. I am equally persuaded that a
dressed appearance might be given to one of these lanes, without de-
stroying its peculiar and characteristic beauties.
I have said little of the superior variety and effect of light and shade
in scenes of this kind, as they of course must follow variety of forms
and of masses, and intricacy of disposition. I wished to avoid all de-
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
73
tail that did not appear to me necessary to explain or illustrate some
general principles ; but when general principles are put crudely without
examples, they not only are dry, but obscure, and make no impression.
There are several ways in which a spot of this kind near a gentle-
man's place would probably be improved ; for even in the monotony of
what is called improvement, there is a variety of bad. Some, perhaps,
would cut down the old pollards, clear the rubbish, and leave only the
maiden trees standing ; some might plant up the whole ; others grub
up every thing, and make a shrubbery on each side ; others put clumps
of shrubs, or of firs ; but there is one improvement which I am afraid
almost all who had not been used to look at objects with a painters
eye would adopt, and which alone would entirely destroy its character —
that is smoothing and levelling the ground. The moment this mecha-
nical commonplace operation, by which Mr. Brown and his followers
have gained so much credit, is begun, adieu to all that the painter ad-
mires — to all intricacies — to all the beautiful varieties of form, tint, and
light and shade ; every deep recess — every bold projection — the fantas-
tic roots of trees — the winding paths of sheep — all must go ; in a few
hours, the rash hand of false taste completely demolishes what time only,
and a thousand lucky accidents can mature, so as to make it become the
-admiration and study of a Ruysdael or a Gainsborough ; and reduces it
to such a thing as an oilman in Thames Street may at any time contract
for by the yard at Islington or Mile-End.
I had lately an opportunity of observing the progress of improvement
in one lane, and the effect of it in another, both unfortunately bordering
on gentlemen's pleasure grounds. The first had on one side a high bank
full of the beauties I have described ; I was particularly struck with a
beech which stood single on one part of it, and with the effect and cha-
racter which its spreading roots gave, both to the bank and to the tree
itself : the sheep also had made their sidelong paths to this spot, and
often lay in the little compartments between the roots. One day I
found a great many labourers wheeling mould to this place ; by degrees
they filled up all inequalities, and completely covered the roots and
pathways ; one would have supposed they were working for my Uncle
Toby, under the direction of Corporal Trim, for they had converted this
varied bank into a perfect glacis, only the gazons were omitted. They
had, however, worked up the mould they had wheeled into a sort of
a mortar, and had laid it as smooth from top to bottom as a mason could
have done with his trowel. From the number of men employed, the
quantity of earth wheeled, and the nicety with which this operation was
performed, I am persuaded it was, in a great measure, done for the sake
74
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
of beauty. These worthy pioneers, their employment, and their em-
ployers, are very aptly described in two verses of Tasso, and especially
if the word guastatori* be taken in its most obvious sense :
Inanzi i guastatori avea mandati,
I vuoti luoglu empir" 1 , et spianar gli erti.
This is a most complete receipt for spoiling a picturesque spot ; and one
might suppose, from this military style having been so generally adopted,
and every thing laid open, that our improvers are fearful of an enemy
being in ambuscade among the bushes of a gravel pit, or lurking in some
intricate group of trees. In that respect, it must be owned, the clump
has infinite merit ; for it may be reconnoitred from every point, and
seen through in every direction.
The improved part of the other lane I never saw in its original state ;
but by what remains untouched, and by the accounts I heard, it must
have afforded noble studies for a painter. The banks are higher and
the trees are larger than in the other lane, and their branches, stretch-
ing from side to side,
" High over arch'd embower."
I heard a vast deal from the gardener of the place near it, about the
large ugly roots that appeared above ground, the large holes the sheep
used to lie in, and the rubbish of all kinds that used to grow about
them. The last possessor took care to fill up and clean, as far as his
property went ; and, that every thing might look regular, he put, as a
boundary to the road, a row of white pales at the foot of the bank on
each side, and on that next his house he raised a peat wall as upright
as it could well stand, by way of a facing to the old bank, and in the
middle of this peat wall, planted a row of laurels : this row the gar-
dener used to cut quite flat at top, and the cattle reaching over the
pales, and browsing the lower shoots within their bite, kept it as even
at bottom ; so that it formed one projecting lump in the middle, and
had just as picturesque an appearance as a bushy wig squeezed between
the hat and the cape. I should add, that these two specimens of dressed
lanes are not in a distant county, but within thirty miles of London,
and in a district full of expensive embellishments.
I am afraid many of my readers will think that I have been a long
while getting through these lanes ; but in them, in old quarries, and long
neglected chalk and gravel pits, a great deal of what constitutes, and
* Spoilers.
ON THF. PICTURESQUE.
75
what destroys picturesque beauty, is strongly exemplified within a small
compass, and in spots easily resorted to ; the causes, too, are as clearly
marked, and may be as successfully studied, as where the higher styles
of it, often mixed with the sublime, are displayed among forests, rocks,
and mountains.
£There is no doubt that, with all one's love for the picturesque in
roads, it must be admitted, that the convenience and comfort of travel-
ling smoothly over them at all times is not only to be highly appreciated,
but it is to be considered as an essential ingredient in human happiness ;
and if there be any situation where this necessary of life is more to be
desired in perfection than another, it is when we are approaching a
friend's house in the country through its surrounding grounds. The
smoothness of the surface of the road over which your carriage bowls on
its way up to the portal of the mansion, feels like a sort of guarantee for
that easy hospitality which you are to enjoy when you arc fairly under
his roof ; whilst, on the other hand, the host who gives you, perhaps, a
mile or more of rough, troublesome, or dangerous driving before you can
reach his door, seems to give you a hint, in pretty plain language, that he
should not be at all sorry if the breaking of your springs, the overturn of
your carriage, and, perhaps, the consequent fracture of your ribs or limbs,
should arrest your progress, and save him from your comjjany. Then,
much as I have always enjoyed a scramble along some mountain side, or
through some rough pathless forest, or rocky dingle, I have ever felt that
all drives or walks which are intended to develop the beauties of the
parks or pleasure grounds, should be of the best and smoothest possible
composition of surface, so that the fair and delicate occupants of the
open carriage or pony phaeton, may enjoy every scene with the same
case and tranquillity as the hardier equestrians or pedestrians of the
party. At the same time, it is quite possible so to manage the edges
of such pleasure roads as not to offend the picturesque eye. Near the
house, we hold, that they must partake of that polish — that architectu-
ral harmony — that apparent care, and even expense, which gratifies our
eyes in the mansion itself, both without and within doors. But as the
gay confusion of gorgeous and tasteful furniture gives us more pleasure
in the apartments, than their meagre walls would do without it, how-
ever splendidly they may be painted or covered, so I conceive that the
accessaries of happily chosen shrubs and plants of the rarer yet most
picturesque kinds, starting in profusion out of the turf in well disposed
groups, and combining gracefully with the statues, balustrades, vases, and
other architectural features belonging to the house, produce an intricacy
76
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
infinitely more pleasing than that bareness which we too often see ac-
companying the approach up to the very door. With a due considera-
tion for the beauty of fitness, this is all that the most fastidious artist can
demand for the immediate home part or central terminus of the pleasure
roads. As they begin to steal away from the vicinity of the mansion,
the same effect must be produced, yet with a due attention to circum-
stances ; and the groups must not only be of greater magnitude, but
they must be composed of plants and shrubs of larger growth and of
wilder character, such as thorns, hollies, yews, &c, which always mingle
well in composition with the taller and wider spreading trees. And
then when the road has carried us into the denser woodlands, we should
begin to find the edges of it broken and irregular, so as to be in perfect
harmony with that nature which ought now to be found luxuriating all
around us, to the wildness of which art may be allowed to add every
charm that may be given without the appearance of design, but where
it must never obtrude any thing that can possibly betray its presence.
-E.]
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
77
CHAPTER III.
There are few words whose meaning has been less accurately deter-
mined than that of the word picturesque.
In general, I believe, it is applied to every object, and every kind of
scenery, which has been or might be represented with good effect in
painting — just as the word beautiful, when we speak of visible nature,
is applied to every object and every kind of scenery that in any way
give pleasure to the eye — and these seem to be the significations of both
words, taken in their most extended and popular sense. A more pre-
cise and distinct idea of beauty has been given in an essay, the early
splendour of which not even the full meridian blaze of its illustrious
author has been able to extinguish ; but the picturesque, considered as
a separate character, has never yet been accurately distinguished from
the sublime and the beautiful ; though as no one has ever pretended
that they are synonymous, (for it is sometimes used in contradistinction
to them,) such a distinction must exist.
Mr. Gilpin, from whose very ingenious and extensive observations
on this subject I have received greai pleasure and instruction, appears
78
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
to have adopted this common acceptation, not merely as such, but as
giving an exact and determinate idea of the word • for he defines pic-
turesque objects to be those " which please from some quality capable
of being illustrated in painting * or, as he again defines it in his Let-
ter to Sir Joshua Reynolds, " such objects as are proper subjects for
painting." + Both these definitions seem to me — what may perhaps
appear a contradiction — at once too vague and too confined ; for though
we are not to expect any definition to be so accurate and comprehensive
as both to supply the place and stand the test of investigation, yet if
it do not in some degree separate the thing defined from all others, it
differs little from any general truth on the same subject. For instance,
it is very true that picturesque objects do please frofu some quality
capable of being illustrated in painting ; but so also does every object
that is represented in painting if it please at all, otherwise it would not
have been painted ; and hence we ought to conclude, what certainly is
not meant, that all objects which please in pictures are therefore pic-
turesque — for no distinction or exclusion is made. Were any other
person to define picturesque objects to be those which please from some
striking effect of form, colour, or light and shadow — such a definition
would indeed give but a very indistinct idea of the thing defined ; but
it would be hardly more vague, and at the same time much less confined
than the others, for it would not have an exclusive reference to a parti-
cular art.
I hope to show in the course of this work, that the picturesque has a
character not less separate and distinct than either the sublime or the
beautiful, nor less independent of the art of painting. It has indeed
been pointed out and illustrated by that art, and is one of its most strik-
ing ornaments ; but has not beauty been pointed out and illustrated by
that art also, nay, according to the poet, brought into existence by it ?
Si Venerem Cous nunquam posuisset Apelles,
Mersa sub sequoreis ilia lateret aquis.
Examine the forms of the early Italian painters, or of those who, at
a later period, lived where the study of the antique, then fully operat-
ing at Rome on minds highly prepared for its influence, had not yet
taught them to separate what is beautiful, from the general mass : you
might almost conclude that beauty did not then exist ; yet those paint-
ers were capable of exact imitation, though not of selection. Examine
* Essay on Picturesque Beauty, p. 1.
-j- End of Essay on Picturesque Beauty, p. 30.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
79
grandeur of form in the same manner ; look at the dry meagre forms
of Albert Durer — a man of genius even in Raphael's estimation — of
Pietro Perugino, Andrea Mantegna, &c, and compare them with those
of M. Angelo and Raphael : nature was not more dry and meagre in
Germany or Perugia than at Rome. Compare their landscapes and back
grounds with those of Titian ; nature was not changed, but a mind of a
higher cast, and instructed by the experience of all who had gone before,
rejected minute detail ; and pointed out, by means of such selections, and
such combinations as were congenial to its own sublime conceptions, in
what forms, in what colours, and in what effects, grandeur in landscape
consisted. Can it then be doubted that grandeur and beauty have been
pointed out and illustrated by painting as well as picturesqueness ? *
Yet, would it be a just definition of sublime or of beautiful objects, to
say that they were such (and, let the words be taken in their most
liberal construction) as pleased from some quality capable of being
illustrated in painting, or, that were proper subjects for that art ?
The ancients, indeed, not only referred beauty of form to painting, but
even beauty of colour ; and the poet who could describe his mistress's
complexion by comparing it to the tints of Apelles's pictures, must have
thought that beauty of every kind was highly illustrated by the art to
which he referred.
The principles of those two leading characters in nature — the sublime
and the beautiful — have been fully illustrated and discriminated by a
great master ; but even when I first read that most original work, I
felt that there were numberless objects which give great delight to the
eye, and yet differ as widely from the beautiful as from the sublime.
The reflections which I have since been led to make, have convinced
me that these objects form a distinct class, and belong to what may
properly be called the picturesque.
That term, as we may judge from its etymology, is applied only to
objects of sight ; and, indeed, in so confined a manner as to be sup-
posed merely to have a reference to the art from which it is named. I
am well convinced, however, that the name and reference only are
limited and uncertain, and that the qualities which make objects pic-
turesque, are not only as distinct as those which make them beautiful
or sublime, but are equally extended to all our sensations by whatever
organs they are received ; and that music — though it appears like a
* I have ventured to make use of this word, which I believe does not occur in any
writer, from what appeared to me the necessity of having some one word to oppose
to beauty and sublimity, in a work where they are so often compared.
80
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
solecism — may be as truly picturesque, according to the general prin-
ciples of picturesqueness, as it may be beautiful or sublime, according
to those of beauty or sublimity.
But there is one circumstance particularly adverse to this part of my
essay : I mean the manifest derivation of the word picturesque. The
Italian pittoresco is, I imagine, of earlier date than either the English
or the French word, the latter of which, pittoresque, is clearly taken
from it, having no analogy to its own tongue. Pittoresco is derived,
not like picturesque, from the thing painted, but from the painter ; and
this difference is not wholly immaterial. The English word refers to
the performance, and the objects most suited to it : the Italian and
French words have a reference to the turn of mind common to painters ;
who, from the constant habit of examining all the peculiar effects and
combinations, as well as the general appearance of nature, are struck
with numberless circumstances, even where they are incapable of being
represented, to which an unpractised eye pays little or no attention.
The English word naturally draws the readers mind towards pictures ;
and from that partial and confined view of the subject, what is in truth
only an illustration of picturesqueness, becomes the foundation of it.
The words sublime and beautiful have not the same etymological refer-
ence to any one visible art, and therefore are applied to objects of the
other senses : sublime, indeed, in the language from which it is taken,
and in its plain sense, means high ; and therefore, perhaps, in strict-
ness, should relate to objects of sight only ; yet we no more scruple to
call one of Handel's chorusses sublime, than Corelli's famous pastorale
beautiful. But should any person simply, and without any qualifying
expressions, call a capricious movement of Scarlatti or Haydn pictu-
resque, he would, with great reason, be laughed at, for it is not a term
applied to sounds ; yet such a movement, from its sudden, unexpected,
and abrupt transitions — from a certain playful wildness of character
and appearance of irregularity, is no less analogous to similar scenery
in nature, than the concerto or the chorus, to what is grand or beauti-
ful to the eye.
There is, indeed, a general harmony and correspondence in all our
sensations when they arise from similar causes, though they affect us by
means of different senses ; and these causes, as Mr. Burke has admir-
ably pointed out,* can never be so clearly ascertained when we confine
our observations to one sense only.
I must here observe, and I wish the reader to keep it in his mind,
* Sublime and Beautiful, p. 236.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
81
that the inquiry is not in what sense certain words are used in the best
authors, still less what is their common, and vulgar use, and abuse ; but
whether there be certain qualities, which uniformly produce the same
effects in all visible objects, and, according to the same analogy, in
objects of hearing and of all the other senses ; and which qualities,
though frequently blended and united with others in the same object or
set of objects, may be separated from them, and assigned to the class to
which they belong.
If it can be shown that a character composed of these qualities, and
distinct from all others, does universally prevail ; if it can be traced in
the different objects of art and of nature, and appears consistent through-
out, it surely deserves a distinct title ; but, with respect to the real
ground of inquiry, it matters little whether such a character, or the set
of objects belonging to it, be called beautiful, sublime, or picturesque,
or by any other name, or by no name at all.
Beauty is so much the most enchanting and popular quality, that it
is often applied as the highest commendation to whatever gives us
pleasure, or raises our admiration, be the cause what it will. Mr.
Burke has given several instances of these ill-judged applications, and
of the confusion of ideas which result from them ; but there is nothing
more ill-judged, or more likely to create confusion, if we at all agree
with Mr. Burke in his idea of beauty, than the mode which prevails of
joining together two words of a different, and in some respects of an
opposite meaning, and calling the character by the title of Picturesque
Beauty.
I must observe, however, that I by no means object to the expres-
sion itself ; I only object to it as a general term for the character, and
a,s comprehending every kind of scenery, and every set of objects which
look well in a picture. That is the sense, as far as I have observed, in
which it is very commonly used ; consequently, an old hovel, an old
cart-horse, or an old woman, are often, in that sense, full of picturesque
beauty ; and certainly the application of the last term to such objects,
must tend to confuse our ideas : but were the expression restrained to
those objects only, in which the picturesque and the beautiful are mixed
together, and so mixed that the result, according to common apprehen-
sion, is beautiful ; and were it never used when the picturesque — as it
no less frequently happens — is mixed solely with what is terrible, ugly,
or deformed, I should highly approve of the expression, and wish for
more distinctions of the same kind.
In reality, the picturesque not only differs from the beautiful in those
qualities which Mr. Burke has so justly ascribed to it, but arises from
qualities the most diametrically opposite.
F
8£
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
According to Mr. Burke, one of the most essential qualities of beauty
is smoothness ; now, as the perfection of smoothness is absolute equality
and uniformity of surface, wherever that prevails there can be but little
variety or intricacy ; as, for instance, in smooth level banks, on a small,
or in open downs, on a large scale. Another essential quality of beauty
is gradual variation ; that is — to make use of Mr. Burke's expression —
where the lines do not vary in a sudden and broken manner, and where
there is no sudden protuberance : it requires but little reflection to per-
ceive, that the exclusion of all but flowing lines cannot promote variety ;
and that sudden protuberances, and lines that cross each other in a
sudden and broken manner^ are among the most fruitful causes of
intricacy.
I am therefore persuaded, that the two opposite qualities of roughness,*
and of sudden variation, joined to that of irregularity, are the most
efficient causes of the picturesque.
This, I think, will appear very clearly, if we take a view of those
objects, both natural and artificial, that are allowed to be picturesque,
and compare them with those which are as generally allowed to be
beautiful.
A temple or palace of Grecian architecture in its perfect entire state,
and with its surface and colour smooth and even, either in painting or
reality, is beautiful ; in ruin it is picturesque. Observe the process by
which Time, the great author of such changes, converts a beautiful object
into a picturesque one : First, by means of weather stains, partial in-
crustations, mosses, &c. it at the same time takes off" from the uniformity
of the surface, and of the colour ; that is, gives a degree of roughness,
and variety of tint. Next, the various accidents of weather loosen the
stones themselves ; they tumble in irregular masses upon what was
perhaps smooth turf or pavement, or nicely-trimmed walks and shrub-
beries — now mixed and overgrown with wild plants and creepers, that
crawl over, and shoot among the fallen ruins. Sedums, wall-flowers,
and other vegetables that bear drought, find nourishment in the decayed
cement from which the stones have been detached ; birds convey their
food into the chinks, and yew, elder, and other berried plants project
from the sides ; while the ivy mantles over other parts, and crowns the
* I have followed Mr. Gilpin's example in using roughness as a general term. He
observes, however, that, " properly speaking, roughness relates only to the surface of
bodies ; and that when we speak of their delineation, we use the word ruggedness."
In making roughness, in this general sense, a very principal distinction between the
beautiful and the picturesque, I believe I am supported by the general opinion of all
who have considered the subject, as well as by Mr. Gilpin's authority.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
83
top. The even, regular lines of the doors and windows are broken,
and through their ivy-fringed openings is displayed, in a more broken
and picturesque manner, that striking image in Virgil,
'* Apparet domus intus, et atria longa patescunt ;
Apparent Priami et veterum penetralia regum."
Gothic architecture is generally considered as more picturesque, though
less beautiful, than Grecian ; and upon the same principle that a ruin is
more so than a new edifice. The first thing that strikes the eye in ap-
proaching any building, is the general outline, and the effect of the open-
ings. In Grecian buildings, the general lines of the roof are straight ;
and even when varied and adorned by a dome or a pediment, the
whole has a character of symmetry and regularity. But symmetry,
which in works of art particularly accords with the beautiful, is in the
same degree adverse to the picturesque ; and among the various causes
of the superior picturesqueness of ruins, compared with entire buildings,
the destruction of symmetry is by no means the least powerful.
In Gothic buildings, the outline of the summit presents such a variety
of forms, of turrets and pinnacles, some open, some fretted and variously
enriched, that even where there is an exact correspondence of parts, it
is often disguised by an appearance of splendid confusion and irregularity.
There is a line in Dryden's Palamon and Arcite, which might be inter-
preted according to this idea, though I do not suppose he intended to
convey any such meaning —
" And all appeared irregularly great."
In the doors and windows of Gothic churches, the pointed arch has as
much variety as any regular figure can well have ; the eye, too, is less
strongly conducted than by the parallel lines in the Grecian style, from
the top of one aperture to that of another ; and every person must be
struck with the extreme richness and intricacy of some of the principal
windows of our cathedrals and ruined abbeys. In these last is displayed
the triumph of the picturesque ; and their charms to a painter's eye are
often so great, as to rival those which arise from the chaste ornaments,
and the noble and elegant simplicity of Grecian architecture.
Some people may, perhaps, be unwilling to allow, that in ruins of
Grecian and Gothic architecture, any considerable part of the specta-
tor's pleasure arises from the picturesque circumstances ; and may choose
to attribute the whole, to what may justly claim a great share in that
pleasure — the elegance or grandeur of their forms — the veneration of
high antiquity — or the solemnity of religious awe ; in a word, to the
mixture of the two other characters. But were this true, yet there are
84
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
many buildings, highly interesting to all who have united the study of
art with that of nature, in which beauty and grandeur are equally out
of the question — such as hovels, cottages, mills, insides of old barns,
stables, &c. whenever they have any marked and peculiar effect of form,
tint, or light and shadow. In mills particularly, such is the extreme in-
tricacy of the wheels and the wood work — such the singular variety of
forms and of lights and shadows, of mosses and weather stains from the
constant moisture, of plants springing from the rough joints of the stones
— such the assemblage of every thing which most conduces to pictures-
queness, that, even without the addition of water, an old mill has the
greatest charm for a painter.
It is owing to the same causes, that a building with scaffolding has
often a more picturesque appearance, than the building itself when the
scaffolding is taken away ; that old, mossy, rough-hewn park pales of
unequal heights are an ornament to landscape, especially when they are
partially concealed by thickets, while a neat post and rail, regularly con-
tinued round a field, and seen without any interruption, is one of the
most unpicturesque, as being one of the most uniform, of all boundaries.
But among all the objects of nature, there is none in which roughness
and smoothness more strongly mark the distinction between the two
characters, than in water. A calm, clear lake, with the reflections of all
that surrounds it, viewed under the influence of a setting sun, at the
close of an evening clear and serene as its own surface, is perhaps, of
all scenes, the most congenial to our ideas of beauty in its strictest, and
in its most general acceptation.
Nay, though the scenery around should be the most wild and pictu-
resque — I might almost say the most savage — every thing is so softened
and melted together by the reflection of such a mirror, that the prevail-
ing idea, even then, might possibly be that of beauty, so long as the
water itself was chiefly regarded. On the other hand, all water of which
the surface is broken, and the motion abrupt and irregular, as univer-
sally accords with our ideas of the picturesque ; and whenever the word
is mentioned, rapid and stony torrents and waterfalls, and waves dash-
ing against rocks, are among the first objects that present themselves to
our imagination. The two characters also approach and balance each
other, as roughness or smoothness, as gentle undulation or abruptness
prevail.
Among trees, it is not the smooth young beech nor the fresh and
tender ash, but the rugged old oak or knotty wych elm that are pictu-
resque ; nor is it necessary they should be of great bulk — it is sufficient
if they are rough, mossy, with a character of age, and with sudden
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
85
variations in their forms. The limbs of huge trees shattered by light-
ning or tempestuous winds, are in the highest degree picturesque ; but
whatever is caused by those dreaded powers of destruction, must always
have a tincture of the sublime.
There is a simile in Ariosto in which the two characters are finely
united : —
" Quale stordito, e stupido aratore,
Poi ch'e passato il fulmine, si leva
Di la, dove Paltissimo fragore
Presso agli uccisi buoi steso Taveva ;
Che mira sensa fronde, et senza onore,
II Pin che da lontan veder soleva,
Tal si levo'l Pagano."
Milton seems to have thought of this simile, but the sublimity both of
his subject and of his own genius, made him reject those picturesque
circumstances, the variety of which, while it amuses, distracts the mind,
and has kept it fixed on a few grand and awful images : —
" As when heaven's fire
Has scathed the forest oaks or mountain pines,
With singed top their stately growth, though bare,
Stands on the blasted heath. "
If we next take a view of those animals that are called picturesque,
the same qualities will be found to prevail. The ass is generally thought
to be more picturesque than the horse ; and among horses, it is the
wild and rough forester, or the worn-out cart-horse to which that title
is applied. The sleek pampered steed, with his high arched crest and
flowing mane, is frequently represented in painting ; but his prevailing
character, whether there or in reality, is that of beauty.
In pursuing the same mode of inquiry with respect to other animals,
we find that the Pomeranian and the rough water-dog are more pic-
turesque than the smooth spaniel or the greyhound, the shaggy goat
than the sheep ; and these last are more so when their fleeces are ragged
and worn away in parts, than when they are of equal thickness, or
when they have lately been shorn. No animal, indeed, is so constantly
introduced in landscape as the sheep, but that, as I observed before,
does not prove superior picturesqueness ; and I imagine, that, besides
their innocent character, so suited to pastoral scenes, of which they are
the natural inhabitants, it arises from their being of a tint at once
brilliant and mellow, which unites happily with all objects ; and also
from their producing, when in groups, however slightly the detail may
86
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
be expressed, broader masses of light and shadow than any other animal,
The reverse of this is true with regard to deer ; their general effect in
groups is comparatively meagre and spotty, but their wild appearance,
their lively action, their sudden bounds, and the intricacy of their
branching horns, are circumstances in the highest degree picturesque.
Wild and savage animals, like scenes of the same description, have
generally a marked and picturesque character ; and, as such scenes
are less strongly impressed with that character when all is calm and
serene than when the clouds are agitated and variously tossed about,
so whatever may be the appearance of any animal in a tranquil state,
it becomes more picturesque when suddenly altered by the influence of
some violent emotion ; and it is curious to observe how all that disturbs
inward calm produces a correspondent roughness without. The bristles
of the chafed and foaming boar — the quills on the fretful porcupine —
are suddenly raised by sudden emotion, and the angry lion exhibits the
same picturesque marks of rage and fierceness,
It is true, that in all animals where great strength and destructive
fierceness are united, there is a mixture of grandeur, but the principles
on which a greater or lesser degree of picturesqueness is founded may
clearly be distinguished ; the lion, for instance, with his shaggy mane,
is much more picturesque than the lioness, though she is equally an
object of terror.
The effect of smoothness or roughness in producing the beautiful or
the picturesque, is again clearly exemplified in birds. Nothing is more
truly consonant to our ideas of beauty, than their plumage when smooth
and undisturbed, and when the eye glides over it without interruption ;
nothing, on the other hand, has so picturesque an appearance as their
feathers, when ruffled by any accidental circumstance, or by any sudden
passion in the animal. When inflamed with anger or with desire, the
first symptoms appear in their ruffled plumage ; the game cock, when
he attacks his rival, raises the feathers of his neck, the purple pheasant
his crest, and the peacock, when he feels the return of spring, shows
his passion in the same manner —
" And every feather shivers with delight."
The picturesque character in birds of prey arises from the angular
form of their beak, the rough feathers on their legs, their crooked
talons, their action and energy. All these circumstances are in the
strongest degree apparent in the eagle ; but, from his size as well as
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
87
courage, from the force of his beak and talons, formidable even to man,
and likewise from all our earliest associations, the bird of Jove is always
very much connected with ideas of grandeur.
Many birds have received from nature the same picturesque appearance
which in others happens only accidentally ; such are those whose heads
and necks are adorned with ruffs, with crests, and with tufts of plumes,
not lying smoothly over each other, as those of the back, but loosely
and irregularly disposed. These are, perhaps, the most striking and
attractive of all birds, as having that degree of roughness and irregu-
larity which gives a spirit to smoothness and symmetry ; and where in
them or in other objects these last qualities prevail, the result of the
whole is justly called beautiful.
In our own species, objects merely picturesque are to be found
among the wandering tribes of gypsies and beggars ; who, in all the
qualities which give them that character, bear a close analogy to the
wild forester and the worn-out cart-horse, and again to old mills,
hovels, and other inanimate objects of the same kind. More dignified
characters, such as a Belisarius, or a Marius in age and exile,'"' have the
same mixture of picturesqueness and of decayed grandeur, as the vener-
able remains of the magnificence of past ages.
If we ascend to the highest order of created beings, as painted by
the grandest of our poets, they, in their state of glory and happiness,
raise no ideas but those of beauty and sublimity ; the picturesque, as
in earthly objects, only shows itself when they are in a state of ruin —
" Nor appcar'd
Less than archangel ruirCd, and the excess
Of glory obscured" —
when shadows have obscured their original brightness, and that uniform,
though angelic expression of pure love and joy, has been destroyed by
a variety of warring passions :
" Darken 'd so, yet shone
Above them all the archangel ; but his face
Deep scars of thunder had entrench 'd, and care
Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows
Of dauntless courage and considerate pride
Waiting revenge ; cruel his eye, but cast
Signs of remorse and passion."
If from nature we turn to that art from which the expression itself
* The noble picture of Salvator Rosa at Lord Townshend's, which in the print is
called Belisarius, has been thought to be a Marius among the ruins of Carthage.
88
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
is taken, we shall find all the principles of picturesqueness confirmed.
Among painters, Salvator Rosa is one of the most remarkable for his
picturesque effects : in no other master are seen such abrupt and
rugged forms — such sudden deviations both in his figures and his
landscapes ; and the roughness and broken touches of his pencilling,
admirably accord with the objects they characterise.
Guido, on the other hand, was as eminent for beauty : in his
celestial countenances are the happiest examples of gradual variation,
of lines that melt and flow into each other ; no sudden break, nothing
that can disturb that pleasing languor, which the union of all that con-
stitutes beauty impresses on the soul. The style of his hair is as
smooth as its own character, and its effect in accompanying the face
will allow ; the flow of his drapery — the sweetness and equality of his
pencilling, and the silvery clearness and purity of his tints, are all
examples of the justness of Mr. Burke's principles of beauty. But
we may learn from the works even of this great master, how un-
avoidably an attention to mere beauty and flow of outline, will lead
towards sameness and insipidity. If this has happened to a painter of
such high excellence, who so well knew the value of all that belongs
to his art, and whose touch, when he painted a St. Peter or a St,
Jerome, was as much admired for its spirited and characteristic rough-
ness, as for its equality and smoothness in his angels and madonnas —
what must be the case with men who have been tethered all their lives
in a clump or a belt ?
There is another instance of contrast between two eminent painters,
Albano and Mola, which I cannot forbear mentioning, as it confirms
the alliance between roughness and picturesqueness, and between
smoothness and beauty ; and as it shows, in the latter case, the conse-
quent danger of sameness. Of all the painters who have left behind
them a high reputation, none, perhaps, was more uniformly smooth
than Albano, or less often deviated into abruptness of any kind : none
also have greater monotony of character ; but, from the extreme beauty
and delicacy of his forms and his tints, and his exquisite finishing, few
pictures are more generally captivating. Mola, the scholar of Albano,
(and that circumstance makes it more singular,) is as remarkable for
many of those opposite qualities which distinguish S. Rosa, though he
has not the boldness and animation of that original genius. There is
hardly any painter, whose pictures more immediately catch the eye of
a connoisseur than those of Mola, or less attract the notice of a person
unused to painting. Salvator has a savage grandeur, often in the
highest degree sublime ; and sublimity, in any shape, will command
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
89
attention : but Mola's scenes and figures are, for the most part, neither
sublime nor beautiful ; they are purely picturesque. His touch is less
rough than Salvator's ; his colouring has, in general, more richness and
variety ; and his pictures seem to me the most perfect examples of the
higher style of picturesqueness — infinitely removed from vulgar nature,
but having neither the softness and delicacy of beauty, nor that grandeur
of conception which produces the sublime.
[~A picturesque object may, in fact, be denned as that which, from
the greater facilities which it possesses for readily and more effectually
enabling an artist to display his art, is, as it were, a provocative to
painting. If he has the time and the means for sketching it, he finds
it impossible to resist the desire with which it fills him to carry it off
on his canvass, because it is not only striking to him, but he feels that
it must be equally striking nearly to all mankind, as being capable of
touching those general chords of association which are most universally
possessed by mankind, and which, therefore, naturally produce the
most general interest. The examples which have been so liberally,
and, if I may be permitted so to speak, so picturesquely brought
forward by Price in this chapter, may all have their influence traced
to this common source, whence that of beauty or sublimity may be
likewise followed ; yet the distinction of the term will not be the less
convenient, because it is thus found to spring from the same root with
these other terms — for, in our description of natural scenery, language
is often found to be so poor, that no word which conveys a tolerably
well defined idea should ever be rejected. Since the word in question
was coined, a new one has been more recently created — I mean the
word sculpturesque, now very generally employed by artists and ama-
teurs to signify such objects as are best fitted for displaying the powers
of the sculptor, or which would most readily provoke him to the exer-
cise of his art. — E.]
90
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
CHAPTER IV.
From all that has been stated in the last chapter, picturesqueness ap-
pears to hold a station between beauty and sublimity ; and, on that
account, perhaps, is more frequently, and more happily blended with
them both, than they are with each other. It is, however, perfectly
distinct from either. Beauty and picturesqueness are indeed evidently
founded on very opposite qualities ; the one on smoothness, the other
on roughness ; the one on gradual, the other on sudden variation ; the
one on ideas of youth and freshness, the other on those of age, and
even of decay.
But as most of the qualities of visible beauty are made known to us
through the medium of another sense, the sight itself is hardly more to
be considered than the touch, in regard to all those sensations which
are excited by beautiful forms ; and the distinction between the
beautiful and the picturesque will, perhaps, be most strongly pointed
out by means of the latter sense. I am aware that this is liable to a
gross and obvious ridicule ; but, for that reason, none but gross and
commonplace minds will dwell upon it.
Mr. Burke has observed, that " men are carried to the sex in gene-
ral, as it is the sex, and by the common law of nature ; but they are
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
91
attached to particulars by personal beauty ;" he adds, " I call beauty a
social quality; for where women and men, and not only they, but
when other animals give us a sense of joy and pleasure in beholding
them — and there are many that do so — they inspire us with senti-
ments of tenderness and affection towards their persons ; we like to
have them near us, and we enter willingly into a kind of relation with
them." *
These sentiments of tenderness and affection, nature has taught us
to express by caresses, by gentle pressure ; these are the endearments
we make use of, where sex is totally out of the question, to beautiful
children, to beautiful animals, and even to things inanimate ; and
where the size and character, as in trees, buildings, &c, exclude any
such relation, still something of the same difference of impression
between them and rugged objects appears to subsist ; that impression,
however, is diminished, as the size of any beautiful object is increased ;
and as it approaches towards grandeur and magnificence, it recedes
from loveliness.
As the eye borrows many of its sensations from the touch, so that
again seems to borrow others from the sight. Soft, fresh, and beautiful
colours, though " not sensible to feeling as to sight," give us an incli-
nation to try their effect on the touch ; whereas, if the colour be not
beautiful, that inclination, I believe, is always diminished, and in
objects merely picturesque, and void of all beauty, is rarely excited.
I have read, indeed, in some fairy tale, of a country, where age and
wrinkles were loved and caressed, and youth and freshness neglected ;
but in real life, I fancy, the most picturesque old woman, however her
admirer may ogle her on that account, is perfectly safe from his
caresses.
It has been observed in a former part, that symmetry, which
perfectly accords with the beautiful, is in the same degree adverse to
the picturesque ; and this circumstance forms a strongly marked dis-
tinction between the two characters. The general symmetry which
prevails in the forms of animals is obvious ; but as no precise standard of
it in each species has been made or acknowledged, any slight deviation
from what is most usual is scarcely attended to. In the human form,
however, from our being more nearly interested in all that belongs to
it, symmetry has been more accurately defined ; and, as far as human
observation and selection can fix a standard for beauty, it has been
fixed by the Grecian sculptors. That standard is acknowledged in all
* Sublime and Beautiful, p. 66.
92
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
the most civilized parts of Europe : a near approach to it, makes the
person to be called regularly beautiful ; a departure from it, whatever
striking and attractive peculiarity it may bestow, is still a departure
from that perfection of ideal beauty, so diligently sought after, and so
nearly attained by those great artists, from the few precious remains of
whose works, we have gained some idea of the refined art which raised
them to such high eminence ; for by their means we have learned to
distinguish what is most exquisite and perfect, from the more ordinary
degrees of excellence.
There are several expressions in the language of a neighbouring
people, of lively imagination, and distinguished gallantry and attention
to the other sex, which seem to imply an uncertain idea of some cha-
racter, which was not precisely beauty, but which, from whatever
causes, produced striking and pleasing effects : such are une physio-
nomie de fantaisie, and the well-known expression of un certain je ne
sais quoi ; it is also common to say of a woman — que sans etre belle
elle est piquante — a word, by the by, that in many points answers
very exactly to picturesque. The amusing history of Roxalana and
the Sultan, is also the history of the piquant, which is fully exempli-
fied in her person and her manners : Marmontel certainly did not in-
tend to give the petit nez retrousse as a beautiful feature ; but to
show how much such a striking irregularity might accord and co-ope-
rate with the same sort of irregularity in the character of the mind.
The playful, unequal, coquetish Roxalana, full of sudden turns and
caprices, is opposed to the beautiful, tender, and constant Elvira ; and
the effects of irritation, to those of softness and languor : the tendency
of the qualities of beauty alone towards monotony, are no less happily
insinuated.
Although there are no generally received standards with respect to
animals, yet those who have been in the habit of breeding them and of
attending to their forms, have fixed to themselves certain standards of
perfection. Mr. Bakewell, like Phidias or Apelles, had probably
formed in his mind an idea of perfection beyond what he had seen in
nature ; and which, like them, though by a different process, he was
constantly endeavouring to embody. It may be said, that this perfec-
tion relates only to their disposition to produce fat upon the most
profitable parts — a very grazier-like and material idea of beauty it
must fairly be owned ; but still, if a standard of shape (from whatever
cause) be acknowledged, and called beautiful, any departure from that
settled correspondence and symmetry of parts, will certainly, within
that jurisdiction, be considered as an irregularity in the form, and a
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
93
consequent departure from beauty, however striking the object may be
in its general appearance. More marked and sudden deviations from
the general symmetry of animals, whether arising from particular con-
formation, from accident, or from the effects of age or disease, often
very strongly attract the painters notice, and are recorded by him ;
but they never can be thought to make the object more beautiful :
many of these would, on the contrary, by most men be called deformi-
ties, and not without reason. I shall hereafter have occasion to show
the connection, as well as the distinction, that subsists between de-
formity and picturesqueness.
If we turn from animal to vegetable nature, many of the most
beautiful flowers have a high degree of symmetry ; so much so, that
their colours appear to be laid on after a regular and finished design :
but beauty is so much the prevailing character of flowers, that no one
seeks for any thing picturesque among them. In trees, on the other
hand, every thing appears so loose and irregular, that symmetry seems
out of the question ; yet still the same analogy subsists. Cowley has
very accurately enumerated the chief qualities of beauty, in his descrip-
tion of what he considers as one of the most beautiful of trees — the
lime. He has not forgot symmetry in the catalogue of its charms,
though it is probable that few readers will agree with him in admiring
the degree or the style of it, which is displayed in the lime : but exact
symmetry in all things was then as extravagantly in fashion, as it is
now — perhaps too violently — in disgrace.
Stat Philyra ; haud omncs formosior altera surgit
Inter Hamadryades •, mollissima, Candida, lsevis,
Et viiidante coma, et bene olenti flore superba,
Spargit odoratam late atque cequaliter umbram.
If we take Candida for clear, as candidi fontes; and viridemte, as
peculiarly fresh and verdant, we have every quality of beauty separately
considered. A beautiful tree, considered in point' of form only, must
have a certain correspondence of parts, and a comparative regularity
and proportion ; whereas inequality and irregularity alone will give to
a tree a picturesque appearance, more especially if the effects of age
and decay, as well as of accident are conspicuous : when, for instance,
some of the limbs are shattered, and the broken stump remains in the
void space ; when others, half twisted round by winds, hang down-
wards ; while others again shoot in an opposite direction, and perhaps
some large bough projects sideways from below the stag-headed top,
and then as suddenly turns upwards, and rises above it. The general
91.
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
proportion of such trees, whether tall or short, thick or slender, is not
material to their character as picturesque objects ; but where beauty,
elegance, and gracefulness are concerned, a short thick proportion will
not give an idea of those qualities. There certainly are a great variety
of pleasing forms and proportions in trees, and different men have
different predilections, just as they have with respect to their own
species ; but I never knew any person, who, if he observed at all, was
not struck with the gracefulness and elegance of a tree, whose propor-
tion was rather tall, whose stem had an easy sweep, but which re-
turned again in such a manner, that the whole appeared completely
poised and balanced, and whose boughs were in some degree pendent,
but towards their extremities made a gentle curve upwards : if to such
a form you add fresh and tender foliage and bark, you have every
quality assigned to beauty.
In the last chapter I described the process by which a beautiful
artificial object becomes picturesque : I will now show the similar effect
of the same kind of process in natural objects ; and, more fully to illus-
trate the subject, will compare at the same moment the effect of that
process on animate and inanimate objects. It cannot be said that
there is much general analogy between a tree and a human figure ; but
there is a great deal in the particular qualities which make them either
beautiful or picturesque. Almost all the qualities of beauty, as it
might naturally be expected, belong to youth ; and, among them all,
none is more consonant to our ideas of beauty, or gives so general an
impression of it as freshness ; — without it, the most perfect form wants
its most precious finish ; wherever it begins to depart, wherever marks
of age, or of unhealthiness appear, though other effects, other sym-
pathies, other characters may arise, there must be a diminution of
beauty. Freshness, which equally belongs to vegetable and animal
beauty, is one of the most striking and attractive qualities in the
general appearance of a beautiful object ; whether of a tree in its most
flourishing state, or of a human figure in its highest perfection. In
either, the smallest diminution of that quality, from age or disease, is a
manifest diminution of beauty ; for, as it was remarked by a writer of
the highest eminence, venustas et pulchritudo corporis secerni non potest
a mletudine* Besides the relation, which in point of freshness in the
general appearance, a beautiful plant or a beautiful person bear to each
other, there is likewise a correspondence in particular parts — the
luxuriancy of foliage, answers to that of hair ; the delicate smoothness
* Cicero de Officiis, Lib. 1.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
95
of bark, to that of the skin ; and the clear, even, and tender colour of
it, to that of the complexion. There is also, in the bark and the skin,
though much more sensibly in the latter, another beauty arising from a
look of softness and suppleness, so opposite to the hard and dry appear-
ance, which, as well as roughness, is brought on by age ; and which
peculiar softness — arising in this case from the free circulation of juices
to every part, and in contra-distinction to what is dry, though yielding
to pressure — is well expressed by the Greek word vygorrig; a word whose
meaning I shall have occasion to dwell more fully upon hereafter.'*
The earliest, and most perceptible, attacks of time, are made on the
bark, and on the skin ; which at first, however, merely lose their
evenness of surface, and perfect clearness of colour : by degrees, the
lines grow stronger in each ; the tint more dingy ; often unequal and
in spots ; and, in proportion as either trees or men advance towards
decay, the regular progress of time, and often the effects of accident,
occasion great and partial changes in their forms. In trees, the various
hollows and inequalities which are produced by some parts failing,
and others in consequence falling in ; from accidental marks and
protuberances, and from other circumstances which a long course
of years gives rise to, are obvious ; and many correspondent changes
from similar causes in the human form, are no less obvious. By such
changes, that nice symmetry and correspondence of parts so essential
to beauty, is in both destroyed ; in both, the hand of time roughens the
surface, and traces still deeper furrows ; a few leaves, a few hairs, arc
thinly scattered on their summits ; that light, airy, aspiring look of
youth is gone, and both seem shrunk and tottering, and ready to fall
with the next blast.
Such is the change from beauty — and to what ? surely Dot to a higher,
or an equal degree, or to a different style of beauty. No — nor to any
thing that resembles it : and yet, that both these objects, even in this
last state, have often strong attractions for painters — their works afford
sufficient testimony ; that they are called picturesque — the general
application of the term to such objects, makes equally clear ; and that
they totally differ from what is beautiful — the common feelings of
mankind no less convincingly prove. One misapprehension I would
wish to guard against. I do not mean to infer, from the instances I
have given, that an object, to be picturesque, must be old and decayed ;
but that the most beautiful objects will become so from the effects of
age and decay ; and I believe it is equally true, that those which are
* In the Appendix.
96
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
naturally of a strongly marked and peculiar character, are likely to
become still more picturesque by the process I have mentioned.
I have now very fully stated the principal circumstances by which
the picturesque is separated from the beautiful. It is equally distinct
from the sublime ; for, though there are some qualities common to them
both, yet they differ in many essential points, and proceed from very
different causes. In the first place, greatness of dimension is a power-
ful cause of the sublime. I would by no means lay too much stress on
greatness of dimension, but what Mr. Burke has observed with regard
to buildings is true of many natural objects, such as rocks, cascades,
&c, where the scale is too diminutive, no greatness of manner will give
them grandeur. The picturesque has no connection with dimension of
any kind, and is as often found in the smallest as in the largest objects.
The sublime, being founded on principles of awe and terror, never
descends to any thing light or playful ; the picturesque, whose charac-
teristics are intricacy and variety, is equally adapted to the grandest
and to the gayest scenery. Infinity is one of the most efficient causes
of the sublime : the boundless ocean, for that reason, inspires awful
sensations ; to give it picturesqueness you must destroy that cause of its
sublimity, for it is on the shape and disposition of its boundaries that
the picturesque must in great measure depend.
Uniformity, which is so great an enemy to the picturesque, is not
only compatible with the sublime, but often the cause of it. That
general, equal gloom which is spread over all nature before a storm,
with the stillness, so nobly described by Shakspeare, is in the highest
degree sublime —
" And as we often see, against a storm,
A silence in the heavens, the wrack stand still,
The bold Avinds speechless, and the orb itself
As hnsh as death, — anon the dreadful thunder
Does rend the region."
The picturesque requires greater variety, and does not show itself till
the dreadful thunder has rent the region, has tossed the clouds into a
thousand towering forms, and opened, as it were, the recesses of the
sky. A blaze of light unmixed with shade, on the same principles,
tends to the sublime only. Milton has placed light, in its most glorious
brightness, as an inaccessible barrier round the throne of the Almighty —
" For God is light,
And never but in unapproached light
Dwelt from eternity."
And such is the power he has given even to its diminished splendour —
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
97
" That the brightest seraphim
Approach not, but with both wings veil their eyes.'"
In one place, indeed, he has introduced very picturesque circum-
stances in his sublime representation of the Deity, but it is of the Deity
in wrath ; it is when, from the weakness and narrowness of our con-
ceptions, we give the names and the effects of our passions to the all-
perfect Creator : —
" And clouds began
To darken all the hill, and smoke to roll
In dusky wreaths reluctant flames, the sign
Of wrath awaked."
In general, however, where the glory, power, or majesty of God are
represented, he has avoided that variety of form and of colouring which
might take off from simple and uniform grandeur, and has encompassed
the divine essence with unapproached light, or with the majesty of
darkness.
Again, if we descend to earth, a perpendicular rock, of vast bulk and
height, though bare and unbroken, or a deep chasm, under the same
circumstances, are objects which produce awful sensations ; but without
some variety and intricacy, either in themselves or their accompani-
ments, they will not be picturesque. Lastly, a most essential difference
between the two characters is, that the sublime, by its solemnity, takes
off from the loveliness of beauty, whereas the picturesque renders it
more captivating. This last difference is happily pointed out and
illustrated in the most ingenious and pleasing of all fictions, that of
Venus' Cestus. Juno, however beautiful, had no captivating charms till
she had put on the magic girdle — in other words, till she had exchanged
her stately dignity for playfulness and coquetry.
According to Mr. Burke,* the passion caused by the great and sub-
lime in nature, when those causes operate most powerfully, is astonish-
ment, and astonishment is that state of the soul in which all its motions
are suspended with some degree of horror ; the sublime, also, being
founded on ideas of pain and terror, like them operates by stretching
the fibres beyond their natural tone. The passion excited by beauty
is love and complacency ; it acts by relaxing the fibres somewhat below
their natural tone, and this is accompanied by an inward sense of moil-
ing and languor. I have heard this part of Mr. Burke's book criticised,
on a supposition that pleasure is more generally produced from the
fibres being stimulated than from their being relaxed. To me it ap-
* Sublime and Beautiful, Part U. Sec. 1.
98
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
pears, that Mr. Burke is right with respect to that pleasure which is
the effect of beauty, or whatever has an analogy to beauty, according
to the principles he has laid down.
If we examine our feelings on a warm genial day, in a spot full of
the softest beauties of nature, the fragrance of spring breathing around
us — pleasure then seems to be our natural state, to be received, not
sought after ; it is the happiness of existing to sensations of delight
only — we are unwilling to move, almost to think, and desire only to
feel, to enjoy. In pursuing the same train of ideas, I may add, that
the effect of the picturesque is curiosity ; an effect which, though less
splendid and powerful, has a more general influence. Those who have
felt the excitement produced by the intricacies of wild romantic moun-
tainous scenes, can tell how curiosity, while it prompts us to scale every
rocky promontory, to explore every new recess, by its active agency
keeps the fibres to their full tone ; and thus picturesqueness, when
mixed with either of the other characters, corrects the languor of beauty,
or the tension of sublimity. But as the nature of every corrective must
be to take off from the peculiar effect of what it is to correct, so does
the picturesque when united to either of the others. It is the coquetry
of nature — it makes beauty more amusing, more varied, more playful,
but also
" Less winning soft, less amiably mild."
Again, by its variety, its intricacy, its partial concealments, it excites
that active curiosity which gives play to the mind, loosening those iron
bonds with which astonishment chains up its faculties. This seems to
be perfectly applicable to tragi-comedy, and is at once its apology and
condemnation. Whatever relieves the mind from a strong impression,
of course weakens that impression.
Where characters, however distinct in their nature, are perpetually
mixed together in such various degrees and manners, it is not always
easy to draw the exact line of separation ; I think, however, we may
conclude, that where an object, or a set of objects, are without smooth-
ness or grandeur, but from their intricacy, their sudden and irregular
deviations, their variety of forms, tints, and lights and shadows, are
interesting to a cultivated eye, they are simply picturesque. Such, for
instance, are the rough banks that often enclose a by-road or a hollow
lane ; imagine the size of these banks and the space between them to
be increased, till the lane becomes a deep dell, the coves, large caverns,
the peeping stones, hanging rocks, so that the whole may impress an
idea of awe and grandeur — the sublime will then be mixed with the
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
99
picturesque, though the scale only, not the style of the scenery would
be changed. On the other hand, if parts of the banks were smooth
and gently sloping, or if in the middle space the turf were soft and
close bitten, or if a gentle stream passed between them, whose clear,
unbroken surface reflected all their varieties — the beautiful and the
picturesque, by means of that softness and smoothness, would then be
united.
I may here observe, that as softness is become a visible quality as well
as smoothness, so also, from the same kind of sympathy, it is a principle
of beauty in many visible objects ; but as the hardest bodies are those
which receive the highest polish, and consequently the highest degree
of smoothness, there must be a number of objects in which smoothness
and softness are for that reason incompatible. The one, however, is
not unfrequently mistaken for the other, and I have more than once
heard pictures, which were so smoothly finished that they looked like
ivory, commended for their softness.
The skin of a delicate woman is an example of softness and smooth-
ness united ; but if by art a higher polish be given to the skin, the
softness, and in that case I may add the beauty, is destroyed. Fur,
moss, hair, wool, &c. are comparatively rough, but they are soft, and
yield to pressure, and therefore take off from the appearance of hard-
ness, and also of edginess. A stone or rock, when polished by water,
is smoother, but less soft than when covered with moss ; and upon this
principle the wooded banks of a river have often a softer general effect
than the bare shaven border of a canal. There is the same difference
between the grass of a pleasure-ground mowed to the quick, and that
of a fresh meadow ; and it frequently happens, that continual mowing
destroys the verdure as well as the softness. So much does excessive
attachment to one principle destroy its own ends.
Before I end this chapter, I wish to say a few words with respect to
my adoption of Mr. Burke's doctrine. It has been asserted that I have
pre-supposed our ideas of the sublime and beautiful to be clearly settled,'*
whereas the least attention to what I have written would have shown
the contrary. As far as my own opinion is concerned, I certainly am
convinced of the general truth and accuracy of Mr. Burke's system, for
it is the foundation of my own ; but I must be very ignorant of human
nature, to suppose " our ideas clearly settled " on any question of that
kind. I therefore have always spoken cautiously, and even doubtingly,
to avoid the imputation of judging for others ; I have said, if we agree
* Essay on Design in Gardening, by Mr. George Mason, page 201.
100
SLR UVEDALE PRICE
with Mr. Burke, according to Mr. Burke ; and in the next chapter to
this, I have stated that Mr. Burke has done a great deal towards settling
the vague and contradictory ideas, &c. These passages so very plainly
show how little I presumed to suppose our ideas were clearly settled,
that no person who had read the book with any degree of attention
could have made such a remark ; and I must say, that whoever does
venture to criticise what he has not considered, is much more his own
enemy than the authors.
