Slip's ?^ i feu ¦• ^ ^^l^>'w"%-. -.4-, '\ ^mf -J' .'.'Vii^„.^*r,. «, '.**-«*! i.^. *' ¦'fiiii?!*" YALE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Gift of ELIZABETH W. MANWARING THE WORKS OF JAMES BARRY, Esq. VOL. I. " i.rf' A M E A Tii: iV iV ^Y //; ../ .' -^^ .^', P'l'ELJ.r.HED) M>T>n>' THE WORKS OF JAMES BARRY, Esq. HISTORICAL PAINTER; FORMERLY PROFESSOR OF PAINTING AT THE ROYAL- ACADEMY ; MEMBER OF THE CLEMENTINE ACADEMY AT BOLOGNA, &c. CONTAINING, HIS CORRESPONDENCE FROM FRANCE AND ITALY WITH MR. BURKE— HIS LEC TURES ON PAINTING DELIVERED AT THE ROYAL-ACADEMY— OBSERVATIONS ON DIFFERENT WORKS OF ART IN ITALY AND FRANCE— CRITICAL REMARKS ON THE PRINCIPAL PAINTINGS OF THE ORLEANS GALLERY— ESSAY ON THE SUBJECT OF* PANDORA; (now first published from manuscripts, AND ILLUSTRATED BY ENGRAVINGS FROM SKETCHES, LEFT BY THE AUTHOR.) AND HIS INQUIRY INTO THE CAUSES WHICH HAVE OBSTRUCTED THE PROGRESS OF THE FINE ARTS IN ENGLAND— HIS ACCOUNT OF THE PAINTINGS AT THE ADELPHI— AND LETTER TO THE DILETTANTI SOCIETY. TO WHICH IS PHEFIXED, SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THE AUTHOR. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: PRINTED BT J. M'CREEUT, BLACK-HORSE-COURT, FOR T. CADELL AND W- DAVIES, STRAND. 1809. " Nunquam aliud Natura, aliud Sapientia dicit." Juvenal. I PREFACE. The friends of the late Mr. Barry, in carefully perus ing the manuscripts which he left behind him, found several of them highly worthy the attention of the public. Even if he himself had not intended and almost prepared those papers for the press, such is the broad and strong cast of originality impressed on them — such the ardent love and bent of mind displayed, for the nature and prin ciples of select, elevated, and chaste art, that in whatever way the present age may judge of them, posterity will be thankful for their preservation. Btit whatever is founded upon the principles of nature, truth, and virtue, must be valuable in all periods ; and such are the principles which are inculcated and enforced, as the basis of the fine arts, throughout the writings of this eminent artist. VI PREFACE. It may be the privilege of genius to give importance to the most trivial subjects ; but it is virtue, and virtue only, which gives importance to genius ; and when this happy combinatiop chines on so fertile and alluring a region as the arts qf design, the subject be comes the most safe, interesting, and useful, and a source of intellectual enjoyment ; refining and exalting the taste of individuals above the gross pursuits of luxury in an opulent age. Mr. Barry's views were invariably, fixed to one great points— to give the fine arts elevation by directing them to ethical and national purposes ; and to this end, the efforts of his pencil were a constant commentary on the text which his pen produced. To the lover of the arts these writings will be valua ble, as containing an animated and luminous critique on the best productions of the great masters in painting and sculpture ; and as a finished education in the present day may be said to embrace a knowledge of those two subjects, as connected with the sister art of poetry — on PREFACE. vii the rising generation, the discourses contained in the following work, cannot fail to produce the best effects, by leading the young and susceptible mind to feel and recognise those principles of moral fitness, beauty, and excellence, which Providence has wisely intended shall be the only ornament of imitated, as well as of natural objects. But to the student, who has adopted the fine arts as a profession, these writings will be mostly valuable, as he will have an opportunity not only of imbibing the prin ciples laid down for the execution of select and perfect art, but of adopting the love of the subject, as well as the industry and energies which unremittingly distin guished Mr. Barry through every stage of his life. Some account of him is therefore added to the work ; but the best is that which he conveys of himself in the course of his writings. May the pupil copy his excellencies for the sake of public fame, and avoid nothing but his slight defects, for his own private comfort. SOME ACCOUNT, &c. James BARRY was bom in Cork, October 11th, 1741, and was the eldest son of John Barry and Julian his wife, whose maiden name was Roerden. The family on his mother's side had possessed considerable landed property in the county of Cork, of which they had been dispossessed by the revolution of king William, and were otherwise very respectable. His father also had no occasion to blush at his pedigree, if it be true that he was of a collateral branch of the Barry family, which has been honoured with the earldom of Barrymore. But whatever was his descent, he himself had been a builder, and, in the better part of his life, a coasting trader between the two coun tries of England and Ireland. To this business of a trader was James destined, and he actually made, when a boy, several voy ages; but these voyages being forced upon him, he, on one occasion, ran away from the ship, and on others discovered such an aversion to the life and habits of a sailor, as to induce his father to quit all hopes of him in this line, and to suffer him to pursue his inclinations, which led him to drawing and to the atudy of books. He has been heard to speak more than once jocularly of his voyages, and of the small profit derived VOL. I. B to his father from his naval services, saying, that instead of handing sails and ropes, and climbing the mast, he was gene rally occupied with a piece of black chalk, sketching the coast, or drawing figures, as his fancy directed him. , ."> - ' , ¦ ^ When the father found that making a sailor of him must be given up, he permitted him to pursue as much instruction as the schools of Cork afforded ; but long retained his aversion to the chalk drawings, with which the floors and walls of the house were occasionally covered ; the boy being always at some attempt at large figures, and early catching at the means of representing ; action, attitude, and passion. It was at a very early period of his life, that some bookseller in Ireland undertaking to reprint a set of fables, emblems, or tales, young Barry offered to furnish the drawings, and, it is believed, helped to etch the engravings, such as they were. This, it may be conjectured, is the first of his works in existence; for as the book was printed, it probably still exists, and, if at hand, might furnish matter for that curiosity, which loves to -trace the first steps of eminent genius. At the schools in Cork, which he frequented, he was always for his parts and industry above his school-fellows ; and, it is said, that his habits never resembled those of ordinary boys;; as he seldom mixed in their plays or amusements, but at those times stole off to his own room, where he worked at his pencil, or was studying some book which he had borrowed or bought. He would spend whole nights in this manner at his studies, to the alarm of his mother, who dreaded his injuring his health, or setting fire to the house, and who often kept up the sister, (from whom is obtained this information) or the servants, to watch him. His allowance of money he generally spent in buying candles to study by through the night ; and when robbed of these candles for the purpose of forcing him to bed, it had no effect, but to rouse his indignation at what he considered a low artifice, and to obtain his ends by more guarded and determined means, such as locking himself up and permitting nobody to enter his room; not even for the purpose of making his bed. His bed, indeed, he seldom, slept upon ; and when he did, he took care to counteract the tender attentions of his mother, by refusing to have it made up, or by rendering it as hard as his ingenuity could devise. These would be trite occurrences, scarcely worth mentioning, if they did not pourtray the nature of Barry even in his boyish years, and that spirit, which brooked no controul, where advancement of mind by study was before him, and which delighted in ascetic and self-denying habits. It is not to be understood by this, that he led the life of a recluse, for he has been often heard to say, that he could and did occasionally join in any freaks going on in the neighbourhood, and was not behind other boys in such pastimes and mischief as boys are sometimes given to. It was in one of these moments (he was accustomed to relate) that he entered, in the midst of a winter's .evening, an old, and, as he tkought, an uninhabited house, situated in a narrow bye lane in the city of Cork. The house was without doors or windows, but curiosity impelled him to enter, and, after inounting a rotten stairgase, which conducted to empty rooms b2 4" on different floors, he arrived at the garret, where he could jus^t discern, by the glimmering light of a few embers, two old and emaciated figures, broken by age, disease, and want, sitting be side each other, in the act, as far as their palsied efforts would permit, of tearing each other's faces, not a word being uttered by either, but with the most horrible grimaces that malice could cast on malice. They took no notice of his entrance, but went on with their deeds of mutual hate ; which made such an im pression on the boy, that he ran down stairs, making two reflec tions, which, he said, he had seen verified through life — that man and all animals are malicious and cruel in proportion as they are impotent, or feel bereft of power ; and that poverty and age, two of the worst evils mankind can be subject to, almost always add to the calamities inherent in them by evils of their own creating. But in general his turn for the improvement of his mind led him into the society of educated men ; and such were not averse to receive him, seeing his active and inquisitive disposition, and his seriousness of manner, couched under a garb the plainest and coarsest ; for he adopted this kind of attire from his childhood, not from an