By way of convincing his readers that Mr. Burke's ideas of the
sublime are unworthy of being attended to, Mr. G. Mason has the
following remark, which I have taken care to copy very exactly : —
" The majority of thinking and learned men whom it has been my lot
to converse with on such subjects, are as well persuaded of terror s
being the cause of sublime, as that Tenterden steeple is of Goodwin
sands." As Mr. Mason seems very conversant with the classics, as
well as with English authors, and as the sublime in poetry has been
discussed by writers of high authority, and the sublimity of many
passages very generally acknowledged, I could wish that he and his
learned friends would take the trouble of examining such passages in
Homer, Virgil, Shakspeare, Milton, and all the poets who are most
eminent for their sublimity ; and should they find, as surely they
will, that almost all of them are founded upon terror, or on those
modifications of it which Mr. Burke has so admirably pointed out, they
may, perhaps, be inclined to speak somewhat less contemptuously of
his researches. They may even be led to reflect, what must have been
the depth and penetration of that man s mind, who, scarcely arrived at
manhood, clearly saw how one great principle, an acknowledged cause
of the sublime in poetry, was likewise the most powerful cause of sub-
limity in all objects whatsoever ; pursued it through all the works of
art and of nature, and explained, illustrated, and adorned his discovery,
with that ingenuity, and that brilliancy of language, in which he stands
unrivalled.
A number of sublime passages in poetry will of course present them-
selves to a person so well read in the classics as Mr. Mason, but I will
beg leave to remind him, and those who reject Mr. Burke's doctrine,
of a few instances, in which if terror be not the cause of the sublime,
I have no idea of any cause of any effect. It is natural to begin by
the great father of all poetry, and by a passage which Longinus has
particularly dwelt upon : it is that celebrated one in the Iliad,* where
* Iliad, b. xx., 1. 56.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
101
Homer has described Jupiter thundering above, Neptune shaking the
earth beneath, and Pluto starting from his throne with terror, lest his
secret and dreary abodes should be burst open to the day. From this
short exposition the reader may judge what is the principle on which
the sublimity of this passage is founded.
The most sublime passage, according to my idea, in Virgil, or per-
haps in any other poet, is that magnificent personification of a thunder
storm.
" Ipse Pater, media nimborum in nocte, corusca
Fulmina molitur dextra, quo maxima motu
Terra tremit, fugere ferae, et mortalia corda
Per gentes humilis stravit pavor — Ille flagranti
Aut Atho aut Rhodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo
Dejicit."
Divest these two passages of terror, what remains ? In this last
particularly, the sublime opposition between the cause and the effect of
terror, more strongly than in any other, illustrates the principle. And
I may here observe, that one circumstance which gives peculiar gran-
deur to personifications, is the attributing of natural events to the im-
mediate action of some angry and powerful agent.
" Ipse Pater media, &c.
Neptunns muros saevoque emota tridente
Fundamenta quatit."
AVhenever Dante is mentioned, the inscription over the gates of hell,
and the Conte Ugolino, are among the first things which occur.
Milton's Paradise Lost is wrought up to a higher pitch of awful terror
than any other poem ; to a mind full of poetical fire, he added the most
studied attention to effect ; and I think there is a singular instance of
that attention, and of the use he made of terror, in one of his most
famous similes.
" As when the sun, new risen,
Looks through the horizontal misty air,
Shorn of his beams, or from behind the moon
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations."
The circumstances are perfectly applicable to the fallen archangel ;
but Milton possibly felt that the sun himself, when shorn of his beams
and in eclipse, was a less magnificent object than when in full splendour,
and therefore added that dignified image of terror,
"And with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs."
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
It might even be conjectured, that he had literally added that last
image ; for the pause (which no poet took more pains to vary,) is the
same as in the preceding line, and the half verse which follows,
a Darken'd so, yet shone,"
would do equally well, in point of metre and of sense, after
'* On half the nations."
From Shakspeare also, a number of detached passages might be
quoted, to prove what surely needs no additional argument ; but that
most original creator, and most accurate observer, of whom no English-
man can speak without enthusiasm, has furnished a more ample proof
of the sublime effect of unremitting terror. Let those who have read,
or seen his tragedies, consider which among them all is most strikingly
sublime — which of them most powerfully seizes on the imagination, and
rivets the attention — I believe almost every voice will give it for Mac-
beth. In that all is terror ; and therefore either Aristotle, Longinus,
Shakspeare, and Burke, or Mr. G. Mason, and his learned friends, have
been totally wrong in their ideas of the sublime, and of its causes.
That the same principle prevails in all natural scenery, has been so
fully and clearly explained by Mr. Burke, that any further arguments
seem superfluous; yet, as it sometimes happens that what is placed in a
different, though less striking light, may chance to make an impression
on particular minds, I will mention a few things which have occurred
to me. I am persuaded that it would be difficult to conceive any set of
objects, to which, however grand in themselves, an addition of terror
would not give a higher degree of sublimity ; and surely that must be
a cause, and a principal cause, the increase of which increases the effect
— the absence of which, weakens, or destroys it. The sea is at all times
a grand object ; need I say how much that grandeur is increased by the
violence of another element, and again, by thunder and lightning ?
Why are rocks and precipices more sublime, when the tide dashes at
the foot of them, forbidding all access, or cutting off all retreat, than
when we can with ease approach, or retire from them ? How is it that
Shakspeare has heightened the sublimity of Dover Cliff, so much
beyond what the real scene exhibits ? by terror ; he has placed terror
above on the brink of the abyss ; in the middle where
" Half way down
Hangs one who gathers samphire — dreadful trade ! "
And even on the beach below, drawing an idea of terror from the
comparative deficiency of one sense :
\
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
103
" The murmuring surge
That on the unnumberM idle pebbles chafes,
Cannot be heard so high ; — I '11 look no more
Lest my brain turn."
The nearer any grand or terrible objects in nature press upon the
mind, (provided that mind is able to contemplate them with awe, but
without abject fear,) the more sublime will be their effects. The most
savage rocks, precipices, and cataracts, as they keep their stations, are
only awful ; but should an earthquake shake their foundations, and
open a new gulf beneath the cataract — he, who removed from imme-
diate danger, could dare at such a moment to gaze on such a spectacle,
would surely have sensations of a much higher kind, than those which
were impressed upon him when all was still and unmoved.
104
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
CHAPTER V.
Of the three characters, two only are in any degree subject to the
improver ; to create the sublime is above our contracted powers, though
we may sometimes heighten, and at all times lower its effects by art.
It is, therefore, on a proper attention to the beautiful and the pictu-
resque, that the art of improving real landscapes must depend.
QThere may be instances, indeed, in which the sublime may, in one
sense, be created, so far at least as any one locality may be considered
— 1 mean by the bringing into view some grand object, by the removal
of some obstacle of fence, of ground, or of wood, which may exclude it
from observation. I know a case, where a friend of mine by the
judicious removal of ground, has opened up a view of a grand expansive
branch of the ocean so as to bring it, as it were, under the windows of
his mansion, though it is, in reality, several miles off. The view of sub-
lime rocks, or mountains, or of magnificent waterfalls, or rivers, or lakes,
is often lost for want of a little boldness in the sacrifice of a few trees.
But no part of the art of landscape gardening requires greater caution, or
more judgment than this, for rashness or ignorance may, perhaps, in a
few hours, do such damage as ages may be required to repair. As for
any attempt actually to create a sublime object, that would indeed be
as absurd and presumptuous, as it would be certain of failure. — E.]
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
105
As beauty is the most pleasing of all ideas to the human mind, it is
very natural that it should be most sought after, and that the name
should have been applied to every species of excellence. Mr. Burke
has done a great deal towards settling the vague and contradictory
ideas which were entertained on that subject, by investigating its prin-
cipal causes and effects ; but as the best things are often perverted to
the worst purposes, so his admirable treatise has, perhaps, been one
cause of the insipidity which has prevailed under the name of improve-
ment. Few places have any claim to sublimity, and where nature has
not given them that character, art is ineffectual ; beauty, therefore, is
the great object, and improvers have learned, from the highest authority,
that two of its principal causes are smoothness, and gradual variation ;
these qualities are in themselves very seducing, but they are still more
so, when applied to the surface of ground, from its being in every
man's power to produce them ; it requires neither taste, nor invention,
but merely the mechanical hand and eye of many a common labourer ;
and he who can make a nice asparagus bed, has one of the most essential
qualifications of an improver, and may soon learn the whole mystery of
slopes and hanging levels.
If the principles of the beautiful, according to Mr. Burke, and those
of the picturesque according to my ideas, be just, it seldom happens
that those two qualities are perfectly unmixed ; and I believe, it is for
want of observing how nature has blended them, and from attempting
to make objects beautiful by dint of smoothness and flowing lines, that
so much insipidity has arisen.
Qlt has arisen, and ever will arise from any attempt to produce
beauty by the mere employment of any one of its qualities only, when,
to produce its perfection, it is necessary to select and combine them,
and this too in such a manner as that the associations produced by them
shall not be incongruous, but be perfectly in harmony with the nature
and character of the object. As the composition of beauty, therefore,
must be varied in each individual case, it would be vain to lay down a
general rule for compounding it, as one would give a receipt for making
a particular pudding. I conceive that it is in the tact, and discrimina-
tion, and judgment displayed in the selection, and composition of objects
to produce beauty, that the faculty of what is called good taste consists.
The smallest reflection upon the examples which Sir Uvedale Price
brings forward in the few following paragraphs of this Chapter, will
at once show that something more than mere smoothness, at least, is
required to constitute beauty. Nay, he proves that a due proportion of
roughness is equally essential ; and I conceive that it would be equally
106
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
easy to prove, that all the different ingredients proposed by others,
may, in certain objects, be found individually operating in combination
with others towards the composition of beauty. — E.]
The most enchanting object the eye of man can behold — that which
immediately presents itself to his imagination when beauty is mentioned
— that, in comparison of which all other beauty appears tasteless and
uninteresting — is the face of a beautiful woman ; and there, where
nature has fixed the throne of beauty, the very seat of its empire, observe
how she has guarded it, in her most perfect models, from its two dan-
gerous foes, insipidity and monotony.
The eye-brows, and the eye-lashes, by their projecting shade over
the transparent surface of the eye, and above all the hair, by its com-
parative roughness and its partial concealments, accompany and relieve
the softness, clearness, and smoothness of all the rest ; where the hair
has no natural roughness, it is often artificially curled and crisped, and
it cannot be supposed that both sexes have been so often mistaken in
what would best become them. As the general surface of a beautiful
face is soft and smooth, its general form consists of lines that insensibly
melt into each other ; yet if we may judge from those remains of ancient
arts, which are considered as models of beauty, the Grecian sculptors
were of opinion that a line nearly straight of the nose and forehead was
required, to give a zest to all the other waving lines of the face.
Flowers are the most delicate and beautiful of all inanimate objects ;
but their queen the rose, grows on a rough thorny bush with jagged
leaves. The moss rose has the addition of a rough hairy fringe, which
almost makes a part of the flower itself. The arbutus, with its fruit,
its pendent flowers, and rich glossy foliage, is perhaps the most beauti-
ful of all the hardier evergreen shrubs ; but the bark of it is rugged,
and the leaves, which like those of the rose, are sawed at the edges,
have those edges pointed upwards, and clustering in spikes ; and it
may possibly be from that circumstance, and from the boughs having
the same upright tendency, that Virgil, calls it arbutus horrida, or,
as it stands in some manuscripts, horrens. Among the foreign oaks,
maples, &c. those are particularly esteemed, the leaves of which (ac-
cording to a common, though perhaps contradictory phrase) are beauti-
fully jagged.
The oriental plane has always been reckoned a tree of the greatest
beauty ; Xerxes' passion for one of them is well known, as also the
high estimation they were held in by the Greeks and Romans. The
surface of their leaves is smooth and glossy, and of a bright pleasant
green ; but they are so deeply indented, and so full of sharp angles, that
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
107
the tree itself is often distinguished by the name of the true jagged
oriental plane.
The vine leaf has, in all respects, a strong resemblance to the leaf
of the plane ; and that extreme richness of effect, which every body
must be struck with in them both, is greatly owing to those sharp an-
gles, to those sudden variations, so contrary to the idea of beauty when
considered by itself. The leaf of the Burgundy vine is rough, and its
inferiority, in point of beauty, to the smooth-leaved vines, is, I think,
very apparent, and clearly owing to that circumstance. On the other
hand, a cluster of fine grapes, in point of form, tint, and light and
shadow, is a specimen of unmixed beauty ; and the vine with its fruit,
may be cited as one of the most striking instances of the union of the
two characters, in which, however, that of beauty infinitely prevails ;
and who will venture to assert, that the charm of the whole would be
greater, by separating them — by taking off all the angles, and sharp
points, and making the outline of the leaves as round and flowing as
that of the fruit ? The effect of these jagged points and angles is more
strongly marked in sculpture — especially in vases of metal — where the
vine leaf, if imprudently handled, would at least prove that sharpness
is very contrary to the beautiful in feeling ; and the analogy between
the two senses is surely very just. It may also be remarked, that in
all such works sharpness of execution is a term of high praise.
I must here observe (and I must beg to call the reader s attention to
what, in my idea, throws a strong light on the whole of the subject,) that
almost all ornaments are rough, and most of them sharp, which is a mode
of roughness ; and, considered analogically, the most contrary to beauty
of any mode. But as the ornaments are rough, so the ground is gene-
rally smooth ; which shows, that though smoothness be the most essential
quality of beauty, without which it can scarcely exist — yet that rough-
ness, in its different modes and degrees, is the ornament, the fringe of
beauty, that which gives it life and spirit, and preserves it from baldness
and insipidity.
A moment's consideration, indeed, will show us, that the obvious, the
only process in ornamenting any smooth surface, independently of colour,
must be that of making it less smooth, that is, comparatively rough :
there must be different degrees of roughness, of sharpness, of projections ;
and this is the character of those ornaments that have been admired for
ages. The column is smooth ; the ornamental part, the capital, is rough :
the facing of a building smooth, the frize and cornice rough and
suddenly projecting : it is so in vases, in embroidery, in every thing that
admits of ornament ; and as ornament is the most prominent and striking
108
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
part of a beautiful whole, it is frequently taken for the most essential
part, and obtains the first place in descriptions. Thus Virgil in speaking
of a part of dress highly ornamented says,
" Pallam gemmis auroque Tic/eiitem."
And Dryden in the same spirit, when describing the cup that contained
the heart of Guiscard, calls it,
" A goblet rich with gems, and rough with gold. "
A plain stone building, may not only be very beautiful, but by many
persons be thought peculiarly so from its simplicity ; but were an
architect to decorate the shafts, as well as the capitals of his columns,
and all the smooth stone work of his house or temple, there are few
people who would not be sensible of the difference between a beautiful
building, and one richly ornamented. This, in my mind, is the spirit
of that famous reproof of Apelles (among all the painters of antiquity
the most renowned for beauty) to one of his scholars who was loading
a Helen with ornaments ; " Young man," said he, " not being able to
paint her beautiful, you have made her rich."
All that has just been said on the effect, which, in objects of sight, a
due proportion of roughness and sharpness gives to smoothness, as like-
wise on the danger of making these two qualities too predominant, may,
I think, be very aptly illustrated by means of another sense. Discords
in music, which are analogous to sharp and angular objects of sight, are
introduced by the most judicious composers, in their accompaniments to
the sweetest and most flowing melodies, in order to relieve the ear from
that languor and weariness, which long continued smoothness always
brings on. But, on the other hand, should a composer, from too great a
fondness for discords and extraneous modulations, neglect the flow and
smoothness of melody, or should he smother a sweet and simple air
beneath a load even of the richest harmony, he would resemble an
architect, who, from a false notion of the picturesque, should destroy all
repose and continuity in his designs, by the number of breaks and
projections, or should try to improve some elegant and simple building,
by loading it with a profusion of ornaments. The most beautiful and
melodious of all sounds, that of the human voice in its highest perfec-
tion, appears to the greatest advantage when there is some degree of
sharpness in the instrument which accompanies it ; as in the harp, the
violin, or the harpsichord : the flute, and even the organ have too much
of the same quality of sound ; they give no relief to the voice ; it is like
accompanying smooth water with smooth banks ; yet will any one say,
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
109
that separately considered, the sound of the harp or the violin is as beau-
tiful as that of a fine human voice, or that they ought to be classed
together ? or that discords are as beautiful as concords, or that both
are beautiful, because when they are mixed with judgment, the whole
is more delightful ? Does not this show that what is very justly called
beautiful, from the essential qualities of beauty being predominant, is
frequently, nay generally composite ; and that we act against the con-
stant practice of nature and of judicious art, when we endeavour to make
objects more beautiful, by depriving them of what gives beauty some of
its most powerful attractions ?
QBut why does the human voice affect us more powerfully than the
sound of a musical instrument ? Is it because its tones are finer, more
delicate, or more powerful ? I suspect not. The most magnificent human
voices can be excelled in all these particulars by certain instruments,
when played on by the best performers. The greater influence which
the human voice possesses over us, arises from the circumstance of its
being the human voice. For, as the influence which instrumental music
has over us, arises from the association which its tones awaken with the
feelings and passions of human nature, so it follows, that the human
voice, as being more immediately connected with these, must be in
itself a superior vehicle for their expression. It has also the immense
advantage of being able to give utterance to those sentiments of poetry,
with which the notes have been harmoniously associated. In support
of this view, the experience of every one must bear witness to the fact,
that it is by no means always the finest voice, considering it as an
instrument, that most deeply touches the human heart, and that feeling
and powerful expression, will always awaken more chords of sympathv,
and more general emotions in the minds of the auditors, than the finest
toned voices can possibly do without it. Nay, the very power which
instrumental music possesses over us, depends entirely on the extent to
which this mental feeling and expression can be imitated. — E.]
110
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
CHAPTER VI.
The various and striking lights in which Mr. Burke has placed the al-
liance between smoothness and beauty in objects of sight, and the very
close and convincing arguments he has drawn by analogy from the other
senses, I should have supposed would have left but little doubt on the
subject. As I find, however, that the position has been questioned by
persons to whose opinions much respect is due, I shall venture, not-
withstanding the copious and masterly manner in which the subject has
been treated, to mix a few observations on smoothness with some farther
remarks I have to offer on the opposite quality of roughness. I am in-
deed highly interested in the question, for if this principle of Mr. Burke's
should be false — if smoothness should not be an essential quality of
beauty — if objects be as generally beautiful where roughness, as where
smoothness prevails — and, lastly, if, as many have supposed, all that
strongly attracts and captivates the eye be included in the sublime and
the beautiful, my distinction, of course, must fall to the ground. I can-
not help flattering myself, however, that the having considered and
compared the three characters together, has thrown a reciprocal light on
each ; and that the picturesque fills up a vacancy between the sublime
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
Ill
and the beautiful, and accounts for the pleasure we receive from many
objects, on principles distinct from them both ; which objects should
therefore be placed in a separate class.
In the last chapter I have endeavoured to show how nature has
blended a certain portion of the qualities of the picturesque, of rough-
ness, sharpness, &c. in many objects generally allowed to be beautiful,
and that the same mixture has been adopted in many of the most ap-
proved works of art ; and that although smoothness be the groundwork
of beauty, yet that roughness is its fringe and ornament, and that which
preserves it from insipidity. I shall now try to point out, what, ac-
cording to my notions, is the most usual effect of the two qualities, and
in what manner roughness and smoothness act upon the organs and upon
the mind.
One principal charm of smoothness, whether in a literal or a meta-
phorical sense, is, that it conveys the idea of repose ; roughness, on the
contrary, conveys that of irritation, but at the same time of animation,
spirit, and variety. This is very strongly exemplified in the sense of
hearing. Smooth and flowing strains in music, give a pleasing and volup-
tuous repose to the ear and the mind ; an effect which is beautifully
described in the well-known lines of Dryden's ode,
" Softly sweet in Lydian measures,
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.' 1
On the other hand, the character of martial music, which rouses and
animates the soul, is finely characterised by
" The spirit-stirring drum, th' ear-piercing fife."
And the notes of the trumpet, which rends the air with its harsh and
sudden blasts, bears no small degree of analogy to all that is rude,
broken, and abrupt, in visible objects.
That in speaking, a smooth and even tone of voice indicates inward
calm and repose, and sharp, broken, irregular accents irritation, is too
obvious to be dwelt upon.
In the sense of seeing, with which we are more immediately concerned,
the position may be shortly exemplified in the instances already given
of buildings and columns. If the whole, or a considerable part of them,
were to be covered with sharp projecting ornaments, the eye would be
harassed and distracted, and there would be a want of repose ; on the
other hand, if the whole were smooth and even, there would be a want
of spirit and animation.
It may be objected to this notion of the effects of smoothness and
112
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
roughness, that the most highly polished, and consequently the smoothest
of all surfaces, are those which most strongly reflect the light, and of
course most powerfully irritate the organ. But here likewise roughness,
in which term I mean to include whatever is sharp, pointed, angular, or
in any way contrary to smoothness, produces the effect I have ascribed
to it ; for when smooth polished surfaces are cut into sharp angles, the
irritation is infinitely increased. A table diamond, for instance, like
other highly polished objects, has a considerable degree of stimulus ; but
it is only when cut into a number of sharp points and angles, that it
acquires the distinguished title of a brilliant. Light itself, when broken
in its passage, though the quantity be diminished, is rendered more
irritating ; we can bear the full uninterrupted splendour of the setting
sun, nay can gaze on the orb itself with little uneasiness ; but when its
rays are broken by passing through a thin screen of leaves and branches,
no eye is proof against the irritation.
In all cases where there is a strong effect of light, whether immediate
or reflected, there is of course a real irritation on the organ ; and it
probably will be admitted, that there is a greater degree of it when the
rays strike on pointed or angular, than, on smooth and even surfaces.
But it may be said, that when there is no particular light upon objects,
as on a sunless day, their roughness or abruptness causes no irritation in
the organs of sight. I imagine, however, that besides the real irritation
which is produced by means of broken lights, all broken, rugged, and
abrupt forms and surfaces, have also by sympathy somewhat of the same
effect on the sight, as on the touch. Indeed, as it is generally admitted,
that the sense of seeing acquires all its perceptions of hard, soft, rough,
smooth, &c. from that of feeling, such a sympathy seems almost un-
avoidable. Rough and rugged objects, especially such as are sharp and
pointed, are found at a very early age to give pain and irritation, when
imprudently touched or applied to the body ; thence the eye learns to
distinguish the visible appearance of such objects, and to connect it with
the ideas that had been impressed by means of the sense of feeling. No
one, it is true, can recollect when the first impression was made, or when
the process commenced, by which the sight began to have a perception
of qualities, which can alone excite a sensation by means of another
sense ; but the impression, in itself a strong and lasting one, is frequently
renewed. The opposite impressions of pleasure, ease, and repose, from
smooth objects, are made and renewed in the same manner, and the same
sort of connection established. Thus a gently sloping bank of soft and
smooth turf, must, I imagine, suggest the idea of the quality of smooth-
ness, and consequently of ease and repose to a person while he is
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
113
viewing it, just as it does when he afterwards sits or lies down upon it :
on the other hand a rough, abrupt, and stony bank, with stumps and
roots of trees mixed with thorns and briers, would most certainly present
ideas of a very opposite kind to a man who had to make his way through
such obstructions ; and therefore would probably suggest them, though
less forcibly, when at other times he was merely looking at it ; especially
if the rude brakes, and the abruptnesses of the ground were contrasted,
as is often the case, by openings of smooth turf and gently swelling hil-
locks. All objects of a rugged and abrupt kind are so contrary to the
nature of repose, that when a soft and pleasing calm is the leading
feature in any description, the very supposition of such objects or
qualities being introduced, would disturb the mind of the reader. Shak-
speare has most beautifully and poetically impressed an image of
stillness and repose when he says,
" How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon yon bank !"
Nothing in that line gives any indication what sort of a bank it was ;
but if you fancy it broken and abrupt, the moon might indeed shine, but
it could no longer sleep upon it.
^Nothing can be more in accordance with the doctrine of association,
than that which Sir Uvedale Price has here set down, and the examples
which he gives are peculiarly happy. — E.[]
The same kind of sympathy that takes place in smaller objects, in
broken ground, roots, stones, thorns, or briers, where a certain degree
of difficulty and irritation is common and familiar, seems to continue
whatever be the scale. A fall from a great height, as from the side of a
precipice, is equally destructive, whether the surface upon which you
would fall be rugged or plain ; yet the imagination would be differently
affected by looking down upon an even surface, or on sharp pointed
rocks ; and some feeling of that kind, I believe, is always connected,
though we may not at all times be conscious of it, with broken and
pointed forms.
But although it seems highly probable that such forms produce a kind
of stimulus from sympathy, not unlike that which broken lights excite
in the organ, yet the most constant and manifest stimulus which rough
and abrupt objects produce in picturesque scenery, is that of curiosity.
This will clearly appear, if we consider in how much greater a degree
all that most excites and nourishes curiosity abounds in scenes where
the lines and forms are broken and abrupt, than in those where they are
smooth and flowing.
If, by way of example, we take any smooth object, the lines of which
H
114
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
are flowing, such as a down of the finest turf, with gentle swelling knolls
and hillocks of every soft and undulating form — though the eye may
repose on this with pleasure, yet the whole is seen at once, and no further
curiosity is excited. But let those swelling knolls (without altering the
scale) be broken into abrupt rocky projections, with deep hollows and
coves beneath the overhanging stones ; instead of the smooth turf, let
there be furze, heath, or fern, with open patches between, and fragments
of the rock and large stones lying in irregular masses — it is clear, if you
suppose these two spots of the same extent, and on the same scale, that
the whole of the one may be comprehended immediately, and that if you
traverse it in every direction, little new can occur ; while in the other,
every step changes the composition. Then each of these broken projec-
tions and fragments, have as many suddenly varying forms and aspects
as they have breaks, even when the sun is hidden ; but when it does
shine upon them, each break is the occasion of some brilliant light,
opposed to some sudden shadow. All such deep coves and hollows,
as are usually found in this style of scenery, invite the eye to penetrate
into their recesses, yet keep its curiosity alive and unsatisfied ; whereas
in the other, the light and shadow has the same uniform, unbroken
character as the ground itself.
I have, in both these scenes, avoided any mention of trees ; for in all
trees of every growth, there is a comparative roughness and intricacy,
which, unless counteracted by great skill in the improver, will always
prevent absolute monotony : yet the difference between those which
appear planted or cleared for the purpose of beauty, with the ground
made perfectly smooth about them, and those which are wild and
uncleared, with the ground of the same character, is very apparent.
Take, for instance, any open grove, where the trees, though neither in
rows nor at equal distances, are detached from each other, and cleared
from all underwood ; the turf on which they stand smooth and level ;
and their stems distinctly seen. Such a grove, of full-grown flourishing
trees, that have had room to extend their heads and branches, is
deservedly called beautiful ; and if a gravel road winds easily through
it, the whole will be in character. But how different is the scenery in
forests ! Whoever has been among them, and has attentively observed the
character of those parts, where wild tangled thickets open into glades —
half seen across the stems of old stag-headed oaks and twisted beeches —
has remarked the irregular tracks of wheels, and the foot-paths of men
and animals, how they seem to have been seeking and forcing their way,
in every direction — must have felt how differently the stimulus of
curiosity is excited in such scenes, and how much likewise the varied
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
115
effects of light and shadow are promoted, by the variety and intricacy
of the objects.
If it be true that a certain irritation or stimulus is necessary to the
picturesque, it is equally so that a soft and pleasing repose is the effect,
and the characteristic of the beautiful; and what, in my mind, places this
position in a very favourable light is, that the peculiar excellence of the
painter who most studied the beautiful in landscape, is characterised
by il riposo di Claudio ; and when the mind of man is in the delight-
ful state of repose of which Claude's pictures are the image — when he
feels that mild and equal sunshine of the soul which warms and cheers,
but neither inflames nor irritates, his heart seems to dilate with happi-
ness, he is disposed to every act of kindness and benevolence, to love
and cherish all around him. These are the sensations which beauty, con-
sidered generally, and without any regard to the sex or to the nature of
the object in which it resides, does, and ought to excite. A mind in such
a state may be compared to the surface of a pure and tranquil lake, into
which if the smallest pebble be cast, the waters, like the affections, seem
gently to expand themselves on every side ; but when the mind is carried
on by any eager pursuit, the still voice of the milder affections is as little
heard, and its effect as shortlived, as the sound or effect of a pebble,
when thrown into a rapid and rocky stream.
Repose is always used in a good sense ; as a state, if not of positive
pleasure, at least as one of freedom from all pain and uneasiness ; irrita-
tion, almost always in an opposite sense ; and yet, contradictory as it may
appear, we must acknowledge it to be the source of our most active and
lively pleasures : its nature, however, is eager and hurrying, and such
are the pleasures which spring from it. Let those who have been used
to observe the works of nature, reflect on their sensations when viewing
the smooth and tranquil scene of a beautiful lake, or the wild, abrupt, and
noisy one of a picturesque river. I think they will own them to have
been as different as the scenes themselves, and that nothing but the
poverty of language makes us call two sensations so distinct from each
other, by the common name of pleasure.
[[Yet this is nothing after all but a complaint that our language is
poor, because it does not admit of our having names sufficient to de-
nominate all the various kinds of pleasure which the human mind is
capable of enjoying. Tragedy and comedy are alike the sources of
pleasure to mankind ; but although it would certainly be no misfor-
tune if our language were so copious as to enable us to afford to em-
ploy one particular name definitive of the sad pleasure we enjoy in the
one case, and another descriptive of the merry pleasure which we enjoy
116
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
in the other, I greatly question whether the science of the anatomy of
the human mind would he thereby one iota advanced. — E.]
All that has been said in this chapter with respect to the effects of
roughness and smoothness, of light and shadow, in producing either
irritation or repose, will receive much additional illustration from that
art, by means of which the most striking characters of visible objects
have been pointed out to our notice, and impressed on our minds. I
now, therefore, shall take a view of the practice and principles of some
of the most eminent painters, and shall endeavour to strengthen the
positions which I have ventured to advance, by their examples and
authority.
The genius of Rubens was strongly turned to the picturesque dis-
position of his figures, so as often to sacrifice every other consideration
to the intricacy, contrast, and striking variations of their forms and
groups. Such a disposition of objects seems to call for something
similar in the management of the light and shade; and, accordingly, we
owe some of the most striking examples of both to his fertile invention.
In point of brilliancy, of extreme splendour of light, no pictures can
stand in competition with those of Rubens. I speak of those pictures
(and they are very numerous) in which he aimed at great brilliancy.
As no painter possessed more entirely all the principles of his art, the
solemn breadth of his light and shade is, on some occasions, no less strik-
ing than its force and splendour on others. Sometimes those lights are
almost unmixed with shade ; at other times they burst from dark shadows,
they glance on the different parts of the picture, and produce that flicker
(as it sometimes is called) so captivating to the eye under his management,
but so apt to offend it when attempted by inferior artists, or by those
who are less thoroughly masters of the principles of harmony than that
great painter. All these dazzling effects are heightened by the spirited
management of his pencil — by those sharp, animated touches, which give
life and energy to every object.
Correggio's principal attention, in point of form, was directed to flow
of outline, and gradual variation : of this he never entirely lost sight,
even in his most capricious fore-shortenings — and the style of his light
and shadow is so congenial, that the one seems the natural consequence
of the other. His pictures are always cited as the most perfect models
of those soft and insensible transitions, of that union of effect which,
above every thing else, impresses the general idea of beauty. The
manner of his pencilling is exactly of a piece with the rest — all seems
melted together, but with so nice a judgment, as to avoid, by means of
certain free, yet delicate touches, that laboured hardness and insipidity
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
117
which arise from what is called high finishing. Correggio's pictures are
indeed as far removed from monotony, as from glare ; he seems to have
felt, beyond all others, the exact degree of brilliancy which accords with
the softness of beauty, and to have been with regard to figures, what
Claude was in landscape.
The pictures of Claude are brilliant in a high degree — but that bril-
liancy is so diffused over the whole of them, so happily balanced, so
mellowed and subdued by the almost visible atmosphere which pervades
every part, and unites all together, that nothing in particular catches
the eye — the whole is splendour, the whole is repose — every thing
lighted up, every thing in sweetest harmony. Rubens differs as strongly
from Claude, as he does from Correggio. His landscapes are full of
the peculiarities, and picturesque accidents in nature — of striking con-
trasts in form, colour, and light and shadow : sunbeams bursting through
a small opening in a dark wood — a rainbow against a stormy sky —
effects of thunder and lightning, torrents rolling down, trees torn up by
the roots, and the dead bodies of men and animals — are among the sub-
lime and picturesque circumstances exhibited by his daring pencil.
These sudden gleams, these cataracts of light, these bold oppositions of
clouds and darkness which he has so nobly introduced, would destroy
all the beauty and elegance of Claude : on the other hand, the mild and
equal sunshine of that charming painter, would as ill accord with the
twisted and singular forms, and the bold and animated variety of the
landscapes of Rubens. The distinct characters and effects of light and
shadow on the great face of nature, which have been imitated by Rubens
and by Claude, may not unaptly be compared to the no less distinct
characters and effects of smiles on the human countenance — nothing is
so captivating, or seems so much to accord with our ideas of beauty, as
the smiles of a beautiful countenance — yet they have sometimes a strik-
ing mixture of another character. Of this kind are those smiles which
break out suddenly from a serious, sometimes from almost a severe
countenance, and which, when that gleam is over, leave no trace of it
behind —
" Brief as the lightning in the collicd night,
That in a spleen unfolds both heaven and earth ;
And ere a man has time to say, behold !
The jaws of darkness do devour it up."
This sudden effect is often hinted at by the Italian poets, as appears
by their allusion to the most sudden and dazzling of lights; — gli scintilla
un riso — lampeggia un riso — il balenar d'un riso.
There is another smile, which seems in the same degree t<> accord
118
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
with the ideas of beauty only. It is that smile which proceeds from a
mind full of sweetness and sensibility, and which, when it is over, still
leaves on the countenance its mild and amiable impression ; as, after the
sun is set, the mild glow of his rays is still diffused over every object.
This smile, with the glow that accompanies it, is beautifully painted by
Milton, as most becoming an inhabitant of heaven —
" To whom the angel, with a smile that glowed
Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue,
Thus answer'd."
If the general brilliancy and dazzling effects of that splendid
painter Rubens, may justly be opposed to the more mild diffusion of
light in Claude and Correggio, the deep midnight shadows which Rem-
brandt has spread over the greater part of his canvass, may be opposed
to it with equal justice ; and the whole of the comparison between these
painters may serve to show, how much the picturesque delights in ex-
tremes, while the beautiful preserves a just medium between them.
The general character of Rembrandt's pictures is that of extreme force,
arising from a small portion of light amidst surrounding darkness ; and
though it be true that Rubens and Correggio, and even Claude, have*
produced effects of that kind, yet it was only occasionally, and where the
subject, as in night scenes, required them ; whereas, in Rembrandt they
result from his prevailing principle : and it hardly need be said, how
much more they are suited to objects and circumstances of a picturesque,
than a beautiful character. Rembrandt's pencilling, where it is most
apparent (for he well knew where to soften it) is no less different from
that of the painters I have mentioned, than the principle on which he
wrought ; his colours seem, as it were, dabbed on the canvass ; and one
might suppose them to have been worked upon it with some coarser
instrument than a painter's brush. Many painters, indeed, when they
represent any striking effect of light, leave the touches of the pencil
more rough and strongly marked, than the quality of the objects them-
selves seems to justify ; but Rembrandt, who succeeded beyond all others
in these forcible effects, carried also this method of creating them further
than any other master. Those who have seen his famous picture in the
Stadthouse at Amsterdam, may remember a figure highly illuminated,
whose dress is a silver tissue, with fringes, tassels, and other ornaments,
nearly of the same brilliant colour : it is the most surprising instance I
ever saw of the effect of that rough manner of pencilling, in producing
what most nearly approaches to the glitter and to the irritation which
is caused by real light, when acting powerfully on any object ; and this
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
119
too with a due attention to general harmony, and with such a command-
ing truth of representation, as no high finishing can give.
The following anecdote of Sir Joshua Reynolds, which a friend of
mine heard from a pupil of his who was present at the scene, will serve
as a further illustration of the subject — and I trust will not be unaccep-
table to the reader. This pupil, going one day into Sir Joshua's paint-
ing room, found him in a state of perplexing contemplation ; he had
been endeavouring to produce a glitter on a piece of splendid drapery,
which occupied a very interesting situation in the centre of the eye of
his picture, and never could do it to his mind. lie tried again and again ;
rubbed it out ; took snuff with unusual energy, but all would not do.
He now looked for some time despondingly on the picture, playing with
a large hog's brush which he held in his hand : at length he began to
move backwards towards the chimney with his brush behind him, till
his heel kicked the fender ; when, stooping sideways, he thrust the brush
into the ashes and cinders. His face then assumed a look of hope mixed
with exultation, and having just wiped off a portion of the cinders on
the carpet, he advanced towards his work, and grouted on the remains
of them upon the part where he wished the brilliancy to be produced,
crying out with a triumphant air, " that will do."
His object, which was accomplished by a kind of instinct, seems to
have been this : to lay on such a ground for the reception of the proper
colours, as by facing the light in a number of different directions might
produce such a nicker, as could not be given by putting on the colours
in the common way upon a smooth surface.
Rembrandt, it is well known, had scarcely any idea of beauty or ele-
gance ; and as little of that grandeur in the human form, which results
from correctness and fulness of outline, added to nobleness of character.
He had, however, a grandeur of his own of a mixed and peculiar kind,
produced by the arrangement of his compositions, and even by the form
of many of the objects themselves, when set off and partially concealed
by the breadth and the disposition of his light and shadow. In that
branch of his art in which he is so pre-eminent, he often produces a
mysterious solemnity, which impresses very grand ideas, and which, I
am persuaded, would add no small degree of grandeur to the figures
and compositions of the higher schools. Rembrandt has great variety
and truth of expression, though seldom of an elevated kind ; one figure
of his, however — the Christ raising Lazarus — for the simple, yet com-
manding dignity of the character and action, is perhaps superior to that
of any painter who has treated that awful subject. I do not recollect
any other figure of his in that style equally striking ; but, should the
120
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
Christ be a single instance, it still may show that genius was not want-
ing, though early education and habit, and all that he saw around him,
whether in nature or in art, had given a different bias to his mind.
That bias seems to have been towards rich and picturesque effects,
especially those of light and shadow ; and the figures, dresses, buildings
— scenes which he represented — though they occasionally produced gran-
deur, were chiefly chosen with a view to such effects. What was his
opinion of studying the antique may be inferred from an anecdote men-
tioned in his life ; — he carried one of his visitors into an inward room,
and, showing him a parcel of old-fashioned dresses and odd bits of
armour, " there," said he, " are my antiques."
Rubens, though he set a just value on ancient statues, and though
he endeavoured to gain a more chaste and correct outline by copying,
and, as it is said, by tracing the outlines of drawings that were excel-
lent in that respect, could never overcome his original bias. Indeed, it
may admit of some doubt whether a strict attention to such excellences be
compatible with that peculiar spirit and effect which his works display ;
and whether he might not have lost more on one side than he would have
gained on the other. Much certainly may be done by early and con-
stant practice, but correctness and purity are allied to caution and
timidity ; and, to be in a high degree correct and chaste in form,
spirited in touch, rich in colouring, and splendid in effect, is a combina-
tion of which the art of painting, since its revival, can hardly be said
to have given any perfect example.
As the most exquisite of the ancient statues are the acknowledged
standards of grandeur and beauty of form, combined with purity and
correctness of outline, so the painters who have most formed themselves
on those models, however they may have departed from them in certain
points, are most distinguished for some of those excellences. But one
very material difference between sculpture and painting, must always
be taken into consideration. In sculpture, the whole work being of
one uniform colour, and the figures, whether single or grouped, without
any accompaniments, there is nothing to seduce or distract the eye
from the form, to which, therefore, the efforts of the sculptor are almost
exclusively directed ; whereas, in painting, the charm of general effect
or impression, of whatever kind it may be, will often counterbalance
the greatest defects in point of form, and make amends for the want of
grandeur, beauty, and correctness.
The grandest style of painting is generally allowed to be that of the
Roman and Florentine schools ; and among the works produced by
them, the fresco paintings of Michael Angelo and Raphael claim the
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
121
first place. Nearly the same rank may be assigned to the pictures in
oil of the same schools, in which, according to Sir Joshua Reynolds, the
full unmixed colours, the distinct blues, reds, and yellows, very much
conduce to the general grandeur. The style of these schools is more
congenial to sculpture than that of any other ; as the great masters by
which they were rendered so illustrious, directed their chief attention
to the same objects as the sculptors, and either rejected, or very spar-
ingly admitted those captivating charms belonging to their own art,
of which the other schools have so much availed themselves. This is
particularly the case with Michael Angelo, himself a statuary, and at
least as eminent in sculpture as in painting. He worked almost entirely
in fresco, the grandeur of which was so suited to his genius, that he is
said to have declared, after a single trial in oil, that oil-painting was
fit only for women. His works, as it may well be supposed, have no -
thing of sensual attraction ; and the same thing may be said in a great
measure of the other masters of his and the Roman school. Their colour-
ing — however well adapted to the character of their figures and compo-
sitions, however it may satisfy the judgment — has little to please the
eye; and I should conceive that if it were applied to objects divested
of grandeur and dignity, the union would appear incongruous, and that
the affinity I mentioned between the grand style of painting and sculp-
ture would be still more evident, from their being almost equally unfit
to represent objects merely picturesque.
The Venetian style, on the other hand, in which there is a greater
variety of colours, and those broken and blended into each other, is in
itself extremely attractive from its richness, glow, and harmony : it
gives a sort of consequence and elevation to objects the most simply
picturesque, yet preserves their just character. One painter of this
school must in some measure be considered separately from the rest ;
for, when Sir Joshua Reynolds speaks of the A r enetian style as orna-
mental or picturesque, and consequently, according to the principles lie
has laid down, less suited to grandeur, he makes an exception in favour
of Titian ; and the grounds on which he makes it very clearly explain
his ideas of the distinction between grandeur and picturcsqueness. In
comparing a picture of that master with one of Rubens, he opposes the
regularity and uniformity, the quiet solemn majesty in the work of the
Venetian, to the bustle and animation, and to the picturesque disposition
in that of the Flemish master.*
As the ornamental style of the Venetians, and of Rubens, who formed
* Note 2.5th on Du Fresnoi.
122
Sill UVEDALE PRICE
himself upon it, bears a nearer relation to the beautiful than to the
grand, so, on the other hand, the picturesque style where ornament is
little used, as in the works of Salvator Rosa, is more nearly related to
grandeur. The style of Salvator and that of Rembrandt, though widely
different, resemble each other in one particular — in each the strokes of
the pencil are often left in the roughest manner ; and as nothing can be
more adapted to strongly marked picturesque objects and effects, so no-
thing can be less suited to express beauty, and to convey a general im-
pression of that character. What is the style most truly productive of
that general impression, will be much better learnt from the words of Sir
Joshua Reynolds, than from any thing I could say, though he had not
exactly the same point in view. Speaking of Correggio, he says — " His
colour and his mode of finishing approach nearer to perfection than those
of any other painter ; the gliding motion of his outline, and the sweetness
with which it melts into the ground, the clearness aud transparency of
his colouring, which stops at that exact medium in which the purity
and perfection of taste lies, leave nothing to be wished for."
If there be any style of painting, which, in contra-distinction to the
others, might justly be called the beautiful style, that of Correggio has
certainly, from this description, the best pretensions to the title ; but,
as that word is so commonly used merely to signify excellent, and as in
that sense all styles which are suited to the subject, and all pictures
which give a just and impressive representation of the objects, (though
the most hideous and disgusting,) are equally beautiful, Sir Joshua
might naturally have declined giving it that name, even supposing him
inclined to make such a distinction. He seems, however, in some degree
to have indicated it ; first, by what he says of Guido's manner being
particularly adapted to express female beauty and delicacy ; and,
secondly, by the whole account of the manner of Correggio, which, it
must be observed, he has not classed either with the ornamental or with
the grand style. He remarks, indeed, in another place, that it has
something of the simplicity of the grand style in the breadth of the
light and shadow, and the continued flow of outline ; but no person, I
think, who reads the description of it just quoted, can doubt that, having
neither the solemnity and severity of the grand, nor the richness and
splendour of the ornamental style, it must have a separate character in
a high degree appropriate to what is simply beautiful ; and may equally
with them (though that is a consideration of much less importance) lay
claim to a distinct title.
It is no small confirmation of all that I have advanced in the early
part of this chapter, to find that each style of painting corresponds with
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
123
the characteristic marks of the grand, the beautiful, and the picturesque
in real objects ; and I trust that the different shades of distinction that
have been noticed, will be found consistent with the general principles.
The style of the Venetians and of Pietro da Cortona, will not accord
with the grand character, on account of its splendour, its gaiety, and
profusion of ornaments ; and the reproof of Apelles may show, that such
a profusion is not adapted to beauty, though more congenial to it than
to grandeur. Again, the style of Salvator Rosa, Rembrandt, Spagnolet,
Caravaggio, which have a greater affinity to grandeur, are ill suited
to beauty, from qualities notoriously adverse to that character ; for who
would wish to have the dark shadows of Caravaggio or Rembrandt, or
the bold touches of Salvator or Spagnolet, employed on nymphs and
sleeping cupids ? — or, on the other hand, the fresh and tender hues of
Albano, or the sweetness of Correggio's pencilling and colouring, on
executioners, sea-monsters, and banditti ?
124
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
CHAPTER VII.
The various effects in painting which have been discussed in the last
chapter, naturally lead me to that great principle of the art, breadth
of light and shadow. What is called breadth, seems to bear nearly the
same relation to light and shadow, as smoothness does to material ob-
jects ; for, as a greater degree of irritation arises from uneven surfaces,
and from those most of all which are broken into little inequalities, so
all lights and shadows which are interrupted and scattered, are in-
finitely more irritating than those which are broad and continued.
Every person of the least observation must have remarked how broad
the lights and shadows are on a fine evening in nature, or (what is
almost the same thing) in a picture of Claude. He must equally have
remarked the extreme difference between such lights and shadows, and
those which sometimes disgrace the works of painters, in other respects
of great excellence ; and which prevail in nature, when the sunbeams,
refracted and dispersed in every direction by a number of white flicker-
ing clouds, create a perpetually shifting glare, and keep the eye in a
state of constant irritation. All such accidental effects arising from
clouds, though they strongly show the general principle, and are highly
proper to be studied by all lovers of painting or of nature, yet not
being subject to our control, are of less use to improvers ; a great deal,
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
125
however, is subject to our control, and I believe we may lay it down
as a very general maxim, that in proportion as the objects are scattered,
unconnected, and in patches, the lights and shadows will be so too, and
vice versa.
If, for instance, we suppose a continued sweep of hills, either entirely
wooded, or entirely bare, to be under the influence of a low cloudless
sun — Avhatever parts are exposed to that sun, will have one broad light
upon them ; whatever are hid from it, one broad shade. If, again, we
suppose the wood to have been thinned in such a manner, as to have
left masses, groups, and single trees, so disposed as to present a pleasing
and connected whole, though with detached parts ; or the bare hills to
have been planted in the same style — the variety of light and shadow
will be greatly increased, and the general breadth still be preserved :
nor would that breadth be injured if an old ruin, a cottage, or any build-
ing of a quiet tint were discovered among the trees. But if the wood
were so thinned, as to have a poor, scattered, unconnected appearance ;
or the hills planted with clumps and detached trees — the lights and
shadows would have the same broken and disjointed effect as the objects
themselves ; and if to this were added any harsh contrast, such as clumps
of firs and white buildings, the irritation would be greatly increased.
In all these cases, the eye, instead of reposing on one broad, connected
whole, is stopt and harassed by little disunited, discordant parts. I of
course suppose the sun to act on these different objects witli equal splen-
dour ; for there are some days when the whole sky is so full of jarring
lights, that the shadiest groves and avenues hardly preserve their solem-
nity ; and there are others, when the atmosphere, like the last glazing
of a picture, softens into mellowness whatever is crude throughout the
landscape.
Milton, whose eyes seem to have been most sensibly affected by every
accident and gradation of light, (and that possibly in a great degree
from the weakness, and consequently the irritability of those organs,)
speaks always of twilight with peculiar pleasure. He has even reversed
what Socrates did by philosophy ; he has called up twilight from earth,
and placed it in heaven :
" From that high mount of God, whence light and shade
Spring forth, the face of brightest heaven had changed
To grateful twilight."
What is also singular, he has in this passage made shade an essence
equally with light, not merely a privation of it ; a compliment, never, I
believe, paid to shadow before, but which might be expected from his
aversion to glare, so frequently and so strongly expressed :
12C
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
" Hide me from day's garish eye." —
" When the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams."
The peculiarity of the effect of twilight is to soften and mellow. At
that delightful time, even artificial water, however naked, edgy, and
tame its banks, will often receive a momentary charm ; for then all that
is scattered and cutting, all that disgusts a painter's eye, is blended
together in one broad and soothing harmony of light and shadow. I
have more than once at such a moment, happened to arrive at a place
entirely new to me, and have been struck in the highest degree with
the appearance of wood, water, and buildings, that seemed to accompany
and set off each other in the happiest manner ; and I felt quite impa-
tient to examine all these beauties by daylight :
" At length the morn, and cold indifference came."
The charm which held them together, and made them act so powerfully
as a whole, had vanished.
It may, perhaps, be said that the imagination, from a few imperfect
hints, often forms beauties which have no existence, and that indifference
may naturally arise from those phantoms not being realised. I am far
from denying the power of partial concealment and obscurity on the
imagination ; but in these cases, the set of objects when seen by twilight,
is beautiful as a picture, and would appear highly so if exactly repre-
sented on the canvass ; but in full daylight, the sun, as it were, decom-
pounds what had been so happily mixed together, and separates a
striking whole into detached unimpressive parts.
Nothing, I believe, would be of more service in forming a taste for
general effect, and general composition, than to examine the same scenes
in the full distinctness of day, and again after sunset. In fact, twilight
does what an improver ought to do : it connects what was before
scattered ; it fills up staring, meagre vacancies ; it destroys edginess ;
and by giving shadow as well as light to water, at once increases both
its brilliancy and softness. It must, however, be observed, that twi-
light, while it takes off the edginess of those objects which are below
the horizon, more sensibly marks the outline of those which are above it,
and opposed to the sky ; and consequently discovers the defects as well
as the beauties of their forms. From this circumstance improvers may
learn a very useful lesson — that the outline against the sky should be
particularly attended to, so that nothing lumpy, meagre, or discordant
should be there ; for at all times, in such a situation, the form is made
out, but most of all when twilight has melted the other parts together.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
127
At that time, many varied groups and elegant shapes of trees, which
were scarcely noticed in the more general diffusion of light, distinctly
appear ; then, too, the stubborn clump, which before was but too plainly
seen, makes a still fouler blot on the horizon : while there is a glimmer-
ing of light he maintains his post, nor yields, till even his blackness is
at last confounded in the general blackness of night.
These are the powers and effects of that breadth which I have been
describing, and which may justly be considered as a source of visual
pleasure distinct from all others ; for objects, which in themselves are
neither beautiful, nor sublime, nor picturesque, are incidentally made to
delight the eye, from their being productive of breadth. This seems to
account for the pleasure we receive from many massive, heavy objects,
which, when deprived of the effect of that harmonizing principle, and
considered singly, are even positively ugly. Such, indeed, is the effect
of breadth, that pictures or drawings eminently possessed of it, though
they should have no other merit, will always attract the attention of a
cultivated eye ; while others, where the detail is admirable, but where
this master-principle is wanting, will often, at the first view, be passed
by without notice. The mind, however, requires to be stimulated as
well as soothed, and there is in this, as in so many other instances,
a strong analogy between painting and music : the first effect of mere
breadth of light and shadow is to the eye, what that of mere harmony
of sounds is to the ear ; both produce a pleasing repose — a calm sober
delight — which, if not relieved by something less uniform, soon sinks
into distaste and weariness : for repose and sleep, which are often used
as synonymous terms, are always nearly allied. But as the principle of
harmony must be preserved in the wildest and most eccentric pieces of
music — in those where sudden, and quickly varying emotions of the soul
are expressed — so must that of breadth be equally attended to in scenes
of bustle and seeming confusion ; in those where the wildest scenery,
or most violent agitations of nature are represented ; and I am here
tempted to parody that frequently quoted passage of Shakspeare — " in
the very torrent, tempest, and whirlwind of the elements, the artist, in
painting them, must acquire a breadth that will give them smoothness."
There is, however, no small difficulty in uniting breadth with the
detail, the splendid variety, and marked character of nature. Claude
is admirable in this, as in almost every other respect : with the greatest
accuracy of detail, and truth of character, his pictures have the breadth
of the simplest washed drawing, or aquatinta print, where little else is
expressed or intended. In a strong light, they are full of interesting
and entertaining particulars ; and as twilight comes on, I have often
128
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
observed in them the same gradual fading of the glimmering landscape,
as in real nature.