affectation of, but from an indiffer ence to all dress. Having a retentive memory, he profited by his own readings and by the conversation of these men; which last must have been chiefly useful in directing him to books. Of course his studies became desultory, and as his finances were too low to . ptirchase many books, he borrowed from, his friends, and was in the practice of making large extracts from such as by reading be grew fond of, and sometimes of copying the whole book, of which many specimens are among his papers, written in a stiff school-boy's hand. His industry in these instances was exces sive ; but his improvement, there is no doubt, corresponded to it ; for letters appear written at this time by some of his school fellows, in which it would seem that they regarded him as a prodigy of knowledge, aftd were accustomed to receive opinions from him as from a master. His mother being a zealous Catholic, the son could not avoid mixing at times in the company of priests resident in Cork; and it was natural they should point out to him books relating to ecclesiastical history, and the doctrines of the church of Rome; and as few things came amiss to his inquisitive mind, he devoured at this time a huge share of polemical divinity, from which he has made large extracts. Hence arose, perhaps, a bias, which continued through life for this kind of writing — as there will be occasion hereafter to notice how learned he was in all niatters relating to theology and church history. There is a report that he was destined for the Catholic priest hood; but from enquiries made of his relations, no authority appears for the assertion. Indeed such a report might have arisen from his early partiality to theological studies, or from the casual hints or wishes of the priests, who frequented the house ; as is usual when they observe boys particularly active in their learning, and of bright parts. There is a better foundation for supposing that he attempted to investigate the fundamental points of the Catholic and Pro testant tenets, before he decided in his choice; as this choice Was supposed to be before him, his father being a Protestant,, his 6 mother a Catholic. But whatever his pretensions as to judg ment might be at this fearly age, it is most probable that th& wishes of his mother's family ultimately determined him, where no endeavours were perhaps exercised on the opposite side. . To the religion then of his choice he was. tolerably steady through life ; perhaps a little enthusiastic for it in youth, as he was certainly rather too bigotted to it in the decline of life. There was a short interval however when, according to a de claration he once made, he had been a little wavering in, his belief of revealed religion: it was the unfortunate fashion of the day, and was picked up during his residence on the Continent ; but a short conversation with Mr. Edmund Burke put an end to this levity. A book, whieh that gentleman gave into his hands, and strongly recommended hinl to read before he ad vanced any farther in infidelity, compleatly hinged his mind again on the right pivot. This book was Dr. Butler's Analogy of Religion, natural and revealed, to the constitution and course of nature. Hence arose his admiration of, and attachment to the charac ter of this Prelate, whom he has placed in the group of Divines in his picture of Elysium. Whatever were the merits of the chalk and pencil drawings in his juvenile attempts, they were probably not such as pleased himself or the very few judges around him, for none were pre served in his port folios ; yet as his endeavours were unremit ting, his advancement must have been, to his own eye at least, progressive— till he had acquired a felicity and certain correct ness in his outlines, on which he could superadd the first a.t^ tempts of chiaro^scuro and coloiirihg. At what age he began this attempt it would be vain perhaps to inquire, but riot unworthy to be known, if we could trace his steps from the begiiining: for all along we must consider him as his own master, deriving perhaps some aid from pictures, which might have fallen in his way, and from remarks of gentlemen, who might be versed in the art; but profiting mostly from his own observations on figure, character, and passion, from suggestions of his own ardent fancy, and from historical studies, which presented him with bold and masterly subjects. There is every reason to think that at the age of 17, he had attempted oil paintings ; at least from this period to the age of 22, when he went to Dublin, he had proceeded in several large productions in oils ; of which we cannot speak as to their merit, but have heard that they decorated his father's house, and represented subjects, not often handled by young men — such as, JEneas escaping with his Family from the flames of Xroy — A dead Christ — Susanna and the Elders — Daniel in the Lions. Den-~-Abraham' s Sacrifice. Between these periods of 17 and 2,2, was the picture cer tainly painted, which first drew him into public notice, launched him on an ampler theatre than the mercantile town of Cork offered, and above all, gained him the acquaintance and coun tenance of Mr. Burke. Of this painting a better account cannot be given than the one drawn up by the gentleman who wrote a memoir of Mr. Barry in the European Magazine for April 1806. " The picture was founded on an old tradition relating to the first, arrival of 8 St. Patrick, the apostle of Ireland, on the sea coast of Cashel, where the fame of his preaching reached the ears of the sove reign of that district, who on further investigation having satisfied himself in the truth of Christianity, professed himself a disciple ; hence he is admitted by St, Patrick to the sacra ment of baptism: water being provided by his order, the king steps before the priest, who, disengaging his hand from the erozier (which, according to the manner of the times, was armed at the lower extremity Avith a spear) in planting it to the ground, accidentally strikes the foot of his illustrious convert. St. Patrick, absorbed in the duties of his holy office, and uncon scious of what had happened, pours the water on his head. The monarch neither changes his posture, nor suffers the pain from the wound for a moment to interrupt the ceremony ; the guards express their astonishment in gestures, and one of them is prepared with his lifted battle-axe to revenge the injury by slaying the priest; while he is restrained by another, who points to the unchanged aspect and demeanour of the sovereign : the female attendants are engaged, some kneeling in solemn admira tion of the priest, and others alarmed and trembling at the effusion of the royal blood. The moment of baptism, rendered so critical and awful by the circumstance of the king's foot being pierced with the spear, is that which Mr. Bariy chose for the display of his art ; and few stories, it is presumed, have been selected with greater felicity, or with greater scope, for the skill and ingenuity of the artist. The heroic patience of the king, the devotional abstraction of the saint, and the mixed emotions of the Spectatoi's, form a combined and comprehensive model of imitation, and convey a suitable idea of the genius of one, who, self-instructed and at nineteen, conceived the execution of so grand a design." The same writer goes on to state, that, " having embodied the story on canvass, he pro ceeded forthwith to Dublin, and arrived there on the eve of an exhibition of pictures at the Society in that capital, which was the parent of that afterwards established in this country for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce. Without recommendation, and accompanied only by a friend and school-fellow, he obtained leave to have his picture exhi bited. The general notice and approbation which it received, were in the highest degree grateful to the ears of Mr. Barry, who was himself in the midst of the spectators, though un known ; and in that moment he was repaid for all the labour of his performance. Curiosity succeeded to the idle gaze of ad miration ; but as no one was able to give a satisfactory answer to the inquiries so loudly repeated for the author, the subject might have remained for sorne time longer in impenetrable obscurity, had not Mr. Barry himself been impelled by an irresistible impulse, publicly to proclaim his property in that picture. His pretensions, as might be expected, were treated with disdain, and Barry burst into tears of anger and vexation; but the insults which he received were the tribute due to the extraordinary merit of the painting, and must have proved an ample recompence to the author for his temporary mortifi cation." Having once tasted the advantages of a capital towards the improvement of his mind, and the objects of his profession, he was in no haste to return to his native city, and, it is believed, never did return to it afterwards. During his residence in Dublin, which was of several months duration, the acquaintance he made with Mr. Edmund Burke appears to have been the most prominent and useful occurrence, VOL. I. c 10 as it grew by degrees into a friendship and patronage, which procured Mr. Barry afterwards all the solid advantages of per fecting his education by a residence in Italy. An anecdote is preserved relating to one of their early interviews, which could not but augment the opinion (perhaps the admiration) each might entertain of the other. In some dispute on the subject of the arts, as grounded upon taste, Mr. Barry quoted an opinion, in direct opposition to Mr. Burke, from an able, though anonymous work, which had then but lately appeared. This work was the celebrated Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful, which Mr. Burke, who was playing with the subject and debating for victory, immediately condemned as a theoretical romance, of no sufficient merit to be quoted as an authority ; Barry, who had been cap tivated (as every young mind will be) with the style and lan guage, the beautiful illustrations and plausible theory of this essay, and had been at the pains of transcribing it throughout ; doubly incensed at the injustice done to the work, and tbe unin tended slight on his own judgement, fell into a rage in its de fence, which Mr. Burke thought necessary, and was ready enough, probably, to appease, by confessing himself the au thor. This ended in Barry's running to embrace him, and shewing him the copy, which he had been at the pains to tran scribe. During his residence in Dublin the following letter was written to him by Dr. Sleigh, a respectable physician at Cork, who first introduced him to Mr. Burke's acquaintance, and of whom he always spoke with filial reverence, as being the first friend of his youth, and to whom (in one of his letters to Dr. O'Brien) he owned himself " indebted for whatever education, abilities, and prospects of future fortune and fame he might have in the world." 