This art of preserving breadth with detail and brilliancy, has been
studied with great success by Teniers, Jan Steen, and many of the Dutch
masters. Ostade's pictures and etchings are among the happiest ex-
amples of it ; but, above all others, the works of that scarce and wonder-
ful master, Gerard Dow. His eye seems to have had a microscopic
power in regard to the minute texture of objects, (for in his paintings
they bear the severe trial of the strongest magnifier,) and, at the same
time, the opposite faculty of excluding all particulars with respect to
breadth and general effect. His master, Rembrandt, did not attend to
minute detail ; but by that peculiar and commanding manner, which
marked with equal force and justness the leading character of each ob-
ject, he produced an idea of detail, much beyond what is really ex-
pressed. Many of the great Italian masters have done this also, and
with a taste, a grandeur, and a nobleness of style, unknown to the in-
ferior schools, though none have exceeded, or perhaps equalled Rem-
brandt, in truth, force, and effect. But when artists, neglecting the
variety of detail, and those characteristic features that well supply its
place, content themselves with mere breadth, and propose that as the
final object of attainment — their productions, and the interest excited
by them, will be, in comparison of the styles I have mentioned, what a
metaphysical treatise is to Shakspeare or Fielding ; they will be rather
illustrations of a principle, than representations of what is real ; a sort
of abstract idea of nature, not very unlike Crambe's abstract idea of a
lord mayor.
As nothing is more flattering to the vanity and indolence of man-
kind, than the being able to produce a pleasing general effect with little
labour or study, so nothing more obstructs the progress of the art, than
such a facility. Yet still these abstracts are by no means without their
comparative merit, and they have their use as well as their danger ; they
show how much may be effected by the mere naked principle, and the
great superiority which that alone can give to whatever is formed upon
it, over those things which are done on no principle at all — where the
separate objects are set down, as it were, article by article — and where
the confusion of lights so perplexes the eye, that one might suppose the
artist had looked at them through a multiplying glass.
I may, perhaps, be thought to have dwelt longer on this article than
the principal design of my book seemed to require ; but although — as
I mentioned in a former part — the study of light and shadow appears,
at first sight, to belong exclusively to the painter, yet, like every thing
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
129
which relates to that charming art, it will be found of infinite service
to the improver. Indeed, the violations of this principle of breadth
and harmony of light and shadow, are, perhaps, more frequent, and
more disgustingly offensive than those of any other.
Many people seem to have a sort of callus over their organs of sight,
as others over those of hearing ; and as the callous hearers feel nothing
in music but kettle-drums and trombones, so the callous seers can only
be moved by strong oppositions of black and white, or by fiery reds.
I am therefore so far from laughing at Mr. Locke's blind man for
likening scarlet to the sound of a trumpet, that I think he had great
reason to pride himself on the discovery.
It might well be supposed, that the natural colour of brick was suffi-
ciently stimulating ; but I have seen brick houses painted of so much
more flaming a red, that, according to Mr. Browns expression, they
put the whole vale in a fever. White, though glaring, has not that
hot sultry appearance ; and there is such a look of neatness and gaiety
in it, that we cannot be surprised, if, where lime is cheap, only one
idea should prevail — that of making every thing as white as possible.
Wherever this is the case, the whole landscape is full of little spots,
which can only be made pleasing to a painter's eye, by their being
almost buried in trees ; but where a country is without natural wood,
and is improved by dint of white-wash and clumps of firs, a painter,
were he confined there, would be absolutely driven to despair, and feel
ready to renounce, not only his art, but his eyesight.
One of the most charming effects of sunshine, is its giving to objects,
not merely light, but that mellow golden hue so beautiful in itself, and
which, when diffused, as in a fine evening, over the whole landscape,
creates that rich union and harmony, so enchanting in nature and in
Claude : in any scene, whether real or painted, where such harmony
prevails, the least discordancy in colour would disturb the eye ; but if
we suppose a single object of a glaring white to be introduced, the
whole attention, in spite of all our efforts to the contrary, will be
drawn to that one point ; if many such objects be scattered about, the
eye will be distracted among them. From that analogy so often men-
tioned, it is usual to say that an object in a picture, or in nature, is out
of tune. The expression is perfectly just — in music, one such note will
invincibly fix our attention upon it, and several distract it ; and, in
either case, it is impossible to enjoy the harmony of the rest. There
is, indeed, one essential difference ; a passing note, however false, is
quickly over, but a glaring object is like an eternal holding note held
firmly out of tune, and which, in that case, well deserves the name an
i
130
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
unmusical friend once gave to holding notes in general — " I don't
know what you call them," said he, " I mean one of those long noises."
Again — to consider this part of the subject in another view — when
the sun breaks out in gleams, there is something that delights and sur-
prises, in seeing an object, before only visible, lighted up in splendour,
and then gradually sinking into shade ; but a whitened object is al-
ready lighted up — it remains so when every thing has retired into ob-
scurity — it still forces itself into notice — still impudently stares you in
the face.
[[In certain circumstances I hold this observation to be very just. But,
when richly embosomed in trees, I conceive that white buildings often
give the liveliest and most sparkling effect to scenery. Of this fact, any
one who has visited Italy, and particularly the Italian lakes, must be
perfectly persuaded by experience. See, for example, how the shores
of the Lakes of Maggiore, Lugano, and Como, are clustered with little
towns of the purest white, that appear like strings of orient pearls,
between the blue water in which they are reflected, and the deep woods
which cluster interminably over them, whence every now and then some
prominent rock rears its head, to be crowned with some convent or
villa of the same hue, whilst every jutting promontory below is orna-
mented by some such gem of human workmanship. Over these the
full Italian sun pours forth his unshorn splendour, giving so universal a
tone of brilliancy to the whole fairy scene, as to bring all its parts into
perfect harmony. I am quite aware that Claude himself in painting
such a scene, would have felt it necessary to subdue and keep down the
intensity of many of these touches of white. But the art of a painter
consists in the very exercise of the knowledge of what ought to be sub-
dued in a picture, and what ought to be brought prominently forward.
Lie seldom, or rather, I should say, he never finds this ready done for
him in nature. He must do it for himself ; and I fear much that, if
the landscape gardener were to direct the whole of his attention to
making perfect pictures for the artist, he would very much lose his time
and labour. This remark is not inconsistent with my firm belief in the
great advantage which landscape gardeners will gain by the extensive
study of pictures, in perfecting them in the art of improving general
effects. All I contend for is, that we must not suppose that nothing
can give us pleasure in nature which is not capable of producing a good
effect upon canvass when painted just as it is. Using the term in the
Italian sense, I think I am not altogether unblessed with Vocchio pit-
toresco. But be this as it may, as I floated over the smooth surface of
Lugano or Como — although I failed not to drink in, with a never
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
131
satiated thirst, the exhaustless beauties with which nature had so liber-
ally surrounded me — although I was never tired with admiring the
infinite variety of form and colour, which the margin of the lake exhi-
bited in its rocks, and headlands, and mysteriously receding bays and
inlets, whilst they shifted and moved upon one another, as the boat
glided past them — although my eye at one time would sink in luxurious
refreshment into the richly tufted recesses among the noble trees, and
then again soar upwards with eagle flight over the undulating surface
of the hanging woods above, to skim with exultation over the bare and
prominent crags, to the very summits of the mountains — yet it still would
turn with unspeakable delight to rest upon those white buildings, the
very sight of which awakened within me a thousand interesting associa-
tions with man — his happiness — his trials — his pains — his pleasures —
and his passions ; whilst the gay sun reminded me that I was in the
fascinating climate of Italy, and I here had the satisfaction of thinking,
that my estimate of its advantages was not to be reduced by the miser-
able examples of poverty and disease, by which the eyes of the traveller
are but too frequently shocked in other parts of the same country. Here
I knew that early industry and prudence had produced comparative
wealth and comfort. I was well aware that the greater part of those little
sparkling habitations that studded the shore, owed their creation to the
industrious habits of the youth of these districts, who, leaving their homes
in early life with a small stock of prints, looking-glasses, and barome-
ters, wander wearily over the European world, exposed to all the perils
and vicissitudes of weather and of fortune, until their small but certain
gains, husbanded by sobriety and frugality, enable them to return with
a sum which, though little in itself, is wealth to them in these simple
and unsophisticated regions — seeing that it enables them to become pro-
prietors of their native soil, by the purchase of some small and pic-
turesque spot of land, whereon to build a commodious and tasteful
dwelling. There, after uniting themselves to the objects of their early
affections, for whom their constant attachment has never varied, in de-
fiance of all the blandishments to which they may have been exposed
from women of all countries, they sit down contented, and full of grati-
tude to a beneficent God, to spend the remainder of their lives in ease
and contentment, and to rear up a virtuous progeny, to go forth and
return as their fathers had done. Filled with such reflections as these,
how was it possible that I could have wished the white buildings of
Como or Lugano to have been brought out less distinctly to my view ?
But with all this, I am, at the same time, disposed to be of Sir Uve-
dale Price's opinion, that there are many occasions in which white —
132
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
that is positive and absolute dead white — does stare you most impudently
in the face in landscape. But whilst this is admitted, we must, at the
same time, remember that there is no colour that may not be made to
appear offensive by being brought into improper contrast with others,
and so producing a jar of mental association ; and, moreover, we must
bear in mind, that such a thing as positive and absolute dead white is
rarely to be met with — and still more rarely to be seen — under so glar-
ing an effect as will fully bring out its native hue, unmellowed by the
influence of air or sky. — E.]
A cottage of a quiet colour half concealed among trees, with its bit
of garden, its pales and orchard, is one of the most tranquil and sooth-
ing of all rural objects ; when the sun strikes upon it, a number of
lively picturesque circumstances are brought into view, and it becomes
one of the most cheerful ; but if cleared round, and whitened, its
modest retired character is gone, and is succeeded by a perpetual
glare.
An object of a sober tint unexpectedly gilded by the sun, is like
a serious countenance suddenly lighted up by a smile — a whitened
object, like the eternal grin of a fool. Even very white teeth — where
excess of whiteness is least to be feared — if seen too much, often give
a kind of silly look, that seems to belong to the part itself : nothing
can be more characteristic of that effect than Mr. Walpole's well
known expression of " the gentleman with the foolish teeth." Those
gentlemen who deal much in pure white-wash, might well be distin-
guished by the same compliment being paid to their buildings.
I wish, however, to be understood, that when I speak of white-wash
and whitened buildings, I mean that glaring white which is produced
by lime alone, or without a sufficient quantity of any lowering in-
gredient ; for there cannot be a greater, or a more immediate improve-
ment, than that of giving to a fiery brick building the tint of a stone
one. No person, I believe, has any doubt that stone — such as Bath
and Portland, and many others which pass under the general name of
free-stone — is the most beautiful material for building ; and I imagine
there is no instance of an architect's having painted such stones white
in order to make them more beautiful ; though dingy, or red stone,
may sometimes have been painted of a free-stone colour. The true
object of imitation seems therefore to be the tint of a beautiful stone ;
and if those who whiten their buildings would pique themselves on
matching exactly the colour of Bath, or Portland stone, so as to be
neither whiter nor yellower, the greatest neatness and gaiety might
prevail, without crudeness or glare.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
133
Such an improvement, however, should chiefly be confined to fiery
brick ; for when brick becomes weather-stained and mossy, it har-
monises with other colours, and has often a richness, mellowness, and
variety of tint, infinitely pleasing to a painter's eye ; for the cool
colour of the greenish moss lowers the fiery quality ; while the sub-
dued fire beneath gives a glow of a peculiar character, which the
painter would hardly like to exchange for any uniform colour — much
less for the unmixed whiteness of lime.
Besides the glare, there is another circumstance which often renders
white-wash extremely offensive to the eye, especially when it is ap-
plied to any uneven surface ; and that is, a smeared, dirty appearance.
This is the case where decayed or rough stone-work is dabbed with
lime, while the dirt is left between the crevices ; as likewise where the
coarse wood-work that separates the plastered walls of a cottage is
brushed over, as well as the smooth walls themselves : in these cases,
however, the objects are inconsiderable, and the effect in proportion ;
but when this pitiful taste is employed upon some ancient castle-like
mansion, or the mossy weather-stained tower of an old church, it be-
comes a sort of sacrilege. Such a building daubed over and plastered
is, next to a painted old woman, the most disgusting of all attempts at
improvement ; on both, when left in their natural state, time often
stamps a pleasing and venerable impression ; but when thus sophisti-
cated, they have neither the freshness of youth, nor the mellow pic-
turesque character of age ; and, instead of becoming attractive, are
only made horribly conspicuous.
I am afraid it will not be easy to check the general passion for dis-
tinctness and conspicuity. Each prospect hunter — a very numerous
tribe — like the heroic Ajax, forms but one prayer —
Let them see but clearly, and see enough, they are content ; and
much may be said in their favour — composition, grouping, breadth and
effect of light and shadow, harmony of colours, &c. are comparatively
attended to and enjoyed by few ; but extensive prospects are the most
popular of all views, and their respective superiority is generally de-
cided by the number of churches and counties. Distinctness is there-
fore the great point. A painter may wish several hills of bad shapes,
and thousands of uninteresting acres to be covered with one general
shade ; but to him who is to reckon up his counties, the loss of a black
or a white spot, of a clump or a gazabo, is the loss of a voucher.
Then, again, as the prospect-shower has groat pleasure and vanity in
134
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
pointing out these vouchers, so the improver, on his side, has full as
much in being pointed at ; we therefore cannot wonder that so many
churches have been converted into these beacons of taste, or that so
many hills have been marked with them.
^Nothing can be more detestable in taste than this mode of marking
out distant objects. A fine ancient Gothic church may thus be utterly
destroyed in all its most venerable associations, and one's feelings out-
raged on a near approach to it, by beholding it converted into a dirty
whited sepulchre, for the wretchedly absurd whim of some vulgar pro-
prietor, whose tea-canister of a house happens to stand at some miles'
distance, and whose immense liberality of purse so overpowers the
village rustics, that they are led to talk of nothing but the bounty of
the Squire, "who has so handsomely done up the ould church, out of his
own pocket ! " And nothing can be more abominable than the ignorant
attempt of some people to make a hill more conspicuous, by putting
some shocking nine-pin looking erection upon the summit of it. I have
seen many instances of the prejudicial effects of this practice, but one
most pregnant example of it continually haunts me. As at all times I,
am unwilling to give offence, and as, in this case the nobleman who was
guilty of this atrocity in taste is no more, I shall adhere to the advice
contained in the proverb, de mortuis nil nisi bonum. But whilst I
sink all names, both of men and of localities, I cannot be silent as to the
effects produced. The scene where this most unfortunate experiment
was tried, is a wide extended highland valley, through which a noble
river finds its way. It is every where bounded by lofty elevations, and
on one side by the highest range of mountains in Scotland. The broad
sketch of the valley is singularly undulated and varied in its surface,
which, in the greater part of it, is covered with forests, chiefly of pine.
A view of it from an eminence gives one no idea of the endless ravines,
and streams, and heights, and hollows, many of them filled with lakes,
and the numerous other intricacies which every where present them-
selves to any one traversing its surface ; but there are two beautiful
green hills, covered on their sides with birch woods, and having richly
coloured faces of rock, and castellated crags appearing from various
parts of their sides and tops, which rise with the loveliest forms from
the midst of the valley, one on either side of the river, proudly pre-emi-
nent over every other part of the lower valley. These, from their
bold shapes, always appeared to the spectator to be even higher than
they really were, and large as the scale is on which nature is here to be
found, this somewhat exaggerated estimate of their magnitude, being ap-
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
135
plied as a measure to the surrounding mountains, was even capable of
adding, by comparison, considerably to the ideal altitude of their huge
masses, and consequently to their sublimity. The district to which I
allude was a favourite haunt of mine, and many happy days have I spent
revelling in its scenery. It so happened that circumstances prevented
me from visiting it for a considerable time — when I returned I found
that a miserable erection had been made by the nobleman to whom I
have alluded, on the summit of one of the two beautiful green hills I
have mentioned. It was large and expensive, but all this was just so
much the worse, because not knowing its actual size, it looked to me to
be no more than about the height of a man, and my eye immediately
measuring the hill on which it stood by that scale, it dwindled at once
down, in my estimation, to less than one third of its real height, and
still more when compared to the exaggerated height which it had always
formerly maintained in my belief. But this was not the only withering
effect of this ill-judged, ill-conceived, and ill-executed piece of art, for
it made the twin green hill on the opposite side of the river also instan-
taneously sink in height — the broad expanse of the valley itself, with
all its inequalities and intricacies shrank up in its dimensions in a
relative degree — and the very mountains, once of elevation so sublime,
were reduced in altitude and magnitude to an extent which I could not
have believed possible from so insignificant a cause. And there on the
green hill top, still sits this wretched abortion, in form and apparent size
very much resembling an old witch wrapped in her plaid, and grinning
as it were with delight, in the consciousness that she holds the whole
scenery of this grand and magnificent valley bound up, as it were, in
the envious spell of apparently comparative insignificance. — E.]]
136
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
CHAPTER VIII.
I have hitherto endeavoured to trace the picturesque in all that relates to
form, and to the effects of light and shade ; I have endeavoured to dis-
tinguish it from the beautiful, and from the sublime ; and to show the
influence of breadth on them all. It now remains to examine how far
the same general principles operate with regard to colours.
Mr. Burke's idea of the beautiful in colour seems to me in the high-
est degree satisfactory, and to correspond with all his other ideas of
beauty. I must observe, at the same time, that the beautiful in colour
is of a positive and independent nature, whereas the sublime in colour
is in a great degree relative, and depends on the circumstances and
associations by which it is accompanied. A beautiful colour, is a com-
mon and just expression ; no one hesitates whether he shall give that
title to the leaf of a rose, or to the smallest bit of it ; but though the
deep gloomy tint of the sky before a storm, and its effect on all nature
be sublime, no one would call that colour, (whether a dark blue, or
purple, or whatever it might be,) a sublime colour, if simply shown him
without the other accompaniments.
£Yet let us test this opinion. Let us suppose that a fragment of the
most beautiful rose leaf that can be found shall be applied to the tip
of the nose of a lovely young woman, in a manner so perfectly natural
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
137
as to lead the spectator to believe that the hue is native of the spot,
and essentially belonging to it ; how would the eyes of all strangers
be directed askance towards it with curious inquiry — and how would
they recoil from it as something fearfully strange and unnatural ! —
There can be no doubt that rose-colour has acquired its beauty in the
eyes of mankind from the immediate association which it awakens in
every one's mind with the rich fragrance of the flower itself, as well as
with the endless poetical images with which it has been for ages con-
nected. The beautiful in colour is no more of a positive and indepen-
dent nature, then, than the sublime in colour ; and the picturesque in
colour stands, I suspect, on the same grounds as the other two. Yet I
do not quarrel with the term as having reference to colour, more than I
do when it has reference to form. Though it never can distinctly define
in either, it is a convenient term of distinction in both ; and Sir Uvedalo
illustrates this, in so far as this view is concerned, with great ingenuity.
-Eg
I likewise imagine that no one would call any colour picturesque, if
shown him in the same manner, though many of them might, without
impropriety, be called so ; for there are many which, having nothing
of the freshness and delicacy of beauty, are generally found in objects
and scenes highly picturesque, and admirably accord with them. Among
these may be reckoned the autumnal hues in all their varieties — the
weather-stains, and many of the mosses, lichens, and incrustations on
bark and on wood, on stones, old walls, and buildings of every kind —
the various gradations in the tints of broken ground, and of the decayed
parts in hollow trees. All these, which surely cannot be classed with
the fresh greens of spring, with the various hues, at once so fresh and
vivid, of its flowers and blossoms, or with those of the clean and healthy
stems of young plants, may serve to point out in how many instances
picturesque colours as well as forms arise from age and decay. There
is, indeed, a natural prejudice in our minds against all that is produced
by such causes ; but whoever attentively observes in nature the deep,
rich, and mellow effect of such colours, will hardly be surprised that
painters should have been fond of introducing them into their works,
and sometimes to the exclusion of those of which the beauty is univer-
sally acknowledged, and is likewise enhanced by every pleasing asso-
ciation.
Autumn, which is metaphorically applied to the decline of human
life, when " fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf," and not the spring,
la primavera, gioventii del anno, is generally called the painters season.
And yet there is something so very delightful in the real charms of
138
SIR UVEDALE PRICK
spring, as well as in the associated ideas of renewed life and vegetation,
that it seems a perversion of our natural feelings, when we prefer to all
its blooming hopes the first bodings of the approach of winter. Autumn
must, therefore, have many powerful attractions, though of a different
kind, and those intimately connected with the art of painting ; for
which reason, as the picturesque, though equally founded in nature
with the beautiful, has been more particularly pointed out, illustrated,
and, as it were, brought to light by that art, an inquiry into the reasons
why autumn, and not spring, is called the painter's season, will, I ima-
gine, give great additional insight into the distinct characters of the
picturesque and the beautiful, especially with regard to colour.
The colours of spring deserve the name of beauty in the truest sense
of the word ; they have every thing that can give us that idea — fresh-
ness, gaiety, and liveliness, with softness and delicacy ; their beauty is
indeed of all others the most generally acknowledged, so much so, that
from them every comparison and illustration of that character is taken.
The tints of the flowers and blossoms, in all the nearer views, are clearly
the most striking and attractive, but the more general impression is
made by the freshness of that vivid green with which the fields, the
woods, and all vegetation begins to be adorned. Besides their fresh-
ness, the earlier trees have a remarkable lightness and transparency ;
their new foliage serves as a decoration, not as a concealment, and
through it the forms of their limbs are seen, as those of the human
body under a thin drapery, while a thousand quivering lights play
around and amidst their branches in every direction.
But these beauties, which give to spring its peculiar character, are
not those which are best adapted to painting. A general air of lightness
is one of the most engaging qualities of that lovely season ; yet the
lightness, in the earlier part, approaches to thinness ; and the transpa-
rency of the new foliage, the thousand quivering lights, beautiful as they
are in nature, have a tendency to produce a meagre and spotty effect
in a picture, where breadth, and broad masses can hardly be dispensed
with. The general colour also of spring, when April
" Lightly o'er the living scene
Scatters his tenderest freshest green,"
though pleasing to every eye in nature, is not equally so on the canvass ;
especially when scattered over the general scene. Freshness also, it
may be remarked, is in one sense simply coolness, and that idea, in some
degree, almost always accompanies it ; and though in nature gleams of
sunshine, from their real warmth as well as their splendour, give a tern-
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
139
porary glow and animation to a landscape entirely green, yet even under
the influence of such a glow, that colour would too much preponderate
in a picture. Such a style of landscape is therefore rarely attempted —
for who would confine himself to cold monotony, when all nature is full
of examples of the greatest variety, with the most perfect harmony ?
As the green of spring, from its comparative coldness, is upon the
whole unfavourable to landscape painting, in like manner its flowers
and blossoms, from their too distinct and splendid appearance, are apt
to produce a glare and spottiness so destructive of that union, which is
the very essence of a picture whether in nature or imitation.
This effect I remember observing in a very striking degree many
years ago, on entering Herefordshire when the fruit trees were in blos-
som ; my expectation was much raised, for I had heard that at the time
of the blow, the whole country from the Malvern hills looked like a
garden. My disappointment was nearly equal to my expectation — the
country answered to the description — it did look like a garden, but it
made a scattered discordant landscape : the blossoms, so beautiful on a
near view, when the different shades and gradations of their colours are
distinguished, seemed to have lost all their richness and variety ; and
though the scene conveyed to my mind the cheerful ideas of fruitfulness
and plenty, I could not help feeling how defective it was in all those
qualities and principles, on which the painter sets so high a value.
White blossoms are in one very material respect, more unfavourable
to landscape than any others ; as white, by bringing objects too near
the eye, disturbs the aerial perspective and the gradation of distance.
On this subject I must beg leave to introduce to the reader some remarks
by Mr. Locke, in Mr. Gilpin's Tour down the Wye.
" White offers a more extended scale of light and shadow, than any
other colour, when near ; and is more susceptible of the predominant
tint of the air, when distant. The transparency of its shadows, (which
in near objects partake so little of darkness that they are rather second
lights,) discover, without injuring the principal light, all the details of
surfaces. I partake, however, of your general dislike to the colour ;
and though I have seen a very splendid effect from an accidental light
on a white object, yet I think it a hue which oftener injures than it
improves the scene. It particularly disturbs the air in its office of gra-
duating distances — shows objects nearer than they really are — and by
pressing them on the eye, often gives them an importance which, from
their form, and situation, they are not entitled to. The white of snow
is so active and refractory, as to resist the discipline of every harmonis-
ing principle. I think I never saw Mont Blanc, and the range of snows
140
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
which run through Savoy, in union with the rest of the landscape, ex-
cept when they were tinged by the rays of the rising and setting sun ;
or participated of some other tint of the surrounding sky. In the clear
and colourless days so frequent in that country, the glaciers are always
out of tune."
It is impossible to read these remarks, without regretting that the
observations of a mind so capable of enlightening the public, should be
withheld from it ; a regret which those who have enjoyed the pleasure
and advantage of Mr. Locke's conversation, feel in a much higher degree.
If there be any thing in the universal range of the arts peculiarly re-
quired to be a whole, it is a picture. In pieces of music, particular
movements may without injury be separated from the whole ; in every
species of poetry, detached scenes, episodes, stanzas, &c. may be con-
sidered and enjoyed by themselves ; but in a picture, the forms, tints,
lights and shadows, all their combinations, effects, agreements, and oppo-
sitions, are at once subjected to the eye : whatever therefore may be the
excellence of the several parts, however beautiful the particular colours,
however splendid the lights, if they want union, breadth, and harmony,
the picture wants its most essential quality — it is not a whole. Accord-
ing to my notions, therefore, it is chiefly from this circumstance of union
and harmony, that the decaying charms of autumn often triumph in the
painter's eye over the fresh and blooming beauties of spring.
It must not, however, be concluded from what has been said, that the
painter has no pleasure in any set of -objects, unless they form a picture :
the charms of spring are universally' felt, and he also feels their influence,
unless he has narrowed his mind by that art, which ought most to have
enlarged it. The true lover of painting only adds new sources of plea-
sure to those which are common to all mankind. This is precisely the
case with regard to prospects — the painter adds those new sources of
pleasure to the general and vague delight which is felt by every spec-
tator. He enjoys equally the general beauties of nature, but from his
quick eye, and keen relish for her more happy combinations and effects,
he acquires a number of pleasures which may be dwelt upon, when the
first enchanting, but vague delight of spring is diminished.
Such indeed are the charms of reviving nature, such the profusion of
fresh, gay, and beautiful colours and of sweets, united with the ideas of
fruitfulness, that they absorb for the moment all other considerations :
and on a genial day in spring, and in a place where all its charms are
displayed, every man, whose mind is not insensible or depraved, must
feel the full force of that exclamation of Adam, when he first awakened
to the pleasure of existence ;
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
141
" With fragrance and with joy my heart o'erflowM."
I have now mentioned what seem to me the principal beauties and
defects of the earlier part of spring, at which time, however, the pecu-
liar character of that season is most striking ; for as it advances, and
the leaves are more and more expanded, they no longer retain their
vernal hue, their gloss of youth ; and the trees in the height of summer,
lose perhaps as much in the freshness, variety, and lightness of their
foliage, as they gain in the general fulness of it, and the superior size of
their leaves.
The midsummer shoot is the first thing that gives relief to the eye,
after the sameness of colour which immediately precedes it. In many
trees, and in none more than the oak, the effect is singularly beautiful ;
the old foliage forms a dark background, on which the new appears,
relieved and detached in all its freshness and brilliancy — it is spring en-
grafted upon summer. This effect, however, is confined to the nearer
objects ; the great general change in all vegetation is produced by the
first frosts of autumn. It is then that the more uniform green of summer,
is succeeded by a variety of rich glowing tints, which so admirably
accord with each other, and form so splendid a mass of colouring, so
superior in depth and richness, to that of any other part of the year.
It has often struck me, that the whole system of the Venetian colour-
ing, particularly that of Giorgione and Titian, was formed upon the tints
of autumn, whence their pictures have that golden hue, which gives them
such a superiority over all others. Their trees, foregrounds, and every
part of their landscapes, have more strongly, than those of any other
painters, the deep and rich browns of that season — the same general
hue prevails in the draperies, and even in the flesh of their figures,
which has neither the silver purity of Guido, nor the freshness of
Rubens, but a glow perhaps more enchanting than either. Sir Joshua
Reynolds has remarked, that the silver purity of Guido is more suited
to beauty than the glowing golden hue of Titian. It was natural for
him to mention Guido, as being the painter who had most succeeded in
beauty of form ; but with less of his purity and evenness of tint, there
is a freshness in that of Rubens, which would admirably accord with
beauty, though there are but few instances in his works of such a union.
A strong proof that the same general hue prevailed in the whole of
any one work of Titian, is to be found in his Ganymede, in the
Colonna palace, to which, by the order of the old Cardinal, Carlo
Maratt put a new sky of the same tone as those in his own pictures ;
and I may say, that none but such a cold insipid artist could have
borne to execute, what such gross unfeeling ignorance had commanded.
142
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
Such a sky would have been a severe trial to the flesh of any warm
picture, but it makes that of the Ganymede appear almost black, which
certainly would not have been the case, if it had been painted by
Rubens or Correggio.
I have observed in a former part, that if any one of the qualities
which Mr. Burke has so justly ascribed to beauty, be more essential
than the others, it is freshness ; and it is that which makes the most
distinct line of separation between the beautiful and picturesque in
colouring. I should, on that account, even if I were not supported by
the authority of Sir Joshua Reynolds, be inclined to call the Venetian
style of colouring, and that of Mola, of Domenico Feti, and others who
have imitated it, the picturesque style, as being formed upon the deep
and glowing tints of autumn, and not upon the fresh and delicate colours
of spring ; and although this Venetian colouring may not upon the
whole be so congenial to the sublime, as the severer styles of the Roman
and Florentine schools, yet it is much more so, than the fresh and sen-
sual tints of Rubens, or the silvery tone of Guido ; and in this it
accords with the general character of the picturesque, which more
readily mixes with the sublime than the beautiful does. I am here
speaking solely of the tints of Rubens, especially those of his women
and children, without any reference to the forms or the dispositions of
his figures, or the richness of his dresses and decorations, on account of
which Sir Joshua Reynolds has classed him with the Venetians, as be-
longing to the ornamental, and, in that respect, the picturesque style.
Sometimes, also, the grandest effects have arisen from the broken tints
of the Venetian painters — effects that are displayed in their highest
perfection in the backgrounds and skies of Titian, and which, in those
parts of the picture, could not be produced by the unbroken and dis-
tinct colours of the Roman school. Claude always mixed a much
larger proportion of cool, fresh colours in his landscapes, than the
Venetians did in theirs. In some of his early pictures, those cool tints
prevail too much, and give them a cold sickly appearance ; his best
works, however, are entirely free from that, as well as the opposite
defect, and his authority for the due proportion of cool and warm
colours which beauty requires, is as high as any man's can be ; for no
one studied beauty more diligently, more successfully, or for a greater
number of years.
In many of Rubens' works we distinguish the freshness of the early
season of the year ; and the whole of that well-known picture of the
Duke of Rutland's, has the spring-like hue of those flowers, which with
so gay and spring-like a profusion, yet still with a painter's judgment,
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
143
he has thrown about it. But when Titian introduces flowers, they are
made to accord with his general principle ; they are not the children of
spring, they seem to belong to a later season ; for he spreads over them
an autumnal hue and atmosphere, which would make even Rubens'
flowers, much more those of a mere flower painter, look raw in com-
parison.
This leads me to observe, that it is not only the change of vegetation
which gives to autumn its golden hue, but also the atmosphere itself,
and the lights and shadows which then prevail. Spring has its light
and flitting clouds, with shadows equally flitting and uncertain ; refresh-
ing showers, with gay and genial bursts of sunshine, that seem suddenly
to call forth and to nourish the young buds and flowers. In autumn all
is matured ; and the rich hues of the ripened fruits, and of the changing
foliage, are rendered still richer by the warm haze, which, on a flne
day in that season, spreads the last varnish over every part of the pic-
ture. In winter, the trees and woods, from their total loss of foliage,
have so lifeless and meagre an appearance, so different from the fresh-
ness of spring, the fulness of summer, and the richness of autumn, that
many, not insensible to the beauties of scenery at other times, scarcely
look at it during that season. But the contracted circle which the sun
then describes, however unwished for on every other consideration, is
of great advantage with respect to breadth; for then, even the mid-day
lights and shadows, from their horizontal direction, are so striking, and
the parts so finely illuminated, and yet so connected and filled up
by them, that I have many times forgotten the nakedness of the
trees, from admiration of the general masses. In summer, the exact
reverse is as often the case ; the rich clothing of the parts makes a
faint impression, from the vague and general glare of light without
shadow.
[[When we talk comparatively of the seasons, I think we may natu-
rally enough give the name of the picturesque to that of autumn ; for
as it affords greater facilities to the art of painting, so it holds out
greater provocatives to its professors, and, consequently, its tones of
colour are those which have been most usually adopted by the greatest
masters, to give character and effect to their works. But when we
view the seasons without regard to art at all — and entirely as they
may affect us through the medium of association — we find the sources
of our individual gratification to be as various as are our opinions.
Spring, in all the pictures — animate as well as inanimate, which it
produces — is associated in all men's minds with the tenderness and in-
nocence of youth, and with all those anxieties with which the heart is
144
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
filled from the consideration of the many perils to which its delicacy is
exposed. For,
- " As yet the trembling year is unconfimTd,
And winter oft at eve resumes the breeze —
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the day delightless."
But then, as when beholding budding youth, human bosoms are most
filled with fair hopes, in despite of all that human experience which has,
with dull uniformity, proved such hopes to be nought — so likewise
does it too often happen, that those which we cherish regarding the
promises of the young spring may be equally fallacious. But when,
" At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun,
And the bright Bull receives him ; then no more
The expansive atmosphere is cramp'd with cold —
But, full of life, and vivifying soul,
Lifts the light clouds sublime, and spreads them thin,
Fleecy and white, o'er all-surrounding Heaven."
Then, indeed, the earth begins to teem with verdure, and all nature
becomes animated with universal joy. Then,
" Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields,
Where freshness breathes, and dash the trembling drops
From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze
Of sweet-brier hedges I pursue my walk ;
Or taste the smell of dairy ; or ascend
Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains,
And see the country, far diffused around —
One boundless blush — one white-empurpled shower
Of mingled blossoms, where the raptured eye
Hurries from joy to joy."
Is not that man to be pitied who could stop in such a walk as
this, to have the bounding delight of his bosom checked and cramped
by the recollection that it may have nothing in it favourable for the
artist ? And who is there who would not have every fountain within
his heart opened in a sympathetic gush of joy like that of Nature her-
self, by so rich a combination of rural sweets as spring presents, thus
rejoicing in their new life beneath his eye? Yes — there are some
with whom all this gladness of the birth of Nature may but excite a
deeper melancholy. Such will be its effect on the mind of him who is
conscious of watching his own gradual decay — and, instead of joy, it
must only awaken an acuter pang of misery in the breast of the un-
fortunate who is the victim of some severe mortal affliction. We thus
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
145
see that the beauties of spring have no other charms than those which
may be reflected from the mind of man himself.
Summer seems to be less likely to excite very powerful associations,
either of an intensely pleasing or painful description. The burst of
nature is over — the growth of plants and tress is less prominently ap-
parent — the appearance of to-day is liker that of yesterday than was
the case with the same successive portions of time during the more
rapid vegetation of spring. The sky is more serene, and, at the same
time, more monotonous in its effects — and if it be a real summer,
such as Thomson describes, the heat of the sun is so potent as to be
oppressive — to so great an extent, indeed, as to induce an indolence
of disposition, arising from a bodily and mental lassitude. Then is the
time for the calmness and the quiet of lazy speculation, and so, in
perfect listlessness,
{i Let me haste into the mid-wood shade,
Where scarce a sunbeam wanders through the gloom,
And on the dark-green grass, beside the brink
Of haunted stream, that by the roots of oak
Rolls o'er the rocky channel, lie at large."
Or let me, in dreamy meditation,
" Sit on rocks, and muse o'er flood and fell."
I admit that all seasons are capable of producing individual associa-
tions with Nature. But, laying aside all such, I should say, in a gene-
ral point of view, that these are the natural effects of summer.
But autumn,
u CrownM with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf,"
comes with ten thousand charms for the young, who, regardless of the
lesson which it is continually teaching to frail mortality, rejoice in the
liberty which that season generally brings round to them — when they
revel in its fruits — are cheered by the jocund labours of its harvests —
and are excited by the animating field-sports which its season brings
round to them — whilst the bright sun, tempered by a cool and in-
vigorating air, gives elasticity and renewed action to every thing that
has life, and whilst the effects of sky are splendid and ever varying.
The rich hues of the woods, too, whilst they are in full harmony with
such feelings, are rendered doubly pleasing by having been always
intimately connected in the minds of the young with all these delight-
ful gratifications. But with him to whom the tints of autumn afford
no other association than that which they have with the decay of
human life, the season only returns as a melancholy memento that
K
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
another year is silently departing over his head, and bringing him —
though perhaps with insensible steps — gradually nearer and nearer to
his grave. It is in the spring and in the autumn that such thoughts
are most peculiarly apt to be awakened ; for they are not so likely to
be excited by the sameness of summer, when the growth of Nature
may be said to be at maturity, and when, as regards the year, she may
be said to be in her middle age.
The mind may be expected again to recover somewhat of the quiet-
ness and equality of its tone when winter has fairly set in, when the
fleeting beauties of nature may be said to have expired. Then man
becomes prepared to enjoy the socialities of intellectual life ; and
though winter does come
" To rule the varying year
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train —
Vapours, and clouds, and storms," —
When
" Comes the father of the tempest forth,
Wrapp'd in black glooms,*" —
And, above all, when
" Through the hush'd air the whitening shower descends,"
And
" The cherish ""d fields
Put on their winter-robe of purest white,"
it may be matter of doubt whether the conscious anticipation of the
coming comfort, to be enjoyed in the domestic circle, by the bickering
winter's hearth, in talk and tales of other times with those we like,
may not give such a zest to our bracing country walk as may make
even it more truly agreeable than that of summer. And how grateful
does the well constituted mind then become to a good Providence for
having thus bestowed the means for so viewing this otherwise dreary
season ! And how readily is it prepared to alleviate the wants of
those for whom the Almighty has been pleased to provide more
scantily, and who consequently look with shivering terror, and ap-
prehensive desolation of face, upon every fresh stride which the bleak
and howling wintry storms make in their advance.
Thus we may see, from these few desultory reflections, how much
our estimation of the beauty of the seasons depends upon our indivi-
dual circumstances and feelings, as well as upon those which belong to
us more in common with mankind in general — so that the cheerfulness
or the melancholy which each of them may produce, is but a cheerful-
ness or a melancholy which is merely a reflected image of that which
we bear within us. — E.]
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
U7
CHAPTER IX.
I have endeavoured to the best of my abilities, and according to tlx*
observations I have made in a long habit of reflection on the subject,
to trace the ideas we have of the picturesque, through the different
works of art and nature ; and it appears to me, that in all objects of
sight, in buildings, trees, water, ground, in the human species, and in
other animals, the same general principles uniformly prevail, and that
even light and shadow, and colours, have the strongest conformity to
those principles. I have compared both its causes and effects with
those of the sublime and the beautiful ; I have shown its distinctness
from them both, and in what that distinctness consists.
I may perhaps, however, be able to throw some additional light on
the subject, by considering two qualities the most opposite to beauty —
those of ugliness and deformity ; by showing in what points they differ
from each other, and under what circumstances they may form a union
with other qualities and characters. According to Mr. Burke, those
objects are the ugliest which approach most nearly to angular,* but I
think he would scarcely have given that opinion, if he had thought it
worth while to investigate so ungrateful a subject as that of ugliness,
* Sublime and Beautiful, p. 217.
148
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
with the same attention as that of beauty ; for, if his position be true,
the leaves of the plane-tree and the vine are among the ugliest of the
vegetable kingdom.
It seems to me, that mere unmixed ugliness does not arise from sharp
angles, or from any sudden variation, but rather from that want of form,
that unshapen lumpish appearance, which, perhaps, no one word exactly
expresses ; a quality (if what is negative may be so called) which never
can be mistaken for beauty, never can adorn it, and which is equally
unconnected with the sublime and the picturesque. The remains of
Grecian sculpture afford us the most generally acknowledged models
of beauty of form, in its most exquisitely finished state ; if this be
granted, every change that could be made in such models must be a
diminution of the perfect character of beauty, and an approach to-
wards some other. Were an artist, for instance, to model, in any
soft material, a head from the Venus or the Apollo, and then, by way
of experiment, to make the nose longer or sharper, rising more suddenly
towards the middle, or strongly aquiline — were he to give a striking
projection to the eye-brow, or to interrupt, by some marked deviation,
the flowing outline of the face — though he would destroy beauty, yet
he might create character, and something grand or picturesque might
be produced by such a trial. But let him take the contrary method,
let him clog and fill up all those nicely marked variations of which
beauty is the result — ugliness, and that only, must be the consequence.
Should he proceed still further with his experiment — should he twist
the mouth, make the nose awry, of a preposterous size, and place warts
and carbuncles upon it, or wens and excrescences on other parts of the
face, he would then graft deformity upon ugliness.
Deformity is to ugliness what picturesqueness is to beauty — though
distinct from it, and in many cases arising from opposite causes, it is
often mistaken for it, often accompanies it, and greatly heightens its
effect. Ugliness alone is merely disagreeable — by the addition of de-
formity it becomes hideous — by that of terror it may become sublime.
All these are mixed in the
" Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen aclemptum."
Deformity in itself, however, has no connection with the sublime, and,
when terror can be produced by circumstances of a more elevated cha-
racter, may even injure its effect. Death, for instance, is commonly
painted as a skeleton ; but Milton, in his famous description, has made
no allusion to that deformity (if it may be called so) which is usual in
the representation of the king of terrors, possibly from judging that its
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
149
distinctness would take off from that mysterious uncertainty which has
rendered his picture so awfully sublime.
" The other shape,
If shape it might be call'd, which shape had none
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb ;
Or substance might be call'd, which shadow seemM,
For each seem'd either ; black it stood as night,
Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell,
And shook a deadly dart ; what seem'd his head,
The likeness of a kingly crown had on."
The union of deformity with beauty is, from the contrast, more
striking than any other ; but it is in the same proportion disgusting,
and, so far from raising any grand ideas, has rather a tendency to
excite those that are ludicrous. Such, I think, it appears in the de-
scription of Scylla in the Metamorphoses, and of Sin in Paradise Lost.
As deformity consists of some striking and unnatural deviation from
what is usual in the shape of the face or body, or of a similar addition
to it, all lines, of whatever description they may be, will equally pro-
duce it. Mr. Burke's opinion of flowing lines as producing beauty, and
of angular lines as producing ugliness, has been mentioned ; and those
who are of his way of thinking, must probably object to the Grecian
nose as too straight, and as forming too sharp an angle with the rest of the
face. Whether the Greek artists were right or not, their practice shows,
that, in their opinion, straight lines, and what nearly approach to angles,
were not merely compatible with beauty, but that the effect of the whole
would thence be more attractive, than by a continual sweep and flow
of outline in every part. The application of this to modern gardening
is too obvious to be enforced. It is the highest of all authority against
continued flow of outline, even where beauty of form is the only object.
The symmetry and proportion of hills and mountains, are not marked
out and ascertained like those of the human figure ; but the general
principles of beauty and ugliness, of picturesqueness and deformity, are
easily to be traced in them, though not in so striking and obvious a
manner.
Those hills and mountains which nearly approach to angles, are often
called beautiful — seldom, I believe, ugly ; and when their size and
colour are diminished and softened by distance, they accord with the
softest and most pleasing scenes, and compose the distance of some of
Claude's most polished landscapes. The ugliest forms of hills, if my
ideas be just, are those which arc lumpish, and, as it were, unformed ;
such, for instance, as from one of the ugliest and most shapeless animals
150
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
are called pig-backed. When the summits of any of these are notched
into paltry divisions, or have such insignificant risings upon them as
appear like knobs or bumps ; or when any improver has imitated those
knobs or knotches, by means of patches and clumps, they are then both
ugly and deformed.
The ugliest ground is that which has neither the beauty of smoothness,
verdure, and gentle undulation, nor the picturesqueness of bold and
sudden breaks, and varied tints of soil : of such kind is ground that has
been disturbed, and left in that unfinished state — as in a rough ploughed
field run to sward. Such also are the slimy shores of a fiat tide river,
or the sides of a mountain stream in summer, composed merely of loose
stones, uniformly continued, without any mould or vegetation. The
steep shores of rivers, where the tide rises at times to a great height,
and leaves promontories of slime ; and those on which torrents among
the mountains leave huge shapeless heaps of stones, may certainly lay
claim to some mixture of deformity, which is often mistaken for another
character. Nothing, indeed, is more common than to hear persons who
come from a tame cultivated country (and not those only) mistake
barrenness, desolation, and deformity, for grandeur and picturesqueness.
It might be supposed, on the other hand, that the being continually
among picturesque scenes, would of itself, and without any assistance
from pictures, lead to a distinguishing taste for them. Unfortunately
it often leads to a perfect indifference for that style, and to a preference
for something directly opposite.
I once walked over a very romantic place in Wales, with the pro-
prietor, and strongly expressed how much I was struck with it, and,
among the rest, with several natural cascades. He was quite uneasy
at the pleasure I felt, and seemed afraid I should waste my admiration.
" Don't stop at these things," said he, " I will show you by and by
one worth seeing." At last we came to a part where the brook was con-
ducted down three long steps of hewn stone, — " There," said he, with
great triumph, " that was made by Edwards, who built Pont y pridd,
and it is reckoned as neat a piece of mason-work as any in the country."
[[But I can say, that this is by no means generally the effect pro-
duced by an early residence among fine scenery ; for I can myself
enumerate many cases, where I can trace the formation of the gusto
pittoresco, to early association with such scenery. — E.]
Deformity in ground is, indeed, less obvious than in other objects.
Deformity seems to be something that did not originally belong to the
object in which it exists — something strikingly and unnaturally dis-
agreeable, and not softened by those circumstances which often make it
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
151
picturesque. The side of a smooth green hill, torn by floods, may at
first very properly be called deformed ; and on the same principle,
though not with the same impression, as a gash on a living animal.
When the rawness of such a gash in the ground is softened, and
in part concealed and ornamented by the effects of time and the pro-
gress of vegetation, deformity, by this usual process, is converted into
picturesqueness ; and this is the case with quarries, gravel-pits, &c,
which at first are deformities, and which, in their most picturesque
state, are often considered as such by a levelling improver. Large
heaps of mould or stones, when they appear strongly, and without any
connection or concealment, above the surface of the ground, may also
at first be considered as deformities, and may equally become pic-
turesque by the same process.
£1 have known many instances of such happy conversions by the
hand of Taste, and, among others, I may notice a quarry at the Earl
of Dunmore's seat of Dunmore Park, in Stirlingshire. The freestone
for building the house was taken from it ; but the quarriers had no
sooner left off their operations, than, by the judicious planting of trees,
shrubs, and creeping plants, it has been converted into a delightfully
retired wilderness of sweets, the effect of which is much enhanced by
the circumstance of its being in the midst of one of the most beautiful
woods which can any where be met with. But I have seen nature do
this for herself in the happiest way, though she required more time for
the completion of her work, when altogether unassisted. It frequently
happens, that when the rock has been extensively worked out of a
quarry, springs have been laid bare, which fill the deeper parts of the
excavations with the purest water, around the irregular margins of
which, aquatic plants shoot up among the rubbish, a happy circumstance,
which I have often seen add greatly to the wild charms of such a spot.
_E..]
This connection between picturesqueness and deformity cannot be
too much studied by improvers, and, among other reasons, from motives
of economy. There are in many places deep hollows and broken
ground not immediately in view, which do not interfere with any sweep
of lawn necessary to be kept open — to fill up and level these, would
often be difficult and expensive — to dress and adorn them costs little
trouble or money. Even in the most smooth and polished scenes, they
may often be so masked by plantations, and so united with them, as to
blend with the general scenery at a distance, and to produce great
novelty and variety when approached.
The same distinctions which have been remarked in other objects,
152
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
are equally observable in trees. The ugliest, are not those in which
the branches — whether from nature or accident — make sudden angles,
but such as are shapeless from having been long pressed by others, or
from having been regularly and repeatedly stripped of their boughs
before they were allowed to grow on. Trees that are torn by winds,
or shattered by lightning, are deformed, and at first very strikingly so ;
and as the crudeness of such deformity is gradually softened by new
boughs and foliage, they often become in a high degree picturesque.
In buildings and other artificial objects, the same principles operate
in the same manner. The ugliest buildings are those which have no
feature, no character ; those, in short, which most nearly approach to
the shape, " if shape it may be called," of a clamp of brick, the ugliness
of which no one will dispute. It is melancholy to reflect on the number
of houses in this kingdom that seem to have been built on that model ;
and if they are less ugly, it is chiefly owing to the sharpness of their
angles, and to their having, on that account, something more of a de-
cided and finished form. The term which most expresses what is shape-
less, is that of a lump ; and it generally indicates what is detached from
other objects, what is without any variation of parts in itself, or any
material difference in length, breadth, or height — a sort of equality that
appears best to accord with the monotony of ugliness. Still, however,
as what is most conspicuous has the most extensive influence whether
in good or in bad, a tall building, cceter is paribus, may perhaps contend
for the palm of ugliness. When I consider the striking natural
beauties of such a river as that at Matlock, and the effect of the seven-
story buildings that have been raised there, and on other beautiful
streams, for cotton manufactories, I am inclined to think that nothing
can equal them for the purpose of dis-beautifying an enchanting piece of
scenery ; and that economy had produced, what the greatest ingenuity,
if a prize were given for ugliness, could not surpass. They are so
placed, that they contaminate the most interesting views ; and so tall,
that there is no escaping from them in any part ; and in that respect
they have the same unfortunate advantage over a squat building, that
a stripped elm has over a pollard willow. As in buildings there is no
general or usual form, to which, as in the human race, we can refer,
deformity is in them not so immediately obvious. Many buildings are
erected, and then added to, as more space was wanted, without any
plan ; in others, the same kind of irregularity is originally designed ;
and all these an admirer of pure architecture would probably condemn
as deformed, though they are in general considered as only irregular.
Where, however, the architecture is regular, if any part be taken away
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
153
so as to interrupt the symmetry, or any thing added that has no connec-
tion with its character, the building is manifestly deformed. I have here
supposed that the building, whether a part be taken away, or a part
added, is left in an entire and finished state, and that the deformity
solely arises from the destruction of its symmetry ; for any breach or
chasm in a finished building, whether regular or irregular, must always
be a deformity. Ruins, therefore, of all kinds, are at first deformed ;
and afterwards, by means of vegetation and of various effects of time
and accident, become picturesque.
With respect to colours, it appears to me that as transparency is one
essential quality of beauty, so the want of transparency, or what may
be termed muddiness, is the most general and efficient cause of ugliness.
A colour, for instance, may be harsh, glaring, tawdry, yet please many
eyes, and by some be called beautiful ; but a muddy colour, no one ever
was pleased with, or honoured with that title. If this idea be just,
there seems to be as much analogy between the causes of ugliness in
colour, and in form, as the two cases could well admit. In the first,
ugliness is said to arise from the thickening of what should be pure and
transparent ; in the second, from clogging and filling up those nicely
marked variations, of which beauty and purity of outline are the result.
It is hardly necessary to say, that I have here been speaking of colours
as considered separately ; not of those numberless beauties and effects,
which are produced by their numberless connections and oppositions.
Ugliness, like beauty, has no prominent features — it is in some de-
gree regular and uniform, and at a distance, and even on a slight in-
spection, is not immediately striking. Deformity, like picturesqueness,
makes a quicker impression, and, the moment it appears, strongly
rouses the attention. On this principle, ugly music is what is composed
according to rule and common proportion, but which has neither that
selection of sweet and softly varying melody and modulation which
answers to the beautiful, nor that marked character, those sudden and
masterly changes, which correspond with the picturesque. If such
music be executed in the same style in which it is composed, it will
cause no strong emotion, but if played out of tune, it will become
deformed, and every such deformity will make the musical hearer start.
The enraged musician stops both his ears against the deformity of those
sounds, which Hogarth has so powerfully conveyed to us through
another sense as almost to justify the bold expression of iEschylus,
dzdogxa Ttrumv. Mere ugliness in visible objects is looked upon without
any violent emotion ; but deformity, in any strong degree, would pro-
bably cause the same sort of action in the beholder as in Hogarth's inusi-
154
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
clan, by making him afraid to trust singly to those means of exclusion
which nature has placed over the sight.
The picturesque, when mixed with the sublime or the beautiful, has
been already considered; it will be found as frequently mixed with
ugliness, and when so mixed will appear to be perfectly consistent with
all that has been mentioned of its effects and qualities. Ugliness, like
beauty, in itself is not picturesque, for it has, simply considered, no
strongly marked features ; but, when the last mentioned character is
added either to beauty or to ugliness, they become more striking and
varied, and, whatever may be the sensations they excite, they always,
by means of that addition, more strongly attract the attention. We
are amused and occupied by ugly objects, if they be also picturesque,
just as we are by a rough, and in other respects a disagreeable mind,
provided it has a marked and peculiar character ; without it, mere
outward ugliness, or mere inward rudeness, are simply disagreeable.
An ugly man or woman, with an aquiline nose, high cheek bones,
beetle brows, and strong lines in every part of the face, is, from these
picturesque circumstances, which might all be taken away without
destroying ugliness, much more strikingly ugly, than a man with no
more features than an oyster. It is ugliness of this kind which may
very justly be styled picturesque ugliness ; and it is that which has
been most frequently represented on the canvass. Those who have been
used to admire such picturesque ugliness in painting, will look with
pleasure (for we have no other word to express the degree or character
of that sensation) at the original in nature; and one cannot think
slightly of the power and advantage of that art which makes its ad-
mirers often gaze with such delight on some ancient lady, as, by the
help of a little vanity, might perhaps lead her to mistake the motive.