11 Dr. SLEIGH to Mr. BARRY. Cork, December 31, 1763. Deaji Sir, It gives me considerable pleasure to find that you have met with that countenance in Dublin, which you in vain merited in your native place. I see by your letter that Mr. Burke has approved of your per formance, and I can therefore assure you, that you have met with an exceeding good friend, and one, who has it much in his power to promote your interest. You ought to consider his approbation, as no small encouragement, as he is a man of undoubted good taste. Your intention of going to Rome pleases me much, as that is the place above all others, where you can improve yourself the most; for there you will find among the works of the antients, the most perfect fdrms in the most graceful attitudes, and with the justest impressions ; these cannot be obtained, particularly the two last, in drawing from the life alone. You will likewise have an opportunity of seeing there the works of the great painters, and gaining im provement in composition, chiaro-scuro and colouring. Pardon a mere lover of the art talking thus to an artist. When you do set out, which I suppose will be this winter, I should imagine that Cork would be a place where a passage may more readily be obtained in, than Dublin. As you will have some time on your hands these long even ings, when you cannot paint, I should be much obliged to 12 you for a few lines now and then, that I may know what works you may have in hand. Since I have had the pleasure of knowing you, I have often lamented that you did not pursue your classical studies farther, as you are now deprived of many noble subjects for painting you would otherwise have had. You may re member, that to Homer's description contained in two or three lines, Phidias acknowledged himself indebted for the so much celebrated statue of the Olympian Jupiter. It must indeed be confessed, that there is a large field for the exercise of your art in the descriptions of our three great English Poets, Spenser, Shakespear, and Milton, not to mention the number of excellent subjects in the Scrip tures. Beg Mr. Burke, to send in my name to counsellor Ridge, for my Spence's Polymetis, and I doubt not but you will find some entertainment there, though the drawings may not be so good as you could wish. With the sincerest wishes for your advancement in your pro fession, and your welfare in general, I remain. Your assured friend, and humble servant, JOSEPH FENN SLEIGH. 13 In Dublin it is certain he must have enlarged his know ledge by the society of such men as Mr. Burke, and his professional skill by the examination of such pictures as that city contained. There was also a kind of school for drawing, where if Barry could not be taught much, he at least derived those profits, which are generally felt in a young and enthusiastic mind, from a competition with others, and from the incitements of a fancied or real superiority. However, his occupations in Dublin, as every where else, were various and desultory, divided between reading and the more material objects of an artist. He cannot be traced by any particular work — though perhaps certain pieces may exist in that city, worth knowing, from his hands. But during his residence there, an anecdote is preserved which marks the character of the man. He had been enticed by his companions several times to carousings at a tavern, and one night as he wandered home from one of these, a thought struck him of the frivolity and viciousness of thus mispending his time; the fault he imagined lay in his money, and therefore without more ado, in order to avoid the morrow's temptation, he threw the whole of his wealth, which perhaps ambunted to no great sum, into the Liffey, and locked himself up with his favourite pursuits. After a residence of seven or eight months in Dublin, an opportunity offered of accompanying some part of Mr. Burke's family to London, which he eagerly embraced — for such was the capaciousness of his mind for the fine arts, that he 14 soon felt the limited means of contenting it in, the Irish capita,!. This took place sometime in the year 1764, when he was twenty-three years of age, and with one of those fortunate advantages, which does not always fall to the lot of young artists on their arrival in the British capital — that of being recommended to the acquaintance of the most eminent men in the profession, by the persuasive eloquence of a man, who to genius in himself added the rare and noble quality of loving and encouraging genius in others : this was Mr. Burke; who lost no time not merely in making Barry known, but in procuring for him the first of all objects to an inexperienced and destitute young artist, employment. This employment was chiefly that of copying in oils. dra;w- ings by Mr. Stewart, better known by the name of Athenian Stewart ; and whether it suited the ambition of Barry to be at this kind of labour ; yet there is no doubt but he profited by a connexion with such a man as Stewart, and had full leisure to cast his eye about and to profit by the general aspect of art and artists that occupied the period. No apology therefore is necessary for inserting the following letters, which passed at this time, between him and the above-mentioned amiable friend Dr. Sleigh. IB Mr. BARRY to Dr. SLEIGH. Dear Sir, My long silence (after the kind injunctions you laid upon me to the contrary in the only letter I had the pleasure of receiving from you) would make an apology very necessary, but that I have reason to think you will ascribe it to any thing rather than to neglect or indifference, and without troubling you with any excuses, I shall inform you, that the variety of manners and perfections, which I have met with in my ramble, has given me an opportunity of making many alterations in, as well as adding considerably to my little stock of observation. I believe myself improving daily, a very acceptable piece of news to you. At present I am at a kind of journey work for Mr. Stewart, Hogarth's successor, where I am likely to have a great deal of satis faction. This was brought about by your friend Mr. Burke, and though very essential tome, is far from being the great est of my obligations to him. As he has introduced me to the most considerable artists, I am tempted to observe some thing of the state of the arts here. No doubt you have seen that volume of Stewart's Athens, which has been published, and it will be unnecessary to say any thing of the depth of his acquaintance in matters of antiquity and literature. The pictures, and every thing of his designing, are distinguished by that unaffected air of the antients, which 16 alone constitutes true taste, and is joined to such a certainty of outline and mythology, as is rarely found any where else. My friend and countryman Barret does no small honour to land scape painting amongst us ; I have seen nothing to match with his last year's premium picture. It has discovered to me a veiy great want in the aerial part of my favourite Claude's perform ances. You know his skies are clear and uniform, without object, except now and then a small light cloud skirting in his horizon or zenith : while Barret presents you with such a glorious assem blage, as I have sometimes seen amongst high mountains rising into unusual agreeable appearances, whilst the early beams of the sun sport themselves, if you will allow the expression, through the vast arcades, and sometimes glance on a remote farm-house or great lake, whose ascending vapours spread them selves like a veil over the distance. Claude's admirers affirm in his vindication, his want of masses in the clouds, &:c. to be owing to the clearness and undisturbed serenity of the air of Italy where he studied ; this is but transferring the defect from the man to the performance, and between ourselves, I believe it is rather owi^ng to the uninventive^ genius of Claude, and I think, is not the only mark of timidity which may be discovered in that sweet artist. ¦ r. ' ''.:;' [ m -, - "> ^ -j ^ There is one Stubbs here, who paints horses and other ani mals with a surprising reality. He is very accurate, and the anatomy of a horse, which he has etched from dissections he made, will be soon published, and may be worth your seeing. To avoid too great a trespass on your patience, I proposed breaking off with taking notice of the great advance of portrait 17 painting since it has got into the hands of Mr. Reynolds, (after wards Sir Joshua) but as you have seen his pictures when you were in England, no one is more capable of discerning the great ness and the delicacy of his style, the propriety of his characters, his great force of light and shadow and taste of colouring. Another time I shall conclude this catalogue, as there are painters and other artists not mentioned, whom I admire. Perhaps there may be some deficiencies as well as faults justly charged upon our artists, but I will affirm with great confidence, that there is nothing too far stretched in the particulars I have mentioned, as they have been often