A celebrated anatomist is said to have declared, that he had received
in his life more pleasure from dead than from living women. This
might, perhaps, be brought as a similar, though a stronger instance of
perverted taste ; but I never heard of any painter having made the
same declaration with respect to age and youth. Whatever may be
the future refinements of painting and anatomy, I believe young and
live women will never have reason to be jealous of old or dead rivals.
As the excess of those qualities which chiefly constitute beauty pro-
duces insipidity, so likewise the excess of those which constitute pictu-
resqueness produces deformity. These mutual relations may be suffi-
ciently obvious in inanimate objects, yet, perhaps, they will be more
clearly perceived if we consider them in the human countenance, sup-
posing the general form of the countenance to remain the same, and
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
155
only what may in some measure be considered as the accompaniments
to be changed.
Suppose, then, what is no uncommon style or degree of beauty, a
woman with fine features, but the character of whose eyes, eyebrows,
hair, and complexion, are more striking and showy than delicate.
Imagine, then, the same features, with the eyebrows less marked, and
both those and the hair of the head of a softer texture, the general
glow of complexion changed to a more delicate gradation of white and
red, the skin more smooth and even, and the eyes of a milder colour
and expression ; you would by this change take off from the striking,
the showy effect, but such a face would have, in a greater degree, that
finished delicacy, which even those who might prefer the showy style,
would allow to be more in unison with the idea of beauty, and the
other would appear comparatively coarse and unfinished. If we go on
still further, and suppose hardly any mark of eyebrow — the hair, from
the lightness of its colour, and from the silky softness of its quality,
giving scarce any idea of roughness — the complexion of a pure and
almost transparent whiteness, with hardly a tinge of red — the eyes of
the mildest blue, and the expression equally mild — you would then
approach very nearly to insipidity, but still without destroying beauty ;
on the contrary, such a form, when irradiated by a mind of equal
sweetness and purity, united with sensibility, has something angelic,
and seems further removed from what is earthly and material. This
shows how much softness, smoothness, and delicacy, even when carried
to an extreme degree, are congenial to beauty. On the other hand, it
must be owned, that where the only agreement between such a form
and the soul which inhabits it is want of character and animation, no-
thing can be more completely vapid than the whole composition.
If we now return to the same point at which we began, and conceive
the eyebrows more strongly marked, the hair rougher in its effect and
quality, the complexion more dusky and gipsy-like, the skin of a coarser
grain, with some moles on it, a degree of cast in the eyes, but so slight
as only to give archness and peculiarity of countenance — this, without
altering the proportion of the features, would take off from beauty what
it gave to character and picturesqueness. If we go one step farther,
and increase the eyebrows to a preposterous size — the cast into a squint
— make the skin scarred, and deeply pitted with the small-pox — the
complexion full of spots — and increase the moles into excrescences — it
will plainly appear how close the connection is between beauty and
insipidity, and between picturesqueness and deformity, and what " thin
partitions do their bounds divide."
156
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
The whole of this applies most exactly to improvements. The ge-
neral features of a place remain the same — the accompaniments only
are changed, but with them its character. If the improver, as it usu-
ally happens, attends solely to verdure, smoothness, undulation of
ground, and flowing lines, the whole will be insipid. If the opposite
and much rarer taste should prevail — should an improver, by way of
being picturesque, make broken ground, pits, and quarries all about his
place — encourage nothing but furze, briers, and thistles — heap quanti-
ties of rude stones on his banks — or, to crown all, like Mr. Kent,
plant dead trees* — the deformity of such a place would, I believe, be
very generally allowed, though the insipidity of the other might not
be so readily confessed.
I may here remark, that though picture squeness and deformity are,
by their etymology, so strictly confined to the sense of seeing, yet there
is in the other senses a most exact resemblance to their effects ; this is
the case, not only in that of hearing, of which so many examples have
been given, but in the more contracted senses of tasting and smelling,
and the progress I have mentioned is in them also equally plain and
obvious. It can hardly be doubted, that what answers to the beautiful
in the sense of tasting, has smoothness and sweetness for its basis, with
such a degree of stimulus as enlivens, but does not overbalance those
qualities — such, for instance, as in the most delicious fruits and liquors.
Take away the stimulus, they become insipid — increase it, so as to
overbalance those qualities, they then gain a peculiarity of flavour, are
eagerly sought after by those who have acquired a relish for them, but
are less adapted to the general palate. This corresponds exactly with
the picturesque ; but if the stimulus be increased beyond that point,
none but depraved and vitiated palates will endure what would be so
justly termed deformity in objects of sight. The sense of smelling has
in this, as in all other respects, the closest conformity to that of tasting.
The old maxim of the schools, de gustibus non est disputandum, is
by many extended to all tastes, and claimed as a sort of privilege not
to have any of theirs called in question. It is certainly very reasonable
that a man should be allowed to indulge his eye, as well as his palate,
in his own way ; but, if he happened to have a taste for water-gruel
without salt, he should not force it upon his guests as the perfection of
cookery ; or burn their insides, if, like the King of Prussia, he loved
nothing but what was spiced enough to turn a living man into a
mummy.
* Vide Mr. Walpole"s Essay on Modern Gardening.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
157
These are the chief arguments that have occurred to me for giving
to the picturesque a distinct character. I have had the satisfaction of
finding many persons high in the public estimation of my sentiment ;
and, among them, some of the most eminent artists, both professors and
dilettanti. On the other hand, I must allow, that there are persons
whose opinion carries great weight with it, who, in reality, hold the
two words beautiful and picturesque to be synonymous, though they
do not say so in express terms : with those, however, I do not mean
to argue at present, though well prepared for battle. Others there are
who allow, indeed, that the words have a different meaning, but deny
that there is any distinct character of the picturesque ; to those, before
I close this part of my essay, I shall offer a few reflections.
Taking it then for granted that the two terms are not synonymous,
the word picturesque must have some appropriate meaning ; and, there-
fore, when any person chooses to call a figure or a scene picturesque,
rather than beautiful, he must have some reason for that choice. The
definitions which have been given of picturesque appear to me very
vague and unsatisfactory. Instead of attempting any other, I will do
what perhaps may be of more service in ascertaining its meaning — I
will endeavour to account for the introduction of a word into modern
languages, which has nothing that in the smallest degree corresponds
with it in those of the ancients. The two classes of visible objects
which have been distinguished by the titles of the sublime and the
beautiful, have, in all ages, and in all countries, long before the inven-
tion of the art of painting, excited the emotions of astonishment, and
of pleasure : it seems natural, therefore, that such objects, when their
true character was fully and happily expressed in painting, should at
once have been felt and acknowledged to be the same which had so
often struck and pleased them in reality ; and that the emotions,
though less powerful, should have been of a similar kind. Such, pro-
bably was the case, with this difference, however — that the character
and qualities of beauty lose much less of their effect from being repre-
sented on the reduced scale of a picture than those of grandeur, and
are likewise more familiar, and more immediately obvious to the bulk
of mankind — on which accounts, I shall chiefly confine myself to them
in the present discussion. These two classes of objects, though so dis-
tinct from each other, have one common relation — that of having had
at all times a powerful and universal influence ; and, in that point of
view, may be considered as one general division ; while another may,
in the same manner, be formed of those objects which seem to have
excited little or no interest or attention, till they were brought into
158
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
notice, and the principles on which they deserved to excite it, had
been pointed out by the revived art of painting, and particularly that
of landscape painting. It is well known how vague and licentious
a use is made of the word beautiful ; but I think it will be allowed
that no qualities so truly accord with our ideas of it as those which are
in a high degree expressive of youth, health, and vigour, whether in
animal or vegetable life — the chief of which qualities are smoothness
and softness in the surface — fulness and undulation in the outline —
symmetry in the parts — and clearness and freshness in the colour. No
one can well doubt that these are essential qualities of beauty, who
considers what must be the consequence of substituting those of an op-
posite kind ; but if any one should ask — and it has been doubted by a
writer of high reputation on these subjects* — whether they are suited
to the painter, the question may be answered by another — by asking,
what is the rank which Guido, Albano, and Correggio hold among
painters ? Raphael, the first name among the moderns, who had
grandeur and dignity of character more constantly in view than any of
the last mentioned painters, was very far from neglecting beauty, or
the qualities assigned to it ; and if we go back to the ancients, what
were the pictures most highly admired while they existed, and whose
fame is now as fresh as ever ? The Helen of Zeuxis, and the Venus
of Apelles, in which no qualities could have had place, except such
as accorded with beauty in its strictest sense.
From the ideas which we are well justified in forming to ourselves of
those paintings, it seems probable that the delight they produced was
immediate and universal — that to see and feel their charms, it did not
require any knowledge of pictures, or any habit of examining them —
however sucli knowledge might enhance and refine the pleasure — but
only the common sensibility which all must experience, when such
objects present themselves in real life. Unfortunately, not a trace re-
mains of those, and other exquisite works of that age — but the art
since its revival will furnish us with no mean examples ; and, thanks
to that of engraving, which ought to have been coeval with it, the com-
positions at least of the finest paintings are very generally known. If,
then, we suppose a person of natural sensibility and discernment, but
who had never seen a picture, to have been shown when they were first
painted, the Aurora of Guido, the Nymphs and Cupids of Albano, or
the Leda of Correggio — pictures in which nothing but what is youthful
and lovely is exhibited — he must readily have acknowledged the whole,
* Mr. Gilpin.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
159
and every part to be beautiful ; because, if he were to see such objects
in nature, he would call them so, and view them with delight. The
same thing must have happened had he been shown a picture of Claude,
where richly ornamented temples and palaces were accompanied by
trees of elegant forms and luxuriant foliage, the whole set off by the
mild glow of a fine evening ; for every thing he saw there, he would
wish to see and to dwell upon in reality. But should he have been
shown a set of pictures, in which a number of the principal objects were
rough, rugged, and broken, with various marks of age and decay, yet
without any thing of grandeur or dignity, he must certainly have
thought it strange that the artists should choose to perpetuate on their
canvass such figures, animals, trees, buildings, &c, as he should wish,
if he saw them in nature, to remove from his sight. He might after-
wards, however, begin to observe, that among objects which to him ap-
peared void of every kind of attraction, the painters had decided reasons
of preference — whether from their strongly marked peculiarity of
character — from the variety produced by sudden and irregular devia-
tion — from the manner in which the rugged and broken parts caught
the light, and from those lights being often opposed to some deep
shadow — or from the rich and mellow tints produced by various stages
of decay, all of which he had passed by without noticing, or had merely
thought them ugly, but now began to look at with some interest, he
would find at the same time, that there were quite a sufficient number
of objects, which the painter would perfectly agree with him in calling
ugly, without any addition or qualification.
Such observations as I have just supposed to be made by a single
person, must have gradually occurred to a variety of observers during the
progress of the art. Many of them may have seen the artists at work,
and remarked the pleasure they seemed to take in imitating, by spirited
strokes of the pencil, any rough and broken objects — any strongly
marked peculiarity of character, or of light and shadow ; and may have
observed at the same time with what comparative slowness and caution
they proceeded, when the correct symmetry — the delicate and insensible
transitions of colour — and of light and shadow in a beautiful human
face or body were to be expressed ; and that although the picture,
when finished in its highest perfection, would be the pride and glory of
the art, such a real object would to all eyes be yet more enchanting.
They might thence be led to conclude, that beauty, (and grandeur
stands upon the same footing,) whether real or imitated, is a source of
delight which all men of liberal minds may claim in common with the
painter ; — that mere ugliness is no less disgusting to him, than to the
160
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
rest of the world ; but that a number of objects, neither grand, nor
beautiful, nor ugly, are in a manner the peculiar property of the
painter and his art, being by them first illustrated, and brought into
notice and general observation. AYhen such an idea had once begun to
prevail, it was very natural that a word should be invented, and soon
be commonly made use of, which discriminated the character of such
objects, by their relation to the artist himself, or to his work. We
find accordingly that the Italians, among whom painting most flourished,
invented the word pittoresco, which marks the relation to the painter,
and which the French, with a slight change, have adopted ; while the
English use the word picturesque, as related to the production. What
has just been said, will, I trust, be thought to account with some pro-
bability for the origin of the term, as well as for the distinction of the
character, and likewise to point out the reasons why roughness, sudden
deviation, and irregularity, are in a more peculiar manner suited to the
painter, than the opposite and more popular qualities of smoothness,
undulation, and symmetry; and to show that the picturesque may justly
claim a title taken from the art of painting, without having an exclu-
sive reference to it..
If it be true with respect to landscape, that a scene may, and often
does exist, in which the qualities of the picturesque — almost exclusively of
those of grandeur and of beauty — prevail ; and that persons unacquainted
with pictures, either take no interest in such scenes, or even think them
ugly, while painters, and lovers of painting, study and admire them.
If, on the other hand, a scene may equally exist, in which, as far as the
nature of the case will allow, the qualities assigned to the beautiful are
alone admitted, and from which those of the picturesque are no less
studiously excluded, and that such a scene will at once give delight to
every spectator, to the painter no less than all others, and will, by all,
without hesitation be called beautiful,* — if this be true, yet still no
distinction of character be allowed to exist — what is it, then, which
does create a distinction between any two characters ? That I shall
now wish to examine ; and as the right of the picturesque to a cha-
racter of its own is called in question, I shall do what is very usual in
similar cases, inquire into the right of other characters, whose distinc-
tion has hitherto been unquestioned ; not for the sake of disputing their
right, but of establishing that of the picturesque, by showing on how
much stronger and broader foundations it has been built.
Envy and Revenge, are by all acknowledged to be distinct cha-
* Letter to Mr. Repton, page 137.
0N T THE PICTURESQUE.
161
racters ; nay, both of them, as well as many of our better affections,
have been so often personified by poets, and embodied by painters and
sculptors, that we have as little doubt of their distinct figurative exist-
ence, as of the real existence of any of our acquaintance, and almost
know them as readily. But from what does their distinction arise ?
From their general effect on the mind ? Certainly not ; for their
general effect, that which is common to them both, and to others of the
same class, is ill-will towards the several objects on which they are
exercised ; just as the general effect of the sublime, of the beautiful, and
of the picturesque, is delight or pleasure of some kind to the eye, to
the imagination, or to both. It appears, therefore, from this instance,
(and I am inclined to think it universally true,) that distinction of
character does not arise from general effects, but that we must seek for
its origin in particular causes. I am also persuaded, that it is from
having pursued the opposite method of reasoning, that the distinction
between the beautiful and the picturesque has been denied. The truth
of these two positions will be much more evident, if it should be shown,
that the causes of envy and revenge no less plainly mark a distinction,
than their general effect, if singly considered, would imply a unity of
character. The cause of envy, is the merit, reputation, or good fortune
of others ; that of revenge, an injury received. These seem to me their
most obvious and striking causes, and certainly sufficient to distinguish
them from each other. But let the most acute metaphysician place in
one point of view, whatever may in any way mark the boundaries
which separate them, then let his distinctions be compared with those
which I have stated to exist between the beautiful and the picturesque,
and if they be not more clear, and more strongly marked, why should
they have a privilege which is denied to mine ?
It has been argued by some, that the sublime, as well as the pic-
turesque, is included in the beautiful ; that such distinctions as Mr.
Burke and myself have made, are too minute and refined ; and that
the picturesque especially, is only a mode of beauty.* What, then, are
envy and revenge ? are they in a less degree modes of hatred ? Yet
those who are most averse to any distinctions in the other case, would
hardly object to it in this, or venture to say that all the useful purposes
of language would be answered, if there were only one term to express
every different mode of ill-will towards our fellow-creatures. In the
usual progress of society towards refinement, as new distinctions arise,
* The difference between the general and the confined sense of beauty, is discussed
in my letter to Mr. Repton, page 135.
L
1 62 SIR UVEDALE PRICE
new terms are invented ; and it is in a great measure from their
abundance or their scarcity, that the richness or the poverty of any
language is estimated, while its precision no less depends on the
accuracy with which they are employed.
It may here very naturally be asked, how it could happen that
certain distinctions of characters, which, according to my statement,
are plain and manifest, should so long have been very inaccurately
made out, and should still by many be called in question, when a
number of others, which, as I have asserted, are separated by very thin
partitions, have for ages been universally acknowledged. This may
easily be accounted for ; and the causes of accurate distinction, and of
general agreement in the one case, will lead to those of inaccuracy and
doubt in the other.
All that concerns our speculative ideas and amusements, all objects of
taste, and the principles belonging to them, are thought of by a small
part of mankind ; the great mass never think of them at all. They
are studied in one age, neglected in another, sometimes totally lost ;
but the variety of human passions and affections, all their most general
and manifest effects, and their minutest discriminations, have never
ceased to be the involuntary study of all nations and ages. These last
have, indeed, at various times been particularly investigated by specu-
lative minds ; but every man has occasion to feel but too strongly the
truth of their separate causes and effects, either from his own experience,
or that of persons near and dear to him ; nor are we in any case un-
concerned spectators where they operate.
Had it in the nature of things been possible, that the same eager, con-
stant, and general interest should have prevailed with respect to objects
of taste, the discriminations might have been hardly less numerous, or
less generally understood and acknowledged ; and it is by no means
impossible, should the distinctions in question continue for a long time
together the subject of eager discussion, and likewise of practical appli-
cation, that new discriminations, and new terms for them may take
place. The picturesque might not only be distinguished from the sub-
lime, and from the beautiful, but its union with them, or, what no less
frequently occurs, with ugliness, might, when nearly balanced, have an
appropriate term. At present, when we talk of a picturesque figure, no
one can guess by that expression alone, to which of the other characters
it may be allied : whether it be very handsome, or very ugly ; in gauze
and feathers, or in rags. Again, if we speak of a picturesque scene or
building, it is equally uncertain whether it be of a hollow lane, a heathy
common, an old mill or hovel, or, on the other hand, a scene of rocks
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
163
and mountains, or the ruin of some ancient castle or temple. We can,
indeed, explain what we mean by a few more words ; but whatever
enables us to convey our ideas with greater precision and facility, must
be a real improvement to language. The Italians do mark the union of
beauty with greatness of size or character, whether in a picture or any
other object, by calling it, una gran-bella, cosa ; — I do not mean to say
that the term is always very accurately applied, but it shows a strong
tendency to such a distinction. But in English, were we to add any
part of the word picturesque to handsome, or ugly, or grand, though
such composed words would hardly be more uncouth than many which
are received into the language, they would be sufficiently so, to place a
very formidable barrier of ridicule between them and common use. To
invent new terms, supposing the object of sufficient consequence, is per-
haps still more open to ridicule. Mr. Burke decided in favour of the
word delight, to express a peculiar sense of pleasure arising from a pecu-
liar cause ; but the sense to which we are accustomed, is perpetually
recurring during his essay ; and out of it, the word of course returns to
its general meaning : had he risked an entirely new word, and had it
withstood the first inevitable onset of ridicule, and grown into use, the
English language would have owed one more obligation to one of its
greatest benefactors.
QAs I have already said, there can be no objection to the use of
words which may in any way assist the auditor or reader in more
perfectly comprehending verbal description, even although they should
not be capable of any thing like accurate or incontrovertible definition.
The folly lies in setting up such terms as distinct and perfect definitions,
whilst our experience every day proves that they are differently defined
almost by each respective individual who employs them. — E.]
164
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
CHAPTER X.
Having now examined the chief qualities that in such various ways
render objects interesting — having shown how much the beauty, spirit,
and effect of landscape, real or imitated, depend upon a just degree of
variety and intricacy, on a due mixture of rough and smooth in the
surface, and of warm and cool in the tints — having shown, too, that the
general principles of improving are in reality the same as those of paint-
ing — I shall next inquire how far the principles of the last mentioned
art (clearly the best qualified to improve and refine our ideas of nature)
have been attended to by improvers — how far, also, those who first pro-
duced, and those who have continued the present system, were capable
of applying them, even if they had been convinced of their importance.
It appears from Mr. Walpole's very ingenious and entertaining
treatise on modern gardening, that Kent was the first who introduced
that so much admired change from the old to the present system ; the
great leading feature of which change, and the leading character of
each style, are very aptly expressed in half a line of Horace : —
" Mutat quadrata rotundis."
QKent, who was born in 1685, was originally a coach-painter, went
to Rome to study as an artist, but never arriving at any degree of
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
165
eminence in the art, he took to the designing of furniture, after his return
to his own country, and ultimately to park architecture and landscape
gardening. He commenced his operations on Stowe in Buckingham-
shire, which had been begun by Bridgeman in 1714. He is said to
have declared, that his taste for gardening had its origin in the perusal
of the beautiful descriptions of Spencer, which must appear some-
what ludicrous to those who can form any notion of the formality of
his style. Walpole tells us, that " the great principles on which he
worked were perspective, and light and shade. Groups of trees broke
too uniform or too extensive a lawn ; evergreens and woods were op-
posed to the glare of the champaign, and where the view was less for-
tunate, or so much exposed as to be beheld at once, he blotted out
some parts by thick shades, to divide it into variety, or to make the
richest scene more enchanting by reserving it for a farther advance of
the spectator. Where objects were wanting, he introduced temples, &c,
but he especially excelled in the management of water. The gentle
stream was taught to serpentine seemingly at its pleasure, and, where
discontinued by different levels, its course appeared to be concealed
by thickets properly interspersed, and glittered again at a distance,
where it might be supposed naturally to arrive. Its sides were
smoothed, but preserved their meanderings ; a few trees scattered here
and there on its edges, and, when it disappeared among the hills,
shades descending from the heights leaned towards its vanishing point.
He followed nature even in her faults. In Kensington Gardens he
planted dead trees, but was soon laughed out of this excess. His
ruling principle was, that Nature abhors a straight line." Bridgeman
was the first to innovate on the absolute uniformity which had pre-
vailed till his time, and, however faulty the style adopted by him, and
by Kent, who followed him, it was some gain to have innovated on
the prejudices which till then existed. — E.]
Formerly every thing was in squares and parallelograms ; now
every thing was reduced by Kent into segments of circles and ellipses
— the formality still remains, the character of that formality alone is
changed. The old canal, for instance, has lost, indeed, its straightness
and its angles ; but it is become regularly serpentine, and the edges
remain as naked and as uniform as before — avenues, vistas, and straight
ridings through woods, are exchanged for clumps, belts, and circular
roads and plantations of every kind — straight alleys in gardens, and
the platform of the old terrace, for the curves of the gravel walk.
The intention of the new improvers was certainly meritorious, for they
meant to banish formality and to restore nature ; but it must be re-
166
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
membered, that strongly marked, distinct, and regular curves, unbroken
and undisguised, are hardly less unnatural or formal, though much less
grand and simple, than straight lines ; and that, independently of mono-
tony, the continual and indiscriminate use of such curves, has an ap-
pearance of affectation and of studied grace, which always creates
disgust.
QI certainly do conceive that any such metamorphosis as is here
described, made upon any place executed in the old and formal style
of gardening, would be productive of so great a sacrifice of that delight-
ful association which we always have with the olden times, as would
produce any thing but a gain. Let me here avail myself of this oppor-
tunity to notice some of those specimens of this style which have come
under my own observation.
It is true that some of the accounts which we find in old authors
regarding ornamental gardens are curious, and not always very intel-
ligible to us of modern times. In the " Genealogy of the House and
Surname of Setoun, by Sir Richard Maitland of Ledington, Knight,"
we find the following notice of the garden of Winton in East Lothian,
which, we thence know, was made by George the fourth Lord Setoun.
" He biggit the Place of Wintoun, w* the zaird and gairdin theirof.
In the quhilk gairding I have sein fyve scoir of torris of tymber about
the knottis, ilk ane twa cubit hight, havand, twa cubit hight, twa
knoppis on the heid, the ane above the uther, als grit everie ane as ane
roll boull, ouer gilt w* gold, and the shankis thairof paintit w 1 dyvers
heus of oylie collours." In the poetical or rhyming " Cronicle of the
Hous of Setoun," also, we have the following notice regarding the gar-
den-works of this same George fourth Lord Setoun : —
" And did yo r gardings grace
W statelie stoupis, as than did weill appeir.""
So far as we can understand these descriptions, we cannot altogether
reconcile the practice of gardening of which they treat, to our modern
ideas, nor should I much wish to see them imitated in these days ; and
yet, if they did any where still exist, the propriety of removing them
would, I think, be extremely questionable. But we can quite comprehend
and appreciate the roundels, or circular galleries or towers made in the
garden walls, whence views of the open country were to be enjoyed.
These roundels are still to be seen in the wall of the old garden at
Setoun, another place belonging to the same ancient family. One of
these roundels was occupied by the person and attendants of James I.
of England, at the funeral of Robert the eighth Lord Setoun and first
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
167
Earl of Winton; and these, with the ruins of the beautiful chapel,
always associated with the name of Queen Mary of Scotland, with
whom that family were so intimately linked, are now the only rem-
nants of a place so remarkable for the visits of the North British
sovereigns.
Nothing, as I think, can be more natural, or more pleasing, than
to discover that intense design has been at work in the immediate
environs of a house. The extent to which this design is to be carried,
must, in propriety, be regulated by the magnitude and importance
of the building itself, and the scale on which the place is laid out.
Any sudden transition from that manifest design which must necessarily
be displayed by the architecture itself, to that absolute wildness which
is to be found in untamed nature, must always be harsh and unpleasing.
Straight terraces, terrace walks, statues, fountains, flights of steps,
balustrades, vases, architectural seats, and formal parterres, knots, and
flower-beds, are therefore most naturally the more immediate accom-
paniments of a mansion. They are employed, as it were, and I think
properly so employed, for the purpose of softening off art into nature,
and thus removing the harsh effect of sudden transition, in the same way
that an artist softens off hardness of outline in his picture. The unspar-
ing innovators of the improving school of landscape gardening, seemed
to consider that it was impossible to carry their system too far, and,
accordingly, they shaved away all those rich and harmonious attendants
upon the architecture of the house, and carried bareness and poverty
up to its very walls. Few perfect samples of the old style, therefore,
are now to be found ; but where they do exist, we are persuaded that
they must always excite the liveliest feelings of delight, arising not
only from associations with the olden time, but from those connected
with that sense of propriety which gave birth to them. I know of
one ancient garden of this description, that belonging to the old house
of Barncleuch near Hamilton, the property of Lady Ruthven, which I
visited with extreme satisfaction and delight. The house stands on the
brink of a steep and lofty bank, hanging over the river Avon, at a
point a little way above its confluence with the Clyde. The bank is
cut out and built up into terraces of different degrees of level, which
are connected by flights of steps, and decorated by fountains — arched
recesses — stone seats — and all these adjuncts usually found in such old
domestic gardens ; and the whole is thus softened into the happiest
gradual combination with the wildness of the neighbouring scenery.
The history of the original formation of this garden is very curious. It
was constructed by that Lord Belhaven who lived about the middle of
168
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
the seventeenth century, of whom Nicol in his Diary, (page 233,) gives
us the following very strange history : —
" It is formerlie observit, that the Inglisches haiffing routtit this
natioun at the fight at Dunbar, upone the 3d September 1650, they
possest this kingdome, and did foirfalt the maist pairt of these that
wer ingadged in that unlauchful ingadgement in the Scottis ingoing to
England ; among quhome the Dukes of Hamiltoun, and all that former-
lie were forfait, the creditouris persewit the cautioneris for the Duke's
dett and could get no relieffe. Among these cautioneris the Lord Bel-
hevin being one, and being band for that hous in greater sumes of money
than he was able to pay, he resolves to leave this natioun, that he
mycht eschew comprysinges of his landis and imprissonement of his
persone. This resolutioun he followes in this manner. He takis his
jurney to England, and quhen he past by Silloway (Sol way) Sandis, he
causit his servand cum bak to his wyff with his cloak and hatt, and
causit it to be vented that in ryding by these sandis, both he and his
horse quhuairon he raid wer sunkin in these quick sandis and drowned,
nane being privy to this, bot his lady and his man servand. This re-
port passed in all pairtes as guid cunzie, that he was deid and perisched,
for the space of six yearis and moir ; and to mak this the moir probable
and lykelie, his lady and chyldrene went in dule and murning the first
two yeiris of his absens, so that during these six yeiris it was certifyed
to the haill cuntrey that he was deid and perisched ; all this wes done
of set purpos to eschew the danger of the cautionary quhairin he lay
for that Hous of Hamiltoun. Eftir his ingoing to England, he strypit
himselff of his apperell, clothed himselff in ane base servill sute, denyit
his name, and became servand to ane gairdner, and laborit in gardenes
and yairdis during the haill space of his absence ; na person being privy
to this cours bot his Lady, (as for his servand he went to other service,
not knowing that his old Lord haid becum a gairdner) till efter six
yeiris absens ; efter quhilk tyme and space the Dutches of Hamiltoun
haiffing takin ordour with the dettis, and compereit and aggreyit with
the creditouris, than he returned to Scotland in Januar last 1659, efter
sex yeiris service in England with a gairdner, to the admiratioun of
many, for during that haill space it was evir thocht he wes deid, no
persone being accessorie to his secrecy bot his awin Lady to hir great
commendatioune. By this meanis his landis and estait wer saiff, and
his cautionarie for the Hous of Hamiltoun wes transactit for, as is afoir-
said, and his estait both personall and reall fred and outquytt."
I believe that it was owing to my friend Mr. Kirkpatrick Sharp
* having on one occasion directed Sir Walter Scott's attention to this
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
169
most singular story, that the first idea occurred to the great author of
the Bride of Lammermoor, that he should terminate the existence of the
Master of Ravenswood by a death similar to that which was thus feigned
by Lord Belhaven, and which Sir Walter has made so sublimely affect-
ing as the final fate of his hero. But the object which I have most
particularly in view, in my present introduction of this piece of history
is, that I may be enabled to mention, that it was the knowledge which
Lord Belhaven thus acquired, during his six years' hard horticultural
labour in England, that enabled him to lay out and construct this
beautiful old terrace garden of Barncleuch. A fragment of this lovely
specimen of this ancient Lord's taste, is given in the frontispiece to the
present work ; and however small this sample of the terraced garden
may be, it is believed that it may yet be enough to give to the mind of
any one of fine taste, very agreeable suggestions as to the beauty and
richness of the effect of the whole.
It is a happy circumstance that this architectural style of ornament-
ing the environs of rural dwellings, is rapidly regaining its footing
amongst us. Many domestic terrace gardens are now every day con-
structing, and we have reason to hope that all that is now wanting is a
little time to make them very universal, and to give the fullest effect
to them, by allowing growth to those taller shrubs and trees of an
architectural character with which they will naturally be enriched.
Whilst I am upon this subject of the formal style of gardening, I
must be permitted very particularly, yet shortly, to notice a very
splendid, though much ruined specimen of it, on the more extended
scale, which I have had opportunities of visiting more than once — I
mean Castle-Kennedy in Wigtonshire, the property of my much-
valued friend the Earl of Stair. This place, indeed, is by far the
largest in extent of any in the same style with which I am ac-
quainted in our own country — and I shall therefore attempt to give a
general description of it. Two natural lakes — one called the White
Loch, containing above one hundred and nineteen acres, and the other,
called the Black Loch, of above one hundred and twenty-three acres of
water — are divided by a neck of land, swelling gently, though not
regularly so, to its crest, where stand the ruins of the ancient castle.
This neck of land comprises rather more than seventy-one acres, which
were all laid out above a hundred years ago by the great Field-Mar-
shal Earl of Stair, in the most perfect manner of the formal style of
which I am now treating. The outlines of both lakes are left irregu-
larly sweeping as nature formed them ; but, from all that now remains,
it is manifest that not one square yard of these seventy-one acres, which
170
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
divide them from each other, was left unworked upon by the spade.
Not only were the whole plantations made with scrupulous rectilinear
accuracy, with the exception of certain regular circles, equally formal,
from which straight lines took their origin of divergence, but the whole
ground itself was cut down or heaped up, and shaped into rectilinear
terraces, mounts, bastions, and slopes, of every possible variety of
conception of rectilinear figure. The plantations, all regular in them-
selves, seem to have had their boundary lines formed of beech, horn-
beam, holly, yew, and laurel, all clipped into the most formal vegetable
walls. I can procure no information as to the individual who drew the
original plan of the work — for work it may well be denominated — but
from the mere fact, so well known, that it was the same Marshal
Earl of Stair who planted the place of New Liston in West Lothian,
according to the plan of the battle of Dettingen, we may reasonably
conclude that he had himself a very considerable hand in designing the
formalities of Castle-Kennedy — especially when we know that his
residence as ambassador at Paris and the Hague, and his long intimate
and extensive acquaintance with the grandest specimens of the same
style on the Continent, must have amply fitted him for such a task.
The original plan for Castle-Kennedy is now before me — but, from
various pencil marks upon it, as well as from a knowledge of all that
now remains, I should say that there had been considerable deviation
from it in the execution — or perhaps much of its more expensive con-
ceptions were left unexecuted. That the person who superintended
the actual work itself was his lordship's gardener, Thomas M'Calla, is
sufficiently proved by the following very curious letters from him to his
master, in which the mention of the name of Mount Marlborough,
shows that, in all probability, not only each particular formal spot was
formally designated, but that even here the campaigns in which the
gallant Marshal had gained so many laurels were not forgotten whilst
he was engaged in the more peaceful occupation of planting them.
The length of time which had elapsed between the dates of these two
letters, proves that the work was not completed in a day.
Castellkenedy, march ye 2nd 1731.
My Lord, I haue Teken the fredom to aquant your Lordshep of
uhat I haue ben Douing In the gardens at Castellkenedy : sine the Last
tim I urot to your lordshep, the gretest busines ue haue ben about uas
forming the Ridge of hills aboue the blak loch, uhich I think In short
tim uill be finished to greter perfection then any thing that [lias been]
don yet. Ther uas no maner of Earth that uas good on that Ridge
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
171
but uhat I uas obledged to fors uith barous from the lou grounds. The
mers uas not abell to drau up, the bres bing so sti. I uold ben don
uith that Ridge or nou ; but the plantin seson bing In hand at the sem
tim, Caused me to leue It and plant uhat plantin uas to be planted
Eueri uher uher It uas to be doon. The uether Is uery dry hir. I
Could not plant any tris this year withut Emediet uatring ; the Ingin
In this kess Is of ueri great use to us. On seterday feberuar the
last I Reciued the frut tris from neulistoun, uhich I haue planted
all of them In Earth that neuer had ben used befor, which I houp
will be ueri helpfull to the them. I got allso som vins, to uit, the
Rid fruntonis vin, and the whit mus Cadin vin, and the Rid Corant
vin, with som figs ; but the figs ar sukers ; It Is long or they bir. I
haue led all the lo branches of the fig in the old garden, uhich uill be
Exslent plants next year. I haue Remoued the old berik of the perter
uhich meks that pies look much beter then It Coulld Qhave] don other
uays. I haue ueri great us for gras seeds this year, I hauing Dubell
the ground to sow this year that Euer I had befor. I haue gathered all
the hay sids about the hay staks, but It uill not nir ser me ; I uold
Rether let the ualks grou of themsellues befor I uold so any Rygras
sid on them. I got a leter from Irland last uik, giuen me ane acount
that the yeus and sherubs wold be ouer in short tim. The uork I am
nou about Is the finishin of the uork I haue ben about this uintr,
which I beliue uill be uork Enugh till the tim the gardens alredi med
be unting ther deu kiping ; neuer the less, I shall fell In nothing I am
Capebell to geet don. I haue taken the ashes of the bullingren ; It
apers to be ueri much the beter. I haue altered the litel mount on
Colcaldi Park Dik to the Center lin of the grauell uallk that gos from
the bullingren, It bing much mor agriabell then it was uhen of at a sid.
I disin to plant seuerall of the uallks In the sid next the bullingren,
uher ther is no hedges, with pirimid holis and yeus, Is all at present I
haue to trubell your lordshep uith, uishing god may send your lordshep
safe and ueri shon to gallauay. If I Durst beg your lordshep ansuer
Concerning uhat your lordshep uold haue Doon, It uold be ueri satis-
fing to him who Disirs faithfulli to serue your Lordshep, uhill I am,
Thomas M'Calla.
Castellkenedy, Jan r ye 5 th 1738.
I Reciued your lordshep's leter of The Tenth of dcember. I am
nou Diging the ground to Inlarg the planting at the baluadair as your
lordshep ordered. I am also Remouing that strip of planten on the
uest sid of the flouring sherub uildernes, the Alterations that uas mcd
172
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
the last year and this on both sids of the flouring sherub uildernes, and
the perter beutyfing that sid to perfection from mount malborou and
mount Eliner ; ther can be no finer prospect then it nou is. I am still
continuing the pruning the tris in the garden. I haue begon to plant
the bre at the whyt loch sid as ue com in from the loch End ; I haue
planted a lin of uery good bich at the foot of the bre. I uas obledged
to fors Earth to plant them in, for ther is no Earth in that bre ; it is a
lous dry runin sand ; if the under lin of tris grou, it uill Couer that
bre uery uell ther. Ther is no tri uill grou on the fac of that bre, it
bing so lous dray sand, without any mixter of Earth ; so it is the planten
at the fot of the bre most beutyfar it. It is uery uet nou about the
burns at ochtelur : ue Canot yet begen to plant ther ; but I set them
to uork to res alders at the loch sid hir, and resing and gatherin all the
tris that ue Can get to plant at Ochtelur. Uhen the tris is all resed
and redy at hand, they uill be son planted uhen the uether grous drier.
Your lordshep disirs me to giue som money to the masons hir, but I
ashour your lordshep I haue not on peny to my sellf. Your lordshep
ordered Mr. Roos to giue me tuenty pound of my by gon uages, but
he uold not giue me on farthen. I am uery sor straitned, for som
money I am deu to som pipell hir Causes me nou to aplay to your
lordshep for rellif. Mr. Rooss uill not giue me my liuery meall till he
got neu ordors from your lordshep ; so I houp your lordshep uill mind
to ordor me my liuery meall as formerly. I thank god I haue your
lordshep to aply to ; I sie hou it uold be uith me uer it otheruays. I
sent to Charles fergeson the glaser about the glas for the melons : he
sims to be uery nis about it ; yet he sent me uord that I uold get it.
Your lordshep disired me to let you knou uhat I uold uant for the gar-
dens and my sellf. I uill uant nothing for the gardens this seson but
the fir sid. If the old garden uall had ben Rough Cast, I uold uanted
som tris to a planted on it. I uold be glad that your lordshep uold
ordor it to be Rough Cast this spring that it might be planted in
October. The uether hes ben prety much inclind to rain thes thre uiks
past, and an strong uind, but hes not hindered me any thing as to my
uork. I uish your lordshep and my ledy stairs a uery good neu year,
and mony of them, is al at present from your lordshep most humbell
and obedent sert
Thomas M'Calla.
Castle-Kennedy was burned by some accident in the time of the
Marshal Earl of Stair, when the family were compelled to occupy the
buildings at Culhorn, about a mile-and-a-half distant. These had been
ON THE PICTURESQUE. 173
originally erected as barracks for the reception of his lordship's regi-
ment of dragoons, the Scots Greys — and each succeeding proprietor
having added his own desideratum to the buildings, this has ever since
continued to be the family mansion in that quarter. In approaching
the ancient place from Culhorn, as matters now are, you enter by a
gate into a straight avenue between trees of not many years' growth,
down the long vista, between which the eye is carried to the waters of
the White Loch, and quite across its surface to the neck of land beyond
it, where it travels up another avenue leading from the lake to the
point where rise the picturesque ruins of the old castle. Having
reached the margin of the lake, the road sweeps away to the right and
runs around the shore under a high sloping bank, still fortunately
covered with those beeches alluded to by Mr. M'Calla in his last letter,
as having been planted by him " at the foot of the bre," and which are
now of large growth. The road then diving through some younger
wood, comes to a sudden turn, whence it descends directly on a
handsome old bridge, which carries it across a straight artificial canal
of connection between the two lakes, which thus converts the neck of
land into a peninsula. Immediately on crossing the bridge, a walled
garden is seen occupying the ground to the right, and the road climbs
an ascent, under ancient trees, and amidst formally cut banks, until
reaching the extremity of a straight avenue, you are by it enabled to
drive, by a gentle ascent, quite up to the large open space where stand
the ruins of the castle, with the formally cut ground, and shaven turf
sloping away from it. There much of the original plan of the place
becomes intelligible, though grievously devastated and ruined by the
remorseless hatchet of the predecessor of the present Earl, which,
judging from the roots of the felled trees yet remaining in the ground,
must have committed slaughter, right and left, without the smallest
discrimination. There seems to have been no particle of judicious
thought exerted by him who wielded the murderous weapon, which,
whilst he was bent upon the slaughter of a certain value of timber,
might have led him to have produced the money by thinning out the
several groves, and so to have left the plan itself entire. This would
have been too troublesome, as well as tedious and inconvenient from its
delay. The axe was therefore applied at one angle of a grove, and on
it went felling all before it, till every individual of the whole phalanx
lay prostrate. No longer does one formal grove now " nod at its
brother" — but here and there they stand sighing in the wind for those
which are now departed. And then as to individual trees — hollies,
ilexes, and yews — all of the grandest growth — have been mingled in
174
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
one common destruction with the more ordinary forest timber. But,
with all this, no one can look upon the scene without entertaining
some feeling of thankfulness that so much wood, and so many fine
evergreens should have been permitted yet to remain, and that the
present Earl should still have so much left to encourage him in the
work of restoration — as to the propriety of which my humble judgment
was immediately formed the moment I saw the place. Indeed, any
man of taste would require nothing more than a glance at the place, and
a consideration of the great scale on which its plan is carried out, to be
at once of opinion that its restoration should be immediate and com-
plete. Although formality is strictly observed throughout ev T ery part
of it, yet it is replete with these two great charms, intricacy and
variety. These would of themselves be sufficient to save the whole
from condemnation. But when we come to look upon it as associated
with the recollections of its antiquity — whilst we feel that we cannot
walk through it without in fancy descrying gay young men and lovely
women traversing its alleys — seen at a distance as we cross its vistas —
or seated in sportive yet decorous groups upon its smooth shaven turf,
forming Watteau pictures in every direction — or floating in gilded
gondolas on the unruffled bosom of either of its lakes, whilst the de-
parting rays of a hot summers sun pour all their glories over its surface
— and soft sounds of lutes, and mingled voices come stealing on the
ear ; every mind embued with taste must call aloud for its restoration.
How then is this best to be effected ? — To begin with the mansion :
my love for the old Scottish style of house is so great, that under other
circumstances I should have been disposed to have recommended the
restoration of the ruins of the old castle, with such additions in the
same style as might be required ; but as it is of an era of construction
many ages previous to that of the grounds, I think it would now be
better to remove it entirely, and to raise on its site a lengthened pile
of structure, of a size proportioned to the grandeur of the subject, and
— parva componere magnis — of a character somewhat resembling that
of Versailles. This should stand on a noble Roman arched architec-
tural terrace running east and west on the ridge. The geometrical
shapes into which the ground was originally formed must all be perfectly
restored, together with all these geometrical groves which were so cruelly
sacrificed; and in order that the trees may rush quickly up into maturity
every possible means and appliance must be used, and the same means
must be employed to force up the boundary hedges, which must all be of
yew or holly. As these last grow up I would have them clipped with
the most scrupulous attention ; but I would not carry the topiary art
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
175
upwards to the trees rising above them, not only because the older
groves that still remain have long since so far escaped from the thraldom
of the shears, as to render any attempt to subject them again to their
dominion utterly hopeless — but because I think that a better effect will
be produced by allowing nature a certain license in this particular. In
my plantations I should avail myself of all the advantages which the
immensely extensive recent introduction and domestication of foreign
trees and shrubs now afford. Moreover, I should introduce every
thing that could be effected by fountains, architecture, or sculpture, to
aid me in producing a perfect whole ; and I would likewise carry out
the execution of all those parts from the old original plan noticed
above, where the present state of things would admit of the introduc-
tion of them. Perhaps the reader may ask whether my suggestion,
that the whole of this extensive peninsula should thus be laid off with
the square rule and plummet, is not at variance with what I have
already maintained, that such formality ought not to go much beyond
the immediate environs of the house ; but let it be remembered that
the limit of its actual extent must depend entirely on the scale on which
the whole is carried on. I would hold that the whole seventy-one acres
of the peninsula of Castle-Kennedy ought to be considered as the archi-
tectural garden that is to be in conjunction with the mansion ; and then
beyond the two lakes — and in the country surrounding them — I would
produce so great an extent of woody wilderness, as would reduce that
of the seventy-one acres of artificially formed ground into its due propor-
tion, and give it full value from the happy contrast it would produce,
softened as that contrast would be by the intervention of the two broad
sheets of water afforded by the lakes. This, therefore, in my estimation,
ought not to be considered as any infringement on the doctrine, that the
formality of the rectilinear style should never be permitted to push itself
too far into the neighbouring grounds, seeing that the proper distance
to which it is to be allowed to go must always be relative to the magni-
tude of the mansion, and the extent of the subject to be worked upon,
and besides this, in the case of Castle-Kennedy, which is a subject quite
unique in itself, the nearer margins of the two lakes and the canal, are
there the natural boundaries for this species of architectural gardening.
_E.]
But when carried far beyond the precincts of the house, the old style
had indisputably defects and absurdities of the most obvious and striking
kind. Kent, therefore, is entitled to some praise, as other reformers
who have broken through narrow, inveterate, long-established pre-
judices ; and who, thereby, have prepared the way for more liberal
176
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
notions, although, by their own practice and example, they may have
substituted other narrow prejudices and absurdities in the room of those
which they proscribed. It must be owned, at the same time, that, like
other reformers, he and his followers demolished, without distinction,
the costly and magnificent decorations of past times, and all that had
been long held in veneration ; and among them, many things which still
deserved to have been respected and adopted. Such, however, is the
zeal and enthusiasm with which, at the early period of their success,
novelties of every kind are received, that the fascination becomes
general, and the few who may then see their defects, hardly dare to
attack openly, what a multitude is in arms to defend. It is reserved for
those, who are further removed from that moment of sudden change and
strong prejudice, to examine the merits and defects of both styles.
But how are they to be examined ? By those general and unchanging
principles, which best enable us to form our judgment of the effect of
all visible objects, but which, for the reasons I before have mentioned,
are very commonly called the principles of painting.* These general
principles, not those peculiar to the practice of the art, are, in my idea,
universally applicable to every kind of ornamental gardening, in the
most confined as well as the most enlarged sense of the word. My
business at present is almost entirely with the latter, with what may be
termed the landscapes and the general scenery of the place, whether
under the title of grounds, lawn, park, or any other denomination.
^Nothing can be more truly sensible than this distinction. Were the
principles peculiarly applicable to the mere practice of the art of paint-
ing to be absolutely employed as the rules of landscape gardening, we
should not only find that this latter art would be bound in fetters of
the most tyrannical description, but the effects which such a system
would produce would be lamentably deficient. I am quite prepared
to support the opinion, that the principles by which the landscape
gardener ought to be guided, are those general principles which are to
be gathered from the study of the best works of landscape painters,
which, by the way, will be found to be principles fully as valuable for
enabling the professor of landscape gardening to guard against error,
as for giving him hints for the composition of real scenery. It is im-
possible to create a real landscape, with its foreground, middleground,
and distance, that can be capable of producing its effect from more than
one point. Then the attempt to produce any one such perfect picture as
this may ruin the general composition of the place in fifty other different
* Page 64.
UN THE PICTURESQUE.
177
points. Yet, if the distance be within the power of the improver, and,
at the same time, if it be not beyond the reach of improvable effect —
such improvements may be made upon its wooding or otherwise, as
may make it a more pleasing feature when viewed from any part of the
grounds. The middle-grounds must of course alter their position, as well
as their appearance, with relation to the distance, whenever the spectator
moves from one point of view to another. But all these various points
should be duly considered and studied, and such alterations made on the
middle-grounds, whether by addition to, or reduction from their masses
— or by the opening or the loosening of their groves or woods, as may,
if possible, leave them at least inoffensive to the eye, from whatsoever
part of the place they may be viewed. As to foregrounds, it is well to
attend to and heighten the effect which they may produce from some
of the more important points. But in doing this, as well as in his in-
terference with those parts of the grounds which have the relation of
middle-grounds to that which may be considered as the most important
distance, he must take care that he may be guilty of no operation which
may in any degree injure the general effect and character of the place,
cither when it is considered as a place to look at, or as a place to ramble
through and enjoy. If we study the manner in which Claude designs
his pictures, we shall find that from his clearly made out, though very
frequently deep-shadowed foreground, he carries your eye directly into
his middle-grounds, which are varied, and often of great expanse. But
you cannot in reality go into his canvass to try the landscape from
another point. If, then, you could compare a real scene which, when
beheld from one particular point, should be equal to such a picture, it
may be easily imagined that great sacrifices would be required through-
out the whole extent of the pleasure-grounds, in order to its production.
This one example appears to me to be sufficient to explain how neces-
sary it is to sacrifice these principles, which are peculiar to the practice
of the art of painting, in order to submit one's self to the guidance of
those great general principles, which may be collected from a liberal
study of the works of the best masters, whence the landscape gardener
may gather enlarged views, which will at least preserve him from the
risk of doing anything to outrage nature. These remarks, however,
are mostly applicable to what may be termed truly English places ;
for in the more romantic parts of our islands, there are spots, where a
very gentle but judicious exercise of the hatchet, for perhaps not more
than a quarter of an hour, may possibly open up that, which even the
most fastidious artist would call a perfect picture — and where, by the
exercise of the same means for one whole day, a whole series of pic-
tures, each entirely different from the rest, might be produced, and this
M
178
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
without doing the smallest injury to the great general effect of the
place. But this can only be the case where the surrounding features
are universally bold ; and the exception by no means impairs the
strength of the general remark. — E.]]
With respect to Kent, and his particular mode of improving, I can
say but little from my own knowledge, having never seen any works
of his that I could be sure had undergone no alteration from any of his
successors ; but Mr. W alpole, by a few characteristic anecdotes, has
made us perfectly acquainted with the turn of his mind, and the extent
of his genius.
A painter, who, from being used to plant young beeches, introduced
them almost exclusively into his landscapes, and who even in his designs
for Spencer, whose scenes were so often laid,
u infra Tombrose piante
D\intica selva,"
still kept to his little beeches, must have had a more paltry mind than
falls to the common lot. It must also have been as perverse as it was
paltry ; for as he painted trees without form, so he planted them with-
out life, and seems to have imagined that circumstance alone would
compensate for want of bulk, of age, and of grandeur of character.
I may here observe, that it is almost impossible to remove a large old
tree, with all its branches, spurs, and appendages ; and without slich
qualities as greatness of size, joined to an air of grandeur and of high
antiquity, a dead tree should seldom if ever be left, especially in a con-
spicuous place. To entitle it to such a station, it should be " majestic
even in ruin :" a dead tree which could be moved, would, from that
very circumstance, be unfit for moving. Those of Kent's^ were pro-
bably placed where they would attract the eye ; for it is rare that any
improver wishes to conceal his efforts.
If I have spoken thus strongly of a man, who has been celebrated in
prose and in verse as the founder of an art almost peculiar to this country,
and from which it is supposed to derive no slight degree of glory, I have
done it to prevent (as far as it lies in me) the bad effect which too
great a veneration for first reformers is sure to produce — that of inter -
esting national vanity in the continuance and protection of their errors.
The task which I have taken upon myself, has been in all ages in-
vidious and unpopular. "With regard to Kent, however, I thought it
particularly incumbent upon me to show that he was not one of those
great original geniuses, who, like Michael Angelo, seem born to give
the world more enlarged and exalted ideas of art ; but, on the contrary,
that in the art he did profess, and from which he might be supposed to
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
179
have derived superior lights with respect to that of gardening, his ideas
were uncommonly mean, contracted, and perverse. Were I not to show
this plainly and strongly, and without any affected candour or reserve,
it might be said to me with great reason — you assert that a knowledge
of the principles of painting is the first qualification for an improver :
the founder of English gardening was a professed artist, and yet you
object to him !
Kent, it is true, was by profession a painter, as well as an improver ;
but we may learn from his example, how little a certain degree of
mechanical practice will qualify its possessor to direct the taste of a
nation in either of those arts.
The most enlightened judge, both of his own art and of all that re-
lates to it, is a painter of a liberal and comprehensive mind, who has
added extensive observation and reflection to practical execution ; and
if, in addition to those natural and acquired talents, he likewise possess
the power of expressing his ideas clearly and forcibly in words, the
most capable of enlightening others. To such a rare combination we owe
Sir Joshua Reynolds' Discourses — the most original and impressive work
that ever was published on his, or possibly on any art. On the other
hand, nothing so contracts the mind as a little practical dexterity,
unassisted and uncorrected by general knowledge and observation, and
by a study of the great masters. An artist, whose mind has been so
contracted, refers every thing to the narrow circle of his own ideas and
execution, and wishes to confine within that circle all the rest of man-
kind.
I remember a gentleman who played very prettily on the flute,
abusing all Handel's music ; and to give me every advantage, like a
generous adversary, he defied me to name one good chorus of his writing.
It may well be supposed that I did not accept the challenge — cetoit
bien I'embarras des richesses: and indeed he was right in his own way
of considering them, for there is not one that would do well for his
instrument.
Before I enter into any particulars, I will make a few observations
on what I look upon as the great general defect of the present system ;
not as opposed to the old style, which I believe, however, to have been
infinitely more free from it, but considered by itself singly, and without
comparison. That defect, the greatest of all, and the most opposite to
the principles of painting, is want of connection — a passion for making
every thing distinct and separate. All the particular defects which I
shall have occasion to notice, in some degree arise from and tend
towards this original sin.