confirmed by my friend Mr. Burke, of whose taste and discernment you want no proof. Mr. Burke desires to be remembered to you as to the person for whom he has the most real affection, of which no one has had more experience, or can affirm it with a better assurance, than Your obliged humble servant, JAMES BARRY. From Dr. SLEIGH to Mr. BARRY. Cork, June 17, 1765. Dear Sir, I received your acceptable letter, and should have answered it sooner, but that I waited to see Stewart's Athens ; which I have seen within these few days, and cannot express the satisfaction, and pleasure I have had from such a slight perusal, as' so short a time could afford me. VOL. I. » 18 I had the good fortune to be two or three times ih the com pany of Mr. Stuart at Paris on his return home, and once lo go over the Duke of Orleans' collection at the palais-royal with him, where his observations on those noble pictures gave me singular delight. From so slight an acquaintance, and at such a distance of time, it is more than probable he has forgotten me. His researches are so accurate and so ingenious, that they brought to my mind that excellent dissertation of Signior Maffei on the amphitheatre of Verona. I promise myself much from the remainder of his work, and already contemplate in imagination on the beauties of the temple of Minerva, when managed by his masterly hand. I hope he will give us plans, and touch upon something of the geography of those places. If he publishes the other volumes by subscription I beg you will get me put down, and if any money is to be advanced, I will get it transmitted whither he pleases. Be pleased to present my compliments to him, and assure him of my best wishes. I make no dOubt of your improvements where you are ; but I cannot but lament that you do not get to Rome as fast as you can, that you may enjoy the works of those antients, which you have entertained such a value for. I hope you will write to me, and continue your agreeable account of the artists. I am your assured friend, And well-wisher, JOSEPH FENN SLEIGH. Id Mr. BARRY to Dr. SLEIGH. Dear Sir, As there was nothing I wished for more than the favor of a line from you, your obliging letter gave me great satisfaction. I am still at work for Mr. Stewart, and not likely to think of any thing else God knows how long, having weaned myself as much as possible from the thoughts of going to Italy; which has already been attended with too much disappoii^tment and vexation. I endeavour to content myself with thiAgs as they are, things that may possibly be reached at, and I hope have done it. My nights and other leisure (which I have but seldom) 'are laid out upon volumes of antiques and whatever else I can come at. From these books of Maffei, de Caylus, fee. I can get little more than loose generaf ideas of an attitude, a character, or an intention; their cuts are too small and too inaccurate to afford any other benefit ; the peculiarities of an attitude, character, or intention, that detail of minutiae, which is the true object of the inquiries of an artist, are only to be had generally speaking from the antiques themselves or their casts, of which there are some very good ones at the Duke of Richmond's, and other places, as well as old pictures of great merit, which are all very accessible. But as this access is only to be had in the day, it is lost to me, as that time is required to other things, which though not so desirable, are yet the necessary means of procuring a livelihood and independence : this would be the case with me at best, if I was in Italy. I cannot then take the direct path ; yet while any other remains, I shall never be intimidated. If I should chance to have 2,0 genius, or any thing else, it is so much the better, but my hopes are grounded upon a most unwearied intense application, of which I am not sparing, and though it may be more directly and better applied, it is impossible it could be greater or given with more cheerfulness. At present I have little to shew that I value, my work is all underground, digging and laying founda tions, which with God's assistance I may hereafter find the use of. I every day centre more and more upon the art, I give myself totally to it, and except honor and conscience, am de termined to renounce every thing else ; though this may ap pear enthusiastic, or rather extravagant, it is really the state of my mind. This last year has deprived us of Hogarth, Smith, Lambert, and Butts. Lambert was certainly a very agreeable painter, his objects were truly represented, excellently well coloured, and did not want harmony altogether. His choice is generally said to be very natural, but I think \ cry familiar would be more just ; for though the familiar may be natural, the natural you know is not always familiar ; and there are other things in the world besides the barns, hogs, and haystacks, which Mr. Lam bert was so very fond of. He failed much in the more noble walks ; instead of the immense, rugged, and tremendous, he is little and artificial; the native wildness of nature becomes methodised, and is notched out into banks and slopes : however, his views which compose the greatest part of his works will always do him credit. I am indeed sensibly touched with the fate of poor Butts, an un fortunate man, who with all his merit never met with any thing but cares and misery, which I may say hunted him into the very g rave. His cast of genius was very much that of Claude's, whom he 21 resembles without any imitation more than any body that I know of: if Claude's compositions are generally, though not always more successful, he certainly is not in his choice of objects, which was much the same in both, of a serene and beautiful kind between the low familiar style of Lambert and the grandeur of Poussin. His being bred in Cork excluded him from many advan tages ; this he made evident by the surprising change of his manner on his going to Dublin; his fancy, which Avas luxuriant, he confined to its just bounds, his tone of colouring grew more variegated and concordant, and his penciling, which was al ways spirited, assumed a tenderness, vivacity, and air of na ture, which Claude only shares with him, and yet not in every thing, as is visible in the incontestable superiority of Butt's figures, cattle, buildings, and herbage, in which it would be a task to find his equal : he hit the true point of penciling, was soft but not woolly, was finished and determined without being hard or edgy. He certainly was not learned in the human figure, in the quadruped, or in architectonial works ; but this is not visible in his pictures ; he has great reaches after taste, and as much reality as we can wish for. It is a good while since I saw a few of his pictures in Dublin ; I had but a slight view of them, and was then but poorly qualified to form any judge ment. However, I think that what he has done since the change of his manner (with very few exceptions) is alone (if I remember Avell) wholly worthy of him, and on which his re putation must depend : but had he had the opportunity of making his late observations sooner, or had he lived to have digested them into a system, which as it was, he had nearly com- pleated, it would be almost a desperate undertaking to touch a landscape after him. 2,2 A great many of those unmanly disingenuous actions, which" his friends had but too* much reason to accuse him of, arose more, I am persuaded, from his perplexed situation, than from his dispositions, which upon the least emancipation were of quite another tendency. The lengths of virtue and vice de pending in great measure on the habit of either, render that condition pitiable, which stands in perpetual need of an arti ficial conduct, which it is to be feared, habit may in the end substitute in the place of nature. I hope you pardon me for Tsaying so much to you of one, whose merit you know and are a much better-judge of I own, however improper it was, I could not restrain myself from taking some little notice of a character which is dear to me, as a great artist, a fellow citizen, whose merit is our all, and whose example and works were my first guide, and was what enamoured me with the art itself. We have had our two exhibitions since I wrote to you ; the pictures that struck me most, were Lady Sarah Bunbury sacri ficing to the Graces, and Lady Waldgrave. They are some of Mr. Reynolds' best Avorks, which is the greatest character they y can have. Achilles lamenting over PatroduSj painted by one Hamilton, a Scotchman, at Rome, and sent over. I have not escaped the censure of several artists for crying up the merit of this performance, but am perfectly easy whilst I am coun tenanced in it by men of true taste and discernment. A view of the Villa Madama, near Rome by Wilson ; the colouring is very masterly; his style of design is generally more grand, more consistent, and more poetical than any other person's amongst us — very pretty views by Richards, and others by Marlow — two good landscapes by Barrett — an excellent picture by Zoffani of Garrick's drunken scene in the provoked wife — / 25 an officer relieving a sick soldier by Penny, and a fine picture of brood mares by Stubbs : his lion and tyger fighting near a dead stag larger than life, his lion killing a horse, a tyger lying. in his den large as life, appearing, as it Avere disturbed and listening, which were in, the last year's exhibition, are pictures that must rouse and agitate the most inattentive: he is now painting a lion panting and out of breath lying with his paws over a stag he has run down : it is inimitable. In Maiden-Lane exhibition, Cavalier Cazali makes a good figure, there is an exceeding good landscape by Zuccarelli ; a love match, a series of pictures in the manner of Hogarth, inge niously, designed by Collet, and several very pretty landscapes by Smith. Mr. Stewart had some of his views of Athens in ; these are painted in water-colours, my work at present is copy ing some of them in oil. I was pressed by some, whose judge ments on another occasion I could mention Avith more modesty, to put in a picture or two, but declined it, as I hope by next year to have less anxiety than I had, and between times a little leisure to paint two or three designs, landscape, and history, which I intend for the exhibition. I shall. Sir, for the pre sent take up no more of your time, and with real love and sincerity will subscribe myself. Your obliged humble servant, J.B. P. S. Hayman has been torn to rags and the whole society of Spring Garden, of which he is president, on account of a wretched picture of his of the death of Sigismunda. 24 The Reader, it is hoped, has not felt the length of these two letters, at least without having observed a nicety of dis crimination, and frankness of mind, which do an honour to the author — who deserved as a pupil, (for we must still consider him as such) an ampler and nobler school of the arts than what this country had to offer him. His friends, and principally Mr. Burke, saw the necessity of this, and ge nerously came forward with the means to accomplish the ob ject. In consequence we find Mr. Barry in the latter end of this year, 1765, departing for the continent; and as many, if not all the letters which passed between him and his friends during the principal part of his residence at Paris, Rome, and other places, are preserved, there is little to be done but to arrange them in the best order (for they are often with out dates or superscriptions) and as accurately as can be. They will at least give a better account of him during this period than any other which can now be obtained, and will not be destitute of interest to artists and others, from the luminous observations they sometimes contain on works of art, and the different styles of the great masters. My Dear Sirs.* To Mr. burke. Paris, JSTovemberQ, 1765. As I proposed keeping myself alive in your me mory, I would have wrote to you from Calais on my arrival family^'''' """' ^'' "'""' '"°''' "^ addressing his letters, as intending them for the whole 25 the 27th, but' as there were only two things whieh- offered them selves to me, either fthe deep and indelible sense I had of your good nature and affection^ or the little things i Avhich I took notice of in my journey, I shall, until I see you again, mention nothing but the latter, knowing but too well how trifling and unseason able my thanks, ike. must be to persons whose .generosity and friendship to me could be the effect of nothing, but their own gqpdness. I shall begin them by telling you that I made as many sketches of the country bet Aveen London; and;. Dover as the velocity and uneasiness ofitihe motion of the coach would per mit: I have done the same in the way, to Paris; the i vehicle I I came in, which they call a diligens, has been .indeed very diligent, though not altogetheit expeditious, as we, were in motion fiomfour in the morning till ©ighb or nine at night, and yet were from Monday the^Sth till, the Sunday night following, upon our journey.^ I sat in one of the side places for the , advantage of seeing the country and taking down such things aS: I could here ; I got such a terrible cold as almost deprived me of the use of my speech, but thank God I am now pretty Avell got over it. The country is in many places very fine, particularly betA^een Beauvais and Paris; there are some views near St. Denis pretty like those about Rkhmondi, but much finer.; it has not so much the appearance of improvement as our English grounds, but is more beautiful, and though it never rises; to any thing more than beauty, yet it rarely comes short of it. The nave of the church at Beauvais is really very striking, it is Gothick, and has, I think, incomparably a better effect than any thing I ever saw before. I had but half an hour to run about in it, and what makes it still worse, it was before day, between VOL. 1. E 26 four and five o'clock. My hurry, and the multiplicity of vicAvs, put it out of my power to attend much to particulars, and gene rals, though not entirely satisfactory, yet are not totally without use. I am mightily pleased with several things in Paris, but shall inform myself better of their merits, before I venture to say any thing of them. Col. Drumgold has received me very po litely; I shall see him soon again, but nothing could equal the Warmth and affection I met Avith in Mr. Macleane. Yourselves could not be interested more about me than he is. He has in troduced me to an English gentleman, Avhose name I forget; he is a great connoisseur, and is very able, and I believe yery Avilling, to procure me access to every thing that may be of use^ My interest is so blended v^ith your concerns, that I am at the greatest loss to know how to conclude. I suppress a thousand things that are breaking from me, and shall only take the liberty to say, that though you must be dear to all your friends, there is no one who loves and respects you both more sincerely than your humble servant, JAMES BARRY. P. S. My best respects to dear Mrs. Burke, to Dr. Nugent, Mr. Richard Burke, Master Richard, to Messrs. English and Creagh. You will oblige me. Sir, in presenting my respects to my friend Mr. Barrett, to Mr. Stuart, to Mr. Reynolds, and to Mr. and Mrs. Cholmondely, and to such of your friends as I had the honour of knowing. 27 Mr. wm. BURKE to Mr. BARRY, London, Oct. 2^, 1765. Dear Barry, Idle as it may seem, 1 really did not think when I left you. that you would depart the next morning, and I am vexed not to have given one hearty parting squeeze. I need not say our warmest and heartiest good wishes attend you every where ; I need not specify our regards by naming us separately, for we all and one love you and esteem you with one voice and heart. I have mentioned you to Mr. Morrison, secretary to the Duke of Richmond, who will deliver you this, and will, I believe, shew you some civility ; inclosed you have the proper letters upon Paris and Rome. You can find no difficulty in finding them respectively at Paris and Rome, If any difficulty, even ideal, occurs to you, you will, at least you ought, and therefore I the more think you will acquaint us with it immediately, for you know we have too well grounded hopes of your finding the thoroughest advantages of your tour, and being one day a credit to your country ; and therefore you will rely that you shall have no let or impediment in your studies. Ned (Mr. Burke) meant to have said a word to you, but you know his little leisure, and therefore will know that his silence is not a want of love and attention to you. Mrs. Burke has, I think, ays many good wishes for you as any of us ; 1 need not say the e2 28 Doctor (Nugent) is not coldly your friend ; Richard is always warm; even the little Dick, (the late Mr. Richard Burke) 1 think loves you, and I think it, because I love to suppose that the little fellow will do what in gratitude and honesty he ought to do. * Farewell, remember us all to Mr. Macleane, and believe them all what I am. Dear Barry, your sincere friend and servant. WM: BURKE. I should not Omit that poor Creagh, who is here, loves and esteems you; if there are little particularities, they are by no means of a bad mind, he loves you, and the regard of a good man is always valuable. THE SAME TO THE SAME. St. James's, JVbv, 8, 1765. Dear Barry, How comes it that we have not heard from you yet; if you were here, I, who am a sort of scold, should say it was not right to have not given us a single line since you left us. I think we begged to hear from you even before you got upon the sea; which you must now have passed, and really it would not be doing us Justice to think us indifferent ¦ to know any thing concerning you: but we are too far asunder now to discuss and canvass th© point. ¦ Conversation' makes 29 jangles, which conversation explains and removes, but letters can't remove, and therefore must not admit a complaint. I will not therefore say it was unkind not to write to us, but I will, as a favour, beg you to remember us as your friends* and consequently will not omit what you know wiH give us a real satisfaction. We have some apprehensions that some accident may have occasioned your silence,- but remembering ivell that our friend has som^timesi a little way of his own, we venture to suppose, and have a pleasure toisuppose, he is rather to be blamed than pitied; Ned, the Doctor,' Dick young aaid old, * are i yours, and so indeed am I; :> remember to write soon, j I am. Dear Barry, most cordially,: i: Your friend and servant, ' WILLIAM BURKE. Inclose your letters to your friends to me, and remember to bid them inclose theirs to me and not to Ned. - Mrs. Burke, I know not how omitted by me, "^desires to be re membered cordially to you. Direct to me, Wm>Burke> Esq. Secretary of State's Office, St. James's, Loudon, 30 To Mr. BURKE. Paris, no date. Mv dear Sirs, I SHALL without troubling you with apologies and excuses, proceed to give you my opinion, such as it is, of the pictures, &;c. that I have seen here. That indulgence and parti ality to me which I always experienced in you, takes away the anxiety I should otherwise have, as perhaps what I shall say does not square either with the critical notions of the world, or the more popular ones ; I should be very uneasy about the truth and certainty of it, but that it falls into your hands, from whom I have already experienced so much indulgence and partiality.. Had I here the advantage I enjoyed in Englgind, of hearing your remarks oh these things before I had ventured out my own, I should have but little diffidence about it. I find there is little use to be made of the general remarks and: criticisms of those who have written characters of the artists, and brought their merits and defects to a standard arid fixed classes . it is liable to so many exceptions, that one is every day in dan ger of being misled, who lays any weight ypon them. — Men are not always the same, they are sometimes