180
SIR UVEDALK PRICK
Whoever lias examined with attention the landscapes of eminent
painters, must have observed how much art and study they have em-
ployed, in contriving that all the objects should have a mutual relation —
that nothing should be detached in such a manner as to appear totally
insulated and unconnected, but that there should be a sort of continuity
throughout the whole. He must have remarked how much is effected,
where the style of scenery admits of it, by their judicious use of every
kind of vegetation — from the loftiest trees, through all their different
growths, down to the lowest plants — so that nothing should be crowded,
nothing bare; no heavy uniform masses, no meagre and frittered patches.
As materials for landscape, they noticed, and often sketched, wherever
they met with them, the happiest groups, whether of trees standing-
alone, or mixed with thickets and underwood ; observing the manner
in which they accorded with and displayed the character of the ground,
and produced intricacy, variety, and connection. All that has just
been mentioned, is as much an object of study to the improver as to the
painter. The former, indeed, though in some parts he may preserve the
appearance of wildness and of neglect, in others must soften it, and in
others again exchange it for the highest degree of neatness ; but there
is no part where a connection between the different objects is not re-
quired, or where a just degree of intricacy and enrichment would inter-
fere with neatness. Every professor, from Kent nearly down to the
present time, has proceeded on directly opposite principles. The first
impression received from a place where one of them has been employed,
is that of general bareness, and particular heaviness and distinctness ;
indeed, their dislike or neglect of enrichment, variety, intricacy, and
above all of connection, is apparent throughout. Water, for instance,
particularly requires enrichment — they make it totally naked ; the
boundaries in the same degree require variety and intricacy — they
make them almost regularly circular ; and, lastly, as it calls for all the
improver's art to give connection to the trees in the open parts, they
make them completely insulated. One of their first operations is to clear
away the humbler trees — those bonds of connection which the painter
admires, and which the judicious improver always touches with a cautious
hand; for however minute and trifling the small connecting ties and bonds
of scenery may appear, they are those by which the more considerable
objects in all their different arrangements are combined, and on which
their balance, their contrast, and diversity, as well as union depends.
It would be hardly less absurd to throw out all the connecting particles
in language, as unworthy of being mixed with the higher parts of
speech. Our pages would then be a good deal like our places, when all
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
181
the conjunctions, prepositions, &c., were cleared away, and the nouns
and verbs clumped by themselves. Water, when accompanied by
trees and bushes variously arranged, is often so imperceptibly united
with land, that in many places the eye cannot discover the perfect spot
and time of their union ; yet is no less delighted with that mystery,
than with the thousand reflections and intricacies which attend it.
What is the effect, when those ties are not suffered to exist ? You
everywhere distinguish the exact line of separation ; the water is
bounded by a distinct and uniform edge of grass ; the grass by a similar
edge of wood ; the trees, and often the house, are distinctly placed
upon the grass — all separated from whatever might group with them,
or take off from their solitary insulated appearance. In every thing you
trace the hand of a mechanic, not the mind of a liberal artist.
I will now proceed to the particulars, and will beg the reader to keep
in his mind the ruling principle I have just described, and of which I
shall display the different proofs and examples.
No professor of high reputation seems for some time to have appeared
after Kent, [[save Wright, who was more of a draftsman than an actual
worker out of plans — E.] till at length, that the system might be carried
to its ne plus ultra, (no very distant point) arose the famous Mr. Brown,
who has so fixed and determined the forms and lines of clumps, belts,
and serpentine canals, and has been so steadily imitated by his followers,
that had the improvers been incorporated, their common seal, with a
clump, a belt, and a piece of made water, would have fully expressed
the whole of their science, and have served them for a model as well as
a seal.
What Ariosto says of a grove of cypresses, has always struck me in
looking at made places,
" Che parean d'una stampa tutte impresse."
They seem " cast in one mould, made in one frame so much so,
that I have seen places on which large sums had been lavished, so com-
pletely out of harmony with the landscape around them, that they gave
me the idea of having been made by contract in London, and then sent
down in pieces, and put together on the spot.
It is very unfortunate that this great legislator of our national taste,
whose laws still remain in force, should not have received from nature,
or have acquired by education, more enlarged ideas. Claude Lorraine
was bred a pastry-cook, but in every thing that regards his art as a
painter, he had an elevated and comprehensive mind ; nor in any part
of his works can we trace the meanness of his original occupation.
182
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
Mr. Brown was bred a gardener, and having nothing of the mind or
the eye of a painter, he formed his style (or rather his plan) upon the
model of a parterre ; and transferred its minute beauties, its little
clumps, knots, and patches of flowers, the oval belt that surrounds it,
and all its twists and crincum crancums, to the great scale of nature.
This ingenious device of magnifying a parterre, calls to my mind a
story I heard many years ago. A country parson, in the county where
I live, speaking of a gentleman of low stature, but of extremely pom-
pous manners, who had just left the company, exclaimed, in the simplicity
and admiration of his heart, " quite grandeur in miniature, I protest !"
This compliment reversed, would perfectly suit the shreds and patches
that are so often stuck about by Mr. Brown and his followers, amidst
the noble scenes they disfigure ; where they are as contemptible, and as
much out of character, as Claude's first edifices in pastry would appear
in the dignified landscapes he has painted.
We have, indeed, made but a poor progress, by changing the formal,
but simple and majestic avenue, for the thin circular verge called a belt ;
and the unpretending ugliness of the straight, for the affected sameness of
the serpentine canal ; but the great distinguishing feature of modern
improvement is the clump — a name, which if the first letter were taken
away, would most accurately describe its form and effect. Were it
made the object of study how to invent something, which, under the
name of ornament, should disfigure whole districts, nothing could be con-
trived to answer that purpose like a clump. Natural groups, being
formed by trees of different ages and sizes, and at different distances
from each other, often too by a mixture of those of the largest size, with
thorns, hollies, and others of inferior growth, are full of variety in their
outlines ; and from the same causes, no two groups are exactly alike.
But clumps, from the trees being generally of the same age and growth,
from their being planted nearly at the same distance in a circular form,
and from each tree being equally pressed by his neighbour, are as like
each other as so many puddings turned out of one common mould.
Natural groups are full of openings and hollows ; of trees advancing
before, or retiring behind each other — all productive of intricacy, of
variety, of deep shadows, and brilliant lights. In walking about them,
the form changes at each step ; new combinations, new lights and
shades, new inlets present themselves in succession. But clumps, like
compact bodies of soldiers, resist attacks from all quarters. Examine
them in every point of view — walk round and round them — no opening,
no vacancy, no stragglers ! but, in the true military character, Us font
face partout. I remember hearing, that when Mr. Brown was High-
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
183
Sheriff, some facetious person, observing his attendants straggling, called
out to him, " Clump your javelin men." What was intended merely as
a piece of ridicule, might have served as a very instructive lesson to the
object of it, and have taught Mr. Brown that such figures should be
confined to bodies of men drilled for the purposes of formal parade, and
not extended to the loose and airy shapes of vegetation.
The next leading feature to the clump in this circular system, and
one which, in romantic situations, rivals it in the power of creating de-
formity, is the belt. Its sphere, however, is more contracted. Clumps,
placed like beacons on the summits of hills, alarm the picturesque tra-
veller many miles off, and warn him of his approach to the enemy ; — the
belt lies more in ambuscade ; and the wretch who falls into it, and is
obliged to walk the whole round in company with the improver, will
allow that a snake with its tail in its mouth, is comparatively but a
faint emblem of eternity. It has, indeed, all the sameness and for-
mality of the avenue, to which it has succeeded, without any of its
simple grandeur ; for though in an avenue you see the same objects from
beginning to end, and in the belt a new set every twenty yards, yet
each successive part of this insipid circle is so like the preceding, that
though really different, the difference is scarcely felt ; and there is
nothing that so dulls, and at the same time so irritates the mind, as per-
petual change without variety.
The avenue has a most striking effect, from the very circumstance of
its being straight ; no other figure can give that image of a grand Gothic
aisle, with its natural columns and vaulted roof, the general mass of
which fills the eye, while the particular parts insensibly steal from it in
a long gradation of perspective. By long gradation, I do not mean a
great length of avenue. I perfectly agree with Mr. Burke, " that
colonnades and avenues of trees, of a moderate length, are without com-
parison far grander than when they are suffered to run to immense
distances." The broad solemn shade adds a twilight calm to the whole,
and makes it above all other places the most suited to meditation. To
that also its straightness contributes ; for when the mind is disposed to
turn inwardly on itself, any serpentine line would distract the atten-
tion.
All the characteristic beauties of the avenue — its solemn stillness —
the religious awe it inspires — are greatly heightened by moonlight.
This I once very strongly experienced in approaching a venerable
castle-like mansion, built in the beginning of the 15th century; — a few
gleams had pierced the deep gloom of the avenue — a large massive
tower at the end of it, seen through a long perspective, and half lighted
184
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
by the uncertain beams of the moon, had a grand mysterious effect.
Suddenly a light appeared in this tower — then as suddenly its twinkling
vanished — and only the quiet silvery rays of the moon prevailed ;
again, more lights quickly shifted to different parts of the building,
and the whole scene most forcibly brought to my fancy the times of
fairies and chivalry. I was much hurt to learn from the master of the
place, that I might take my leave of the avenue and its romantic effects,
for that a death-warrant was signed.
[[Melancholy, indeed, is the thought, that this is no solitary instance
of this barbarous species of destruction in British places. I could name
many which have come under my own observation. Some of the most
interesting associations with our early history have thus been recklessly
sacrificed beneath the chariot- wheels of the Juggernaut of modern bar-
barism. And what has been the general product of this most ruthless
massacre ? Instead of the grandeur which has just been so feelingly
described, we have an abortive attempt to force the few unfortunate
stragglers who have been spared from the slaughter, into formal
groups, which have no other effect than to mark out the line which the
whole army originally occupied when standing, so that they may serve
to inform the indignant spectator of the full extent of the atrocity that
has been committed. But even this is well, compared to the wretchedly
puerile attempts which we often see made, to manufacture the straggling
individuals that have been left into clumps, by the planting of younger
trees around them. But when speaking thus of avenues, I of course
mean that these my observations shall apply to really ancient avenues,
composed of grand ancestral timber ; for I can quite easily under-
stand the necessity which may sometimes arise for breaking up those
of younger date, and more insignificant growth, and which are con-
sequently neither possessed of grandeur of aspect, nor of ancient asso-
ciation — and with such I can conceive the propriety of making an
attempt to employ some of the trees which may be judiciously left
standing, as the nucleus of groups of younger creation. But even this
I hold to be a very difficult undertaking, and one in which it will
generally require years before the original state of things can be tho-
roughly obliterated. — E.]
The destruction of so many of these venerable approaches, is a fatal
consequence of the present excessive horror of straight lines. Sometimes,
indeed, avenues do cut through the middle of very beautiful and varied
ground, with which the stiffness of their form but ill accords, and where
it were greatly to be wished they had never been planted ; but being
there, it may often be doubtful whether they ought to be destroyed.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
185
As to saving a few of the trees, I own I never saw it done with a
good effect ; — they always pointed out the old line, and the spot was
haunted by the ghost of the departed avenue. They are, however,
not unfrequently planted, where a boundary of wood approaching to a
straight line was required ; and in such situations they furnish a walk of
more perfect and continued shade, than any other disposition of trees,
and, what is of no small consequence, they do not interfere with the rest
of the place. At a gentleman's place in Cheshire, there is an avenue
of oaks situated much in the manner I have described. Mr. Brown
absolutely condemned it ; but it now stands a noble monument of the
triumph of the natural feelings of the owner over the narrow and
systematic ideas of a professed improver. There is an essential differ-
ence between the avenue and the belt. When from the avenue you
turn either to the right or to the left, the whole country, with all its
intricacies and varieties, is open before you ; but from the belt there is
no escaping — it hems you in on all sides ; and if you please yourself
with having discovered some wild sequestered part (if such there ever be
where a belt-maker has been admitted,) or some new pathway, and are
in the pleasing uncertainty whereabouts you are, and whither it will
lead you, the belt soon appears, and the charm of expectation is over.
If you turn to either side, it keeps winding round you ; if you break
through it, it catches you at your return ; and the idea of this distinct,
unavoidable line of separation, damps all search after novelty. Far
different from those magic circles of fairies and enchanters, that gave
birth to splendid illusions — to the palaces and gardens of Alcina and
Armida — this, like the ring of Angelica, instantly dissipates every
illusion, every enchantment.
If ever a belt be allowable, it is where the house is situated in a
dead flat, and in a naked ugly country. There, at least, it cannot in-
jure any variety of ground, or exclude any distant prospect ; it will also
be the real boundary to the eye, however uniform, and any exclusion
in such cases is a benefit ; — but where there is any play of ground, and
a descent from the house, it more completely disfigures the place than
any other improvement. What most delights us in the intricacy of
varied ground, of swelling knolls, and of valleys between them, retiring
from the sight in different directions amidst trees or thickets, is that —
according to Hogarth's expression — it leads the eye a kind of wanton
chase ; this is what he calls the beauty of intricacy, and is that which
distinguishes what is produced by soft winding shapes, from the more
sudden and quickly -varying kind, which arises from abrupt and rugged
forms. All this wanton chase, as well as the effects of more wild and
186
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
picturesque intricacy, is immediately checked by any circular plan-
tation, which never appears to retire from the eye and lose itself in
the distance, never admits of partial concealments. Whatever varieties
of hills and dales there may be, such a plantation must stiffly cut across
them, so that the undulations — and what in seamen's language may
be called the trending of the ground — cannot in that case be humoured ;
nor can its playful character be marked by that style of planting, which
at once points out, and adds to its beautiful intricacy.
This may serve to show how impossible it is to plan any forms of
plantations that will suit all places, however it may suit the professors
convenience to establish such a doctrine. There is, in this respect, no
small degree of resemblance between the art of gardening and that of
medicine — in which, after the general principles have been acquired,
the judgment lies in the application ; and every case — as an eminent
physician observed to me — must be considered as a special case.
This holds precisely in improving ; and in both arts the quacks are
alike — they have no principles, but only a few nostrums, which they
apply indiscriminately to all situations, and all constitutions. Clumps
and Belts, pills and drops, are distributed with equal skill — the one
plants the right, and clears the left, as the other bleeds the east, and
purges the westward. The best improver or physician is he who
leaves most to nature — who watches and takes advantage of those in-
dications which she poiuts out when left to exert her own powers ; but
which, when once destroyed or suppressed by an empiric of either
kind, present themselves no more.
[[These remarks are most important and sensible. As the constitu-
tion of the patient must be well studied before any curative medicines
are attempted to be exhibited — or as the temper must be thoroughly
known before any system can be rationally adopted for moral ameliora-
tion — so ought the general character of a place to be duly considered
before any plans for its improvement are determined on. Perhaps the
first thing that a judicious landscape gardener should do is to endeavour
to divest himself of every thing that may have the semblance of a nos-
trum — of every thing that may savour of an universally applied sys-
tem. Having rid himself of this, he will be enabled to take his im-
pressions from the nature of the place he may be called upon to visit ;
and from these impressions, calmly and impartially formed, he will be
enabled to originate designs, which, if not likely to turn out very
striking improvements, will probably at least have the merit of creat-
ing nothing which may be afterwards considered as a decided deformity ;
— and thus, if he do not shine as a great manufacturer of landscape, he
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
187
will at least be saved from that damning fame to which some of those
who have gone before him have been irrecoverably doomed. — E.]
I have perhaps expressed myself more strongly and more at length
than I otherwise should have done, on the subject of so paltry an in-
vention as that of the belt, from the extreme disgust I felt at seeing its
effect in a place, of which the general features are among the noblest
in the kingdom. In front, the sea appears in view, embayed amidst
islands and promontories, and backed by mountains ; between the
house and the shore there is a quick, though not an abrupt descent of
ground, on which a judicious improver might have planted different
masses of wood, groups, and single trees, more or less dispersed or con-
nected together, with lawns and glades between them, gently leading
the eye among their intricacies to the shore. This would have formed
a rich and varied foreground to the magnificent distance ; and in the
approach to the sea-side, whichever way you took, would have broken
that distance, and have formed in conjunction with it a number of new
and beautiful compositions. One of Mr. Brown's successors has thought
differently ; and this uncommon display of scenery is disgraced by a
belt.
I do not remember the place in its unimproved state ; but I was told
that there was a great quantity of wood between the house and the
sea, and that the vessels appeared, as at that wonderful place, Mount
Edgecumbe, sailing over the tops, and gliding among the stems of the
trees. If so, this professor
" Has left sad marks of his destructive sway."
The method of thinning trees which has been adopted by layers out
of ground, perfectly corresponds with their method of planting ; for in
both cases they totally neglect what in the general sense of the word
may be called picturesque effects. Trees of remarkable size, indeed,
usually escape ; but it is not sufficient to attend to the giant sons of the
forest. Often the loss of a few trees, nay, of a single tree of middling
size, is of infinite consequence to the general effect of the place, by
making an irreparable breach in the outline of a principal wood —
often some of the most beautiful groups owe the playful variety of
their form, and their happy connection with other groups, to some
apparently insignificant, and to many eyes, even ugly trees. To at-
tend to all these niceties of outline, connection, and grouping, would
require much time as well as skill, and therefore a more easy and com-
pendious method has been adopted : the different groups are to be
cleared round, till they become as clump -like as their untrained natures
188
SIR UVKDALE PRICE
will allow, and even many of those outside trees which belong to the
groups themselves, and to which they owe not only their beauty, but
their security against wind and frost, are cut down without pity, if
they will not range according to a prescribed model — till, mangled,
starved, and cut off from all connection, these unhappy newly-drilled
corps
" Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves."
Even the old avenue, whose branches had intertwined with each
other for ages, must undergo this fashionable metamorphosis. The
object of the improver is to break its regularity ; but, so far from pro-
ducing that effect by dividing it into clumps, he could scarcely in-
vent a method by which its regularity would be made so manifest in
every direction. When entire, its straightness can only be seen when
you look up or down it ; viewed sideways, it has the appearance of a
thick mass of wood ; if you plant other trees before it, to them it gives
consequence, and they give it lightness and variety ; but when it is
divided, and you can see through it and compare the separate clumps
with the objects before and behind them, the straight line is apparent
from whatever point you view it. In its close array, the avenue is
like the Grecian phalanx — each tree, like each soldier, is firmly wedged
in between its companions ; its branches, like their spears, present a
front impenetrable to all attacks, but the moment this compact order
is broken their sides become naked and exposed. Mr. Brown, like
another Paulus iEmilius, has broken the firm embodied ranks of many
a noble phalanx of trees ; and in this, perhaps, more than in any other
instance, he has shown how far the perversion of taste may be carried
— for at the very time when he deprived the avenue of its shade and
its solemn grandeur, he increased its formality.
^Think of the calm enjoyment of a solitary saunter beneath the
shade of one of those magnificent old avenues, just after the sun has
sunk in a sultry summer's evening, and ere yet the black colony of
rooks and daws who are heard over head, cawing, as it were, in another
region, have quite settled down to their night's repose — only think of
this, and then conceive the atrocity of that taste which could set the
hatchet-men to work against the giant stems of those trees which ages
have been employed in bringing to perfection, during which they have
seen so many generations of human beings spring up like the grass of
the field, like it to perish under their shade. — E.]
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
189
CHAPTER XL
It is in the arrangement and management of trees that the great art of
improvement consists ; earth is too cumbrous and lumpish for man to
contend much with, and, when worked upon, its effects are flat and
dead, like its nature. But trees, detaching themselves at once from
the surface, and rising boldly into the air, have a more lively and im-
mediate effect on the eye ; they alone form a canopy over us, and a
varied frame to all other objects, which they admit, exclude, and group
with, almost at the will of the improver. In beauty they not only far
excel every thing of inanimate nature, but their beauty is complete
and perfect in itself, while that of almost every other object requires
their assistance. Without them, the most varied inequality of ground
is uninteresting. Rocks, though their variety is of a more striking
kind, and often united with grandeur, still want their accompaniment ;
and although in the higher parts of mountains trees are neither ex-
pected nor required, yet if there be none in any part of the view, a
scene of mere barrenness and desolation, however grand, soon fatigues
the eye. Water, in all its characters of brooks, rivers, lakes, and
water-falls, appears cold and naked without them ; the sea alone forms
an exception, its sublimity absorbing all idea of lesser ornaments — for
no one can view the foam, the gulf-!, the impetuous motion of that
190
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
world of waters, without a deep impression of its destructive and ir-
resistible power. But sublimity is not its only character, for after that
first awful sensation is weakened by use, the infinite variety in the forms
of the waves, in their light and shadow, in the dashing of their spray,
and, above all, the perpetual change of motion, continue to amuse the
eye in detail, as much as the grandeur of the whole possessed the mind.
It is in this that it differs, not only from motionless objects, but even
from rivers and cataracts, however diversified in their parts ; in them
the spectator sees no change from what he saw at first — the same breaks
in the current, the same falls continue — but the intricacies and varieties
of waves breaking against rocks, are as endless as their motion.
[T have enjoyed indescribable pleasure from sitting, as I have done
for hours, to watch the play of the waves beating in upon a rocky
coast, especially where numberless broken ledges of lower rocks encum-
bered the beach at the base of the loftier cliffs. The variety of their
forms and motion is indeed endless. Now the surge comes on in one
wide heave, swelling and mounting as it advances, until its crest rises
thin and sharp, and it breaks over rapidly along its whole line, with a
noise like the hollow discharge of artillery. It was like the advancing
line of an army before, but now its order of battle is broken by the shock,
whilst its numerous parts, like the brave irregular groups into which
the battle-line has been divided, still press onward, each towards that
point against which chance or circumstances may have directed it
— some running rapidly in through the narrow straits between the
rocks — others rushing against the perpendicular masses, and raging furi-
ously over them — whilst others, hurrying with a hissing noise, and with
the speed of the race-horse, up the inclined plane of some rough limpet-
covered ledge, pour over its fractured edges to landward, in a thousand
fantastical cascades ; — and then the meeting again of these various broken
bodies of water, tossing, and tumbling, and foaming, and producing ten
thousand sonorous eddies, almost bewilders the ears as well as the eyes of
the spectator. And thus wave succeeds wave, with infinite magnificence,
each to produce new effects, as the tide advances, and to give birth to
ever-changeful glories, which are perpetually altered too by the fitful
lights and shadows that may fall upon them, and which are continually
raising a chorus of sounds, which might have well begotten the fabled
superstition of the mingled music of the sea -nymphs and tritons. To
paint such an ever-varying subject as this might well be considered as
beyond the powers of the pencil. Yet it has been often attempted, and
by no one with more frequency, or with more perfect success, than by
that most successful modern painter of coast scenes, the late — alas for
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
191
art that we should now be compelled to call him so — Reverend John
Thomson of Duddingstone, whose matchless seas are so enlivened with
apparent motion, that one almost fancies that their sound is audible.
Whilst engaged in thus observing the surges breaking on the coast, I
have imagined that I could trace a regular and gradual alternate rise
and fall in the size of the waves. I fancied that I could perceive that
each succeeding wave was larger than that which had preceded it, till
they arrived at their climax — and that they then gradually subsided in
magnitude, to rise again through a similar gradation. But it would
require more observation than circumstances have as yet enabled me to
bestow, to ascertain the accuracy of the remark, that they observe regular
numbers in their rise and fall. The most sublime effects of the sea break-
ing upon a rocky coast, will be those produced by a storm. But I should
rather say that the time most favourable for observing the changeful
intricacies and varieties of the play of its waves among rocks, is when
it is heaved up, and thrown in upon the shore in these long high surges
which are created by what is called a heavy ground-swell. — E.^]
There are situations where trees succeed near the sea, but it is only
where it is land-locked ; and in such cases, though their combination,
as at Mount Edgecumbe, £and at Roseneath also, and various other
places on the western-coast of our island — E.] is no less beautiful than
uncommon, the sea itself loses its grand imposing character, and puts on
something of the appearance of a lake. Then it is that trees are neces-
sary ; for a lake bounded by naked ground, or by naked rocks, forms a
dull or a rude landscape; but let one change only be made — let the sea
break against those rocks — and trees will no longer be thought of.
As, in addition to its sublime character, the intricacy and variety of its
waves render the sea independent of trees, so those are the two qualities
in trees, which render them of such importance in all inland situations,
especially in those of a tame unvaried character ; and so great is their
power of correcting monotony, that, by their means, even a dead flat
may become highly interesting.
The infinite variety of their forms, tints, and light and shade, must
strike every body ; the quality of intricacy they possess in as high a
degree, and in a more exclusive and peculiar manner. Take a single
tree only, and consider it in this point of view. It is composed of
millions of boughs, sprays, and leaves, intermixed with and crossing
each other in as many directions, while through the various openings
the eye still discovers new and infinite combinations of them ; yet in
this labyrinth of intricacy there is no unpleasant confusion — the general
effect is as simple as the detail is complicate. Ground, rocks, and
192
SIR UVEDALK PRICE
buildings, where the parts are much broken, become fantastic and
trifling, besides, they have not that loose pliant texture so well adapted
to partial concealment ; — a tree, therefore, is perhaps the only object
where a grand whole, or at least what is most conspicuous in it, is
chiefly composed of innumerable minute and distinct parts.
To show how much those who ought to be the best judges consider
the qualities I have mentioned, no tree, however large and vigorous,
however luxuriant the foliage, will highly interest the painter, if it pre-
sent one uniform unbroken mass of leaves ; while others, not only infe-
rior in size and in thickness of foliage, but of forms which might induce
some improvers to cut them down, will attract and fix their attention.
The reasons of this preference are obvious ; but as on these reasons,
according to the ideas I have formed, the whole system of planting,
pruning, and thinning, for the purpose of ornament, depends, I must be
allowed to dwell a little longer on them.
In a tree, of which the foliage is everywhere full and unbroken,
there can be but little variety of form ; then, as the sun strikes only
on the surface, neither can there be much variety of light and shade;
and as the apparent colour of objects changes according to the different
degrees of light or of shade in which they are placed, there can be as
little variety of tint.
" Lux varium vivumque dabit, nullum umbra colorem."
And, lastly, as there are none of those openings that excite and nourish
curiosity, but the eye is everywhere opposed by one uniform leafy
screen, there can be as little intricacy as variety. What is here said
of a single tree is equally true of every massy combination of them,
and appears to me to account perfectly for the bad effect of clumps,
and of all plantations and woods where the trees grow close together.
In all these cases the effect is in one respect much worse. We are
disposed to admire the bulk of a single tree, the ipse nemus, though its
form should be heavy ; but there is a meanness, as well as a heaviness
in the appearance of a lumpy mass produced by a multitude of little
steins.
What are the qualities that painters do admire in single trees, groups,
and woods, may easily be concluded from what they do not ; the detail
would be infinite, for, luckily, where art does not interfere, the absolute
exclusions are few. If their taste be preferable to that of gardeners, it
is clear that there is something radically bad in the usual method of
making and managing plantations ; it otherwise would never happen
that the woods and arrangements of trees which they are least disposed
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
193
to admire, should be those made for the express purpose of ornament.
Under that idea, the spontaneous trees of the country are often excluded
as too common, or admitted in small proportions, whilst others of pe-
culiar form and colour take place of oak and beech. But of whatever
trees the established woods of the country are composed, the same, I
think, should prevail in the new plantations, or those two grand prin-
ciples, harmony and unity of character, will be destroyed. It is very
usual, however, when there happens to be a vacant space between two
woods, to fill it up with firs, larches, &c. ; if this be done with the idea
of connecting those woods, which should be the object, nothing can be
more opposite than the effect. Even plantations of the same species re-
quire time to make them accord with the old growths ; but such harsh
and sudden contrasts of form and colour make these insertions for ever
appear like so many awkward pieces of patch- work — and surely, if a
man were reduced to the necessity of having his coat pieced, he would
wish to have the joinings concealed, and the colour matched, and not
to be made a harlequin.
It is not enough that trees should be naturalised to the climate — they
must also be naturalised to the landscape, and mixed and incorporated
with the natives. A patch of foreign trees planted by themselves in
the outskirts of a wood, or in some open corner of it, mix with the
natives much like a group of young Englishmen at an Italian conver-
sazione. But when some plant of foreign growth appears to spring up
by accident, and shoots out its beautiful, but less familiar foliage among
our natural trees, it has the same pleasing effect as when a beautiful
and amiable foreigner has acquired our language and manners so as to
converse with the freedom of a native, yet retains enough of original
accent and character, to give a peculiar grace and zest to all her words
and actions.
Trees of a dark colour, or a spire-like form, though when planted in
patches they have such a motley appearance, may be so grouped with
the prevailing trees of the country, as to produce infinite richness and
variety, and yet seem part of the original design ; but it appears to be
an established rule, that plantations made for ornament, should, both
in form and substance, be as distinct as possible from the woods of the
country, so that no one may doubt an instant what are the parts which
have been improved. Instead, therefore, of giving to nature that " rich,
ample, and flowing robe which she should wear on her throned emi-
nence," instead of " hill united to hill with sweeping train of forest,
with prodigality of shade," she is curtailed of her fair proportions,
pinched and squeezed into shape, and the prim squat clump is perched
N
194
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
up exactly on the top of every eminence. Sometimes, however, where
the extent is so great that common-sized clumps would make no figure,
it has been very ingeniously contrived to consolidate (and I am sure
the word is not improperly used) several of them in one larger lump,
and these condensed, unwieldy masses, are at random stuck about the
grounds.
Mr. Mason's Poem on Modern Gardening, is so well known to all
who have any taste for the subject, or for poetry in general, that it is
hardly necessary to say that the words between the inverted commas
are chiefly taken from it. In the part from which I have taken these
two passages, he has pointed out the noblest style of planting, in a style
of poetry no less noble and elevated.
£He concludes his treatment of the part of his subject which regards
planting, with these happy lines : —
" Instruction now
Withdraws ; she knows her limits; knows that grace
Is caught by strong perception, not from rules —
That undrest Nature claims for all her limbs
Some simple garb peculiar, which, howe'er
Distinct their size and shape, is simple still.
This garb to choose, with clothing dense or thin,
A part to hide, another to adorn,
Is Taste's important task; perceptive song
From error in the choice can only warn." — E.]
In many such plantations the trees which principally show them-
selves are larches, and they produce the most complete monotony of
outline. The summits of round-headed trees, especially the oak, vary
in each tree ; but there can only be one form in those of pointed trees :
" Linea recta velut sola est, et mille recurvae."
On that account, wherever ornament is the aim, great care ought to be
taken that the general outline be round and full, and only partially
broken and varied by pointed trees, and that too many of those should
not rise above the others, so as principally to catch the eye. Now,
wherever larches are mixed, even in a small proportion, over the whole
of a plantation, the quickness of their growth, their pointed tops, and
the peculiarity of their colour, make them so conspicuous, that the
whole wood seems to consist of nothing else.
I have seen two places on a very large scale laid out by a professed
improver of high reputation, where all the defects I have mentioned
were most strikingly exemplified. Some persons have imagined, that
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
195
by a professor of high reputation I must here mean Mr. Repton ; but
these two places, which were laid out before he took to the profession,
clearly prove that it did not then require his talents to gain a high re-
putation — I hope in future it will be less easily acquired. Whatever
might be the other trees of which the separate clumps consisted, nothing
was seen above but larches ; from the multitude of their sharp points
the whole country appeared en herisson, and had much the same degree
of resemblance to natural scenery, as one of the old military plans with
scattered platoons of spearmen, has to a print after Claude or Poussin.
With all my admiration of trees, I had rather be without them thin
have them so disposed. Indeed, I have often seen hills, where the out-
line, the swellings, and the deep hollows were so striking, and where the
surface was so varied by the mixture of smooth close-bitten turf, with
the rich, though short clothing of fern, heath, or furze, and by the dif-
ferent openings and sheep-tracks among them, that I should have been
sorry to have had the whole covered with the finest wood ; nay, I
could hardly have wished for trees the most happily disposed, and, of
course, should have dreaded those which are usually placed there by
art. An improver has rarely such dread. In general the first idea that
strikes him, is that of distinguishing his property ; nor is he easy till
he has put his pitch-mark on all the summits. Indeed, this gratifies
his desire of celebrity, by exciting the curiosity and admiration of the
vulgar ; and travellers of taste will naturally be provoked to inquire —
though from another motive — to whom those unfortunate hills belong.
[1 believe I have mentioned in another work a fact regarding the
marks of such improvers, which is perhaps one of the most wonderful
on record. A gentleman in a northern county of Scotland, though he
did not exactly gratify the passing traveller by enabling him to read
his own name, actually planted the name of his place in letters that
covered a hill- side. This almost incredible piece of taste I saw and
read with my own eyes. — E.]
It is melancholy to compare the slow progress of beauty with the
upstart growth of deformity. Trees and woods planted in the most
judicious style, will not for years strongly attract the painters notice,
though the planter, like a fond parent, feels the greatest tenderness for
his children, at the time they are least interesting to others. Madame
de Sevigne, whose maternal tenderness seems to have extended itself to
her plantations, says, " Je fais jeter a bas de grands arbres, parce qu'ils
font ombrage, ou qu'ils incommodent mes jeunes enfants."
But to the defornier — a name too often synonymous to the improver
— it is not necessary that his trees should have attained their full
196
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
growth ; as soon as he has planted them in his round fences, his prin-
cipal work is done — the eye which used to follow with delight the bold
sweep of outline, and all the playful undulation of ground, finds itself
suddenly checked and its progress stopt, even by these embryo clumps.
They have the same effect on the great features of nature as an ex-
crescence on those of the human face ; in which, though the proportion
of one feature to another greatly varies in different persons, yet these
differences, like others of a similar kind in inanimate nature, give
variety of character without disturbing the general accord of the parts ;
but let there be a wart or a pimple on any prominent feature — no
dignity or beauty of countenance can detach the attention from it ;
that little, round, distinct lump, while it disgusts the eye, has a fasci-
nating power of fixing it on its own deformity. This is precisely the
effect of clumps : the beauty or grandeur of the surrounding parts only
serve to make them more horribly conspicuous ; and the dark tint of
the Scotch fir, of which they are generally composed, as it separates
them by colour, as well as by form, from every other object, adds the
last finish.
But even large plantations of firs, when they are not the natural and
the prevailing trees of the country, have a harsh and heavy look, from
their not harmonizing with the rest of the landscape ; and this is par-
ticularly the case when, as it sometimes happens, one side of a valley is
planted solely with firs, the other with deciduous trees. The common
expressions of a heavy colour, or a heavy form, show that the eye feels
an impression from objects analogous to that of weight ; thence arises
the necessity of preserving what may be called a proper balance, so that
the quantity of dark colour on one side, or in one part of the scene,
should not in any striking degree outweigh the other ; and this is a
very material point in the art of painting. If in a picture, the one half
were to be light and airy both in the forms and in the tints, and the
other half one black heavy lump, the most ignorant person would
probably be displeased, though he might not know upon what principle,
with the want of balance and of harmony ; for those harsh discordant
forms and colours, not only act more forcibly from being brought
together within a small compass, but also, because in painting they are
not authorised by fashion, or rendered familiar by custom.
One principal cause of the extreme heaviness of fir plantations is their
closeness. A planter very naturally wishes to produce some appearance
of wood as soon as possible ; he therefore sets his trees very near to-
gether, and so they generally remain, for he has seldom the resolution to
thin them sufficiently : they are consequently all drawn up together
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
197
nearly to the same height ; and as their heads touch each other, no
variety, no distinction of form can exist, but the whole is one enormous,
unbroken, unvaried mass of black. Its appearance is indeed so uni-
formly dead and heavy, that instead of those cheering ideas which arise
from the fresh luxuriant foliage, and the lighter tints of deciduous trees,
it has something of that dreary image — that extinction of form and
colour — which Milton felt from blindness ; when he who had viewed
objects with a painters eye, as he described them with a poet's fire,
was
a Presented with an universal blank
Of nature's works."
The inside of these plantations fully answers to the dreary appearance
of the outside. Of all dismal scenes it seems to me the most likely for
a man to hang himself in, though he would find some difficulty in the
execution ; for, amidst the endless multitude of stems, there is rarely a
single side branch to which a rope could be fastened. The whole wood
is a collection of tall naked poles, with a few ragged boughs near the
top; above — one uniform rusty cope, seen through decayed and decaying
sprays and branches ; below — the soil parched and blasted with the
baleful droppings ; hardly a plant or a blade of grass, nothing that can
give an idea of life or vegetation. Even its gloom is without solem-
nity ; it is only dull and dismal ; and what light there is, like that of
hell,
" Serves only to discover scenes of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades.'"
In a grove where the trees have had room to spread, (and in that
case I am very far from excluding the Scotch fir or any of the pines,)
the gloom has a character of solemn grandeur — that grandeur arises
from the broad and varied canopy over head, for as Virgil says of the
tree,
a Media ipsa ingentem sustinet umbram,"
as well as from the small number and great size of the trunks by which
the canopy is supported, and from the large uudisturbed spaces between
them ; but a close wood of firs is, perhaps, the only one from which the
opposite qualities of cheerfulness and grandeur — of symmetry and
variety — are equally excluded ; and in which, though the sight is per-
plexed and harassed by the confusion of petty objects, there is not the
smallest degree of intricacy.
Firs, planted and left in the same close array, are very commonly
made use of as screens and boundaries ; but as the lower part is of
most consequence where concealment is the object, they are, for the
198
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
reasons I mentioned before, the most improper trees for that purpose.
I will, however, suppose them to be exactly in the condition the planter
would wish, that the outer boughs, on which alone he can place any
dependence, were preserved from animals ; and that though planted
along the brow of a hill, they had escaped from wind and snow, and
the many accidents to which they are exposed in bleak situations, they
would then exactly answer to that admirable description of Mr. Mason :
" The Scottish fir
In murky file rears his inglorious head,
And blots the fair horizon."
Nothing can be more accurately, or more forcibly expressed, or raise
a juster image in the mind. Every thick unbroken mass of black,
especially when it can be compared with softer tints, is a blot ; and
has the same effect on the horizon in nature, as if a dab of ink were
thrown upon that of a Claude. This, however, is viewing it in its
most favourable state, when at least it answers the purpose of a screen,
though a heavy one; but it happens full as often that the outer boughs do
not reach above half-way down, and then, besides the long, black, even
line which cuts the horizon at the top, there is at bottom a streak of
glaring light that pierces everywhere through the meagre and naked
poles, and shows distinctly the poverty and thinness of the boundary.
Many a common hedge, with a few trees in it, that has been suffered
to grow wild, is a much more varied and effectual screen ; but there
are hedges, where yews and hollies are mixed with trees and thorns,
so thick from the ground upwards — so diversified in their outline, in the
tints, and in the light and shade, that the eye, which dwells on them
with pleasure, is perfectly deceived, and can neither see through them,
nor discover (hardly even suspect) their want of depth.
This striking contrast between a mere hedge, and trees planted for
the express purpose of concealment and beauty, affords a very useful
hint not only for screens and boundaries, but for every sort of plantation,
where variety and intricacy, not mere profit, are the objects. We may
learn from it that concealment, without which there can be no intricacy*
cannot well be produced without a mixture of the smaller growths, such
as thorns and hollies ; which being naturally bushy, fill up the lower
parts where the larger trees are apt to be bare. We may also learn in
what manner such a mixture produces variety of outline ; for in a hedge
such as I have described, the lower growths do not prevent the higher
from extending their heads, while at the same time by their different
degrees of height, more or less approaching to that of the timber trees,
they accompany and group with them, and prevent that formal discon-
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
1£9
nected appearance, which hedgerow trees left alone, after every thing
has been completely cleared from them, almost always present.
If by such means a mere single line of hedge becomes an effectual
and varied screen, of course a deeper plantation conducted on the same
principles would be a much more varied boundary, and more impene-
trable to the eye ; and it seems to me, that if this method were followed
in all ornamental plantations, it would, in a great measure, obviate the
bad effects of their being left too close, either from foolish fondness or
neglect. Suppose, for instance, that instead of the usual method of
making an evergreen plantation of firs only, and those stuck close to-
gether, the firs were planted at various distances of ten, twelve, or more
yards asunder, and that the spaces between them were filled with the
lower evergreens. All these would for some years grow up together,
till at length the firs would shoot above them all, and find nothing after-
wards to check their growth in any direction. Suppose such a wood
upon the largest scale, to be left to itself, and not a bough cut for twenty,
thirty, any number of years ; and that then it came into the hands of a
person, who wished to give variety to this rich, but uniform mass. He
might in some parts choose to have an open grove of firs only ; in that
case he would only have to clear away all the lower evergreens, and
the firs which remained, from the free unconstrained growth of their
heads, would appear as if they had been planted with that design. In
other parts he might make that beautiful forest-like mixture of open
grove, with thickets and loosely scattered trees ; of lawns and glades of
various shapes and dimensions, variously bounded. Sometimes he might
find the ground scooped out into a deep hollow, forming a sort of amphi-
theatre ; and there, in order to show its general shape, and yet preserve
its sequestered character, he might only make a partial clearing ; when
all that can give intricacy, variety, and retirement to a spot of this
kind, would be ready to his hands.
It may indeed be objected, and not without reason, that this evergreen
underwood will have grown so close, that when thinned, the plants
which are left will look bare — and bare they will look, for such must
necessarily be the effect of leaving any trees too dose. There are, how-
ever, several reasons why it is of less consequence in this case. The
first and most material is, that the great outline of the wood formed by
the highest trees, would not be affected ; another is, that these lower
trees being of various growths, some will have outstripped their fellows,
in the same proportion as the firs outstripped them ; and, consequently,
their heads will have had room to spread, and form a gradation from
the highest firs to the lowest underwood. Again, many of these ever-
200
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
greens of lower growth succeed well under the drip of taller trees, and
also (to use the figurative expression of nurserymen) love the knife :
by the pruning of some, therefore, and cutting down of others, the bare
parts of the tallest would in a short time be covered ; and the whole
of such a wood might be divided at pleasure into openings and groups,
differing in form, in size, and in degrees of concealment — from skirtings
of the loosest texture, to the closest and most impenetrable thickets.
This method is equally good in making plantations of deciduous trees,
though not in the same degree necessary as in those of firs ; and though
I have only mentioned ornamental plantations, yet, I believe, if thorns
were always mixed with oak, beech, &c, besides their use in preventing
the forest trees from being planted too close to each other, they would
by no means be unprofitable. If they were taken out before they were
too large to be moved easily, their use for hedges, and their ready sale
for that purpose, is well known ; if left longer, they are particularly
useful for filling up gaps, where smaller plants would be stifled ; and if
they remained, they would always make excellent hedge-wood, and
answer all the common purposes of underwood. For ornament, exotics
of different growths might be added ; among which, the various species
of thorns alone would furnish a considerable list.
It is not meant that the largest growths should never be planted near
each other ; some of the most beautiful groups are often formed by such
a close junction, but not when they have all been planted at the same
time, and drawn up together. A judicious improver will know when,
and how to deviate from any method, however generally good.
There are few operations in improvement more pleasant, than that of
opening gradually a scene, where the materials are not unfit for use,
but only too abundant ; the case is very different where they are
absolutely spoiled, as in a thick wood of firs. In that there is no room
for selection ; no exercise of the judgment in arranging the groups,
masses, or single trees ; no power of renewing vegetation by pruning or
cutting down ; no hope of producing the smallest intricacy or variety.
If one bare pole be removed, that behind differs from it so little, that
one might exclaim with Macbeth,
" Thy air
Is like the first — a third is like the former—
H oriible sight ! "
and so they would un variably go on,
" Though their line
Stretch \\ out to the crack of doom.'"
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
201
In contrasting the character of a close wood of firs only, with that of
the mixed evergreen plantation which I have described, I do not think
I have at all exaggerated the ugliness, and the incorrigible sameness of
the one, and the variety and beauty of which the other is capable. I
mean, however, that variety which arises from the manner in which
these evergreens may be disposed, not from the number of distinct
species. I have indeed often observed in forests, so many combinations
and picturesque effects produced merely by oak, beech, thorns, and
hollies, that one could hardly wish for more variety ; on the other hand,
I have no less frequently found the most perfect monotony in point of
composition and effect, where there was the greatest variety of trees.
It put me in mind of what is mentioned of the more ancient Greek
painters — that with only four colours, they did, what in the more degene-
rate days of the art, could not be performed with all the aid of chemistry.
Variety, of which the true end is to relieve the eye, not to perplex
it, does not consist in the diversity of separate objects, but in that of
their effects when combined together — in diversity of composition, and
of character. Many think, however, they have obtained that grand
object, when they have exhibited in one body all the hard names of the
Linnsean system ; but when as many different plants as can well be got
together are exhibited in every shrubbery, or in every plantation, the
result is a sameness of a different kind, but not less truly a sameness,
than would arise from there being no diversity at all ; for there is no
having variety of character without a certain distinctness — without
certain marked features on which the eye can dwell. In a botanical
light, such a Linnsean collection, as I have mentioned, is extremely
curious and entertaining ; but it is about as good a specimen of variety
in landscape as a line of Lilly's grammar would be of variety in poetry : —
" Et postis, vectis, vermis societur et axis.*"
A collection of hardy exotics may also be considered as a very valu-
able part of the improver's pallet, and may suggest many new and
harmonious combinations of colours ; but then he must not call the
pallet a picture.
In forests and woody commons, we sometimes come from a part
where hollies had chiefly prevailed, to another where junipers or yews
are the principal evergreens, and where, perhaps, there is the same
sort of change in the deciduous underwood. This strikes us with a
new impression ; but mix them equally together in all parts, and di-
versity becomes a source of monotony.
One great cause of the superior variety and richness of unimproved
202
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
parks and forests, when compared with lawns and dressed grounds,
and of their being so much more admired by painters, is, that the
trees and groups are seldom totally alone and unconnected ; that they
seldom exhibit either of those two principal defects in the composition
of landscapes, the opposite extremes of being too crowded or too scat-
tered ; whereas the clump is a most unhappy union of them both — it
is scattered in respect to the general composition, and close and lumpish
when considered by itself.
Single trees, when they stand alone and are round-headed, have
some tendency towards the defects of the clump ; and it is worthy of
remark, that in the Liber Yeritatis of Claude, consisting of nearly two
hundred drawings, there are not, I believe, more than three single
trees. This is one strong proof, which the works of other painters
would fully confirm, that those who most studied the effect of visible
objects, attended infinitely less to their distinct individual forms, than
to their grouping and connection.
I remember hearing what I thought a just criticism on a part of Mr.
Crabbe's poem of the Library — he has there personified Neglect, and
given her the active employment of spreading dust on books of ancient
chivalry. But in producing picturesque effects, I begin to think her
vis inertia? is in many cases a very powerful agent.*
The great sources of all that painters admire in natural scenery, are
accident and neglect ; for in forests and old parks, the rough bushes
nurse up young trees, and grow up with them ; and thence arises that
infinite variety of openings, of inlets, of glades, of forms of trees, &c.
The rudeness of many such scenes might be softened by a judicious
style and degree of clearing and smoothing, without injuring what
might be successfully imitated in the most polished parts, their varied
and intricate character.
Lawns are very commonly made by laying together a number of
fields and meadows, which are generally cleared of every thing but
the timber. When the hedges are taken away, it must be a great
piece of luck, if the trees which were in them, and those which were
scattered about the open parts, should so combine together, as to form
a connected whole. The case is much more desperate, when a layer-
out of grounds has persuaded the owner
" To improve an old family seat,
By laivning a hundred good acres of ivheat ; "
* Should this criticism induce any person who had not read the Library, to look
at the part I have mentioned, he will soon forget his motive for looking at it, in his
admiration of one of the most animated and highly poetical descriptions I ever read.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
203
for the insides of arable grounds have seldom any trees in them, and
the hedges but few ; and then clumps and belts are the usual resources.
Such an improvement, however, is greatly admired, and I have fre-
quently heard it wondered at, that a green lawn, which is so charming
in nature, should look so ill when painted. It must be owned, that
it does look miserably flat and insipid in a picture ; but that is not
entirely the fault of the painter, for it would be difficult to invent any
thing more wretchedly insipid than one uniform green surface dotted
with clumps, and surrounded by a belt. If, however, instead of such
accompaniments, we supposed a lawn to be adorned with trees disposed
in the happiest manner, still I believe it would scarcely be possible to
make a long extent of smooth uniform green interesting in a picture ;
such a scene, even painted by a Claude, would want precisely what it
wants in nature — that happy union of warm and cool, of smooth and
rough, of picturesque and beautiful, which makes the charm of his
best compositions.
But though such scenes as the great masters made choice of are much
more varied and animated than one of mere grass can be, yet I am
very far from wishing the peculiar character of lawns to be destroyed.
The study of the principles of painting would be very ill applied by
an improver, who should endeavour to give each scene every variety
that might please in a picture separately considered, instead of such
varieties as are consistent with its own peculiar character and situation,
and with the connections and dependencies it has on other objects.
Smoothness, verdure, and undulation, are the most characteristic beau-
ties of a lawn, but they are in their nature closely allied to monotony.
Improvers, instead of endeavouring to remedy that defect, towards
which those essential qualities of beauty are constantly tending, have,
on the contrary, added to it and made it much more striking, by the
disposition of their trees, and their method of forming the banks of
artificial rivers ; nor have they confined this system of levelling and
turfing to those scenes where smoothness and verdure ought to be the
ground-work of improvement, but have made it the fundamental prin-
ciple of their art.
With respect to those objects where a very different art is concerned,
the impressions are also very different. A perfectly flat square meadow,
surrounded by a neat hedge, and neither tree nor bush in it, is looked
upon not only without disgust, but with pleasure, for it pretends only
to neatness and utility, and the same may be said of a piece of arable
of excellent husbandry ; but, when a dozen pieces are laid together and
called a lawn, or a pleasure-ground, with manifest pretensions to beauty,
204
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
the eye grows fastidious, and has not the same indulgence for taste as
for agriculture. Where, indeed, men of property, either from false
taste, or from a sordid desire of gain, disfigure such scenes or buildings
as painters admire, our indignation is very justly excited — not so when
agriculture, in its general progress, as is often unfortunately the case,
interferes with picturesqueness or beauty. The painter may indeed
lament, but that science which of all others most benefits mankind, has
a right to more than his forgiveness, when wild thickets are converted
into scenes of plenty and industry, and when gipsies and vagrants give
way to the less picturesque figures of husbandmen and their attendants.
I believe the idea that smoothness and verdure will make amends
for the want of variety and picturesqueness, arises from our not distin-
guishing those qualities that are grateful to the mere organ of sight,
from those various combinations, which, through the progressive culti-
vation of that sense, have produced inexhaustible sources of delight and
admiration. Mr. Mason observes, that green is to the eye what har-
mony is to the ear ; the comparison holds throughout, for a long con-
tinuance of either, without some relief, is equally tiresome to both
senses. Soft and smooth sounds are those which are most grateful to
the mere sense ; the least artful combination, even that of a third
below sung by another voice, at first distracts the attention from the
tune — when that is got over, a Venetian duet appears the perfection of
melody and harmony. By degrees, however, the ear, like the eye, tires
of a repetition of the same flowing strain ; it requires some marks of
invention, of original and striking character as well as of sweetness, in
the melodies of a composer ; it takes in more and more intricate com-
binations of harmony and opposition of parts, not only without confu-
sion, but with delight, and with that delight (the only lasting one)
which is produced both from the effect of the whole, and the detail of
the parts. This I take to be the reason why those who are real con-
noisseurs in any art, can give the most unwearied attention to what
the general lover is soon tired of. Both are struck, though not in the
same manner or degree, with the whole of a scene ; but the painter is
also eagerly employed in examining the parts, and all the artifice of
nature in composing such a whole. The general lover stops at the
first gaze ; and I have heard it said by those who in other pursuits
showed the most discriminating taste, " Why should we look at these
things any more ? — we have seen them."
" Non ragionar di lor ; ma guarda e passa."
The having acquired a relish for such artful combinations, so far from
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
205
excluding, except in narrow pedantic minds, a taste for simple melodies
or simple scenes, heightens the enjoyment of them. It is only by such
acquirements, that we learn to distinguish what is simple from what is
bald and commonplace — what is varied and intricate from what is only
perplexed.
[^Before proceeding to plant the grounds of a place ornamentally,
it is necessary carefully to study its character — to become thoroughly
acquainted with the various inequalities of its surface — to consider also
the different soils which present themselves, and after well digesting all
these particulars, let the improver then bestow some thought upon the
question, how nature would have done the work, had she been pleased
to have executed it. Here I am presupposing the existence of two
things ; first, that the place has some variety of surface ; and secondly,
that the improver has studied the wooding of nature, which is still
abundantly to be met with in all the wilder parts of our own country,
especially in Wales, or in the Highlands of Scotland, as, for example,
in the valleys running down in all directions from the Grampians, where
the beauty of the natural woods is so very remarkable. If the place
is so utterly devoid of variety of surface as to be absolutely a dead flat,
and if it has no timber on it already, the existing arrangement of which
might suggest to the improver some design for ultimately producing
intricacy and interest, I should be disposed to advise the proprietor to
fix his residence elsewhere. But if he is reduced to the necessity of
settling there, by having no other choice, I should say that the best
advice that can well be given him, is to plant and spare not ; so that al-
though he may be able to do nothing very effectual in producing beauty,
he may at least have the gratification of seeing his trees grow, with the
hope of leaving behind him something, which his son or his grandson
may work into a place. He should always bear in mind, that trees are
more easily removed than reared, and that there is more hope of a place
where the house stands in the middle of a forest, than there can be
where it appears staring in the midst of a bare plain, without a single
tree within view. But in planting — whether in the smaller groves, or
larger woods, the different kinds of timber trees should not be mixed,
so as to produce one general uniformity of variety, if I may so express
myself ; but, for the most part, though perhaps not always, the indivi-
duals of each kind should be grouped together in considerable masses,
irregular both in form and size. The trees, moreover, should be planted
at such distances from each other, as may enable them, when grown up,
to stand without risk of much interference with each other, being well
206
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
intermixed with hollies, thorns, yews, hazels, mountain-ash, elders,
bird-cherries, junipers, and all the different kinds of trees and bushes
of smaller growth. These should especially prevail about the edges of
the grove or wood, and they should likewise be planted as much as
possible in patches of the same plants. In short, the plantations of
nature should be imitated as nearly as may be. The woods at a distance
from the site of the house should be of larger dimensions, and they
should partake more of the character of groves as they draw nearer to
it, and as they get smaller in size, the variation of the trees of which
they are composed, may become more frequent, and the groves and
woods should be so arranged, as that they may play upon one another
as you move among them — those nearer to the eye shifting upon those
that are more distant, so as to give the idea of continuity, whilst, at the
same time, the eye may have full permission to find its way in among
them in different parts. And as I should rather prefer an over-doing
than an under-doing of wood at first, so I should wish the proprietor to
be early alive to the necessity of making frequent inroads upon the
outline of his groves and woods, by carrying glades into them in certain
places, and loosening their edges in others, so as by degrees to give air,
that is relative distance, as well as nature, to the whole scene. But
the attempt to convert so utterly flat and unfavourable a subject as that
which we have now supposed to exist is rarely to be made.