attentive to one man ner, sometimes to another : different subjects, and a number of other things, often make them very different from themselves : there are some who are generally defective in light and shadow, who sometimes produce fine effects of both ; the same may be said in composition and the other parts of the art : whether this is the effect of chance or design, I will not affirm, but I am sure of the fact. This consideration obliges me to lay aside the com- 31 nion practice of determining the merit or demerit of every indi vidual performance by the general character of the artist ; though I shall allow it freely to the bulk of the world, as decisions by that means are more [facilitated, since they are freed from a number of embarrassing circumstances, and consequently come more within the reach of every fine gentleman Avho has a taste. Not to wander too far from that which is more properly the subject of my letter, I shall present you, not with a catalogue of every thing I have seen at the palais,- royal, the Luxembourg, Versailles, Sec. but with such accounts as I can of the things which struck me most, though I absolutely confess it out of my power to express the thousandth part of what I felt upon the sight of two pictures at the palais-royal. The first (and incom parably the first picture I ever saw in my life) is ky Le Sueur, Alexander, drinking the potion, and looking on his physician whilst he is reading the letter. Here is every, thing in a pic ture — the style of the figures is to the last degree great, noble, and unaffected— the story told in the most interesting manner — ^^the colouring and every thing that regards the execution, is exceed ingly sweet and perfect : this is not a picture done in the juvenile state of the art, when one perfection must atone for a number of imperfections ; here is no brick dust, sooty colouring, nothing staring, no want of harmony, though it is designed in the most exalted gusto. The other picture by my favourite Nic Poussin, is Moses striking Avater from the rock ; it is the best designed picture I have seen of his, and yoti know he is always exquisite in this part ; the colouring, clear obscure, and composition, are so much above every thing else of his, that one would be tempted to think it the work of a different hand^ but that you see approaches 32 to this manner in some: of his olher pictures ;< add but a little mellowness and tenderness: to the colouring,; aaaddt ; is Imltimately perfect. The largest of these two pictuires does not exceed the size of lyom^ Dangle; If you think propenl should stay ihere a littde tim©^ L would be glad) to- send you copiesiof them, as I am sure; they areVperfectly agreeable to your wishes;; permission is not difficult, and by writing to someiof your acquaintance it maybe easily pmcured. ,. There are four pictures of Poussin in the Luxembourg, representing the four seasons, in stories taken from the Scripture, viz. Adam audi Eve in the garden,; fbr the spring ; Booz arid Ruth, the summer ; Joshua and Galeth bring ing home the bunch of grapes, and the universal deluge> for the autumn ^ and winter. • These pictures are designed with the usual judgment and fine fency:of Poussin, and yet are woolly, dry, and very inferior in point of exiecution, colouring,' and effect, to his other pictures of the Moses, Sec. The picture of the deluge is designedb admirably; there are but few objects, two figures in a boat overset by a cataract, lifting up their hannds to heaven, some beads and legs appearing above water, and all the rest such; a wild dreary waste, as freezes one with horror, whilst it presents him with the truest picture of desolation. Tiiere is a picture in the Luxembourg of Jupiter and Antiope, by Cterregio ; the sweetness, harmony, and spirited penciling of this picture, that ability Avhich still is so conspicuous in the • manual part, makes one very doubtful about the originality of those which go under his name, that I have seen in England. I came over here with the most profound veneration for every thing of Raffael's : his; Madonnas and holy families at the palais- royal and at the Luxembourg, are very far from confirming it ; shouldil make use of my own leyes as artists generally do when SB they are minded to cull out and to profit by what they have seen, these pictures of his should not prevent my applying to other sources for almost every particular excellence in the art. I shall not, however^ change my opinions of him. I have every expectation from his larger compositions at Rome, his History of Cupid and Psyche, and his pictures from the new and old Testament, the very prints of which are more than sufficient to retain me. Le Sueur's History of St, Bruno, painted in the cloisters of the chartreux, has much exceeded any idea I could form of it before I went there ; my opinion of him is every day increasing; though these paintings are very much injured by some envious hand, they sufficiently perfect to shew how much Le Brun or his disciples (to whom this piece of mischief is ascribed) had to fear from such a performance, in which every thing is excellent, even to the touching of the landscapes and back grounds, which are in the highest taste, both of invention and execution. There are some antique statues at Versailles AA^hich I admire exceedingly, particularly that of a young man taking off or put ting on his sandals before or after bathing, which has left me but little relish for that profusion of modern statues, which are up and down in the gardens ; it is a most delightful earnest to me of what I am to expect at Rome ; I can believe the ancients capa ble of any thing after this. Gougeon and Bouchardon were, I think, the best French statuaries — ^we have two fountains here, the basso-relievos and figures do them both very great honour. Old Coustou and Le Pautre had great merit in the same way, and next, I think, come VOL. I F 34 Falconet, Girardon, Pigal and Puget, the Avorst of whom I think much aboVe any ^e have ; though it may not be proper in me to say it. What I have seen since gives me more and more reason to admire Mr. Reynolds ; you know my sentiments of him alt^ady, and thfe more I know and see of the art, the less likely they are to change. Please^ to remember me to my friend Mr. Barrett, and tell him that M. Vernet, though fine, has very little to surprise him who has seen the Snowden or the premium picture. My most sincere respects to the Doctor. — Certainly France has been very much changed since he has been in it, for there is but little of his deep extensive knowledge to be disco vered amongst the medical people here. I hope Mrs. Burke,^ Mr. Richard Burke, Master Richard, Mr. Nugent, Mr. Ozier, and the family, enjoy the good health and satisfaction I left them in, which nobody wishes them more sincerely than. Your obliged humble servant, J. B. TO THE SAME. Paris, without date. My dear Sirs, I have since had but little time to myself to answer either of the kind letters I received from you by Mr, Morison, and now that I have sat down to it I could wish my self some excuse to defer it still longer. I am confounded to think what I shall say to so much and so unmerited kindness. Love and gratitude urge me oh to expressions AA^hich I must lay 35 aside to avoid the awkward . situation of being detected in the language that is so common in the world, and which may be found in a person who has very little of what I think is in my bosom, when I remember what I owe you and the family whose friendship is alone what has counterpoised and sweetened the other circumstances of iny life, which God knows have been disagreeable enough. Mr. Richard Burke's arrival has, you may conceive, given me no small pleasure and advantage, Every day lays me under new obligations to him and to you ; all that union which is so visible in the family is as manifest in your carriage towards me as it is in every thing else, insomuch, that when I mention kindness and generosity, I am at a loss to know on which of you I shall first lay my finger. What you say of me in your letter to Mr. Richard is very flattering; yours and Mr. Reynolds's good opinions must be no small argument to me of my own importance, which you Avill have no difficulty of believing, as you know but too well how ready my vanity is to catch at any thing that may do me credit, and you must allow that it can no where meet Avith what is more grateful to it than in the present instance : to be at all thought of by such people is a stimulus that must oblige one to stretch every n erve to endeavour to merit it. As soon as I can obtain permission I shall set about copying the Alexander I mentioned to you. It will be more profitable to me to be about it than any thing else, and though you may not be inclined to keep it, you may give it to somebody or other. The academies are open at night only, so that copying that or any other picture will not interfere with my attendance there. F 2 36 The varnished paper which Mr, Richard Burke wrote to you of is to be had here, we ^ did not know it then, and you will excuse the mentioning it tb you. My most sincere love and respects to the Doctor, to Mrs. Burke and the family, and to Mr. Macleane. Mr. Drumgold would be obliged to the Doctor to let him know the title of Malcom's book on the Scotch and British antiquities. I am, dear Sir, Yours with great respect and sincerity, J. B. I would have wrote to Mr. Barrett, to Mr. Creagh, and others of my friends, but that I have the greatest aversion to letter writing, though nobody wishes his friends better than I do. I find in myself at times a strong disposition to saunter and idle about here ; one may do it with profit : the leisure I have from visits is employed in remarks upon and sketching of what I see, so that I hope my friends will be indulgent enough to accept of my good wishes, which, whether I write or not, is always sure to . attend them. To Mr. BARRETT. Paris, no date. Dear Mr. Barrett, I AM extremely angry