Then, if the improver has never enjoyed the opportunity of studying
the manner in which nature plants, he will labour under great disad-
vantages, and must e'en make up the deficiency by availing himself a
largely as he can of the study of the works of the best landscape painters,
modern as well as ancient.
But, granting that the place which is to be improved is blessed with
some degree of variety of ground, though it should even be altogether
without any other requisite, plantation alone may in time give wonder-
ful charms to it. For then the sides of the steeps may be covered
with woods, the trees of which may be brought feathering loosely down
from the denser parts, and scattered in irregular confusion upon the
sloping lawns. Dingles and dells may be made mysteriously intricate
and interesting, by filling them with daik woods, and tangled thickets
in one place, and leaving natural openings of fairy-like turf in others,
on which the richest mellowed lights may fall. Groves and dense
coverts may clothe the knolls, and straggle towards one another with
a species of broken continuity, so as to leave no mass in a staring and
isolated condition— and the whole may thus be made to resemble a por-
tion of one of Nature's own wild woodland scenes.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
207
The question will naturally arise, how many years must elapse before
such a change could be effected on a perfectly treeless place ? The
answer to this question will naturally depend upon the nature of the
soil, and the degree of liberality of expenditure which the proprietor
may be disposed to lay out upon its plantation. But, even under cir-
cumstances the least favourable, it may be answered by any one who
has had the good fortune to read a most interesting volume called " the
Blair- Adam Book" written and printed, though not published, by my
venerable and highly respected friend the late Right Honourable William
Adam, Lord Chief Commissioner of the Jury Court in Scotland. The
origin of this work is thus graphically recorded in its own pages : — " It
was on a fine Sunday, lying on the grassy summit of Bennarty, above
its craggy brow, that Sir Walter Scott said, looking first at the flat
expanse of Kinross-shire, (on the south side of the Ochils,) and then
at the space which Blair- Adam fills between the hill of Drumglow, (the
, highest of the Cleish hills,) and the valley of Lochore, 'What an extra-
ordinary thing it is, that here to the north so little appears to have been
done, where there are so many proprietors to work upon it, and to the
south, here is a district of country entirely made by the efforts of one
family, in three generations, and one of them amongst us in the full
enjoyment of what has been done by his two predecessors and himself !
Blair- Adam, as I have always heard, had a wild, uncomely, and un-
hospitable appearance, before its improvements were begun. It would
be most curious to record in writing its original state, and trace its
gradual progress to its present condition.'" The idea thus suggested by
Sir Walter Scott, so pleased the Chief Commissioner, that he resolved
to carry it into effect, and thus was the Blair-Adam Book produced.
Before the year 1733, the property of Blair-Adam, lying in an ex-
tremely dull and unpromising country, which might be said to be entire-
ly destitute of wood, had but one solitary ash-tree upon it. The author
of the book divides the history of the progress of its improvement from
this truly hopeless state, into three distinct eras, viz : — that from 1733,
when his grandfather William Adam began his operations, to 1748, when
he died — the second era, that from 1748, when his father John Adam
succeeded, to 1702, when he died — and the third, from 1792, when the
late Lord Chief Commissioner succeeded, to the date of writing the book
in 1834. To explain more perfectly the extent of beneficial change
produced on the property during these different eras, the work is illus-
trated with four plans.
The first of these plans shows the state of the property before 1733,
with that single tree upon it, in which it had then so much reason to rejoice.
208
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
The second exhibits the state of the property, as left by the grand-
father, in 1748.
The third represents it, as left by the father, in 1792.
And the fourth gives the whole improvements on the estate as exe-
cuted up to 1834, and consequently it furnishes a valuable example of
what may be accomplished in the course of a century. There being
now about nine hundred acres of wood, great part of which is well-grown
timber, yielding without any sacrifice of beauty, a very considerable
revenue.
Mr. William Adam, the grandfather, adopted that formal style of
planting which prevailed in his time, so that the second plan, which
shows the state of the property at his death, is covered with straight
hedge-rows, bisecting each other at right angles — long avenues regular-
ly lined off, each mathematically to correspond with the other — and in
certain places circles, some of solid plantation surrounded by lawn —
and others of open lawn surrounded by the circle of trees. A refer-
ence to the third plan — that of 1792 — shows that John Adam, the
father, had not only very much increased the plantations, but that he
had succeeded in destroying the formality of the place as left by his
father, as well as in giving to it a considerable degree of intricacy and
interest. But the fourth plan, that of 1834, proves that the Lord Chief
Commissioner added both to the extent of the timber on the estate, and
to the beauty of the place, in a still greater degree.
In thus so particularly noticing Blair- Adam, I by no means desire
to bring it forward as a perfect specimen of landscape gardening. Its
late venerable and highly gifted owner himself, considered it in no other
light than as a terre ornee, where agriculture, and the necessary evils
of its accompanying fences, were objects of too great importance to be
sacrificed, and which consequently fettered the hands of taste, though
even these were executed with unusual care and judgment. My reason
for selecting Blair- Adam is rather to show how much may be made of
a place of the most unfavourable promise, by planting perseveringly,
and with some attention to the nature and form of the ground. Where
it has been possible, without sacrificing utility, to introduce touches of
beauty, such favourable opportunities have not been neglected, but have
been rendered successfully available. I need not particularize instances,
but I may mention the Glen, and the Burn, and the Kiery Craigs, all of
them objects of little interest until rendered interesting by the beautiful
manner in which they have been wooded, as well as the fruit-garden,
which, though walled on three sides, has been converted into a most in-
teresting spot, by the manner in which it has been inclosed on the south
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
209
side, and in a great measure surrounded by a wilderness, in which is to
be found intermixed a profusion of evergreen trees and shrubs of remark-
able growth. Were it a matter of prudence to make a large sacrifice
of income to absolute taste, often in itself unprofitable, I should say
that Blair- Adam is now in that very state in which a judicious land-
scape gardener, with full powers and means allowed him, might produce
the happiest effects in the shortest period of years, and with the least
comparative labour, so as to introduce the appearance of perfect nature
into every part of it.
It is somewhat remarkable that it should have fallen to the lot of the
same individuals of the same family, I mean William and John Adam,
the grandfather and father of the Chief Commissioner, to create and alter
another place in the same way that they did Blair- Adam. This was
the small property of North -Merchiston, near Edinburgh. It consisted
of a square field of about thirty acres, which was surrounded by a wall,
and planted by the grandfather with a circle in the centre, which had
four regular avenues breaking off from it in four different directions.
One of these avenues terminated in a straight row of trees running at
right angles to it and flanking a broad walk ending with a lime tree on
each side. The vista to this walk to the east was the castle of Edin-
burgh, and the tower of St Giles's Church, and the house was placed at
the western end of it. John Adam broke up his father's formal lines
here, as he did at Blair-Adam, and from what I recollect of the place
when I visited it as a boy, the effects of his operations were very pleas-
ing. From the intimacy that subsisted between Mr. Adam and Shen-
stone, whom he visited at the Leasowes, it seems to be doubtful whether
the poet's formation of that celebrated place was not materially assisted,
if not suggested, by the hints which he received from his Scottish friend.
The place of North Merchiston afterwards passed into other hands, and
it has since been much demolished by having its timber greatly dimin-
ished, and the Edinburgh and Glasgow canal carried directly through
it, so as to subdivide it. But injured as it has been, there yet remains
enough of beautiful features about it, to encourage a proprietor of taste
to give it such restoration as might yet convert it into a very delightful
villa, and the rich distant views which it commands, add much to the
temptation to commence such an undertaking.
In considering the effects of the growth of plantation during a
century as exhibited at Blair-Adam, it must be remembered that a
much shorter period of active and judicious planting may produce
changes the most satisfactory, so as richly to reward the proprietor
who may have so employed his time and money, both by the pleasure
o
210
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
and the profit he may reap during many years of his own life. This,
of course, will be more easily accomplished if ancient trees or older
woods have chanced to exist already, especially if they do so amidst a
variety of surface, and a favourable combination of natural features.
I could mention many places where the proprietors who made the
plantations on them still live in green vigour to enjoy the daily im-
proving effects of their earlier operations. But the seat of a friend,
which I have had occasion lately to visit, is at this moment particularly
in my mind, as a most pregnant example of this. I mean Blairquhan
in Ayrshire, the residence of Sir David Hunter Blair, Baronet. There
the situation is peculiarly favourable, from the variety of form of the
surrounding grounds, and the shapes of the retiring hills — from the
noble ancient trees that exist in the vicinity of the house — as well as
from the stream of the Girvan and its romantic glen, up which you
approach the wider valley, where the mansion stands on its elevated
side. But the great extent of judiciously-planted and well -grown
woods, which Sir David has created within the short period of thirty
years, has already had the effect of giving a noble magnitude to the
demesne. It may now be said to be in that stage of advancement,
when the happiest results may be anticipated ; and these will certainly
be produced, by the gradual destruction of the hard lines inevitably
occasioned by fences — the loosening of the edges of woods and groves
— the introduction of glades in certain parts of them, and perhaps by
the enrichment of portions of the more open lawns by partial planta-
tions.
I may likewise notice Dunskey, near Portpatrick, a place belonging
to Colonel Hunter Blair, brother to Sir David, which affords, if pos-
sible, a still more remarkable example of what may be done by plan-
tation, even in apparently the most unfavourable circumstances. About
eight hundred acres of thriving wood having been got up there within
a very short period of time, on ground generally much elevated, and
exposed to the whole blast from the Irish Channel. In the island of
Islay, also, Mr. Campbell of Islay, though a young man, has in his
own time raised about thirteen hundred acres of wood, and he has now
the satisfaction of being able to drive for miles under the shade of
thriving trees of his own rearing.
To conclude the few remarks which I have ventured to subjoin
to those of Price upon planting, I shall only add, that the effects
sought to be produced by the mixture of the different varieties of trees
and shrubs, must be much guided by the comparative greatness or
smallness of the place on which the improver is operating, minute at-
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
211
tention to the introduction of particular kinds being more admissible
in a smaller place, or in the smaller or more observed parts of a larger
place, than in other positions. On this particular point, Mr. Wheatley
speaks most sensibly — as indeed he does on planting in general. " All
these inferior varieties," says he, " are below our notice in the con-
sideration of great effects : they are of consequence only where the
plantation is near to the sight ; where it skirts a home scene, or borders
the side of a walk ; and in a shrubbery, which in its nature is little,
both in style and in extent, they should be anxiously sought for. The
noblest wood is not indeed disfigured by them ; and when a wood, hav-
ing served as a great object to one spot, becomes in another the edge
of a walk, little circumstances, varying with ceaseless change along the
outline, will then be attended to ; but wherever these minute varieties
are fitting, the grossest taste will feel the propriety, and the most
cursory observation will suggest the distinctions — a detail of all would
be endless, nor can they be reduced into classes. To range the shrubs
and small trees so that they may mutually set off the beauties and con-
ceal the blemishes of each other — to aim at no effects which depend
on a nicety for their success, and which the soil, the exposure, or the
season of the day may destroy — to attend more to the groups than the
individuals — and to consider the whole as a plantation, not as a col-
lection of plants, are the best general rules that can be given concern-
ing them."
One remark more, and I have done with this part of the subject.
Nothing can be more unwise than to trust to delicate foreign trees or
shrubs for the production of important effects, which may thus be all
ruined by the destructive cold of some severe winter. Such tender
strangers may be well enough introduced experimentally — but they
should have places assigned to them where their failure may produce
no serious blank, if they should unfortunately perish.
I shall offer but a single word on the subject of lawns. Levelling,
smooth shaving, and rolling, are operations only admissible close to
the house — and even there it is better that it should be associated with
terraces, bowling-greens, flower-knots, and such minor pieces of for-
mality as are in keeping with that of the architecture. Everywhere
else the lawns should be in rich and natural looking pasture, especially
where they begin to sweep away under trees, or to lose themselves in
the woodlands. In such places, sonic of the more graceful wild plants,
such as those of the fern tribe, the great tussilago, and others, may
occasionally be permitted to show themselves — and even tufts of whins
may not be altogether out of place. And as it is well known that the
212
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
best way to produce good pasture, is to put a great variety of animals
upon it — so by baving groups of cattle, horses, sheep, goats, and even
asses, constantly grazing together, you will not only thereby ensure
the richness of the surface, but you will also add to the interest of
your scenery by the variety of the living objects which will thus be
seen giving animation to it. — E.]
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
213
CHAPTER XII.
Op all the effects in landscape, the most brilliant and captivating ate
those produced by water — on the management of which, as I have been
told, Mr. Brown particularly piqued himself. If those beauties in
natural rivers and lakes which are imitable by art, and the selections of
them in the works of great painters, be the proper objects of imitation,
Mr. Brown grossly mistook his talent ; for among all his tame produc-
tions, his pieces of made water are perhaps the most so.
One striking property of water, and that which most distinguishes it
from the grosser element of earth, is its being a mirror ; and a mirror
which gives a peculiar freshness and tenderness to the colours it reflects.
It softens the stronger lights, though the lucid veil it throws over them
seems hardly to diminish their brilliancy, and gives breadth, and often
depth, to the shadows, while from its glassy surface they gain a peculiar
look of transparency. These beautiful and varied effects, however, are
chiefly produced by the near objects — by trees and bushes immediately
on the banks, by those which hang over the water, and form dark coves
beneath their branches — by various tints of the soil where the ground is
broken — by roots, and old trunks of trees — by tussucks of rushes, and
by large stones that are partly whitened by the air, and partly covered
214
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
with mosses, lichens, and weather-stains ; while the soft tufts of grass,
and the smooth verdure of meadows with which they are intermixed,
appear a thousand times more soft, smooth, and verdant by such con-
trasts.
But to produce reflections there must be objects ; for, according to a
maxim I have heard quoted from the old law of France, (a maxim that
hardly required the sanction of such venerable authority,) ou il riy a
rien, le roi perd ses droits ; and this is generally a case in point with
respect to Mr. Brown's artificial rivers. Even when, according to Mr.
Walpole's description, " a few trees, scattered here and there on its
edges, sprinkle the tame bank that accompanies its meanders," the re-
flections would not have any great variety, or brilliancy. The passage
I have quoted is in his Treatise on Modern Gardening. The general
tenor of that part is in commendation of the present style of made
water ; but this passage contains more just and pointed satire than
ever was conveyed in the same number of words: " a few trees scattered
here and there on its edges, sprinkle the tame bank." It seems to mo
that in the midst of praises, his natural taste breaks out into criticism,
perhaps unintended, and which, on that account, may well sting the
improver who reads them ; for the sting is always much sharper when
" Medio de fonte leporum
Surgit amari aliquid, quod in ipsis floribus angat."
The meanders of a river, which at every turn present scenes of a
different character, make us strongly feel the use and the charm of
them ; but when the same sweeps return as regularly as the steps of
a minuet, the eye is quite wearied with following them over and over
again. What makes the sweeps much more formal, is their extreme
nakedness. The sprinkling of a few scattered trees on their edges
will not do ; there must be masses, and groups, and various degrees
of openings, and concealment — and by such means, some little variety
may be given even to these tame banks, for tame they always will
remain : and it may here be observed, that the same objects which
produce reflections, produce also variety of outline, of tints, of lights and
shadows, as well as intricacy. So intimate is the connection between
all these different beauties ; so often does the absence of one of them
imply the absence of the others.
In the turns of a beautiful river, the lines are so varied with projec-
tions, coves, and inlets — with smooth and broken ground — with some
parts open, and with others fringed and overhung with trees and bushes —
with peeping rocks, large mossy stones, and all their soft and brilliant
ON THE PICTURESQUE. * 1 D
reflections, that the eye lingers upon them ; the two banks seem as it
were to protract their meeting, and to form their junction insensibly,
they so blend and unite with each other. In Mr. Brown's naked canals,
nothing detains the eye a moment ; and the two bare sharp extremities
appear to cut into each other. If in such productions a near approach
to mathematical exactness were a merit instead of a defect, the sweeps
of Mr. Brown's water would be admirable : for many of them seem not
to have been formed by degrees with the spade, but scooped out at once
by an immense iron crescent, which after cutting out the indented part
on one side, was applied to the opposite side, and then reversed to make
the sweeps; so that in each sweep the indented and the projecting
parts, if they could be shoved together, would fit like the pieces of a dis-
sected map.
When I speak of Mr. Browns artificial water, I include, without
much scruple, the greater part of what has been made since his time. I
consider him as the Hercules to whom the labours of the lesser heroes
are to be attributed, and they have had no difficulty in copying his model
exactly. Natural rivers, indeed, can only be imitated by the eye either
in painting or reality ; but his may be surveyed, and an exact plan
taken of them by admeasurement ; and though such a representation
would not accord with a Claude or a Gaspar, it might with great pro-
priety be hung up with a map of the demesne.
Where these serpentine canals are made, if there happen to be any
sudden breaks or inequalities in the ground — any thickets or bushes —
any thing, in short, that might cover the rawness and formality of new
work — instead of taking advantage of such accidents, all must be made
level and bare ; and, by a strange perversion of terms, stripping nature
stark-naked, is called dressing her.
A piece of stagnant water, with that thin, uniform, grassy edge
which always remains after the operation of levelling, is much more
like a temporary overflowing in a meadow or pasture, than what
it professes to imitate — a lake or a river ; for the priucipal distinction
between the outline of such an overflowing, and that of a permanent
piece of water neither formed nor improved by art, is, that the flood-
water is in general everywhere even with the grass, that there arc no
banks to it, nothing that appears firmly to contain it. In order, there-
fore, to impress on the whole of any artificial water a character of age,
permanency, capacity, and above all, of naturalness as well as variety,
some degree of height and of abruptness in the banks is required, and
different degrees of both ; some appearance of their having been in parts
gradually worn and undermined by the successive action of rain and
216
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
frost, and even by that of the water when put in motion by winds : for
the banks of a mill-pond, which is proverbial for stillness, are generally
undermined in parts by a succession of such accidental circumstances.
All this diversity of rough broken ground, varying in height and form,
and accompanied with projecting trees and bushes, will readily be
acknowledged to have more painter-like effects, than one bare, uniform
slope of grass ; that acknowledgment is quite sufficient, and the objec-
tions, which are easily foreseen, are easily answered ; for there are
various ways in which rudeness may be corrected and disguised, as well
as blended with what is smooth and polished, without destroying the
marked character of nature on the one hand, or a dressed appearance
on the other ; — of this I have given some few instances in my letter to
Mr. Repton. But as artificial lakes and rivers are usually made, the
water appears in every part so nearly on the same level with the land,
and so totally without banks, that were it not for the regularity of the
curves, a stranger might often suppose that when dry weather came the
flood would go off, and the meadow be restored to its natural state.
Sometimes, however, it happens, that the bottoms of meadows and pas-
tures subject to floods, are in parts bounded by natural banks against
which the water lies, where it takes a very natural and varied form,
and might easily from many points, and those not distant, be mistaken
for part of a river. To such overflowings I of course do not mean to al-
lude — the comparison would do a great deal too much honour to those
pieces of water, the banks of which had been formed by Mr. Brown ;
for it is impossible to see any part of them without knowing them to be
artificial.
Among the various ways in which the present style of artificial water
has been defended, certain passages from the poets have been quoted,*
to show that it is a great beauty in a river to have the water close to
the edge of the grass : —
" May thy brimmed waves for this
Their full tribute never miss."
* Vivo de pumice fontes
Roscida mobilibus larnbebant gramina rivis." -f-
To which might be added the well known passage : —
a Without o'erflowing, full."
* Essay on Design in Gardening, p. 203.
•f- Claudian de raptu Proserpina?.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
217
I have such respect for the feeling which most poets have shown for
natural beauties, and think they have so often and so happily expressed
what is, and ought to be, the general feeling of mankind, that wherever
they were clearly and uniformly against me, I should certainly, as far as
that general sensation was concerned, allow myself to be in the wrong.
In this case, however, I can safely agree with the poets, and yet con-
demn Mr. Brown. With regard to the first instance, I might say, that
without thinking of beauty, it is a very natural compliment to a river-
god or goddess, to wish their streams always full ; but I am ready to
admit, that by brimmed waves the poet meant as full as the river could
be without overflowing, and that it were to be wished, for the sake of
beauty, that rivers could be always kept in that state. All this is clearly
in favour of an equal height of the water ; but can it be inferred from
this, or, I will venture to say, from any passage whatever, that Milton,
or any other poet, was of opinion that the banks ought everywhere to
be of an equal height above the water, and the ground equally sloped
down to it ? If it be allowed, as I presume it must, that no such idea
is to be found amongst the poets, I am sure it can as little be justified I>v
natural scenery ; for let us imagine the river to be brimful, like a canal,
for a certain distance from any given point, and then, as it perpetually
happens, the bank to rise suddenly to a considerable height ; the water
must remain on the same level, but the brim would be changed, and
instead of being brimful, according to an idea taken from Mr. Brown,
not from Milton, the river though full, would in thai place be deep
within its banks. But still, it has been argued, when the water rises
to the upper edge of the banks, the signs of their having been worn
cannot appear .- certainly not in Mr. Brown's canals, where monotony
is so carefully guarded, that the full stream of a real river would, for a
long time, hardly produce any variety. But do rivers, in their natural
state, never swell with rain or snow, and, before they discharge them-
selves over the lowest parts, wear and undermine their higher banks ?
a distinction, which does not exist in what are called imitations of rivers.
Do not the marks of such floods on the higher banks remain after the
river has retired into its proper channel, that is, nearly to the height of
the lower banks ? But even on a supposition of its never overflown]-,
and never sinking, the same thing would happen in some degree ; for
it does happen in stagnant water, and must wherever there arc any
steep banks exposed to the usual effects of rain and frost.
The image in Claudian is extremely poetical, and no less pleasing in
reality. The passage relates, however, to a small rivulet, not to a river.
But, supposing it did relate to a river, are we thence to infer that accord-
218
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
ing to the poet's meaning, nothing but grass ought anywhere to be in
contact with the water, and that the turf must everywhere be regularly
sloped down to it ? that there must be no other image ? When trees
from a steep and broken bank form an arch over the water, and dip
their foliage in the stream ; when the clear mirror beneath reflects their
branching roots, the coves under them, the jutting rocks upon which
they have fastened, and seem to hold in their embrace, and the bright
and mellow tints of large moss-crowned stones that have their foundation
below the water, and rising out of it, support and form a part of the
bank — would the poet sigh for grass only, and wish to destroy, level,
and cover with turf these and a thousand other beautiful and picturesque
circumstances ? Would he object to the river, because it was not every
where brimful to the top of all its banks, and did not everywhere kiss
the grass ? And are we to conclude, that when poets mention one
beauty, they mean to exclude all the rest ?
It may possibly be said, that there are natural rivers, the banks of
which, like those of Mr. Browns, keep for a long time together the
same level above the water. There certainly are such rivers, but I
never heard of their being admired, or frequented for their beauty. It
is possible also, that there may be found some lake or mere, with a
uniform grassy edge all round it ; I can only say, that such an instance
of complete natural monotony, though it may be admired for its rarity,
cannot be a proper object of imitation. But if an improver happens to
be placed in a level country, should he not even there consult the
genius loci ? without doubt, and therefore he will not attempt hanging
rocks and precipices ; but he may surely be allowed to steal from the
better genius of some other scene, a few circumstances of beauty and
variety that will not be incompatible with his own. By such methods,
many pleasing effects may be given to an artificial river even in a dead
flat; but where there is any natural variety in the ground, with a
tendency to wood and other vegetation, nothing but art systematically
absurd, and diligently employed in counteracting the efforts of nature,
can create and preserve perfect monotony in the banks of water.
An imitation of the most striking varieties of nature, so skilfully
arranged as to pass for nature herself, would certainly be acknowledged
as the highest attainment of art ; for however fond of art, and even of
the appearance of it, some improvers seem to be, if a stranger were to
mistake one of their pieces of made water for the Thames, such an
error I imagine would not only be forgiven, but considered as the highest
compliment, notwithstanding the well known exclamation of Mr.
Brown, when he was looking with rapture and exultation at one of his
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
own canals — "Thames! Thames! thou wilt never forgive me!" Yet,
strange as it must appear, no one seems to have thought of copying
those circumstances which might occasion so flattering a deception. If
it were proposed to any of these professors to make an artificial river
without regular curves, slopes, and levelled banks, but with those cha-
racteristic beauties and negligencies, which so plainly distinguish
natural rivers from all that has hitherto been done in the pretended
imitations of them by art, they would, in Briggs's language, " stare like
stuck pigs — do no such thing." Their talent lies another way ; and if
you have a real river, and will let them improve it, you will be sur-
prised to find how soon they will make it like an artificial one ; so
much so, that the most critical eye could scarcely discover that its
banks had not been planned by Mr. Brown, and formed by the spade
and the wheel-barrow.
The lines in natural rivers, in by-roads, in the skirtings of glades of
forests, have sometimes the appearance of regular curves, and seem to
justify the use of them in artificial scenery; but something always
saves them from such a crude degree of it. If, on a subject so very un-
mathematical, I might venture to use any allusion to that science, or
any term drawn from it, such lines might be called picturesque asymp-
totes ; however they may approach to regular curves, they never fall
into them.
I am persuaded that a very great improvement might be made in the
banks of artificial water merely by a different mode of practice, without
expecting from every professor the eye, or the invention of a Poussin.
Mr. Brown and his followers have indeed shown very little invention,
if it even deserve that name, and of that little they have been great
economists. With them, walks, roads, brooks, rivers are, as it were,
convertible terms ; dry one of their rivers, it is a large walk or road —
flood a walk or a road, it is a brook or a river, and the accompaniments,
like the drone of a bagpipe, always remain the same. They do not in-
deed, always dam up a brook ; it sometimes, though rarely, is allowed
its liberty ; but like animals that are suffered by the owner to run loose,
it is marked as private property, by being mutilated. No operation
in what is called improvement has such an appearance of barbarity, as
that of destroying the modest retired character of a brook. I remember
some burlesque lines on the treatment of Regulus by the Carthaginians,
which perfectly describe the effect of that operation :
" His eyelids they pared;
Good God, how he stared ! "
220
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
Just so do those improvers torture a brook, by widening it, cutting away
its natural fringe, and exposing it to " day's garish eye."
If, instead of having their banks regularly sloped and shaven, or being
turned into regular pieces of water, brooks were sometimes stopped
partially and to different degrees of height, and every advantage were
taken of the natural beauties of their banks, a number of pleasing and
varied effects might be obtained. There are often parts, where by a
small degree of digging so as to lower the bottom, or of obstruction by
mere earth and stones, the water would lie, as in a natural bed, under
banks enriched with vegetation ; by such means there would be a
succession of still, and of running water — of clear reflection, and of live-
ly motion.
These beauties are so great, and so easily obtained, that before a
running stream is forced into a piece of stagnant water, the advantages
of such an alteration ought to be very apparent. If it be determined,
nothing that may compensate for such a loss should be neglected ; and
as the water itself can have but one uniform surface, every variety of
which banks are capable, should be studied both from nature and paint-
ing, and those selected, which will best accord with the general scenery.
Objects of reflection are peculiarly required, for besides their distinct
beauty, they soften the cold white glare of what is usually called a fine
sheet of water — an expression which contains a very just criticism on
what it seems to commend ; for certainly water is far from being in its
most beautiful state, when it is most like the object to which it is thus
compared. Collins, indeed, in his Ode to Evening, has used this kind
of expression with great propriety : —
" Where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath."
For water on a heath, where there are scarcely any objects of reflection,
has a sheety appearance ; yet in such a situation, and towards the close
of day, a cheering one. There is, however, one kind of scenery by which
the expression may be still more naturally suggested ; and I can easily
conceive that on seeing a piece of made water in its usual naked state,
any person might be struck with the uniform whiteness of the water
itself, and the uniform greenness, and exact level of its banks, or rather
its border ; the idea of linen spread upon grass might thence very
naturally occur to him, which in civil language he would express by a
fine sheet of water. This has always been meant and taken as a flatter-
ing expression, though nothing can more pointedly describe the defects
of such a scene ; for had there been any variety in the banks, with deep
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
shades, brilliant lights and reflections, the idea of a sheet would hardly
have suggested itself, or if it had, he who made such a comparison would
have made a very bad one,
" And liken 'd things that are not like at all."
But in the other case, nothing can be more alike than a sheet of water,
and a real sheet ; and wherever there is a large bleaching -ground, the
most exact imitations of Mr. Brown's lakes and rivers might be made
in linen, and they would be just as proper objects of jealousy to the
Thames as any of his performances.
I happened to be at a gentleman's house, the architect of which, (to
use Colin Campbell's expression,) " had not preserved the majesty of
the front from the ill effect of crowded apertures." A neighbour of
his, meaning to pay him a compliment on the number and closeness of
his windows, exclaimed, " What a charming house you have ! — Upon
my word it is quite like a lantern." I must own I think the two
compliments equally flattering ; but a charming lantern has not yet
had the success of a fine sheet.
I am aware that Mr. Brown's admirers, with one voice, will quote
the great piece of water at Blenheim, as a complete answer to all I
have said against him on this subject. No one can admire more highly
than I do that most princely of all places; but it would be doing
great injustice to nature and Vanbrugh, not to distinguish their merits
in forming it from those of Mr. Brown.
If there be an improvement more obvious than all others, it is that
of damming up a stream which flows on a gentle level through a valley ;
and it required no effort of genius to place the head, as Mr. Brown
has done, in the narrowest and most concealed part. He has, indeed,
the negative merit (and it is one to which he is not always entitled,)
of having left the opposite bank of wood in its natural state; and had
he profited by so excellent a model — had he formed and planted the
other more distant banks, so as to have continued something of the
same style and character round the lake, though with those diversities
which would naturally have occurred to a man of the least invention,
he would, in my opinion, have had some claim to a title created since
his time — a title of no small pretension — that of landscape gardener.
But if the banks above and near the bridge were formed or even ap-
proved of by him, his taste had more of the engineer than the painter ;
for they have so strong a resemblance to the glacis of a fortification,
that we might suppose the shape had been given them in compliment
to the first Duke of Marlborough's campaigns in Flanders.
222
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
The bank near the house which is opposite to the wooded one, and
which forms part of the pleasure-ground, is extremely well done — for
that required a high degree of polish, and there the gardener was at
home. Without meaning to detract from his real merit in that part,
but at the same time to reduce it to what appears to me its just value,
I must observe that two things have contributed to give it a rich effect
at a distance, as well as a varied and dressed look within itself. In
the first place, there were several old trees there before he began his
works, and their high and spreading tops would unavoidably prevent
that dead flatness of outline, cet air e erase, which his own close, lumpy
plantations of trees always exhibit. In the next place, the situation
of this spot called for a large proportion of exotics of various heights ;
those of lower growth, though chiefly put in clumps, of which the edgy
borders have a degree of formality, yet, being subordinate, and not
interfering with the higher growths or with the original trees, have
from the opposite bank the appearance of a rich underwood ; and the
beauty and comparative variety of that garden scene from all points,
are strongly in favour of the method of planting I described in a former
chapter. It is clear to me, however, that Mr. Brown did not make use
of this method from principle, for, in that case, he would sometimes, at
least, have tried it in less polished scenes, by substituting thorns,
hollies, &c, in the place of shrubs. Of the rich, airy, and even dressed
effect of such mixtures, he must have seen numberless examples in
forests, in parks, on the banks of rivers, and from them he might have
drawn the most useful instruction, were it to be expected that those
who profess to improve nature should ever deign to become her scholars.
It may be said, however, that though he did not take this method of
giving concealment, richness, and variety to the lower part of his plan-
tations, and of guarding against monotony in the outline above, yet
that he meant such monotony to be prevented by constant and judicious
thinning — that a professor's business is to form, not to thin plantations,
and that Mr. Brown ought not to be made answerable for the neglect
of gardeners. But a physician would deserve very ill of his patient,
who, after prescribing for the moment, should abandon him to the care
of his nurse, and who in his future visits should concern himself no
farther, but let the disorder take its course, till the patient was irre-
coverably emaciated and exhausted. Mr. Brown, during a long prac-
tice, frequently repeated his visits ; but, as far as I have observed, the
trees in his plantations bear no mark of his attention — indeed, his
clumps strongly prove his love of compactness. There is another cir-
cumstance in his plantations which deserves to be remarked — a favour-
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
223
ite mixture of his was that of beech and Scotch firs in nearly equal
proportion, but where unity and simplicity of character are given up, it
should be for the sake of a variety that will harmonize, which two trees,
so equal in size and quantity, and so strongly contrasted in form and
colour, can never do.
This puts me in mind of an anecdote I heard of a person very much
used to look at objects with a painter's eye. He had three cows ; when
his wife with a very proper economy, observed, that two were quite
sufficient for their family, and desired him to part with one of them —
" Lord, my dear," said he, " two cows, you know, can never group."
A third tree (like a third cow) might have connected and blended
the discordant forms and colours of the beech and Scotch fir ; but every
thing I have seen of Mr. Brown's works have convinced me that he
had, in a figurative sense, no eye, and, if he had had none in the literal
sense, it would have only been a private misfortune —
" And partial evil, universal good."
I have given what I thought the just degree of praise to Mr. Brown
for the method in which he has planted the garden scene which ac-
companies one part of the lake; but to judge properly of his taste
and invention in the management of water, we must observe those
banks with their accompaniments, which he has formed entirely him-
self, and that we may do without quitting Blenheim ; — below the cas-
cade all is his own, and a more complete piece of monotony could
hardly be furnished even from his own works. When he was no
longer among shrubs and gravel walks, the gardener was quite at a
loss ; for his mind had never been prepared by a study of the great
masters of landscape for a more enlarged one of nature. Finding,
therefore, no invention, no resources within himself, he copied what he
had most seen, and most admired — his own little works ; and in the
same spirit in which he had magnified a parterre, he planned a gigantic
gravel walk — when it was dug out, he filled it with another element,
called it a river, and thought that the noblest stream in this kingdom
must be jealous of such a rival.
Water," says Mr. Wheatley, " though not absolutely necessary
to a beautiful composition, yet occurs so often, and i.s so capital a
feature, that it is always regretted when wanting; and no large place
can be supposed, a little spot can hardly be imagined, in which it may
not be agreeable, It accommodates itself to every situation — is the
most interesting object in a landscape, and the happiest circumstance
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
in a retired recess — captivates the eye at a distance — invites approach,
and is delightful when near ; it refreshes an open exposure — it animates
a shade — cheers the dreariness of a waste — and enriches the most crowd-
ed view ; — in form, in style, and in extent, it may be made equal to the
greatest compositions, or adapted to the least ; it may spread in a calm
expanse to soothe the tranquillity of a peaceful scene ; or hurrying
along a devious course, add splendour to a gay, and extravagance to a
romantic situation. So various are the characters which water can
assume, that there is scarcely an idea in which it may not occur, or an
impression which it cannot enforce ; a deep stagnated pool, dank and
dark, with shades which it dimly reflects, befits the seat of melancholy ;
even a river, if it be sunk between two dismal banks, and dull both in
motion and colour, is like a hollow eye which deadens the countenance ;
and over a sluggard, silent stream, creeping heavily along altogether,
hangs a gloom which no art can dissipate, nor even the sunshine dis-
perse. A gently murmuring rill, clear and shallow, just gurgling, just
dimpling, imposes silence, suits with solitude, and leads to meditation ;
a brisker current, which wantons in little eddies over a bright sandy
bottom, or babbles among pebbles, spreads cheerfulness all around : a
greater rapidity, and more agitation, to a certain degree are animating ;
but in excess, instead of awakening, they alarm the senses ; the roar
and the rage of a torrent, its force, its violence, its impetuosity, tend to
inspire terror ; that terror, which, whether cause or effect, is so nearly
allied to sublimity."
There can be no doubt that water, whether running or spreading out
in a broad lake, or pool, very much improves the animation of a place.
Even when it is attended by the most unfavourable circumstances, it is
sure to be productive of one grand aud ever changeful effect — I mean
that of repeating the splendid colouring of the clouds, as well as their
magical movements over the blue ether ; whilst its occasional reflection
of the moon, or that of the setting sun, which kindles up the wavelets
on its surface into golden flames, are accidents of the most gorgeous de-
scription. However small the body of water may be, it will be found
to yield this description of beauty in a greater or lesser degree, exactly
in a proportion corresponding to that of its size. Some extent of water,
then, is desirable in every scene, if it can possibly be procured. That
place, of course, is most to be envied, where bountiful Nature has made
it flow through its grounds in spontaneous streams of sufficient magni-
tude, or where she has spread it abroad in some large natural basin in
the form of a considerable lake. In both these cases the banks will at
least be varied and irregular in shape, and with these advantages much
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
225
may be done to increase their beauty, by judicious planting and shrub-
bing. But where no such natural waters exist, the construction of
artificial waters should certainly be attempted, if the nature of the
ground, and other circumstances, will admit of their formation. I think
that the project which most rarely succeeds, and which I honestly con-
fess I have never, to my mind, seen successful, is that of the formation
of an artificial river. When executed even in the most ingenious
manner, a stranger may be deceived for a time, by the tricks which may
be employed to hoodwink him, but his disappointment and disgust are
just so much the greater when these tricks are found out ; when the
ends of the pretended river are once discovered, the character of the
piece of water as such is gone for ever, and it is always thenceforth
regarded as a miserable cheat. The dam which confines an artificial
lake or pool has no such offensive effect even when it is detected, for,
artificial or natural, the piece of water still remains a lake or pool.
But where the supply from rills or springs is sufficient, and the ground
is at all favourable, it is quite possible to construct a piece of water which
shall have all the appearance of a natural lake or tarn. The great
secret for accomplishing this, is to imitate nature in all respects, as far
as art can do so. The grand point, therefore, is, if possible, to select a
spot where some natural valley or hollow can be most easily blocked up,
and that with the least appearance of artifice, so as to arrest the discharge
of the running waters it may contain, until they may swell up to such
a height as to float it backwards to the required extent. I can con-
ceive, nay I have seen, such situations where the shores afforded bold
headlands, and projecting points, and where even rocky steeps, and
broken recesses and promontories were happily found. But where
these do not exist already, it will require an improver of no ordinary
talent to produce them by artificial means, so that they shall look at all
like nature, and if he is to fall short of this object, he had better not
make the attempt. But much may be accomplished by plantation, and
this should not be scanty, but so liberal as to give ample room for after
openings, if such shall appear to be demanded. When the trees rise to
a tolerable height, the beauty of the contrast of light and shade upon
the water, as well as on its banks, will thus be much increased, and
every little bay or recess will begin to have its peculiar interest.
" Silva coronat aquas, cingens latus omne, suisque
Frondibus, ut velo, Phoebeos submovet igncs."
Ovid,L. V.
And as the lapping of the waves against the shores will every day be wear-
ing them out more and more into a natural aspect, and as reeds, sedges,
p
226
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
bullruslies, the typha, and aquatics of various other kinds, may be planted
here and there in the shallows, and water-lilies in parts that are a little
deeper, the march of Nature will gradually advance, till she obtains a
perfect dominion over the whole scene. If the piece of water be of
such a size as to admit of its being the abode of waterfowl, it is quite
indispensable to construct islands for their breeding and protection,
however flat or small they may be — and if these are even covered over
with willows, and bounded by reeds and sedges, they will add some-
what to the effect of the whole, whilst their winged and web-footed
inhabitants will give a continual life to the lake. As an object of in-
terest, as well as of amusement and advantage, fish should not be for-
gotten. Nothing can be more beautiful than to behold the trouts of a
lake rising at the flies, in a fine summer evening, in so great numbers,
as absolutely to dimple its glassy surface. To ensure this profusion
of fish, it is quite essential that the rill that supplies the lake should
enter it at one end and quit it at the other, so as to produce a certain
degree of current throughout its whole length. It is also desirable that
as many little feeders as can be commanded should find their way into
the lake from its sides, as it is on the small gravelly shallows which
these form at their emboucheures, that the fish are most inclined to
deposit their spawn ; and to promote their doing so, artificial beds of
such gravel should be projected into the lake, where they do not natur-
ally exist.
Even on the smallest piece of water a swan produces a sparkling
effect when seen amidst the bright light, or the deep green shadow
which is thrown over the surface of the pool by the superincumbent
foliage, and nothing gives greater animation to a scene.
Before concluding my remarks in this place, I must beg not to be
misapprehended as recommending the change of every full, active,
bustling, and interesting little stream into an extensive inundation.
Local circumstances must always guide every such determination. In
some cases the sacrifice may be too great, and the gain too small, whilst
in others, the change may be so manifestly of advantage, as to render
the sacrifice highly expedient. — E.]
UxN THE PICTURESQUE.
CHAPTER XTII.
I have now gone through the principal points of modem gardening ;
but the observations I have made relate almost entirely to the grounds^
and not to what may properly be called the ga/rden.
A gentleman, whose taste and feeling, both for art and nature, rank
as high as any man's, was lamenting to me the extent of Mr. Browns
operations: — "Former improvers," said he, "at least kept near the
house, but this fellow crawls like a snail all over the grounds, and
leaves his cursed slime behind him wherever he goes."
As the art of gardening in this extended sense, vies with that oi
painting, and has been thought likely to form a new school of painters,
I think I am justified in having compared its operations and effects
with those of the art it pretends to rival, nay, to instruct. These two
rivals, whom I am so desirous of reconciling, have hitherto been guided
by very opposite principles, and the character of their productions has
been as opposite ; but the cold flat monotony of the new favourite lias
been preferred by many, " aye, and those great ones too," to the spirited
variety of her eldest sister — she has, indeed, been so puffed up by this
high favour, that she has hardly deigned to acknowledge the relation-
ship, and has even treated her with contempt. Those also, who, from
their situation and influence, were best qualified to have brought about
a union between them, have, on the contrary, contributed to widen the
228
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
breach ; for I have heard an eminent professor treat the idea of judging,
in any degree, of places as of pictures, or of comparing them at all together,
as quite absurd. In real life, the noblest part a man can act, the part
which most conciliates the esteem and good-will of all mankind, is that
of promoting union and harmony wherever occasion offers ; in the pre-
sent case, though a breach between these figurative persons is not of
serious consequence to society, yet I shall feel no small pleasure and pride
should my endeavours be successful. I have shown, to the best of my
power, how much it is their mutual interest to act cordially together,
and have offered every motive for such an union ; and I hope that pre-
judices, however strongly rooted, however enforced by those who may
be interested in the separation, will at last give way. I may, perhaps,
be thought somewhat caustic for a peace-maker, and, I must own,
" My zeal flows warm and eager from my bosom.""
But if war be made for the sake of peace, those who doubt the wisdom
of the expedient will agree that it ought to be prosecuted with vigour.
I never was in company with Mr. Brown, nor even knew him by
sight, and therefore can have no personal dislike to him ; but I have
heard numberless instances of his arrogance and despotism, and such
high pretensions seem to me little justified by his works. Arrogance
and imperious manners, which, even joined to the truest merit and the
most splendid taleuts, create disgust and opposition, when they are the
offspring of a little narrow mind, elated with temporary favour, provoke
ridicule, and deserve to meet with it.
Mr. Mason's poem on modern gardening, is as real an attack on Mr.
Brown's system as what I have written. He has as strongly guarded
the reader against the insipid formality of clumps, &c, and has equally
recommended the study of painting as the best guide to improvers ; but
the praise which he has bestowed on Mr. Brown himself, however
generally conveyed, has spoiled the effect of so powerful an antidote.
Most people, from a very natural indolence, are more inclined to copy
an established and approved practice, than to correct its defects, or to
form a new mode of practice from theory ; Mr. Mason's eulogium has
therefore sanctioned Mr. Brown's system more effectually than his pre-
cepts have guarded against it. That eulogium, however, (if I may be
allowed to make a suggestion, which I think is authorised by the tenor
of the poem) has been given from the most amiable motive — the fear of
hurting those with whom he lived on the most friendly terms, and who
had very much employed and admired Mr. Brown. Silence would, in
such a work, have been a tacit condemnation ; still worse to have
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
229
" damned with faint praise;" — my idea may possibly be taken upon
wrong grounds, but I have often admired Mr. Mason's address in so deli-
cate a situation. Had Mr. Brown transfused into his works any thing of
the taste and spirit which prevail in Mr. Mason's precepts and descrip-
tions, he would have deserved, and might possibly have enjoyed, the
high honour of having those works celebrated by him and Mr. Walpole,
and not have had them referred, as they have been by both, to future
poets and historians.
It may, perhaps, be thought presumptuous in an individual who has
never distinguished himself by any work that might give authority to
his opinion, so boldly to condemn what has been admired and practised
by men of the most liberal taste and education ; but the force of fashion
and examj^le are well known, and few have such energy of mind, and
confidence in their own principles, to think and act for themselves in
opposition to general opinion and practice. Some French writer, whose
name I do not recollect, ventures to express a doubt whether a tree
waving in the wind, with all its branches free and untouched, may not
possibly be an object more worthy of admiration than one cut into form
in the gardens of Versailles. This bold sceptic in theory had most
probably his trees shorn like those of his sovereign.
It is equally probable that many an English gentleman may have
felt deep regret when Mr. Brown had metamorphosed some charming
trout stream into a piece of water; and that many a time afterwards,
when, disgusted with its glare and formality, he has been heavily
plodding along its naked banks, he may have thought how beautifully
fringed those of his little brook once had been — how it sometimes ran
rapidly over the stones and shallows, and sometimes, in a narrower
channel, stole silently beneath the overhanging boughs. Many rich
natural groups of trees he might remember, now thinned and rounded
into clumps — many sequestered thickets which he had loved when a
boy, now all open and exposed, without shade or variety — and all these
sacrifices made, not to his own taste, but to the fashion of the day, and
against his natural feelings.
It seems to me that there is something of patriotism in the praises
which Mr. Walpole and Mr. Mason have bestowed on English garden-
ing ; and that zeal for the honour of their country, has made them, in
the general view of the subject, overlook defects which they have them-
selves condemned. My love for my country, is, I trust, not less ardent
than theirs, but it has taken a different turn ; and I feel anxious to free
it from the disgrace of propagating a system, which, should it become
universal, would disfigure the face of all Europe. It is my wish that a
230
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
more liberal and extended idea of improvement should prevail ; that,
instead of the narrow mechanical practice of a few English gardeners,
the noble and varied works of the eminent painters of every age and
of every country, and those of their supreme mistress, Nature, should
be the great models of imitation.
If a taste for drawing and painting and a knowledge of their princi-
ples, made a part of every gentleman's education ; if, instead of hiring
a professed improver to torture his grounds after an established model,
each improved his own place according to general conceptions drawn
from nature and pictures, or from hints which favourite masters in paint-
ing, or favourite parts of nature suggested to him, there might in time
be a great variety in the styles of improvement, and all of them with
peculiar excellences. No two painters ever saw nature with the same
eyes ; they tended to one point by a thousand different routes, and that
makes the charm of an acquaintance with their various modes of concep-
tion and execution : but any one of Mr. Brown's followers might say,
with great truth, " we have but one idea among us."
I have always understood, that Mr. Hamilton, who created Painshill,
not only had studied pictures, but had studied them for the express pur-
pose of improving real landscape. The place he created — a task of quite
another difficulty from correcting, or from adding to natural scenery —
fully proves the use of such a study. Among many circumstances of
more striking effect, I was highly pleased with a walk, which leads
through a bottom skirted with wood ; and I was pleased with it, not
merely from what had, but from what had not been done ; it had no
edges, no borders, no distinct lines of separation — nothing was done,
except keeping the ground properly neat, and the communication free
from any obstruction. The eye and the footsteps were equally uncon-
fined ; and if it be a high commendation to a writer or a painter, that
he knows when to leave off, it is not less so to an improver.
Tins, and other parts of Painshill seem to have been formed on the
precept contained in the well-known lines of Tasso, in his description of
the garden of Armida : —
" E quel chel bello e'l caro accresce a Topre,
L 1 arte che tutto fn, nulla si scopre."
Mr. Hamilton, however, is one of the very few who have profited by
it ; for although no precept be more generally admitted in theory than
that of concealing the art which is employed, none has been less ob-
served in practice. It is true, however, that it must not be too strictly
followed in all cases ; and that, like other excellent rules, it has its
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
£31
exceptions. Every thing that belongs to buildings and architecture is
manifestly artificial, and the concealment of art entirely out of the
question. Whatever therefore is connected with the mansion, should
display a degree of art and of ornament, in proportion to its style and
character ; and I own my regret, that all the old decorations have
been banished from an affectation of simplicity, and what is called nature.
It is obvious, on the same principle, that all roads, walks, and com-
munications immediately connected with the house, should be completely
regular and uniform; and where a more extended part, as at Blenheim,
is richly drest with shrubs and exotics, and kept in the highest state of
polished neatness, a regular walk of the same high polish is perfectly
in character ; but in other parts, not solely the more distant, but
wherever there is anything of natural wildness and intricacy in the
scene, the improver should conceal himself like a judicious author, who
sets his reader's imagination at work, while he seems not to be guiding,
but exploring with him some new region. Among the numberless ex-
cellences of Homer, it is not the least that he scarcely ever appears in
his own person : you are engaged amidst the most interesting and
striking scenes, and are carried on from one to another in such ;i
manner as to be totally unconscious of the consummate skill with which
your route has been prepared — and his poem is the completest exem-
plification of Tasso's precept in a more exalted art. The improver (if
I may be allowed to compare small things with great) should puisne
the same line of conduct in his humbler art, though by a different
process ; and while he employs his whole skill to load the spectator in
the best direction through the most interesting scenes, and towards the
most striking points of view, and to facilitate his approach to them, lie
should not strive to confine him to one single route, and should often,
where it is practicable, conceal his having made any route at all.
There is in our nature a repugnance to despotism even in trifles, and
we are never so heartily pleased as when we appear to have made
every discovery ourselves. It is this sort of feeling, as opposed to the
one which arises from what is plainly and avowedly artificial, that
Tasso seems to indicate by
" il bello el euro accresce a l'opre/ 1
It is a feeling that I have more than once experienced myself and observed
in others, when, after having been long confined to regular walks, how-
ever judiciously taken, we have enjoyed the dear delight of getting to
some spot where there were no traces of art, and no other walk or
93%
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
communication than a sheep-track, or some foot-path winding among
the thickets.
It is in such spots as those, that art, if it interfere at all, should
most carefully conceal itself ; and in such, a Mr. Hamilton would pro-
ceed with a very cautious hand; but whatever effect an acquaintance with
the fine arts, or perhaps the precept of Tasso, or the example of Homer,
may have had on such a mind as his, nothing of that kind has influenced
those of professed improvers ; and a style very different from that of
Painshill has been exhibited at no very great distance from it, in a place
begun I believe by Kent, and finished by Brown. A wood with many
old trees covered with ivy, mixed with thickets of hollies, yews, and
thorns — a wood, which Rousseau might have dedicated d la reverie, is
so intersected by walks and green alleys, all edged and bordered, that
there is no escaping from them ; they act like flappers in Laputa, and
instantly wake you from any dream of retirement. The borders of
these walks are so thickly planted, and the rest of the wood so imprac-
ticable, that it seems as if the improver said — " You shall never wander
from my walks — never exercise your own taste and judgment — never
form your own compositions — neither your eyes nor your feet shall
be allowed to stray from the boundaries I have traced :" — a species
of thraldom unfit for a free country.
There is, indeed, something despotic in the general system of im-
provement — all must be laid open — all that obstructs levelled to the
ground — houses, orchards, gardens, all swept away. Painting, on the
contrary, tends to humanize the mind : where a despot thinks every
person an intruder who enters his domain, and wishes to destroy
cottages and pathways, and to reign alone, the lover of painting con-
siders the dwellings, the inhabitants, and the marks of their intercourse
as ornaments to the landscape.
Sir Joshua Reynolds told me, that when he and Wilson the landscape
painter were looking at the view from Richmond Terrace, Wilson was
pointing out some particular part ; and in order to direct his eye to it,
" There," said he, " near those houses — there ! where the figures are."
— Though a painter, said Sir Joshua, I was puzzled. I thought he
meant statues, and was looking upon the tops of the houses ; for I did
not at first conceive that the men and women we plainly saw walking
about, were by him only thought of as figures in the landscape.
For the honour of humanity there are minds, which require no other
motive than what passes within. And here I cannot resist paying a
tribute to the memory of a beloved uncle, and recording a benevolence
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
233
towards all the inhabitants around him, that struck me from my earliest
remembrance ; and it is an impression I wish always to cherish. It
seemed as if he had made his extensive walks as much for them as for
himself ; they used them as freely, and their enjoyment was his. The
village bore as strong marks of his and of his brother's attentions (for in
that respect they appeared to have but one mind) to the comforts and
pleasures of its inhabitants. Such attentive kindnesses are amply repaid
by affectionate regard and reverence ; and were they general through-
out the kingdom, they would do much more towards guarding us against
democratical opinions
" Than twenty thousand soldiers, arnTd in proof.*"
The cheerfulness of the scene I have mentioned, and all the inter-
esting circumstances attending it, so different from those of solitary
grandeur, have convinced me, that he who destroys dwellings, gardens,
and inclosures, for the sake of mere extent and parade of property,
only extends the bounds of monotony, and of dreary selfish pride ; but
contracts those of variety, amusement, and humanity.
I own it does surprise me, that in an age, and in a country where
the arts are so highly cultivated, one single plan, and such a plan,
should have been so generally adopted ; and that even the love of
peculiarity should not sometimes have checked this method of levelling
all distinctions, of making all places alike — all equally tame and in-
sipid. A person, well known for his taste and abilities, being at a
gentleman's house where Mr. Brown was expected, drew a plan by
anticipation, which proved so exact, that I believe the ridicule it
threw on the serious plan, helped to prevent its execution.
Few persons have been so lucky as never to have seen or heard the
true proser; smiling, and distinctly uttering his flowing commonplace
nothings, with the same placid countenance, the same even-toned
voice — he is the very emblem of serpentine walks, belts, and rivers,
and all Mr. Brown's works — like him they are smooth, flowing, even,
and distinct — and like him they wear one's soul out.
There is a very different being of a much rarer kind, who hardly
appears to be of the same species — full of unexpected turns, of flashes
of light — objects the most familiar are placed by him in such singular,
yet natural points of view — he strikes out such unthought-of agree-
ments and contrasts — such combinations, so little obvious, yet never
forced nor affected, that the attention cannot flag — but from the de-
light of what is passed, we eagerly listen for what is to come. This is
the true picturesque, and the propriety of that term will be more felt,
234
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
if we attend to what corresponds to the beautiful in conversation.
How different is the effect of that soft insinuating style — of those
gentle transitions, which, without dazzling or surprising, keep up an
increasing interest, and insensibly wind round the heart.
It is only by a habit of observation added to natural sensibility, that
we learn to distinguish what is really beautiful, from what is merely
smooth and flowing, and to give a decided preference to the former.
By the same means, also, we gain a true relish for the picturesque in
visible objects, and likewise for what in some measure answers to it —
the quick, lively, and sudden turns of fancy in conversation. I have
sometimes seen a proser quite forlorn in the company of a man of bril-
liant imagination ; he seemed " dazzled with excess of light," his dull
faculties totally unable to keep pace with the other's rapid ideas. I
have afterwards observed the same man get close to a brother proser ;
and the two snails have travelled on so comfortably upon their own
slime, that they seemed to feel no more impression either of pleasure or
envy from what they had heard, than a real snail may be supposed to do
at the active bounds and leaps of a stag, or of a high-mettled courser.
This is exactly the case with that practical proser, the true improver.
Carry him to a scene merely picturesque, he is bewildered with its variety
and intricacy, the charms of which he neither relishes nor comprehends ;
and longs to be crawling among his clumps, and debating about the
tenth part of an iuch in the turn of a gravel- walk. The mass of im-
provers seem indeed to forget that we are distinguished from other
animals, by being
" Nobler far, of look erect ;"
they go about
With leaden eye that loves the ground,"
and are so continually occupied with turns and sweeps, and manoeuvring
stakes, that they never gain an idea of the first elements of composition.
Such a mechanical system of operations little deserves the name of
an art. There are indeed certain words in all languages that have a
good and a bad sense ; such as simplicity and simple, art and artful,
which as often express our contempt as our admiration. It seems to
me, that whenever art, with regard to plan or disposition, is used in a
good sense, it means to convey an idea of some degree of invention — of
contrivance that is not obvious — of something that raises expectation,
and which differs with success from what we recollect having seen be-
fore. With regard to improving, that alone I should call art in a good
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
235
sense, which was employed in collecting from the infinite varieties of
accident (which is commonly called nature, in opposition to what is
called art,) snch circumstances as may happily be introduced, according
to the real capabilities of the place to be improved. This is what
painters have done in their art ; and thence it is, that many of these
lucky accidents being strongly pointed out by them, are called pictur-
esque.
He, therefore, in my mind, will show most art in improving, who
leaves, (a very material point) or who creates the greatest variety of
landscapes ; that is of such different compositions as painters will least
wish to alter: not he who begins his work by general clearing and smooth-
ing, or, in other words, by destroying all those accidents of which such
advantages might have been made ; but which afterwards, the most
enlightened and experienced artist can never hope to restore.
When I hear how much has been done by art in a place of large ex-
tent, in no one part of which, where that art has been busy, a painter
would take out his sketch-book ; when I see the sickening display of
that art, such as it is, and the total want of effect — I am tempted to
reverse the sense of the famous line of Tasso, and to say of such per-
formances,
" L'arte che nulla fa, tutta si sc-oprc."
236
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
APPENDIX
TO THE FIRST ESSAY.
Great part of my essay was written, before I saw that of Mr. Gilpin
on picturesque beauty. I had gained so much information on that sub-
ject from his other works, that I read it with extreme eagerness, on
account of the interest I took in the subject itself, as well as from my
opinion of the author. At first I thought my work had been antici-
pated ; I was pleased, however, to find some of my ideas confirmed, and
was in hopes of seeing many new lights struck out. But as I advanced,
that distinction between the two characters — that line of separation
which I thought would have been accurately marked out, became less
and less visible, till at length the beautiful and the picturesque were
more than ever mixed and incorporated together, the whole subject in-
volved in doubt and obscurity, and a sort of anathema denounced
against any one who should try to clear it up. Had I not advanced
too far to think of retreating, I might possibly have been deterred by
so absolute a veto, from such authority ; but I hope I shall not be
thought presumptuous for having still continued my researches, though
so diligent and acute an observer had given up the inquiry himself,
and pronounced it hopeless.
Mr. Gilpin's authority is deservedly so high, that where I have the
misfortune to differ from him, his opinion will of course be preferred to
mine, unless I can clearly show that it is ill-founded. I must, there-
fore, endeavour to show in what respects it is ill-founded, as often as
these points occur, and with the best of my abilities ; for anything short
of a victory, is in this case a defeat.
I will first mention, in general, the difficulties into which so ingeni-
ous a writer has been led, from losing sight of that genuine and uni-
versal distinction between the beautiful and the picturesque which he
himself had begun by establishing, and which separates their characters
equally in nature and in art ; and from confining himself to that un-
satisfactory notion of a mere general reference to the art of painting
only.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
237
He lias given it as his opinion, that " roughness forms the most
essential point of difference between the beautiful and the picturesque,
and seems to be that particular quality which makes objects chiefly
please in painting." He therefore has thought it necessary in some
instances, to exclude smooth objects from painting, and to show in
others, that what is smooth in reality, is rough in appearance ; so
that when we fancy ourselves admiring the smoothness which we think
we perceive, as in a calm lake, we are in fact admiring the roughness
which we have not observed. I will now proceed to give the particular
instances of those points in which we differ.
Mr. Gilpin observes, that " a piece of Palladian architecture may be
elegant in the last degree ; the proportion of its parts, the propriety
of its ornaments, the symmetry of the whole, may be highly pleasing ;
but, if we introduce it in a picture, it immediately becomes a formal
object, and ceases to please." He adds, " should we wish to give it
picturesque beauty, we must, from a smooth building, turn it into a
rough ruin."
Mr. Gilpin's first point was to show that a building to be picturesque,
must neither be smooth nor regular ; and so far we agree. But, then,
to show how much picturesque beauty (to use his expression) is pre-
ferred by painters to all other beauty, nay, how unfit beauty alone is
for a picture, he asserts that a piece of regular and finished architec-
ture becomes a formal object, and ceases to please when introduced in
a picture ; and that no painter, who had his choice, would hesitate a
moment between that and a ruin.
Were this really the case, we must give up Claude as a landscape
painter ; for he not only has introduced a number of perfect, regular,
and smooth pieces of architecture into his pictures, but into the most
conspicuous parts of them. I should even doubt whether he may not
have painted more entire buildings as principal objects than he has
ruins, though more of the latter where they are only subordinate.
Claude delighted in representing scenes of festive pomp and magni-
ficence, as well as of pastoral life and retirement ; but if we conceive
those temples and palaces which he painted in their perfect state, and
which he accompanied with every mark of a flourishing and populous
country to be deserted and in ruins, the whole character of those
splendid compositions, which have so much contributed to raise him
above the level of a mere landscape painter, would be destroyed. Mr.
Gilpin cannot but remember that beautiful seaport which did belong
to Mr. Lock, and which — could pictures choose their own possessors —
would never have left him ; he must have observed that the architec-
Sill UVEDALE PRICE
ture on the left hand was regular, perfect, and as smooth as such
finished buildings appear in nature.
But with regard to entire buildings, in contradistinction to ruins,
the backgrounds and landscapes of all the great masters are full "of
them, and in many the ruins few in proportion ; — so much so, that in
the numerous set of Gaspars published by Vivares, there are scarcely
any ruins, though numberless entire buildings.
No painter more diligently studied picturesque disposition and effect
than Paul Veronese ; yet architecture of the most regular and finished
kind forms a very essential part of his magnificent compositions. Many
of these splendid edifices have the most truly beautiful appearance in
pictures, especially when they are accompanied, as in Claude's, by
trees of elegant forms, and when every part of the scenery accords
with their character. I believe, indeed, that we might reverse Mr.
Gilpin's position, and with more truth assert, that a piece of Palladian
architecture, however elegant — however well proportioned its parts —
however well disposed and selected its ornaments — how perfect soever
the symmetry of the whole, yet, in the mere elevation, or placed at
the top of a lawn naked and unaccompanied, is a formal object, and
excites only a cold admiration of the architect's ability — but that it
becomes, when introduced in a picture, a highly interesting object, and
universally pleases. I, of course, mean introduced as the best masters
have introduced and accompanied such buildings — for there can be no
doubt of the tendency of all regular architecture to formality.
The skill with which that formality has been avoided by the great
painters, without destroying smoothness or symmetry, is, perhaps, one
of the strongest arguments in favour of studying their works for the
purposes of improvement.
On the subject of water, I have again the misfortune of differing
from Mr. Gilpin. He says,* " If the lake be spread out on the can-
vass — and in this case it cannot be different in nature — the marmoreum
wquor, pure, limpid, smooth as the polished mirror, we acknowledge it
to be picturesque." No one, I believe, will be singular enough to
deny that a lake in such a state is beautiful ; and such I am persuaded
must always be its prevailing character, though many picturesque cir-
cumstances should be found in the scenery around it. On this occasion
I must beg leave to quote a passage from Mr. Locke,t on a different
subject, indeed, but of general application. " These passions — fear,
* Essay on Picturesque Beauty, page 22.
-j- On the Human Understanding., octavo edit, page 20!!.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
289
anger, shame, envy, &c. — are scarce any of them simple and alone,
and wholly unmixed with others, though usually, in discourse and
contemplation, that carries the name which operates strongest, and ap-
pears most in the present state of the mind." Now, if smoothness, as
Mr. Gilpin acknowledges, be at least a considerable source of beauty —
and if roughness, according to his own statement, be that which forms
the most essential point of difference between the beautiful and the pic-
turesque, it surely is rather a contradiction to his own principles to
call a lake in its smoothest state picturesque, on account of such inter-
ruptions to the absolute smoothness, or rather uniformity of its surface,
as not only accord with beauty, but are often in themselves sources of
beauty — such as shades of various kinds, undulations, and reflections.
Upon the same grounds that he asserts the smooth lake to be pictu-
resque, he also gives that character to the high-fed horse with his smooth
and shining coat. If, however,* "a play of muscles appearing through
the fineness of the skin, gently swelling and sinking into each other —
his being all over lubricus aspici, with reflections of light continually
shifting upon him, and playing into each other," make an animal pictu-
resque, what then will make him beautiful? The interruption of his
smoothness, by a variety of shades and colours, not sudden and strong,
but " playing into each other, so that the eye glides up and down among
their endless transitions," certainly will not supply the room of rough-
ness in such a degree as to overbalance the qualities of beauty, and
abolish, as in the present instance, the very name.
It is true, that according to Mr. Gilpin's two definitions, t both the
lake and the horse in their smoothest possible state, are picturesque;
but they are no less opposite to that character, according to his more
strict and pointed method of defining it, by making roughness the mosl
essential point of difference between it and the beautiful. After so plain
and natural a distinction between the two characters, it surely would
have been more simple and satisfactory to have named things according
to their obvious and prevailing qualities ; and to have allowed that
painters sometimes preferred beautiful, sometimes picturesque, some-
times grand and sublime objects, and sometimes objects where the two
or the three characters, were equally, or in different degrees mixed with
each other.
Many of the examples that I have given of picturesque animals, are
taken from Mr. Gilpin's very ingenious work on forest scenery. He
* Essay on Picturesque Beauty, page 22.
+ Vide pages 38 and 39.
240
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
there observes, that among all the tribes of animals scarce any one is
more ornamental in landscape than the ass. He adds, "in what this
picturesque beauty consists, whether in his peculiar character, in his
strong lines, in his colouring, in the roughness of his coat, or in the mix-
ture of them, would perhaps be difficult to ascertain." When I read this
passage, I had not seen the Essay on Picturesque Beauty, and it gave
me great satisfaction to find my ideas of the causes of the picturesque
confirmed by so attentive an observer as Mr. Gilpin, though he spoke
doubtingly ; and I could not help flattering myself, that as his authority
had confirmed me in my ideas, so, by tracing them through a greater
variety of objects than his subject led him to consider, I might show
the justness and accuracy of his suppositions. Peculiarity of character,
on which Mr. Gilpin very properly lays a stress, naturally arises from
strong lines and sudden variations ; what is perfectly smooth and flow-
ing, has proportionably less of peculiar character, and loses in pictures-
queness what it may gain in beauty.
This leads me to consider a part of Mr. Gilpin's Essay on Picturesque
Beauty that appears to me to be written in a very different spirit from
the last mentioned passage, as also from several others in his works,
which mark the true character and cause of the picturesque in a
masterly manner, and show how much and how well he had observed.
If the criticism I am going to make be just, Mr. Gilpin has, I think,
laid himself open to it by his exclusive fondness for the picturesque,
and by having carried to excess his position, that roughness is that
particular quality which makes objects chiefly please in painting.
From his partiality to this doctrine, he ridicules the idea of having
beauty represented in a picture, and, addressing himself to the person
whom he supposes to make so unpainter-like a request, he says — " The
art of painting allows you all you wish. You desire to have a beautiful
object painted — your horse, for instance, is led out of the stable in all
his pampered beauty ; the art of painting is ready to accommodate you
— you have the beautiful form you admired in nature exactly trans-
ferred to canvass ; be then satisfied — the art of painting has given you
what you wanted. It is no injury to the beauty of your Arabian, if the
painter things he could have given the graces of his art more forcibly
to your cart -horse." *
If a person ignorant of the art of painting were to be told, that a
painter who wished to give in any way the grates of his art, would
prefer a cart-horse to an Arabian, he would be apt to think there was
Essay on Picturesque Beauty.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
241
something very preposterous, both in the art and the artist ; and such
must always be the consequence, when, instead of endeavouring to
show the agreement between art and nature, even when they appear
most at variance, a mysterious barrier is placed between them, to sur-
prise and keep at a distance the uninitiated. To me the fact seems to
be what we might naturally suppose, that Rubens, Vandyke, or Wou-
vermans, when they wished to show the graces of their art, painted
beautiful horses — such as the general sense of mankind would call
beautiful — gay, pampered steeds, with fine coats, and high in flesh.
When they added, as they often did, a greater share of picturesqueness
to these beautiful animals, it was not by degrading them to cart-horses
and beasts of burden — it was by means of sudden and spirited action,
with such a correspondent and strongly marked exertion of muscles
and such wild disorder in the mane, as might heighten the freedom and
animation of their character, without injuring the elegance or grandeur
of their form. If by giving forcibly the graces of his art, nothing fur-
ther is meant than giving them with powerful impression, I cannot
help thinking that Rubens, when he was transferring from nature to
the canvass one of these noble animals in all the fulness and luxuriancy
of beauty, little imagined that he was throwing away his powers, and
as little suspected that any of the rough high-boned cart-horses lie had
placed in scenes with which they accorded, were more striking speci-
mens of the graces of his art.
It would indeed be a wretched degradation of the art, should the
horses of Raphael, Giulio Romano, Polidore, N. Poussin, the forms
and characters of which they had studied with almost the same atten-
tion as those of the human figure; in which, too, as in the human
figure, they had corrected the defects of common nature from their own
exalted ideas of beauty, and from those of their great models, the
ancient sculptors, and in which they certainly meant to display, and
not feebly, the graces of their art — should such ennobled animals be
thought less adapted to display those graces, than a jade of Berchom
or Paul Potter.
The next and last point of difference between us, is with respect to
the plumage of birds. Mr. Gilpin thinks the result of plumage, for he
makes no exception, is picturesque ; and the whole seems to me another
striking instance of his exclusive fondness for that character, and of his
unwillingness on that account to allow any beauty or merit to smooth-
ness. Indeed, as he supposes the picturesque solely to refer to paint-
ing, and that pictures can scarcely admit of any objects which are not
of that character, and as he also allows (or rather asserts) that rough-
Q
242
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
ness is its distinguishing quality, it became necessary either to allow
that an object might be picturesque without being rough, which would
contradict his assertion, or to show that there were other qualities which
would render it so in spite of its smoothness ; or, to use his own ex-
pression, would supply the room of roughness.
Speaking of the plumage of birds,* " nothing," he says, " can be
softer, nothing smoother to the touch ; yet it certainly is picturesque."
He then observes, " it is not the smoothness of the surface which pro-
duces the effect — it is not this we admire — it is the breaking of the
colours — it is the bright green or purple, changing perhaps into a rich
azure or velvet black ; from thence taking a semi-tint, and soon through
all the varieties of colours ; or if the colour be not changeable, it is the
harmony we admire in these elegant little touches of nature's pencil."
It is singular that the colours of birds, and particularly those of a
changeable kind, from which Mr. Burke has taken some of his happiest
illustrations of the beautiful, should, by Mr. Gilpin, not only be cited
as sources of the picturesque, but as so abounding in that quality as to
bestow on smoothness the effect of roughness. He has laid it down as
a maxim, that a smooth building must be turned into a rough one
before it can be picturesque ; yet, in this instance, a smooth bird may
be made so by means of colours, many of which, with their gradations
and changes, are universally acknowledged and admired as beautiful.
I cannot help repeating the same question on this subject as on the
preceding one ; if beautiful and changeable colours with their grada-
tions, added to softness and smoothness of plumage, and to the har-
mony of the elegant little touches of nature's pencil, make birds pic-
turesque, what then are the qualities which make them beautiful ?
But Mr. Gilpin himself has furnished me with the strongest proof
how natural it is for all men, when they design to produce a picturesque
image, to avoid all idea of smoothness. He has quoted Pindar's cele-
brated description of the eagle, as equally poetical and picturesque ; and
such I believe it always has been thought. The ruffled plumage of the
eagle, which Mr. Gilpin has put in italics, as the circumstance which
most strongly marks that character, is both in Mr. West's translation,
and Mr. Gray's imitation ; but as far as I can judge, there is not the
least trace of it in the original. I have not the most distant preten-
sions to any critical knowledge of the Greek language ; yet still I
think, that by the help of those interpreters who have studied it criti-
* Essay on Picturesque Beauty, page 23.
ON THE PICTURESQUE.
243
cally, an unlearned man, if he feels the spirit of a passage, may arrive
at a pretty accurate idea of the force of the expressions. From them it
appears to me, that far from describing the eagle with ruffled plumes,
or with any circumstance truly picturesque, Pindar has, on the con-
trary, avoided every idea that might disturb the repose and majestic
beauty of his image. After he has described the eagle's flagging wing,
he adds, " uygov vurov aiwga" which is so opposite to ruffled, that it
seems to signify that perfect smoothness and sleekness given by
moisture ; that oily suppleness so different from any thing crisp or
rumpled ; as vygov sXaiov expresses the smooth, suppling, undrying
quality of oil. The learned Christianus Damm interprets xvuatuv vygov
vurov aioogzi, dormiens incurvatum (vel potius Iceve) tergum attollit; and
the action is that of a gentle heaving from respiration during a quiet
repose. In another place Damm interprets uygonjs, mollities ; all
equally opposite to ruffled. Indeed, we might almost suppose that
Pindar, having intended to present an image both sublime and beautiful,
had avoided every thing that might disturb its still and solemn grandeur;
for he has thrown, as it were, into shade, the most marked and pic-
« turesque feature of that noble bird : xzhcuwiriv ft iiri bi vipsXav ccyxvXw
xgccri, (3\s(pagoov adu xXa/tfrgov, xars^svag ; a feature which Homer, in a
simile full of action and picturesque imagery, has placed in its fullest
light :
" 'O/ uffr aiywiot yuf^-^eovv^i;, u.yy.vXoy^u'ka.iy
Yliri sty v-iJ/riX'/i piyccXcc kXu.Z,ovti (jlol^omtch.''''
Having been bold enough to criticise both the translation and imita-
tion of Pindar, I shall venture one step further, and try to account for
the passages having been so rendered. I think Mr. West and Mr.
Gray might probably have been impressed with the same idea as Mr.
Gilpin, that the imagery in this passage was highly picturesque, but
might have felt that smooth feathers would not accord with that cha-
racter ; and, therefore, perhaps, (as Sir Joshua Reynolds observes on
Algarotti's ill-founded eulogium of a picture of Titian) they chose to
find in Pindar, what they thought they ought to have found. With
all the respect I have for their abilities, (and Mr. Gray's cannot be
rated too high,) I must think that by one word they have changed the
character of that famous passage ; and it may be doubted whether they
have improved it.
Were the image which they have substituted represented in painting,
it might be more striking, more catching to the eye than Pindar's ; and
that is the true character of the picturesque : but his would have more
of that repose, that solemn breadth, that freedom from all bustle, which
244 SIR UVEDALE PRICE ON THE PICTURESQUE.
I believe accords more truly with the genuine unmixed characters both
of beauty and sublimity,* and with the ideas of the great original.
I have pressed strongly on all the points of difference between Mr.
Gilpin and me, because I think them very essential to the chief object
I have had in view — that of recommending the study of pictures and of
the principles of painting, as the best guide to that of nature, and to
the improvement of real landscape. Could it be supposed that for the
purpose of his own art, a painter would in general prefer a worn-out
cart-horse to a beautiful Arabian ; or that such pieces of architecture as
were universally admired for their beauty and elegance, would, if intro-
duced in a picture, become formal, and cease to please — no man would
be disposed to consult an art which contradicted all his natural feelings.
But were he to be informed that painters have always admired and
copied beauty of every kind, (and strange it would be were it other-
wise) in animals, as well as in the human species, that they neither
reject smoothness nor symmetry, but only the ill-judged and tiresome
display of them ; that with regard to regular and perfect architecture,
it made a principal ornament in pictures of the highest class, but that
while its smoothness, symmetry, and regularity were preserved, its
formality was avoided ; in short, that the study of painting, far from
abridging his pleasures, would open a variety of new sources of amuse-
ment, and without cutting off any of those which he already possessed,
would only direct them into better channels — he might be disposed to
consult an art, which promised many fresh and untasted delights, with-
out forcing him to abandon all those which he had enjoyed before.
* Vide Sir Joshua Reynolds's Notes in Mason's du Fresno'i, p. 86.
'ESSAYS
ON
ARTIFIC IAL WATEK, ON DECORATIONS,
AND ON
ARCHITECTURE AND BUILDINGS.
PREFACE.
The three Essays which I here offer to the public, though detached
from each other and from the Essay on the Picturesque, are, in respect
to the matter they contain, and the suite of ideas they present, perfectly
connected. In all that I have written, I have had two chief purposes
in view — the one, to point out the best method of forming our taste
and judgment in regard to the effect of all visible objects, universally ;
the other, to show in what manner the principles so acquired may be
applied to the improvement of those particular objects with which each
man is individually concerned.
The first step towards acquiring an exact taste and judgment in re-
spect to visible objects, is to gain an accurate knowledge of their lead-
ing characters ; — I, therefore, in my first Essay, traced the character of
the Picturesque, its qualities, effects, and attractions, as distinct from
those of the Sublime and Beautiful, through the different works of
nature and art.
The next step was to show, that not only the effect of picturesque
objects, but of all visible objects whatever, are to be judged of by the
great leading principles of Painting — which principles, though they are
really founded in nature, and totally independent of art, are, however,
most easily and usefully studied in the pictures of eminent painters.
On these two points, which, I trust, I have never lost sight of in any
part of my work, rests the whole force of my argument. If I have
succeeded in establishing them, the system of modern Gardening,
248
PREFACE.
which, besides banishing all picturesque effects, has violated every
principle of painting, is of course demolished.
All such abstract reasoning, however, makes but a slight impression
unless it be applied. I therefore took examples from the works of the
most celebrated layer-out of grounds, Mr. Brown, and examined them,
and his whole system and practice, by the principles which I had be-
fore explained. It has been mentioned as an objection, that Mr. Ha-
milton and Mr. Shenstone are in reality the most celebrated for their
skill in laying out grounds, and, therefore, Painshill and the Leasowes
are the true examples of the taste of English Gardening. The ac-
knowledged superiority of men of liberal education who embellished
their own places, is strongly in favour of the whole of my argument —
but has nothing to do with the objection. Poussin and Le Sueur were
models of simplicity, and were the two most celebrated painters of their
country — but, would it be right on that account to say that Simplicity
was the characteristic of the French school ? They were in painting
what Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Shenstone were in gardening — exceptions
to the national taste, not examples of it.
The censure of modern Gardening and Mr, Brown, drew upon me
an attack from the most eminent professor of the present time, together
with a defence of his predecessor. Nothing could be more fortunate
than such an opportunity, for discussing the practicability of what I had
proposed, with a practical improver of high reputation ; as, likewise,
of explaining and applying to particular parts of improvement, many
positions in my first work.
Yet still, notwithstanding the degree of practical discussion in that
letter, it might be said, even by those who are most partial to my
ideas on the subject, " it is true that you have shown the tameness and
monotony of Mr. Brown's made-water and regularly sloped banks, and
the superior beauty and variety of those in natural lakes and rivers ;
but by what means can these last be imitated ? how can those number-
less varieties, which often owe their charms to a certain artless and
negligent appearance, be produced by the dull mechanical operations
of common labourers ? If you would have us quit the present style,
show us some method of practical improvement which may be acted
upon." This is what I have attempted in the first of these three Es-
says ; and the detail, which, from the novelty of the plan, I have been
obliged to enter into, must be my excuse for its length. I must, how-
ever, observe, that the subject is much more comprehensive than the
title announces : the discussion is not confined to the banks of made-
PREFACE.
249
water, nor even to those of natural rivers and lakes, but is exten ed to
all the natural beauties and varieties of objects near the eye, which
therefore are classed by painters under the title of foreground. All,
who are in any degree conversant with the art of painting, know of
what consequence foregrounds are in pictures — how interesting they
are in themselves, and what influence they have on the effect of the
whole. If they be of such consequence to the painter, they are of still
greater importance to the improver. The painter can command the
other parts of his picture equally with the foreground — can alter, or
new model them as he likes ; but the foreground, in its more extended
sense, or at most the middle distance, is all that is under the control of
the improver. In this Essay I have followed the example of painters.
I have bestowed particular pains on what is to be viewed close to the
eye, and have worked it up more distinctly, and with greater minute-
ness of detail — in the hope that I may induce improvers to follow the
same example in real scenery.
But, besides these foregrounds, of which the models are in nature,
there are others manifestly and avowedly artificial ; which, however,
on that account, are the best suited to artificial objects, and indeed the
only foregrounds strictly in character with them. I have, therefore,
in the second Essay, examined the character of the old Italian Gardens,
and the principles on which, as I conceive, their excellence is founded.
I have compared them with modern gardens, and have stated what
appear to me their respective merits and defects, the situation in which
each is most proper, and the sort of alliance that might be made
between them.
From the Decorations near the House, the transition was very
natural to the house itself, and to buildings in general. In the third
Essay, therefore, I have considered the character of Architecture and
Buildings as connected with the scenery in which they are placed. In
pursuing this inquiry, I have taken my arguments and illustrations
from the works of eminent painters ; examining the style of architecture
and of buildings in their pictures, from the temples and palaces in those
of the higher schools, to the cottages, mills, and hovels of the Dutch
masters, and applying the principles of the three leading characters
discussed in my first Essay, to this particular subject — of all others the
most calculated to show their perfect distinction.
There are persons for whose opinion I have a very high respect, who,
though they agree with me in the distinct character of the Picturesque,
object to the term itself, on the ground that, from its manifest ctymo-
250
PREFACE.
logy, it must signify all that can be represented in pictures with effect.
I had flattered myself with having shown, that, according to that defini-
tion, the word can hardly be said to have a distinct appropriate mean-
ing ; by placing this matter in a different, possibly in a more convincing
light, I may be lucky enough to obviate their only objection. It has
occurred to me that the term (which is in effect the same in English,
French, and Italian,) may possibly have been invented by painters to
express a quality, not merely essential to their art, but in a manner
peculiar to it : the treasures of the sublime and the beautiful, it shares in
common with Sculpture ; but the Picturesque is almost exclusively its
own. A writer of eminence lays great stress on the advantage which
painting possesses over Sculpture, in being able to give value to insignifi-
cant objects, and even to those which are offensive. Many such objects
are highly picturesque in spite of their offensive qualities, and in a
degree that has sometimes caused it to be imagined, that they were
rendered so by means of them. I remember a picture of Wouvermans,
in which the principal objects were a dung-cart just loaded, some
carrion lying on the dung, a dirty fellow with a dirty shovel, the
dunghill itself, and a dog, that from his attitude seemed likely to add
to it. These most unsavoury materials the painter had worked up with
so much skill, that the picture was viewed by every one with delight.
Imagine all this in marble ever so skillfully executed — it would be de-
testable. This certainly does tend to prove, that sculpture cannot
represent with effect, objects merely picturesque. I do not mean to
say, that the grave dignity of that noble art does not admit of a mixture
of the picturesque ; it is clear, however, that the ancients admitted it
with a caution bordering upon timidity. The modern sculptors, on the
other hand, have perhaps gone as much into the other extreme ; and to
that we probably owe the magnificent defects of Michael Angelo, the
affectations of Bernini, and the pantomimes of some of his followers. It
appears to me, that if the whole of this be considered, it completely
takes away every objection to my use of the term ; for if what I have
stated be just, it shows that by Picturesque is meaut, not all that can be
expressed with effect in painting, but that which painting can, and
sculpture cannot express. This, in reality, forms a very just distinction
between the powers of the only two arts imitative of visible objects ;
and the etymology of the word, as I have accounted for it, instead of
contradicting, sanctions the use I have 'made of it, and the distinction
I have given to the character.
The subject of modern Gardening had been so fully discussed in my
PREFACE.
251
first Essay, and in my Letter to Mr. Repton, that little remained to be
said. In this second volume, therefore, I have seldom done more than
make some occasional remarks upon it. It may, indeed, be thought by
many, that I had already bestowed more time upon it, than a particular
mode of gardening in this country would justify. On this not impro-
bable supposition, I must say in my defence, and in some measure in
defence of English gardening, that the present style of laying out places
is not a mere capricious invention, but a consistent and regular system,
founded on the most seducing qualities ; and such as are likely to
operate in every age and country, where extensive improvement in
grounds may become an object of attention — on smoothness, continuity
of surface, undulation, serpentine lines, and, also, what is peculiarly
flattering to the vanity of the owner — distinctness. The whole purpose
of my work has been to show — not that these qualities are by any
means to be abandoned or neglected, but that there are striking effects
and attractions in those of a totally opposite nature ; and that they must
be mixed with each other in various degrees, in order to produce that
beauty of combination, which is displayed in the choicest works of art
and of nature.
Such a mixture so sanctioned, appears to have such obvious and
superior claims over any narrow system of exclusion, that it is hard to
conceive how a system of that kind could long prevail among men of
liberal and highly cultivated minds; yet no one can doubt the fact,
who considers the almost universal admiration with which the exclusive
display of smoothness, serpentine lines, &c. in our gardens and grounds
has been viewed for more than half a century. I believe, indeed, that
there are scarcely any bounds to the sort of idolatry which prevailed,
and still prevails on that subject. English gardening has been consid-
ered as an object of high and peculiar national pride ; it has been cele-
brated, together with its chief professor, by some of the most eminent
writers of this age, in prose and in verse ; and marbles with inscriptions,
have been erected to the memory of Mr. Brown and his works. Such,
indeed, is the enthusiasm of his admirers, that many of them, I am
persuaded, would not only approve of his system being extended over
another quarter of the globe, but would wish, that " the great globe
itself" could be new modelled upon that system; and be made in every
part, like one of his dressed places. Could their wish be carried into
effect, there would really be a very curious similarity between Mr.
Brown's finished state of the world, and the world in a state of chaos,
as described by the poet —
" Unus erat toto naturae vultus in orbe."
252
PREFACE.
The late Mr. Owen Cambridge very pleasantly laughed at Brown's
vanity, by assigning him a higher sphere for his operations than any of
those I have mentioned. He was vapouring one day, as Mr. Cambridge
himself told me, about the change he had made in the face of the country,
and his hope of seeing his plans much more generally extended before
he died. Mr. Cambridge with great gravity said, " Mr. Brown, I very
earnestly wish that I may die before you." — " Why so ? " said Brown,
with great surprise. " Because," said he, " I should like to see heaven
before you had improved it."
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER, &c,
It might very plausibly be argued in defence of Mr. Brown and hia
followers, that however easy it may appear in theory to make an arti-
ficial piece of water look like a natural lake or river, and to give it such
effects as would please the eye of a painter, it would by no means be
easy in practice. That the mode of proceeding in the two arts, (sup-
posing the end to be the same,) is very different, as the painter executes
his own ideas, while the improver must trust to the hands of common
labourers; on which account, a regular and determined form must 1><>
given, the lines staked out with precision, and the levels taken with
the same regularity and exactness. This I allow to be a real difference
between the two arts, and a real difficulty in that of gardening. But
if difficulties were always to stop the progress of art, and if the most
obvious and mechanical system of operation were always to be adopted —
because it would be the easiest, because it would require no invention
to plan, nor taste to direct it — all arts would be reduced to trades ; for
that which makes the distinction between them would no longer exist.
With regard to Artificial Water, whenever those circumstances which
254
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
can give it variety and effect shall studiously be preserved, I shall think
highly of the taste and judgment of the professor ; and should I ever
see those circumstances created, I shall then be proud of English gar-
dening. I shall then say that an artist, who could execute such a work
by means of mechanical hands, not only had taste, but genius and in-
vention, and that it seemed as if his spirit, like Hotspurs, had
" Lent a fire
E'en to the dullest peasant."
I am well aware, however, not only of the intrinsic difficulty of point-
ing out from theory what is likely to succeed in practice, but also of
the cavils and objections which may be raised against every part of
such an innovation, by those who are wedded to the old system ; for I
am not sanguine enough to expect, that what I am now risking in the hope
of promoting the real improvement of real landscapes, will be received
by them with candour, or that any allowances will be made in favour
of the intention. On the contrary, I know that it will be looked upon
as a fresh invasion of the realms of perpetual smoothness and mono-
tony — an invasion which should be repelled by every kind of weapon.
I will begin by observing, that in order to gain a just idea of the
manner in which we ought to form the banks of artificial pieces of water,
the first inquiry should be, how those of natural lakes and rivers are
formed ; for I of course suppose, that the most admired parts of them
are the proper objects of imitation. This is an inquiry which I believe
has never been made with that view, and which I imagine will throw
great light upon the whole subject.
It has been asked, indeed, by way of ridiculing the effect of time and
accident in producing those circumstances which are generally called
picturesque, " whether nature* is a more pleasing object in a dwindled
and shrivelled condition, than when her vigour 4 is as great, her beauty
as fresh, and her looks as charming, as if she newly came out of the form-
ma" hands of her Creator?'" I do not know in what manner Lord Shaftes-
bury, from whom the latter part of this passage is taken, may have ap-
plied it, but as it has been made use of by Mr. G. Mason, it seems to
mean — if it mean anything — that pieces of artificial water, as they
have generally been made, of one equal verdure and smoothness, look
as if they were the immediate productions of the Creator ; while
natural lakes and rivers, the banks of which must always be partially
worn and broken, show nature in a dwindled and shrivelled condition.
* Essay on Design in Gardening, page 204.
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
255
How this earth did look when it was first created, or how nature
then performed her operations, it would be as useless as it is impossible to
know. All we are concerned in, is the present appearance of things,
and her present operations — the constant tendency of which, so opposite
to the supposed improvements of art, is to banish, not to create mono-
tony ; and we really might as well reason on a supposed state of the
moon, as on any supposed state of the earth when it was first created.
What we can reason upon, and what can alone be in any degree to the
purpose, is the progressive state of nature which we now observe, and
which to us is creation. The most rational way, therefore, of imitating
those happy effects, which we most admire in nature, is to observe the
manner in which she progressively creates them, and instead of pre-
scribing to her a set form, from which she must not presume to vary,
we ought so to prepare every thing that her efforts may point out, what,
without such indications, we never can suggest to ourselves. On this
most material point, which I shall afterwards endeavour more fully
and distinctly to explain, the true method of imitating nature is
founded ; and to the total neglect of it, or rather to the most deter-
mined aversion to such a mode of imitation, the tameness, monotony,
and, I may add, unnaturalness of modern gardening must be attributed ;
for those higher degrees of smoothing and polishing, which, when used
with judgment and confined to their proper limits, have so pleasing and
dressed an appearance, have been made, I might almost say, the pre-
paration for improvement, as well as the final object of it.
It can hardly be necessary to say, that I am here considering every
thing merely in a picturesque light ; and that I am not recommending
to those, who think only of profit and convenience, to encourage the
effects of accident ; — they will, with equal reason, no less studiously
guard against them.
256
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
As all artificial pieces of water must be stagnant, it seems to me that
the circumstances which relate to the formation of what may be called
accidental pieces of stagnant water, should more principally be attended
to, than those which relate to rivers.
It often happens that large pieces of water are made for the use of
mills or forges, by floating a valley ; where, as they are not intended
for ornament, the banks are left in their original state. These, though
not accidental, may be considered in the same light. The only opposi-
tion is between natural banks, and those where art has interfered.
Upon the great and inimitable scale of nature, lakes are formed by
many proportionate causes. As, for example, when the crater of a
volcano sinks down — when a chasm remains after an earthquake — or
when part of a mountain, falling across the bed of a river, creates a
natural dam ; one instance of which I heard from a person who had
been an eyewitness of the progressive effect, soon after the tremendous
cause had taken place. This might, without impropriety, be called the
creation of a lake ; for the only way in which the nature we are ac-
quainted with does create them, is by some such accident as I have
mentioned.
Artificial pieces of water must be formed by means of a head, of
digging, or of both. The most beautiful, whatever be their size, will of
course be those where digging is unnecessary — where the surrounding
ground is of a varied character, and is indented with bays and in-
lets variously accompanied. If such a basin be ready to receive an
artificial lake, the improver has little difficulty about the form of his
banks ; for the water, by insinuating itself into every creek and bay,
by winding round each promontory, under the projecting boughs, and
the steep broken ground, by lying against the soft verdure, and upon
the stony or gravelly beach, will mark all the characters of the shore,
as it will likewise mark its different heights, by a comparison with its
own level. But where all is to be done by the spade, and the whole
of the banks to be newly formed, the task is very different ; and here
it will be the proper place to inquire, by what means the varieties in
the banks of natural lakes are produced. I of course suppose, that the
improver would wish to have many of those varieties, provided they
could be introduced without appearing crowded or affected, and without
injuring unity of effect and of character ; for if he be content with the
unity of monotony, he cannot do better than take Mr. Brown for his
guide.
I think the best method of stating this matter clearly, will be to show
in what manner those natural lakes, of which the general form is pleas-
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
257
ing, but which want those varieties I have been speaking of, might,
from natural causes, have acquired them ; and then to show how art
may so prepare the ground as to give a kind of guidance and direction
to the operations of nature. It is easy to conceive some natural lakes,
in which, though the shape of the ground and the turns of the water
might, from their winding and undulation, be extremely pleasing, yet
the monotony would be very great ; as, for instance, among bare downs,
or close-bitten sheep-walks — for where the soil and turf are firm, the
descent gentle and uniform, so that the rain-water, from its spreading
easily over the general surface, does not produce any breaks or gullies
— the monotony would arise, from what, in many points of view, might
very justly be considered as perfections. The whole outline of the
immediate bank in such a piece of water, would have little more variety
than that of one of Mr. Brown's, though it would be free from its for-
mality and affected sweeps ; and were natural wood to grow upon it,
though that must always be a source of variety, yet alone it would not
be sufficient ; for there are many varieties of a striking kind, which ex-
clusively belong to ground, and of which wood cannot supply the place,
however necessary it be to accompany, and to give them their full
value. What is it then that would give to a lake of this kind a higher
interest with lovers of painting, and with many other persons of natural
taste and observation ? and what would be the causes of such a change ?
This is the inquiry I propose to make, and this will lead to the ex-
amples of that mode of imitating nature which I have already men-
tioned.
To give rise to picturesque circumstances in such a lake, we must
first suppose the soil and the turf, instead of being firm, to be in parts
of a looser texture, and consequently to be more easily acted upon by
frost and water. The winter torrents would in that case wash some of
the ground from the higher parts, which by degrees would accumulate,
and form different mounds immediately above the water, and some-
times little promontories, which would jut out into the lake. Such
projections would not long remain bare ; for wherever soil is drifted
down and accumulates, vegetation is particularly luxuriant : heath and
furze, and, under their protection, trees and bushes will often spring up
spontaneously ; and every one must have observed how much more fre-
quently they are found on the sides of gullies and ravines, than on the
more open parts of hills, and how much more picturesque their effect is
in such situations.
In other places the soil would crumble away, and the banks be
broken, and deeply indented. Should there be any rocks or large stones,
R
258
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
they, from the same causes, will partially be bared ; while the strata
of sand, gravel, and of different coloured earths mixed with the tints of
vegetation, will in various parts appear. The trees which often grow on
the shallow soil above the rocks, will, as they grow old, show parts of
their roots uncovered, and hanging over or clasping the rocks ; while
ivy, being guarded by the same brakes which nursed up the trees, will
climb over them and the rocks. In all this, I have supposed only parts
of the banks to be so altered, and the other parts to remain in their
former smoothness, verdure, and undulation. I would now ask, if two
lakes, the one universally green and smooth, the other with the
varieties I have described, were near each other, which would be the
most generally admired ? I can hardly conceive that any person would
hesitate to which of the two he would give the preference ; yet it must
be observed, that the picturesque circumstances I have mentioned, arise
from what, in other points of view, must be considered as imperfections,
and what, in their first crude state, are deformities.
I will now put the case of an improver who had been used to com-
pare nature and pictures together, and who intended to make a piece
of artificial water in a valley, the sides of which were uniformly green
and sloping, like those of the lake I first mentioned. This valley I
suppose him to be able to float nearly to the height he wished by means
of the dam only, but that he still would be obliged to form some part
totally by digging. Such an improver would, of course, admire the
last mentioned lake, and be desirous of finding out how he might more
quickly, and with greater certainty, give birth to those picturesque
circumstances which in that must slowly have arisen from time and
accident. He would begin by taking the level of the future water
according to the intended height of the head, by which means he would
have a very tolerable idea of the general form ; and he would take care
that in digging out the mould from the sides to form the head, the
workmen should, if possible, always keep some little way below that
level, in order that no marks of the spade should appear after the pool
was filled, but that he might see the exact outline which would be
formed by the water itself. By this method, some varieties, even in the
most unvaried ground, will present themselves ; whereas, by the usual
method of preparing the outline with the spade according to the stakes,
the whole of that outline must, in every instance, be stiff and formal ; it
would be so should the level be so exactly and minutely taken, that the line
were precisely that which the water itself would describe, and much more
so if artificial sweeps should be made. The bank, therefore, being at first
left in its natural form, and the water itself being his best guide with
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
259
resj>ect to any changes it might be proper to make, he would go round
every part with a painter's, not a mere gardener's eye ; and, instead of
examining how he might make the sweeps more regular, the bank more
uniformly sloping to the water edge, and every thing more smooth, he
would consider in what parts the varieties I have mentioned could be
introduced most naturally, and with most effect.
The two principal changes in the mere ground are effected, first, by
removing earth from the banks, in order to form coves and inlets of
various sizes ; and, secondly, by placing it upon them, in order to vary
their height and shape, or against them, to form strong projections. The
first of these changes is made in most pieces of artificial water, but in
so tame and uniform a manner as to have little effect or variety ; the
second method, I believe, has never been attempted.
In order to keep the whole more distinct, I will begin by considering
both the difficulty and the practicability of breaking an uniform bank
into such forms, as, when they are accompanied by vegetation, please all
eyes in natural lakes and rivers.
Whenever the shaping of a bank is left to common labourers or gar-
deners, they, of course, make it as smooth and as uniformly sloping as
possible. Any directions to them how to break it irregularly, would
only produce the most ridiculous notches, with visible marks of the
spade or the pick-axe — for even a painter who was used to gardening,
could not, with his own hand, by the immediate use of such instru-
ments, produce any thing picturesque or natural. As art is unable, by
any immediate operation, to create those effects, she must have recourse
to nature, — that is, to accident, — whose operation, though she cannot
imitate, she can in a great measure direct. If, therefore, an improver
wishes to break the uniformity of a green sloping bank — rising, how-
ever, from the water with a quick, though an equal ascent — he will
oblige his workmen, after he has marked out the general forms and
sizes of those breaks, to cut down the banks perpendicularly, and then
to undermine them in different degrees. By this method, though he
be unable to copy the particular breaks with which he may have been
pleased, he will be certain of imitating their general character. By
this method, likewise, all sameness and formality of lines will neces-
sarily be avoided ; for, were each break to be staked out in the most
formal manner, each to be a regular semicircle precisely of the same
dimension, and the workmen to follow the exact line of the stakes, yet
still by undermining it would be impossible not to produce variety. Then
again, as monotony is the parent of monotony, so is variety the parent
of variety. When, by the action of rain and frost, added to that of
260
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
the water itself, large fragments of mould tumble from the hollowed
banks of rivers or lakes, those fragments, by the accumulation of other
mould, often lose their rude and broken form, are covered with the
freshest grass, and enriched with tufts of natural flowers ; and, though
detached from the bank, and upon a lower level, still appear connected
with it, and vary its outline in the softest and most pleasing manner.
As fragments of the same kind will always be detached from ground
that is undermined, so, by their means, the same effects may designedly
be produced ; and they will suggest numberless intricacies and varieties
of a soft and pleasing, as well as of a broken kind. They will likewise
indicate where large stones may be placed in the most natural and
picturesque manner ; for, when such stones and fragments of mould are
grouped with each other, they not only have a better effect to the
painter's eye, but they appear to have fallen together from the bank ;
whereas, without such indication, without something in the form of the
ground which accords with and accompanies them, stones placed upon
mere turf, have seldom that appearance of lucky accident which should
be the aim where objects are not professedly artificial. In making any
of those abrupt inlets, the improver must consider what parts would
most probably have been torn by floods, if the mould and the turf had
been of a looser texture, and the general surface less calculated to spread
the water, in order that he might give to his breaks the appearance of
having been torn by accident. He would not, however, be guided by
that consideration alone, but also observe where such inlets would have
the most picturesque, as well as the most natural effect — how they
would be accompanied, and in what manner the more distant parts
might be introduced ; for as all strongly marked abruptnesses attract
the eye, he would endeavour by their means to attract it towards the
most interesting objects, or at least not towards those of an opposite
character.
P conceive that in most situations it may be quite possible, with
some sacrifice of expense, to introduce here and there broken rocky
precipices, of more or less magnitude, that might serve to give the
happiest variety to the aquatic scene which the improver is forming.
There can be no difficulty of ascertaining whether the prevailing rock
of the locality is any where found to approach within reasonable prox-
imity to the surface. This may be a more uncertain investigation if
the rock be of the primitive class ; but if it be stratified, it must al-
ways be an easy matter to ascertain the depth at which it exists, at
whatever angle the general stratification may lie. Having learned this,
it will be quite possible, before admitting the water into the valley to
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
261
be flooded, to open up a large irregular quarry in the sloping side of the
hill ; and to secure the essential point that the rocks may rise naturally
out of a certain depth of the future water, the operation of quarrying
may be made to commence at any given depth below the line of its
intended level. Very picturesque little irregular rocky bays might thus
be formed, which, with the after addition of trees, shrubs, and plants,
might give the charm of Nature to the scene, when the whole effect be-
came mellowed by the softening touch of time. A rocky promontory
might thus also be created, by taking advantage of a prominence in the
hill, and quarrying irregularly into either side of it — and if the masses
of stone that are thus quarried out were not found to be of any import-
ant value elsewhere, they might be very advantageously employed for
the general effect, by scattering them carelessly along certain flat parts
of the shores within the proposed water line, or about the base of the
newly-created cliffs, where some of them might be seen half-rising above
the water. For this last object, the larger the blocks could be blasted
out, and the more irregular they could be in form, the better effect
they would have — and a due intermixture of aquatic plants would add
to the perfection of the whole composition. — E.J
After the improver had settled the principal points where he would
either add or take away earth for the sake of picturesque effect, he
would then begin to dig out the soil that might he necessary for com-
pleting the form and size he wished to give his lake. In the manage-
ment of this part, which must be entirely formed by digging, lies the
great difficulty ; for if the line be exactly staked out, and the bank
everywhere sloped down in that direction to the edge of the future
water, perfect monotony will, as usual, be the consequence. The ait
here consists — and it is by no means an easy one — in preserving a
general play and connection of outline, yet varied by breaks and inlets
of different heights and characters — it consists in avoiding sameness
and insipid curves, yet in no less carefully avoiding such frequent and
distinct breaks, as, from a different cause, would disfigure the outline.
Such opposite defects might perhaps be avoided, and such opposite
beauties be united, were improvers to observe, and even to analyze
those banks of natural lakes and rivers, in which such beauties, without
the defects, do exist. No one can doubt that there are natural banks
of a moderate height, where the general play of outline is preserved by
the connection of the parts, and yet where on a near approach, and in
different directions, numberless breaks, inlets, and picturesque circum-
stances of every kind are perceived.
Let us suppose then, that all the trees, bushes, and vegetation of
262
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
every kind, were to be taken away from such a bank ; what would
remain ? A number of rough unsightly heaps of earth, tumbled into
irregular shapes ; with perhaps several stumps, roots of trees, and large
stones in different parts of it. If these also were removed, nothing
would be left but broken unequal banks of earth. The prophetic eye
of real taste might indeed, even in this rude chaos, discern the founda-
tion of numberless beauties and varieties ; but the rash hand of false
taste would destroy that foundation, by indiscriminately destroying all
roughness and inequality.
This sort of analysis shows what is the groundwork of picturesque
improvement ; but that groundwork by no means precludes the future ad-
mission of those softer beauties which arise from smoothness and undula-
tion. The essential difference is, that the last-mentioned qualities may
be given at any time, and in any degree ; whereas it is extremely diffi-
cult to return back to abruptness. The reason of this difference is
obvious — all smoothing and levelling can be done in a great measure by
rule, and therefore with certainty ; but the effects of abruptness, though
they may be prepared by design, can only be produced by accident,
and cannot be renewed but by the same process.
The person, therefore, who has any part of a piece of water to form
totally anew, would, according to my conception, do well to take any
beautiful bank of a river or lake that would suit the style and scale of
his ground, as a sort of model ; and in some degree to analyze the
component parts, and, as it were, the anatomy of it. He would do
well to examine the ground with its breaks, cavities, and inequalities,
separate from their beautiful disguise of trees and plants ; and to con-
sider the effect which such ground gives to vegetation, as well as the
charm which it receives from that delightful drapery of nature. In
doing this, the improver would be following the practice of the most
consummate masters of another art. Who does not know that Raphael,
and almost all the eminent historical painters, though their pictures
were only to represent the human figure in its perfect state, yet studied
and designed the anatomical position of all the bones, muscles, &c, in
detail ? What is still more to the point in question, the great artist
whom I have just mentioned, accurately drew the naked forms of those
figures, which he meant to represent with drapery ; knowing how much
the grace and play of that drapery must depend on what was beneath,
and that its folds were not meant to hide, but to indicate and adorn the
forms which they covered.
The whole of this presents the idea of ground- working in a new and
a much higher point of view ; so perfectly new, that I believe nothing
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
263
of the kind has hitherto been attempted, or even thought of. The diffi-
culty is in proportion to the variety of points from which each part (as
being part of a composition) must be considered. Mr. Brown never
thought of picturesque composition ; and where the parts, as in his
banks, are all alike both in form and colour, and without any break,
there can be no difficulty with regard to their connection with each
other, however ill they may accord with the rest of the landscape.
Monotony is, indeed, a very certain remedy against particular defects ;
but it may truly be said, that such a remedy is worse than almost any
disease.
If, then, an improver were determined to avoid such unnatural
monotony, to copy nature in her lucky varieties and effects, and to
copy her as closely as possible, he might by way of study, and as a
trial how far an imitation could be made to resemble a beautiful
original, take a sort of plan of the ground, independently of the trees,
&c. He might then mark out on the sides of the future water, the
exact places where the mould which was dug out should be de-
posited, but without being smoothed or levelled ; only directing that
each heap, more or less continued and extended in length, should be
raised to certain heights in different parts ; — all the inlets and projec-
tions might be formed upon the same principle. This, when done,
would be the rough groundwork, and would have something of the
general shape of what he had admired, but with unavoidable varieties.
Such a state of ground may be compared to the state of a picture when
the artist has just roughly sketched in the general masses and forms.
To a person unused to the process, the whole appears like a heap of
confusion, and of dabs of paint put on at random — just as the ground
in a similar state would appear like a heap of dirt, thrown about with-
out any meaning ; and this is the state in which both painters and im-
provers would dislike to have their works seen. But in both it is a
necessary preparation — a rude process — through which those works
must pass, before they can receive the more distinct and finishing
touches.
The general form of the bank, that is, of the mere ground, being
made out in this rude manner, the improver would next observe what
were the other circumstances, independently of trees and vegetation,
which gave picturesque effect to the bank of the natural river which he
was endeavouring to imitate, and produced varied reflections in the
water. These, he might probably find, were old stumps and trunks of
trees, with their roots bare and projecting — small ledges of rocks, and
stones of various sizes, either accompanied by the broken soil only, <>r
264
SIR UVEDALE PRICK
fixed among the matted roots — some of them in the sides of the bank
itself — some below it, and near the edge of the water — others in the
water, with their tops appearing above it. In another part again, there
might be a beach of gravel, sand, or pebbles, the general bank being-
there divided, and a passage worn through it, by animals coming to
drink, or to cool themselves in the water. Many of these, and of
similar circumstances, he might probably be able to produce in his new-
formed bank, before he began the operation of planting ; nor ought he
to be deterred by the awkward naked appearance of stumps, roots, and
stones half-buried in dirt, but look forward to the time when dirt and
bareness will be gone, when rudeness will be disguised, and effect and
variety alone remain.
Should a taste for diversifying the banks of artificial water once pre-
vail, I am well persuaded that such an inexhaustible fund of amuse-
ment and interest would succeed to the present dull monotony, as might
tempt many into the opposite extreme. Just at present, however, there
is no need of caution on that head ; and the study of pictures, by means
of which a taste for such varieties is best acquired, will at once be the
incentive and the corrective ; — it will point out many unthought-of
varieties and effects, and at the same time will show in what situations
simplicity, in what richness ought to prevail — where, and how they
ought to be introduced in succession, so as to give relief to each other.
When we consider the great beauty of tints, independently of form,
and of light and shadow ; as likewise the great variety of them which
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
265
nature does, and consequently art may, introduce into one scene of a
river, and that with the most perfect harmony and unity of effect — it
is quite surprising that they should absolutely have been banished from
the banks of artificial water, and from what are meant to be the most
ornamented scenes. I am not here speaking of trees or their various
tints — of which, however, little advantage has been taken on the banks
of water, though in other places too licentious a use is often made of
their diversity. I am now speaking of the tints of stone, and of the
soil in broken ground, both which have this great advantage — that, al-
though they form a more marked contrast to vegetation than any trees
do to each other, yet they, in a peculiar degree, harmonise with other
objects. The first of them is in many cases allowed to be highly orna-
mental ; — the latter, I believe, may be made to accord with dressed
scenery, at least where" the banks of water are concerned ; for where
the professed aim is that of imitating a river, surely those circumstances
which give such effect, variety, and naturalness to rivers, ought not to
be proscribed. On the contrary, the improver ought to make them the
object of his search, his study, and his imitation, not only on lakes and
rivers, but wherever there are rich and varied banks — for we must be
sure that water and reflection would double their beauties. All such
banks afford studies for painters, either alone, or combined with water ;
but without some variety of tint in their accompaniments, rivers, either
in nature or painting, would be most insipid objects. If, therefore, an
artist were desired to paint a scene, in which a river was to be the
principal feature, and were told, at the same time, that for the banks
of it he must make use of no other colour than grass green, I imagine
he would hardly undertake it, even if he should be allowed to differ so
far from Mr. Brown as to vary the form as well as the light and shadow
of those banks. Mr. Brown and his followers have confined themselves
to the most strict and absolute monotony, in form, colour, and light and
shadow. I trust that some years hence it will appear quite surprising,
that professors of the art of laying out grounds should have received
large sums of money for having planned and executed what they called
artificial rivers; but from which they had studiously excluded almost
every circumstance of a natural one, except what they could not get
rid of — the two elements of earth and water. The artist whom I have
instanced would certainly wish to make use of such a diversity of tints
as might create variety and interest, without glare and confusion ; and
the improver, instead of being more restrained, may be allowed to go
much farther than the painter — and this is a point which deserves to be
discussed.
266
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
Landscape painters have availed themselves of all the varieties which
suited their art ; but in a painted landscape, the detail must always be
subordinate to the general effect. It often happens that in a real fore-
ground numberless circumstances give delight which the painter in a
great degree suppresses ; because they would not accord with the in-
tentional neglect of detail in the general style and conduct of his pic-
ture, nor yet with the scale of it, compared with that of real scenery.
But the improver, who works with the materials of nature, may ven-
ture, though still with caution, to indulge himself in her liberties — he
may give to particular parts the highest degree of enrichment, that
rocks, stones, roots, mosses, with flowering and trailing plants, of close
or of loose texture, can create, without the same danger which the
painter incurs, of injuring the whole. Such parts, when viewed at a
distance, would only have a general air of richness ; and that is the
character which they would have in a painted landscape. When seen
near, they are much more rich in detail than a painter could venture to
represent them in his foreground — they are compositions of a confined
kind, which have seldom been carefully finished as such, though often
sketched as studies. But had such an artist as Van-Huysum, who
was both a landscape and a flower-painter, chosen to take a compart-
ment of that kind by itself quite separate from the rest of the scenery,
he would have represented it in its full detail; and such a picture
would have borne the same relation to a landscape, as one of those
groups of flowers which he so often did paint, and with such wonder-
ful truth and splendour, bear to the general view of a garden. He
would have expressed all the brilliancy and mellowness of such a small
composition ; and we, in dressing such parts, should endeavour to give
them that mixture of mellowness and brilliancy which would suit such
a picture as he, or any painter of the same character and excellence,
would have painted.
These are some of my reasons for thinking that the banks of artificial
water may be more enriched, than those of rivers appear to be in paint-
ing, or, I may add, than they are in nature, if an average were taken
between the plain and the enriched parts of the most admired river. A
piece of made water bears the same relation to a lake, or a river, that
a sonnet, or an epigram, does to an heroic or a didactic poem : in any
short poem, a quick succession of brilliant images and expressions is
not only admired, but expected — for, as Lorenzo de Medici says ; " La
brevita del sonetto, non comporte che una sola parola sia vana" —
whereas they would be ill placed in the narrative, or the connecting
parts of a long work. The case is particularly strong with respect to
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
267
artificial water — as it is professedly ornamental, and made with no other
intention.
In order to point out a few of those varieties which appear to me
most capable of being imitated by art, I will consider some of the
different characters of the banks of natural rivers. The most unin-
teresting parts of any river, are those of which the immediate banks
are flat, green, naked, and of equal height. I have said uninteresting ;
for they are merely insipid, not ugly ; no one however, I believe, calls
them beautiful, or thinks of carrying a stranger to see them. But
should the same kind of banks be fringed with flourishing trees and
underwood, there is not a person who would not be much pleased at
looking down such a reach, and seeing such a fringe reflected in the
clear mirror. If, a little farther on, instead of this pleasing, but uniform
fringe, the immediate banks were higher in some places, and suddenly
projecting — if, on some of these projections, groups of trees stood on the
grass only ; on others, a mixture of them with fern and underwood,
and between them the turf alone came down almost to the water edge,
and let in the view towards the more distant objects — any spectator
who observed at all, must be struck with the difference between one
rich, but uniform fringe, and the succession and opposition of high and
low, of rough and smooth, of enrichment and simplicity. A little farther
on, other circumstances of diversity might occur. In some parts of the
bank, large trunks and roots of trees might form coves over the water,
while the broken soil might appear amidst them and the overhanging
foliage ; adding to the fresh green, the warm and mellow tints of a rich
ochre, or a bright yellow. A low ledge of rocks might likewise show
itself a little above the surface ; but so shaded by projecting boughs as
to have its form and colour darkly reflected. At other times these
rocks might be open to the sun, and, in place of wood, a mixture of
heath and furze with their purple and yellow flowers, might crown the
top ; between them wild roses, honeysuckles, periwinkles, and other
trailing plants might hang down the sides towards the water, in which
all these brilliant colours and varied forms would be fully reflected.
These are a few of the numberless varieties, which it is within the
compass of art to imitate ; they, nevertheless, have seldom, if ever, been
tried in the style, or for the purposes that I have mentioned — not
even those which arise from planting. But as rocks with cascades
have been imitated with success, there can be no difficulty in placing
trunks, or roots of trees, or in imitating many effects of stone, or of
rocks, on a smaller scale ; especially where there is no motion to disturb
them. With regard to the tints of soil, if sand, or any rich-coloured
268
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
earth, be placed where it will be supported by stones, roots, or ledges of
rocks, as it often is in nature, it will probably remain undisturbed ; as
there would be no current, or flood to affect it.
In all I have written on the subject of improvement, one great pur-
pose has been to point out the affinity between landscape painting, and
landscape gardening ; in this case, the affinity is very close indeed.
The landscape gardener would prepare his colours, would mix and break
them, just like the painter ; and would be equally careful to avoid the
two extremes of glare and monotony ; every aim of the painter with
respect to form, and light and shadow, would likewise be equally that
of the landscape gardener.
Between the professors of Mr. Brown's school and landscape painters,
there certainly is no kind of affinity ; but there is one branch of the art
of painting, from which they seem to have borrowed many of their
principles, and their ideas of effect. I mean that branch, the professors
of which sometimes call themselves painters in general, but who are
more commonly known by the name of house-painters. The aim of a
house-painter is to make every thing as smooth and even as the nature
of what he is to work upon will allow ; and then to make it of one
uniform colour. So did Mr. Brown. Another part of his art is to keep
exactly within the lines that are marked out. When, for instance, he
is picking in (as it is termed) the frize, or the ornaments of a ceiling,
he carefully and evenly lays on his white, his green, or his red, and
takes care that all the lines and the passages from one colour to another
shall be distinctly seen, and never mixed and blended with each other
as in landscape painting. So far the two professors exactly resemble
each other. The great difference between them is, that the former
never proposed any of their works as landscapes ; whereas the latter,
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
269
with almost as little pretension, have proposed theirs, not merely as
landscapes, but as landscapes of a more refined and exquisite kind, than
those which nature, or the best of her imitators had produced.
It may be objected to the style I have recommended, that from the
awkward attempts at picturesque effect, such fantastic works would
often be produced as might force us to regret even the present monotony.
I have no doubt that very diverting performances in roots, stones, and
rock- work would be produced, and that alone I should reckon as no
little gain ; for who would not prefer an absurd, but laughable farce,
to a flat insipid piece of five acts ? There is, however, another very
essential difference. In a made river there is such an incorrigible dull-
ness, that unless the banks themselves be totally altered, the most judi-
cious planting will not entirely get the better of it. But let the most
whimsical improver make banks with roots, stones, rocks, grottos,
caverns, of every odd and fantastic form ; even these, by means of trees,
bushes, trailing plants, and of vegetation in general,, may in a short
time have their absurdities in a great degree disguised, and still, under
that disguise, be the cause of many varied and striking effects. How
much more so, if the same materials were disposed by a skilful artist !
There are, indeed, such advantages arising from the moisture and vege-
tation which generally attend the near banks of water, that even quarry
stones simply placed against a bank, however crude their first appear-
ance, soon become picturesque ; mosses and weather-stains, the certain
consequence of moisture, soon enrich and diversify their surface, while
plants of different kinds spring forth between their separations, and
crawl, and hang over them in various directions. QWhere the depth
of the water is not to be greater than may admit of such an operation, a
good picturesque point may be produced by the mere erection of a rude
pier, which may be partly or entirely made of rustic wood, or altogether
of rough and uncemented stones. A boat moored to such a pier, will
at once convert it into a point of some interest, which cannot fail to
improve the whole effect. — E.] If stones thus placed upright like a
wall, nay if a wall itself may by means of such accompaniments have
an effect, what an infinite number of pleasing and striking combinations
might be made, were an improver with the eye of a painter, to search
for stones of such forms and tints as he could employ to most advantage !
"Were he, at the same time, likewise to avail himself of some of those
beautiful, but less common flowering and climbing plants which in
general are only planted in borders, or against walls! We see what rich
mixtures are formed on rocky banks, by common heaths and furze alone,
or with the addition of wild roses and woodbines ; what new combina-
270
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
tions might then be made in many places with the Virginia creeper,
periploca, trailing arbutus, &c, which though, perhaps, not more beauti-
ful, would have a new and more dressed appearance ! Many of the
choice American plants of low growth, and which love shade, such as
kalmeas, and rhododendrons, by having the mould they most delight in
placed to the north, on that sort of shelf which is often seen between a
lower and an upper ledge of rocks, would be as likely to flourish as in
a garden. And it may be here remarked, that when plants are placed
in new situations with new accompaniments, half hanging over one mass
of stone, and backed by another, or by a mixture of rock, soil, and wild
vegetation, they assume so new a character, such a novelty and brilliancy
in their appearance, as can hardly be conceived by those who only see
them in a shrubbery, or a botanical garden. In warmer aspects, espe-
cially in the more southern parts of England, bignonias, passion-flowers,
&c. might often grow luxuriantly amidst similar accompaniments ; these
we have always seen nailed against walls, and have little idea of their
effect, or even of that of vines and jessamines, when loosely hanging
over rocks and stones, or over the dark coves which might be made
among them.
[1 have tried the experiment of allowing vines to trail wildly over rocks
in certain favourable situations, with very happy effect. The hop may
now and then be so used — and that grand broad-leaved plant, the
aristolochia sepho, is especially well adapted for such purposes. — E.]
These effects of a more dressed and minute kind, might be tried with
great convenience and propriety in those parts of artificial pieces of
water, which are often enclosed from the pasture grounds, and dedicated
solely to shrubs and verdure; while other circumstances of a ruder nature,
and not so liable to be injured, might with equal propriety be placed in less
polished scenes ; and by such methods, a varied succession of pictures
might be formed on the banks of made water. Some of soft turf, and a
few simple objects — others full of enrichment and intricacy — others par-
taking of both those characters — yet while monotony was avoided in the
simple parts, general breadth and harmony might no less be preserved
in those which were most enriched, for they are preserved in the most
striking parts of natural rivers ; which are often so full of richness, in-
tricacy, and variety, that art must despair to rival them.
It may, perhaps, be thought that such banks as Mr. Brown made,
though very tiresome if uniformly continued, would be very proper for
the simple parts of such artificial water as I have supposed ; in my
opinion, however, they are in one sense, almost as remote from simpli-
city as from richness. Simplicity, when applied to objects in which
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
271
nature is professedly imitated, always implies naturalness ; by which I
mean that all the circumstances, whether few or many, should have the
appearance of having been produced by a lucky concurrence of natural
causes, without the interference of art. For that reason, when a river
is the object of imitation, the banks ought not to be made more
regularly sloping to the edge of the water, or more exactly levelled,
than those of gentle rivers usually are, otherwise they betray art, and,
of course, are no longer simple. Indeed, in all such imitations the
danger of betraying art should prevent too nice an attention to regular
slopes, even though frequent precedents should be found to exist in
nature. The case is different in the gravel walk ; for that is no imita-
tion of nature, but an avowed piece of art — avowedly made for comfort
and neatness. The two sides of a gravel walk may, therefore, be as
even and smooth as art can make them, and the sweeps regular and
uniform. From not attending to this very obvious difference, Mr.
Brown has formed the banks of his rivers just as he did the sides of
his walks ; he made the curves equally regular, and the lines equally
distinct**
I shall, very probably, be accused of a passion for enrichment, and a
contempt for simplicity, as I have been of an exclusive fondness for the
picturesque, and of a want of feeling for what is beautiful. I have the
same defence to make against both charges — the necessity of counter-
acting the strong and manifest tendency of the general taste towards
monotony and baldness, to which simplicity is nearly allied, and into
which it easily degenerates. To correct those two great defects of arti-
ficial water, it was necessary to show the charms of variety and enrich-
ment, and the practicability of producing them ; and as they are not
meant to exclude simplicity, so neither should simplicity exclude them
— they are correctives and heighteners of each other. But it must be
observed, that the effects of enrichment can be more distinctly pointed
out in theory, and more certainly created in practice, than those of
simplicity in its genuine sense. The charm of a simple view on a river
consists in having a few objects happily placed. A small group of
trees — a single tree with no other background than the sky, or a bare
hill — a mere bush — a tussuck — may happen to give that character, and
any addition, any diminution, might injure or destroy quel tantino chc
fa tutto. To leave such slight but essential circumstances unaltered,
is a matter of some feeling and judgment — to place them, still more so,
and the attempt might often produce unconnected spots ; but stones,
* Essay on the Picturesque, page 242.
272
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
rocks, roots, with trees, bushes, and trailing plants, if placed together,
must at least produce richness and variety.
That species of simplicity which arises from the objects being few,
has in many cases a distinct and peculiar charm, and should in those
cases be most carefully preserved. There is, however, another kind of
simplicity, which is of more extensive consequence — I mean simplicity
and unity of effect —
" Denique sit quidvis simplex duntaxat et unum."
"Wherever intricacy, variety, and enrichment disturb that unity, they
are highly injurious ; but where they do not, unless they should inter-
fere with simplicity so pleasing in itself, and so clearly marked out as
not to be mistaken, they surely in most instances will plead their own
excuse.
Hitherto I have supposed, that in some part of the ground where
artificial water was to be made, there were originally certain inequali-
ties and varieties of which advantage could be taken. But, it might
be asked, what is a person to do whose house is situated in an absolute
flat, and who still, in spite of the disadvantages of such a situation, and
of the absence of all picturesque circumstances, is determined to make an
artificial river ? Is he to vary the heights of his banks, or to break
them, when all around is smooth and level ? Is he to plant bushes, or
suffer them to grow, when the whole lawn is open and cleared ? These
are questions which Mr. Brown's admirers might ask with triumph ;
and here, they might add, the superiority of our school of improvement,
and the genius of its founder, appear in the clearest light. That great
self-taught master, by reducing the banks every where to the same
height, by sloping them regularly, and keeping them clear from all
rubbish, has preserved, as far as it is possible, that great beauty — con-
tinuity of surface ; for in his artificial rivers, if we except the space
which the water itself occupies, every blade of grass is seen as it was
before the water was made.
Very few great self-taught masters have ever existed — none, perhaps,
strictly speaking. Mr. Brown certainly is in no sense of that number ;
and to hear the same title given to him as to Shakspeare or Salvator
Rosa, would raise our indignation, if the extreme ridicule did not give
another turn to our feelings.
It must be owned, that if the pleasure of viewing a piece of scenery
consisted in being able to follow a surface with the least possible inter-
ruption, Mr. Brown's method of making artificial water would be per-
fect ; but if grouping, composition, partial concealment, variety, effect,
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
273
be all essential requisites in the art of creating landscapes, especially
where water is a principal ingredient, then a very different method
must be pursued, even where the whole country is perfectly flat. In
reality, by sacrificing the effect of water to the surface of grass, the
character of a meadow or lawn is destroyed, yet that of a lake or river
is not obtained ; for nothing can more completely separate and disunite
the two parts of a meadow than a naked glaring piece of water, and
nothing can be less like a beautiful river or lake than such a pretended
imitation.
In my opinion, he who makes a piece of water, whatever may be its
situation, ought, in almost all cases to consider it as the principal object
of his attention, and, instead of sacrificing its character and effects to a
false idea of continuity and union, ought to sacrifice, if necessary, many
real beauties, if he thereby could obtain such scenes (considered merely
in respect to their immediate banks) as we are oftentimes delighted
with in natural lakes and rivers. . It happens, however, very fortu-
nately, that many of those circumstances which render them so beautiful
in themselves, serve likewise to unite them with the rest of the scenery,
and to give greater effect and variety to the more distant parts. Bare
shaven banks form distinct lines, which everywhere mark the exact
separation of the two elements, but partial concealments are no less the
sources of connection, than of variety, effect, and intricacy ; for by
their means the water and the land, the nearer and the more distant
parts, are blended and united with each other.
The effects of water are always so attractive, that wherever there is
any appearance of it in a landscape, whether real or painted, to that
part the eye is irresistibly carried, and to that it always returns. All
the objects immediately around it are consequently most examined ; —
where they are ugly or insipid, the whole scene is disgraced ; but where
they are interesting, their influence seems to extend over the whole
scenery, which thence assumes a character of beauty that does not
naturally belong to it.
This strong attractive power of water, while it shows how much the
immediate banks ought to be studied, suggests likewise another con-
sideration with regard to its position in the general view from the house.
In places where the views are confined to the nearer objects, the water, as
at Blenheim, frequently occupies a very considerable portion of the
scenery, and mixes with almost every part of it ; but where from a
high station the eye surveys a more extended country, the appearance
of water which may be produced by art, bears no proportion to that
extent, though it may greatly enliven parts of it. In such situations,
s
274
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
therefore, the placing of the water ought very much to be guided by the
objects, whether near or distant, to which it will serve as a sort of focus.
It may happen, for instance, that the parts which would be most easily
floated are placed amidst open common fields, amidst hedges without
trees, or, what is worse, with stripped elms, or pollard willows ; that
they are backed by hills of bad shapes, and divided by square map-like
enclosures. A piece of water in that situation would infallibly draw the
attention towards those objects, which otherwise might have escaped
notice ; and the eye, though it might be hurt by them, will still be
forced towards that part — for our eyes, like moths, will always be
attracted by light, and no experience can prevent them from returning
to it. On that account, the position of water can never be a matter of
indifference. If the size of it be considerable, and the objects in that
direction ugly or uninteresting, it will make their defects more con-
spicuous, but by no means compensate those defects. On the other hand,
the smallest appearance of water, a mere light in the landscape, may
answer a very essential purpose — that of leading the attention to those
parts which are most worthy of notice ; and, therefore, wherever there
are the happiest groups of trees or buildings, the richest distances, the
most pleasing boundaries of hills or mountains, in that direction the
water, if possible, should be placed, so as to blend with them into one
composition. It will then serve, not merely as a brilliant light in the
landscape, but likewise as a bond which unites all those parts together ;
whereas, if it be placed at a distance from them, the eye is distracted
between objects which it would like to fix upon, and a fascinating
splendour, the influence of which it cannot resist.
I now return from this more general consideration, to that of the
banks of water in a flat ; and where also the ground through which it
is to be made, not only is without any variety of heights and breaks,
but even without any thickets or bushes, of which advantage might be
taken for the purposes of concealment and of naturalness. By what
means, then, could a piece of water be formed in such a situation, so as
to be interesting in itself, and to give an interest to all that surrounds
it ? I shall, in this inquiry, pursue something of the same method I
have already taken, and consider how a natural river, according to its
different accompaniments, might look in such a situation. Let us,
therefore, suppose a natural river, about the usual size of those made
by art, to pass slowly through the middle of a large flat meadow,
totally without trees or bushes of any kind ; but having the part of its
banks between the general level of the grass and that of the water,
worn and broken in various degrees. Such a river would certainly
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
275
have very few attractions ; but still the banks would have some di-
versity, though of a rude and uninteresting kind. If one of Mr.
Brown's followers were desired to dress such a scene, he would, of
course, slope all those banks regularly and uniformly to the edge of
the water — an operation by which they would lose indeed their rude-
ness, but with it all variety of surface. Again, the banks of the natural
river might have many irregular turns and projections, which, not being
disguised and softened by trees or bushes, would give a harshness to
the outline. Those of Mr. Browns improved river would, on the
other hand, be moulded into regular curves equally undisguised, which
would therefore appear in all their insipid sameness — and this, I think,
is a fair parallel between one of Nature's worst rivers, and the best of
Mr. Brown's. Such, then, would be their respective appearance when
naked and undisguised ; and were they left to grow wild for some
years, and the wood which might spring up preserved, still their dis-
tinct characters would be apparent. In the natural bank, the irregular
turns, the inlets with projections of crumbling soil being partially con-
cealed or disguised by vegetation, would occasion some degree of
variety and intricacy ; while, in the other, the regularity of the curves,
and the monotony of the slopes, would always be perceived, always
have the same insipid artificial appearance.
To take it again in another light. Suppose that in the same level
country the windows of the house looked down the reach of a natural
river, both the banks of which were completely fringed with flourishing
276
SIR UVEDALK PRICE
trees and underwood — the ground on each side being a flat meadow as
before. This total fringe, though in many respects very beautiful, the
owner might justly think too uniform and absolute a screen. He
therefore would observe what parts of it should be thinned or cut
down, in order to let in the most interesting circumstances of the
ground behind, whether trees, buildings, distant hills, or other objects :
he might in some places smooth and slope the banks, though not in too
gardener-like a style ; and, in others, allow the trees he had cut down
to spring up again, as a present rich covering, which might afterwards
be thinned and grouped at pleasure. In examining the banks on which
this fringe was growing, he might perhaps find that some parts of it,
from whatever cause, whether of soil having been thrown up, or from
original formation, were higher than the rest ; and these risings, he
might find, not only produced a pleasing variety when seen from the
river, but likewise made a rich and varied termination in the view
from the meadow towards the water. Would he, in such a case, have
a thought of destroying the risings, of grubbing up the wood, and level-
ling the ground, in order to preserve everywhere the level of the
meadow ? — In searching amidst the thick underwood, he might find
large roots of trees which projected over the water, supporting the
mould above and behind them ; while the water had washed away that
below, and formed a deep hollow beneath. By partially clearing away
some of the boughs which concealed these roots, he might give to the
recesses below them a still greater appearance of depth, and lead the
eye towards their dark shadows. Were there no other objection to
Mr. Brown's pieces of made-water, than that they had no deep
shadows, that would alone be a sufficient condemnation. But I will
not trust myself to speak of their effects — it would lead me too far
from the present subject. Were the improver, then, to find any large
stones in the banks, or below them near the water edge — and such are
not unfrequently to be found even in flat situations — he would hardly
think of inquiring how they came there, and whether they belonged
originally to the soil, but consider only how he could profit by them,
or by any other circumstances which might produce effect and variety,
without any manifest absurdity or unnaturalness.
If, then, it be acknowledged that these varieties do constitute some of
the principal charms of natural rivers ; if where they exist, are happily
disposed, and mixed with verdure and smoothness, not only the river
itself is beautiful, but the whole country from its influence seems to
partake of that character ; and if, on the other hand, where there is a
total want of them, there must be total monotony — what should prevent
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
277
us from endeavouring to imitate that which is at the same time mo^t
natural and most delightful, instead of making something, which has no
type in nature, and ought to have none in art ? Can it be said that
there is any real difficulty in executing any part of what I have
described, or indeed much more than I have mentioned ? I say in exe-
cuting, for difficulty there certainly is in planning and directing what
is to be a principal feature in a real landscape.
[[However unfavourable such a flat place may be for the construction
of an interesting piece of water, I conceive that much may be done to
effect the object by planting alone. To attempt to lay down any uni-
versally applicable rule or plan for such a creation, would manifestly be
most absurd. But the same skill and judgment that could effect an
interesting combination of wood and lawn in such a situation, might
certainly succeed in producing interest where the additional ingredient
of water was allowed. The effect would, of course, entirely depend
upon the mode in which the various irregular sinuosities of the shores
were formed and wooded — here, with trees to be allowed to grow tall
and spreading, and there, with a thicker jungle of lower shrubs. I do
not think that such a piece of water could possibly have a good effect if
very extensive; but, on a small scale, its reflections at least would be
always pleasing and animating. — E.^|
I have now very fully explained my ideas with respect to the manner
in which the banks of water may be prepared, so that time and accident
may produce in them those varieties and breaks, which, when properly
accompanied, are so much admired by painters. I have likewise shown
how other circumstances, usually called picturesque, such as rocks, stones,
trunks and roots of trees, &c. may be added to them, and how they may
be blended with what is smooth and undulating. The last finishing,
that which gives richness, variety, effect, and connection to the whole —
that which adds a charm to all other varieties, and which alone, when
judiciously managed, will in a great degree compensate their absence,
is planting. The connection, and partial concealment arising from wood,
which are necessary and interesting in every part of landscape, are
peculiarly so in the banks of water; but the degree of concealment
which is required for the purpose of softening rudeness, or disguising
monotony, cannot well be effected without a large proportion of trees
of a lower growth. Although I have dwelt so much on this subject in
a former part,* I shall have occasion not only to apply what I have
Essay on the Picturesque.
C 27S
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
there said to the particular points I am now discussing, but also still
further to enlarge upon it.
In forming the banks of artificial water through a flat piece of ground,
those who absolutely condemn Mr. Browns regular curves and slopes,
might still widely differ from each other as to the degree, and the sort
of variety that could with propriety be introduced. One improver
might like every kind of enrichment, even in such a situation ; another
only some variation in the height of the banks ; a third, again, might
think that any such variation of the ground itself would not accord with the
flatness of the surrounding country ; and so long as artificial monotony
and baldness are excluded, each of these styles may have its merits and
its beauties ; but the improver who was least fond of variety, and who
objected to any difference of height in the banks themselves, might still
wish to break and conceal their uniformity by means of wood. Were
he, however, to plant forest trees alone, and at the distance they ought
to remain when full grown, they would for many years look poor and
scattered ; and were he to plant a number of them together, they would,
if left thick as they usually are, be drawn up to poles, and the same-
ness of the ground beyond them would be seen between their stems.
Should he cut many of them down, and let the underwood grow, still
that method, though of great use, will not completely answer the pur-
pose ; for the underwood of forest trees would in a few years grow tall
and bare, would require to be again cut down, again to be guarded from
animals ; but thorns and hollies continue thick and bushy, and, what is
of great consequence, always subordinate to the higher growths ; so
that with the most perfect closeness and concealment at bottom, there
may be the greatest variety and freedom of outline at top. If a mixture
of low bushy plants be of such use in disguising a level surface, it is no
less requisite where any risings are artificially made in the bank ; for
the crude manifest attempt at artificial variety, is much worse than
natural unaffected sameness ; and, lastly, where roots and stones are
placed for picturesque effect, a disguise of low, bushy, and trailing
plants, is still more necessary.
But the advantage of this method of planting extends much further
than the immediate banks ; and as the character of water (con-
sidered as part of a composition) is very much affected by all the
grounds which surround it, and with which it can be combined into the
same landscape, some additional remarks on the planting of such
grounds may not be improper in this place ; and, indeed, as the prin-
cipal change in all places is made by means of planting, the superiority
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
279
of this method can hardly be placed in too many points of view. Should,
then, the ground on each side of the water be either flat, or, what per-
haps is scarcely less unvaried, uniformly sloping, still a great degree
of variety and intricacy may be given to it, by means of the style of
planting I have just mentioned. There are, for instance, many parts of
forests quite flat, yet full of intricacy and variety — from what cause ?
Certainly from the mixture of thorns, yews, hollies, hazels, &c, with the
larger trees ; these form thickets, which often so variously cross behind
each other, that the lawns among them are bounded, yet no one can
ascertain the lines of the boundary ; the eye is limited, yet appears to
be free anckunconfined, and wanders into the openings of the thickets
themselves, and those between them. Contrast all this with a lawn of
Mr. Brown's ; the uncertain and perpetually varying boundary of the
one, with the regular line of the plantation or belt that hems in the other ;
contrast the thickets themselves, each a model of intricacy and variety,
with the clump of large trees only, as perfect a model of baldness and
monotony. By planting a mixture of the different growths, sometimes
in large extended plantations, to be separated afterwards into groups
and thickets with various inlets and openings ; sometimes in smaller
masses, arranging them so as to cross, and, as it were, to lap over each
other, with passages of various breadths between them, the variety of
forest lawns might be given to those near a house, yet the neatness of
a dressed lawn be preserved ; and water so backed, would not need a
continued fringe for the purpose of concealing what was behind. Such
future groups and thickets, as they must be prepared by being dug and
fenced, will at first look heavy and formal, but the circumstance of the
different growths is a sure preservative against the incurable sameness
and insulated appearance of clumps, as they are usually planted and left.
The same reflection, which before occurred in describing the imme-
diate banks, again occurs on a more extended scale, namely, that this
method, which can give such diversity to an absolute flat, is, if possible,
still more useful where there are slight inequalities in the midst of a
large space of lawn. A few forest trees placed on such small swellings,
look meagre and scattered — a number of them heavy and uniform — and
neither of them mark or accord with the character of those lesser
risings ; but the lower and more bushy plants both agree with the size
of such swellings of ground, and humour and characterise their undula-
tions, while a few of the larger trees, mixed with them, give variety
and consequence to the general outline. These massive, yet diversified
plantations, form divisions and compartments on which the eye can
dwell with pleasure ; they vary, without stuffing up, the large uninter-
280
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
esting spaces of which lawns and parks are too often composed, and
from which arises that bare and meagre sameness, so opposite to the
richness and diversity of many of the forest lawns.
[^Nothing can be more important to the landscape improver than an
earnest attention to these few most sensible observations. I have often
remarked in grounds some beautiful knoll spoiled in its effect by an
uniform and dense plantation of forest trees all over it, where a little
attention at the time of planting, might have left it with irregular
groups of the taller timber in some places, intermingled with those of
lower growths in others, so as to produce a waving and broken outline.
Then we often find, that when a knoll has been so spoiled in the plant-
ing, instead of the improver attempting to amend it by taking out irre-
gular portions of the taller growths, and introducing thorns, hollies,
and other lower growths instead of them, we see the whole grove thinned
out regularly in every part, and the stems of the trees bared in such a
manner, that the light flickers continually through among them as one
moves along, so as to produce absolute pain to the organs of vision. — E.]
It may, perhaps, be said, that thickets, though very proper in forests,
and, perhaps, in parks, are not in character with a lawn, or with such
dressed ground as artificial water is generally made in. This opinion
I wish to examine, for the notion that a lawn, or any meadow or pas-
ture-ground near the house, ought to be kept quite open and clear from
any kind of thickets, has been one very principal cause of the bareness
I have so often had occasion to censure. It is probable that the first
idea of a lawn may have arisen from the openings of various sizes
which are found in forests and old parks, and that these openings were
the original objects of imitation, in copying which, improvers have had
the same degree of success as in their imitations of natural rivers, and
from the same cause — that of never studying their models. If it be true
that many of these forest lawns have every variety that can be wished for,
whether in the disposition of their boundaries, in their groups, or their
single trees ; that the yews, thorns, hollies, &c, produce richness and
concealment, and often, as far as they are concerned, a very dressed
appearance ; if the larger trees add loftiness and grandeur, while the
frequent change from thickets to trees and bushes, either single or in
open groups, no less produces variety — what is the objection to making
such scenes the principal objects of study and imitation, where similar
effects are meant to be created, and where they certainly would be
admired ? Should it happen, for example, that in parts of the rising
ground of a lawn intended to be highly dressed, groups of thorns and
hollies were mixed with the oaks and beeches, is there any one with
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
281
the least taste for natural beauties who would totally extirpate them,
and clear round all the larger trees ? — is there any one who would not
delight in such a mixture — who would not show it as one of the most
pleasing objects in that part of his place ? If so, why not strive to create
what we should be proud of if placed by accident ? With regard to
thickets not being suited to dressed scenery, what, let me ask, are those
clumps of shrubs and trees of different growths, which at Blenheim
and other places, are in the most polished parts of the garden ? They
are thickets in point of concealment and of variety in the outline of
the summit, and so far they differ from those clumps which are planted
with the larger trees only ; their difference from the forest thicket is,
that they are chiefly composed of exotics, and that, from the original
line of the digging being preserved, and from their never having been
thinned by means of cutting, or of the bite of animals, they remain in
one uniform round or oval. Were such clumps thinned, and inlets
made by a judicious improver, and were the line of digging effaced,
they would soon have the variety of forest thickets ; and, on the other
hand, were a forest thicket dug round, planted up, and preserved, it
would soon have the heaviness and formality of a garden clump. The
forest thicket has, therefore, a great advantage in point of variety and
playfulness of outline — and perhaps the mixture of oak and beech, with
yew, thorn, and holly, were there no other varieties, is not inferior in
real beauty to any mixture of exotics. What, then, ought to be the
difference between the forest thicket, and that which might be intro-
duced in a lawn ? Exactly the difference which characterises the two
scenes. The one is wild, rough, and neglected ; the other smooth and
cultivated. In the lawn, therefore, brambles and briers that crawl on
the surface, and whatever gives a rude and neglected look, should be
extirpated, and the grass encouraged ; and by such means, while the
rude entangled look of a brake is destroyed, richness, variety, and con-
cealment, may be created or preserved. But even if it were a settled
point that nothing but timber trees ought to have place in a lawn,
still the best method of raising them so as to produce present effect
without future injury, would be to mix a large proportion of the lower
growths, till the timber trees were grown to a sufficient size ; and then,
if he who should then view their effect altogether could give such an
order, every thing round them might be cleared.
In recommending extirpation I have confined my remark to those
plants which crawl on the surface ; as it is from that circumstance that
they have a rude and neglected appearance, however they may suit the
painter as a foreground ; but where any flexible plants have climbed
up trees, they are highly ornamental ; nor can any thing be richer or
282
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
gayer, than wild roses, or clusters of berries intermixed with foliage,
and hanging from it in festoons. Then as the grass may be kept neat
about their stems, they do not give the idea of slovenly neglect.
In speaking of artificial hillocks, I have confined myself to those
which might be made on the immediate banks of water. It would
certainly be much more hazardous to try such an experiment on a more
extended surface ; still, I think, that where a great deal is to be dug out
in order to make the water — where there is more earth than is wanting
for the head, and where the ground is unvaried — such artificial risings
might be made with good effect, and without appearing unnatural. I
judge, in some degree, from what I have seen accidentally produced :
it sometimes happens in stony arable grounds, that the stones, with
clods of earth, weeds, and rubbish, have been heaped up at different
times, and have formed irregular hillocks, which being unfit for cultiva-
tion, remain untouched ; and trees, bushes, fern, and gorse, spring up
in many parts of them. These hillocks are artificial ; but not being
intended for beauty, they are neither artificially formed, nor planted ;
and consequently have the perfect appearance of being natural. I have
often been struck with the great richness of such banks at a considerable
distance, and from a number of points ; and have been surprised on
examining them, to find how slight a rise of ground, when planted by
the hand of nature, seemed to elevate and give consequence to that part.
I have been quite deceived in regard to their depth — have gone round
them, and though undeceived as to the reality, still observed with
pleasure the same appearance. Such is the effect of these artless plan-
tations, the fruits of accident, but which it would be the perfection of
design to imitate. Art generally opposes either an uniformly thick,
and therefore a suspected screen, or one, (which to use Milton's lan-
guage,) is thin with excessive thickness —
" Dark with excessive bright."
and through which the ground behind is unpleasantly discovered ; but
in these works of accident, the many partial openings and inlets seem
to invite the eye, while something still prevents it from penetrating too
far into their recesses. Many different hillocks have been raised by
art, in various ways and for various purposes ; — some of them without
any connection with the surrounding land ; yet still, when enriched and
disguised by wild, irregular vegetation^ they have, in almost every in-
stance, something in their appearance, which few would wish to part
with. There are often, likewise, broad and high ridges, formed by old
meers and hedgerows, that interrupt the natural flow of the ground, but
which under similar circumstances have an equally good effect ; and I
have particularly observed meadows near rivers, uniformly surrounded
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
283
■with banks of that kind, which yet formed the most striking and pleas-
ing features in the whole landscape.
The word hillock, is, I believe, in general confined to natural swell-
ings of ground. I have, however, the authority of Mr. Mason for using
it in this sense, even without the addition of the word artificial. In the
second book of the English Garden, where he is giving instructions how
a flat scene may be improved, he observes that the genius of such a
scene may be " lifted from his dreary couch " by
" Pillowing his head with swelling hillocks green."
My instructions have the same tendency, though delivered in humbler
language.
All these circumstances might certainly be imitated and improved
upon without difficulty ; and it is no less certain that the simplest exe-
cution of any of the banks which I have described, would be a very
essential improvement to the sides of many pieces of made water. I
am very far, however, from recommending frequent and wanton attempts
to change the surface of ground, as I hold them to be very dangerous
on many accounts ; for besides the danger of their having an unnatural
character if not judiciously managed, heaps of earth might sometimes
affect the drainage of the land — a point of equal consequence both to
beauty and profit. But I wished to show by what means the different
varieties in ground, whether natural or artificial, abrupt or gradual,
connected or disjoined, may at once be disguised and set off to the
greatest advantage. I wished also to suggest, that when a quantity of
mould must somehow be disposed of, it had better be employed in
creating and increasing variety, than (according to the usual practice)
in destroying that which does exist, by filling up all inequalities with-
out distinction, and reducing the whole to the strictest and stiffest
monotony.
The folly of attempting to create variety and picturesque effect, by
means of single objects without connection or congruity, is very
pointedly ridiculed by the Abbe de Lisle in his poem on Gardens.
The two lines, like most of his verses, are easily retained, and will be
recollected with equal pleasure and profit —
" Et dans un sol egal, un humble monticule
Veut etre pittoresque, et ne'st que 1101101110."
All that I have said, will serve to strengthen, not to counteract the
force of that just satire, and the principle on which it is founded ; for
I have shown the method by which connection may be restored, and
incongruity veiled and disguised, even where such hillocks had been
formed, and by which they may in a great degree be united with the
rest of the landscape.
284
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
It may naturally be expected, that having entered into so much de-
tail with respect to the banks of artificial lakes and rivers, I should say
something of their general shapes. I have already observed, that the
character of a lake, and not that of a river, should, in most cases, be
the object of imitation ; and, in this opinion, I am more and more con-
firmed. A lake admits of bays and inlets in every direction ; and,
where the scene is confined, every source of variety should be sought
after. A lake is a whole, and that whole, upon a smaller scale, may
be completely imitated ; but the imitation of a river is confined to one
or two reaches, and then it must stop. Now one of the charms of a
river, besides the real beauty of each particular scene, is the idea of
continuance, of progression ; but that idea can hardly be excited by
the imitation of one or two reaches where its motion is least discernible
— the only parts which art can properly imitate. In lakes, a great
deal of the beauty arises from the number of bays, inlets, and promon-
tories ; but they would counteract the idea of continuance and progres-
sion, the hope and expectation of which give an interest to a river, con-
sidered generally, though many parts taken singly may be uninterest-
ing. These manifest differences between the two characters, and, above
all, the great difference between a complete and an incomplete imitation,
leave, I think, no doubt which deserves the preference.
1^1 have already shown, that I go so far as to hold, that all attempts
to produce a river must be abortive, disappointing, and bad. Where a
considerable stream does exist already, very great judgment and good
management may perhaps give it enlargement and greater consequence
in its passage through the grounds. But even this I conceive must
be at all times a dangerous experiment, and one which will be rarely
successful. If it is to be tried, it will, I think, always have the best
chance of turning out well, by the landscape gardener imitating some
of those small lakes, or chains of lakes, into which gently-flowing
streams are frequently apt to expand. In this, as in everything else,
Nature, and Nature alone, must be the model. — E.]
The lakes which are most admired by painters, are remarkable for
the variety and intricacy of their shores, and are what an improver,
where he had the opportunity, would, of course, be most desirous of
studying ; — excellent hints, however, with regard to the general forms
of lakes, might be taken from pools on a scale so very diminutive, as
to excite the ridicule of those who attend to size only, and not to cha-
racter. But as Gainsborough used to bring home roots, stones, and
mosses, from which he formed, and then studied foregrounds in minia-
ture ; and as Leonardo da Yinci advised painters to enrich and vary
their conceptions by attending to stains and breaks in old walls, that
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
285
is, to the lucky effects and combinations which, in the meanest objects,
are produced by accident and neglect — I may venture to recommend
many of the pools in old gravel pits on heathy commons, as affording
most useful studies in this branch of landscape gardening. Such lakes
in miniature strongly point out the effect of accident and neglect in
creating varied and picturesque compositions, with the advantages that
might be taken of such accidents ; and they likewise show — what is
by no means the least instructive part — the process by which such forms
and compositions are undesignedly produced. The manner in which
these pits are formed, seems to be nearly this : After a certain quantity
of gravel has been dug out, and it becomes less plentiful, the workmen
very naturally pursue it wherever it appears ; the mere mould being
left, or cast aside, just as it may suit their convenience ; and as they
want the gravel and not the surface, they pick it from under the turf,
which, by that process, is undermined, and falls downwards in different
degrees, and in various breaks. Sometimes the turf and the upper
mould are taken off in order to get at the gravel which lies beneath,
and are cast upon the surface of another part, the height of which is
consequently raised above the general level ; while in places where
roads had been made to carry out the gravel, the ground is proportion-
ably low, and the descent gradual. By means of these operations, in
which no idea of beauty or picturesque composition was ever thought
of, all the varieties of smooth turf, of broken ground, of coves, inlets,
projections, islands, are often formed ; while the heath, broom, furze,
and low bushes, which vary the summit, are in proportion to the scale
of the whole — and that whole is a lake in miniature of transparent
water, surrounded by the most varied banks. I have often thought,
that if such a gravel pit with clear water were near a house, the banks
of it might, with great propriety and effect, be dressed with kalmeas,
286
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
rhododendrons, azaleas, andromedas, &c. without any shrub too large for
its scale ; and that so beautiful a lake in miniature might be made, with
every thing in such exact proportion, as to present no bad image of
what one might suppose to be a full-sized lake in Liliput.
But there are likewise other pools on a scale equally diminutive,
the character of which forms a singular contrast to such as I have just
mentioned ; for as in those one part of the beauty arises from the pro-
portion between the size of the water and that of its accompaniments, so
in the others, a striking effect is produced by their disproportion. These
last are found in forests and in woody commons, where the ground is
bold and unequal. In such places, it often happens that a high broken
bank, enriched with wild vegetation, sometimes with a single tree upon
it — sometimes with a group of them — hangs over a small pool : in a
scene of that kind, the very circumstance of the smallness of the water
gives a consequence to the objects immediately around it, which a larger
expanse would diminish. Another great source of effect arises from the
large mass of shadow, which, from the overhanging bank and trees, is
reflected in so small a mirror ; and also from the tints of vegetation, of
broken soil, and of the sky, which are revived in it. All these circum-
stances give a surprising richness and harmony to every thing within
the field of vision ; the water being, as it were, the focus in which that
richness and harmony are concentred, and whence they again seem to
expand themselves on all that surrounds it. In many gentlemen's
places there are opportunities of producing such effects of water with
little expense or difficulty, in no part of which a good imitation of a
lake or river on a large scale, could be made at any expense. There
are hollows, for instance, in sequestered spots, partly surrounded by
such banks as I have described, which might easily be made to contain
wa ter ; — there is often a small stream near such a spot, running without
any particular beauty in its own bed, but which, by an easy change in
its course, might be made to fall into the hollow ; and thus appear to
be, and really become, the source of the still water beneath. These
easy and cheap improvements would give a new and lively interest to
woodland scenery, and would afford opportunities of trying a variety
of picturesque embellishments. This style of scenery is very poetically
and characteristically described by Mr. Mason in the first book of bis
English Garden :
" Nature here
Has with her living colours form'd a scene
Which Ruysdale best might rival — crystal lakes,
O'er which the giant oak, himself a grove,
Flings his romantic branches, and beholds
His reverend image in the expanse below.""
ON ARTIFICIAL WATER.
287
Some of the most eminent painters, not only of the Dutch and
Flemish, but likewise of the Italian school, were particularly fond of
scenes of this kind ; and our own Gainsborough, of whom we have so
much reason to be proud, no less delighted in painting them. The
esteem of such artists is very much in favour of the scenes themselves ;
but the principle, on which they give so much pleasure to those who
have learnt to observe effects in nature by means of those which are
expressed in painting, has been often displayed in landscapes of the
highest style, and where the scenery is far from rude ; and I am glad
to cite such great and various authorities, for paying more attention to
the effect and the accompaniments, than to the extent of water, as the
opposite idea has so generally and exclusively prevailed.
A very striking example of the effect of this principle is displayed in
a picture of the greatest of all landscape painters — Titian. It was in
the Orleans collection, and represents the bath of Diana, with the story
of Acteon. The figures, which are either in or close to the bath, bear
the same kind of proportion to it, as a tree of Ruysdale or Gainsborough
does to the small pool over which it hangs, and produce many similar
effects by the disproportion of their size to that of the water, by their
nearness to it, and by the consequent fulness of their shadows, and bril-
liancy of their reflections. The richness, glow, and harmony which
arise from these circumstances, and which, from the revival of the colours
interspersed in various parts of the picture, seem to diffuse themselves
from the water over the whole of it, are so enchanting, as to justify tho
highest encomiums of his countrymen. There is, however, in a Venetian
book, a compliment to one of his figures, which the most sanguine ad-
mirer of the art of painting cannot quite assent to : after praising many
parts of a famous work of Titian at Venice, the Venetian author says,
" at the bottom of the steps is an old woman with eggs — assai friu
naturale eke se fosse viva — much more natural than if she was alive."
Such is the passion for extent, that in order to gain a trifling addition
to the surface, the water is often raised to the highest level without any
attention to the trees it may injure, or to the varieties in the ground
which it may cover: so that, instead of lying under banks well varied
and enriched, it is frequently carried up to the uniform surface of the
grass above them. Wherever water is everywhere on a level with the
general surface of mere grass, there can, of course, be no diversity in
its immediate banks, as is the case with rivers that slowly flow through
a continued plain — the only kind that professed improvers seem to have
looked at. Where rivers descend from a hilly country into a flat, the
floods, even there, deepen their channels, and thereby give rise to many
288
SIR UVEDALE PRICE
varieties, which never can exist where the stream is nearly on a level
with the grass.
The varieties which the impetuous motion of water occasions, and
the means by which it produces them, are very distinctly marked in a
Poem of Macchiavelli, called Capitolo della Fortuna —
" Come un torrente rapido, ch'al tutto
Superbo e fatto, ogni cosa fracassa
Dovunque aggiugne il suo corso per tutto ;
E questa parte accresce, e quella abbassa,
Varia le ripe, varia il letto, il fondo,
E fa tremar la terra vasa [tot/voyXwct,, ffccxa iffa, rB-rgaSonuj
Aavov vToyXocvirovTCi.
Callimach. Hymnus in Dianam.
" Ingens, quod solum torva sub fronte latebat."
jEneid, b. 3.
the exact reverse of an eye in the most open and conspicuous part of the face.
Theocritus dwells particularly on the thickness, and the continued length of the
eyebrow —
AatTlU, ftiV 0. 142.
2 p
586
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS.
That their style of colouring is not congenial to beauty in its strict sense, we have
Sir Joshua's authority ; we have likewise his authority, that it is not suited to
grandeur, when compared with the unbroken colours of the Roman and Florentine
schools, or the solemn hue of the Bolognian ;* but that it must be suited to some
character in nature, and of no mean or obscure kind, it is impossible to doubt.
* Discourse IV., p. 59.
THE END.
bainburgh: printed by thomas constable,
printer to her majesty.
New Road, London.
AUSTIN and SEELEY gladly avail themselves of the opportunity which the
Publishers of this Work have so obligingly afforded them, of announcing to the Nobility
and Gentry, that they have now a very large collection of Fountains, and other
Ornaments, for Gardens and Pleasure Grounds. The material of which they are made,
"Austin's Artificial Stone," closely resembles Portland Stone, and has been proved,
by an experience of nearly twenty years, to be more proof against the changes of
climate than any stone in common use, except granite. As they have, also, a con-
siderable variety of Jets, of their own manufacture, they are enabled to undertake the
fixing of Fountains complete, on the most economical Terms.
Oval Fountain for a Conservatory or Dairy.
2
AUSTIN AND SEELEY, NEW ROAD.
A. & S. have Tazzas of this form from 1 ft. 6 in. to 8 ft. diam., at prices varying from £1:1*. upwards,
which may be used either for water or plants.
AUSTIN AND SEELEY, NEW ROAD.
Also a Companion.
£3 : 3s. each.
Tripod Pedestal, £5 :5s.
Basket, £2 : 2s.
Sm Geoffrey Hudson.
£10: 10*.
1
AUSTIN AND SEELEY, NEW ROAD.
192 in.
The rim 15} in. diam.
.... 12} in.
Gothic Vase, £2 :2s.
The Farnese Vase, £3: 3s.
Oval Vase. £2: 10s.
Isle of Wight Vase,
£l:ll*:6d.
The same, smaller, at 15s.
The Bishop's Vase, 15s.
Or plain, 12s.
Tulip Vase, £1 : Is.
Tall Oriental Lotus Vase, with
Flowing Petals. Price £9 : 9s.
A variety of Fountains, from £6, and upwards.
Mask Vase, £3: 3s.
Enriched Etruscan Urn,
£2 : 2s.
Shell Tazza, with Short
Foot, £3 : 3s.
Oriental Lotus Vase, £2 : 5s.
The iim 18 in. diam
The Adelaide Vase.
The Warwick Vase.
Antique Festoon Vase, £2: 12s. Gd.
AND CO., PRIXIFHS,]
Appropriate Pedestals for many of the above Vases.
[7fi, run
Price (U.) On the Picturesque : with an essay on the origin of taste, and much original
matter by Sir T. Dick Lauder . . ., 8vo, xxvi + 586 pp., tinted frontis., vignette on title and 54
vignettes in text, half morocco, t.e.g., Edinburgh, 1842 £18