with myself for not having wrote to you before this time. I wanted to give you «ome account of Lutherbourg, a landscape painter here, whose 37 pictures I had not seen till just now ; and I put off writing to you merely for that reason. It would have made me very happy to have had you with me in running over the several collections — one particularly of Baron , where there are some excellent Flemish landscapes, and some of Vernet's capital pictures, which I would be glad to have your opinion of To my think ing Vernet is astonishingly well in several things ; he paints with great knOAvledge of his objects, has a spirited louche and great management in the whole of his pictures ; but if I may venture to, speak my mind, there is one in England who, take him for all in all, is an overmatch for him ; for fear of being thought to flatter my friends, I shall keep his name to myself, and by the bye it would be no novelty to you to hear it. I cannot see what hinders your coming over here one summer or other ; the journey would not be much more expensive than going into Wales; you would have a pleasant and not unpictur- esque country to travel through, and Mrs. Barrett would have an opportunity of seeing Paris, the fine gardens of the Thuille- ries and Luxembourg, and conversing with the politest and most agreeable women in the world, whose countenances never lower, and with tempers, that it is impossible to ruffle — ^but I had like to have forgot Lutherbourg, who is a young man about thirty, paints pretty much in the style of Berghem, except that the landscape part is more principal than Berghem'Sj In my opinion he cuts Vernet down all to nothing, so far as one may compare two people together so different in their walks. Lu therbourg has somewhat more dignity than Berghem, and is in every respect nearly as well in his cattle, figures, and other parts of his pictures. My opinion of the other artists I dare say you have had from Mr. Burke, which will make any other 38 mention of thowe Mr. Burke and his family, which in one word is owing ybu eve^ thing that is essential to me ; but as you know of my obiigatidris to this family already, and amongst other things of my being where I am, and going to Rome at their expense, I shall leave this theme to give you such accounts as I can of what I havfe seen here. Though I think you must be as little pleased as I am with the living French artists ; and the pictures of Le Suetir, Poussin, Le Brun, Jouvenet, and the capital things of the Italian schools have not been augmented since you AA^ere here. All the merit of the modern French, arid I think a gi*eat deal more, may be found in a single performance of Le Moine's, whose effect is pleasing, his attitudes variegated into "what may be called a pretty manner: his forms are agreeable, though I should say form, for he has One agreeable head for his men, one for his women ; it is enough for the sake of variety, if a beard and a few furrows now and then are introduced, if the cheeks swell out or fall in, though the monotony is as visible, as it iis in a puppet show, where the same voice is traceable in all the personages from Scaramouch up to king Solomon. We are not to look for dignity, character, or indeed any of the leading parts of the art in him ; but then without meanness or deformity, he possesses an agreeable assemblage of all the lesser ones in a su perior degree. This man, with a little of the outre of Boucher, one of the professors of the academy, is the model and standard. There are, however, here a few who by no means come under what I have said, as Restout, a nephew of Jouvenet, who is, I take it, the only follower of the old French school, and Greuse, who is in the Flemish manner. Vernet may also be excepted, and I believe one more, but I do not know enough of them yet,. 40 to say they are distinguished for any great perfections. Cha racter in the different classes of men is very little attended to by the French artists, either painters or sculptors, (though I think the last very superior to the former,) and indeed it is not to be wondered at, since even in life it is entirely lost here ; polite ness and artificial carriage is too general amongst them, and laying the garb, &:c. aside, it is only in dialect or other refinerhents of expression or thought that they differ, whilst every thing in the gesticulation, and all other externals, that are characteristic in art, are visibly the same. There is a picture at the palais-royal of Alexander, taking the potion from his physician, by Le Sueur, that I shall copy when the weather is Avarm enough "to sit in the rooms without fire, which is one of the conditions of per mission. As I am resolved to let slip no opportunity of im provement, I go to St. Luke's academy every night to draw after the living subjects which are provided there. I shan't be so troublesome as to repeat my desire of hear ing from you, though I could wish it pf all things, and cannot help hoping the two letters I have received, will not be the only memorials I shall have of you when there is any oppor tunity of serving me. However, whether I hear from you or not, I hope you will pardon the wish of it in one who has so much reason to love you as. Your humble servant, J. B. I shall set off for Italy, about April next 41 Mr. wm. burke to Mr. BARRY. London, March 25, 1766. Dear Barry, ' I have received your several letters, and I do not alone receive pleasure in them, for all your friends of Queen Ann- Street are, and always will be, interested in what concerns you. I join seriously in your mortification at not getting admittance to copy the picture. It looks like ill nature, and yet I have none of that nature towards you, and yet I can't help suspecting that your disappointment is in some degree owing to your own nature, and yet I might as well spare my remark, for as it is your nature it always will be sOj and yet from my heartiest regard I could wish that a little conformity to the nonsense of the world made you less unfit to bustle in that world, where folly is too predominant for the good sense of in dividuals to oppose it. It is kicking against the pricks : my dear Barry, in the beginning of life, peculiarities Avill not do; they hurt ourselves, not the world, who will go their own way in spite of us ; you will find them impediments in your road to wealth; or if you despise wealth, you do not, I am sure, despise honest fame, and you will find any indulgence of whim and pe culiarity a grand obstacle in your way, by robbing you of the opportunity of proper studies, and consequently impede at least your perfecting yourself in your art, Avhich is, you know, the only means to insure a great name in the art. I really beg your pardon for this sort of lecture, for which I have no apparent cause, and yet I have some cause too irr your VOL. L G 42 conduct and reason, and have great in my own sincere regards. We had one letter treating of the art, which makes me wish now and then for your further observations on what you may find curious in your travels. Ned, who was the best judge of the subject, was delighted with it. You have heard that his success has exceeded our most sanguine hopes, all at once he has darted into fame ; I think he is acknowledgedly one of the first men in the commons. I speak to you without disguise ; to flatter him to you Avould be ridiculous, for you cannot love him more than you do, — to conceal the extent of his fame from you Avould be an unfair return for the love you bear him. The administration seems to be on a rock ; not but rocks are liable to earthquakes too: if, however, Mr; Pitt (afterward Lord Chatham) should ac cede to them, which he is expected to do, it would so fill all chasms, that air, or whatever it is that causes those tremblemens, would find no cavity to lurk in, and make its mischief from. As for ourselves, Richard eats, drinks, sleeps, and laughs his fill — ^Ned is full of real business, intent upon doing real good to his country, as much as if he was to receive twenty per cent, from the commerce of the whole empire, which he labours to improve and extend. As for me, I am as you left me, with much to do in what is called business, which is mostly attendance, with this satis faction in it still, that the modest nature and real worth of the man I do attend, makes every thing pleasing. The Doctor goes his rounds, and is in pretty good health, as I should say we alj were, had not poor Mrs. Burke been visited by a most severe cold ; the delicacy of her frame, and that infinity of intrinsic worth that makes her dear to us, raised some anxious apprehen sions', but, thank God ! she is so much better that our fears are no more : the little boy who was at home a fcAV days ago, is per- 43 V fectly well. Our friend, Mr. Macleane, is Lieutenant Governor of St. Vincent, the profit small, but, as he must go there, it is a satisfaction to be the first man. I hope too, by the mediation of Lord Cardigan, he will be made a commissioner for the sale of lands, which will gild the plume the other gives. Remember us all very heartily to Mr. Drumgold. I don't trouble him with a letter, but in this tell him from us all, that if in spite o{ you he does not obtain the immediate permission of your admittance to make the copy, we shall be sincerely disappointed. It is impos sible but he can do it, and if he knew how much we interest ourselves in it, it is impossible we flatter ourselves, but he would do it. Adieu, my dear friend, all prosperity be with you. — I as secretary in the name of all, declare our earnest regards. WILLIAM BURKE. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. St. James St June 21, 1766. Dear Barry, I DO veiy heartily congratulate you on your at last obtaining the picture to copy, and have myself real obligations to all those through whose assistance you have succeeded. I must particularly beg you to make my compliments to Mr. Crammond for the very obliging letter he wrote to me on the subject, as well as for all the other trouble he so kindly took in the affair, and to assure him, that in any business he may have here, I shall readily take as much trouble for him. g2 44 Ned was extremely happy at the resolution you formed of be ing content to follow your original most faithfully, I do not pretend to give his reasons for this ; I think, Avithout being per haps able to account well for it, there is good sense in so doing, but if I had ever so good an argument to support my opi nion, I should not give it to you, as I only catch the time while my servant is now dressing me, to tell you that we are all well, and to mention what I know will give you pleasure, and what you will like to have under my own hand, that I am now in parliament. There was one little word, my dear Barry, that dropt unawares ; why are you at all to regret a point that gives us pleasure, do not you think it will one day be a satisfaction to yourself to be able to advance the cause of ingenuity ? repine not then that we have the good fortune of doing so, in having the pleasure of serving you. I am sure by this time you must more than have occasion for money, and pray don't make it necessary for us to press you, but draw immediately.. Dick says, and I think truly, that he has wrote oftener than you seem to apprehend. He and all of us are well. Make our compliments to Colonel Drumgold, and let him know that his books are packed up, and wait only an opportunity of sending. — Yours go at the same time. Farewell, my dbar Barry, and believe me, sincerely and affectionately. Your friend and servant, WILLIAM BURKE. 45 Mr. RICHARD BURKE to Mr. BARRY. London, I Ith February 1766. My dear Barry. Partly to keep my promise, btit more to gratify a very worthy fellow, I sit down to write you a few lines. As I am of the most importance (to myself I mean) I shall begin by telling you that I arrived here safe and sound this morning at (I am an Irishman) midnight. I must tell yOu also, that this pleasure was seasoned by a delay of five days at Calais, from Avhence I wrote to you. You begin now to be impatient to know what the gratification is which I proposed to give you ; why, sir, I flatter myself that you will have some little pleasure in know ing that I am well, and I will increase it by telling you that I found all here perfectly well, and perfectly your friends. — There are two courses for you without either cray fish or Oysters, and you shall have an excellent desert. Your friend has not only spoke, but he has spoke almost every day; as to how, I shall leave you to guess, only saying, that to a reputation not mean before, he has added more than the most sanguine of his friends could have imagined. He has gained prSqtgious applause from the public, and compliments of the most flattering kind from particulars ; it will add to what I know you already feel on this occasion to be told, that amongst the latter was one from Mr. Pitt, who paid it to him in the house in the mbst obligirig manner and in the strongest terms. It is fit that, I, should tell you the little, very little, which I know of the question which has been the subject of the late debates. The 46 miriistry assert the right of taxing the colonies, but propose to repeal the stamp act as inconvenient, impolitic, and detrimental to this kingdom, as well as oppressive to the colonies. This you will say is a very imperfect and unsatisfactory account — so it is, but I make you as wise as myself, and what more can you expect? the affair is not yet decided, nor is it very certain how it will be decided. Though unsatisfactory the account, yet you must allow me some merit in telling you even this little so immediately after my arrival. — Ned is at the house — Will at the opera— the Doctor, Jane, Jack Nugent, and I at home — ^but wherever we are, be assured that we are very much yours. Farewelh dear Barry, take care of yourself, but not too much; dispute, but not too much; be a free-thinker, but not too much; drink, but not too little. Whilst I am yet writing, Macleane is come in, and desires to be cordially remembered to you. — Adieu, again, and believe me. Yours sincerely, RICHARD BURKE. Compliments to Colonel Drumgold. Mr. BARRY to Mr. BURKE. Paris, no date. Dear Sms, Doubtless Mr. Richard Burke has got home by this time, he must have had a disagreeable journey of it, for the weather has been much colder since his setting out on the road than it was since I came to France. The Seine was frozen over in about tAvo days, for the second time this winter. The acade- 47 mies are all shut up on account of the extreme cold, and pro bably I shall be shut out for some time from copying at the palais-royal for the same reason, as they won't permit it till the weather is a little warm, so as to do without fire. Though I knoAv you all to be very busy at this time, about important matters, yet I shall not insult you so far as to think of making an apology for mentioning small ones. I am conscious there are heads in the world pregnant with every thing that is deep and weighty, and yet find no distraction by an attention to trifles, and it is enough for me that I know whom I write to. After this proem I shall begin by telling you that I don't like an academy ; it is a thing which, wherever it is founded will, I think, bring the arts into contempt, and consequently to de struction. We have two of them here, the academy of St Luke and the Royal Academy : there are such mobs of blackguards go every night to acquire a trade there, as is enough to shock any one who has the least regard for the art. People send their children to make them painters and statuaries (without learning, genius, or indeed any thing else) only because it is less expen sive than making them perukiers or shoemakers. I need not observe to you how much these fellows must befoul every thing they lay their hands upon, and hoAv much more than probable it is, that the contempt they must naturally bring upon the art, will be succeeded by the destruction and annihilation of it. To be sure it is very true, that drawing and modelling after nature in the academy, with the assistance of a master, is not likely to mislead any one, and must be useful to a man of real genius, who has all the requisites which are so essential ip art, the most complex of all things ; but how unlikely is it, when after some time these locusts are spread far and near over every thing, that any man will apply to an art, or rather that any man will be at the expense and pains of acquiring such essen- 48 tials in an art, that is not only without reputation (the great stimulus) but that is sunk into contempt and nothingness. It is with great pleasure that I recollect your dislike to the founding of an academy in England. The truth of a remark of yours was not as evident to nie^ then as it is now, how that without an academy the Englis^i were. making great strides , after perfection, whilst others, with one, were every day more and more- losing sight of it, that our people will go on still farther Ihave no doubt, and that it will be without an academy, I wish most ardently. There are many advantages here, which the coldness of the season will not suffer me to enjoy, in the mean time I have hired out some busts and casts of the antique, which I study in my own room. Mr. Richard Burke will be angry with me when I tell him, I have not been to make any of the visits he recommended to me since his departure. I am, dear sirs. Yours always, J. B. Mr. RICHARD BURKE to Mr. BARRY. bth August, 1766. Dear Barry, Could you not find any reason for my not writing to you, but that of being offended ? Do you not know that I am of all mankind, the laziest, idlest, and most indolent in every thing but a dispute. Be assured, my dear Barry, that I love and esteem you with great sincerity, and add to your other good 49 qualities, that of forgiving a friend who loves you. I have sent all the books you desired, to Colonel Drumgold. Ned, Jane, and I, set out in about two hours for Ireland. Do not be alarmed at the change in the ministry, all is very well. You may perceive what a hurry I write this, and I only write it to assure you of the sincere affection of all here. W. B. continues with Conway. Yours sincerely, RICHARD BURKE. Mr. BARRY to Mr. BURKE. Paris, August 16, 1766; Dear Sirs, I HAVE finished and brought home the copy last Wednesday, and only wish for a safe opportunity of sending it to you. Mr. Macleane was to have been here before this time, and it was my intention to have left it with him; if he does not arrive before I go, I shall entrust it to the care of Mr. Crammond or Mr. Wilkes. Of the merit or demerit of the cOi^y, T shall say nothing, but there have been no pains or inclination want ing on my side to make it as exactly like, and to preserve as much the spirit of the original; as I could — this was my sole ob ject from the beginning ; and those artists who have seen them together, think that I have not been unsuccessful in it. I believe I mentioned to you before my opinion of the manliness and gravity which reign throughout the original, in the characters and dispo sitions of the figures, the colouring, and masterly style of drapery., The taste of Le Sueur must have been of a very different texture VOL. I. h 50 from the glitter and puerility, which is so much admired in some of our rising young people in England. In Le Sueur the essen tials are studied with: the last degree of nobleness and precision, whilst the most inferior things are not neglected. The others are hunting after peacocks' feathers, and gewgaws to lick up and trim the outside with, never considering whether the kernel, body, or soul of the matter be there or not ; for it is absolutely impos sible for the mind that is little enough to relish such things, ever to have any thing like a thought about the others. Comparing these people together, I think one may see that the corruption and decline of art arises from an over attention to the ornamental parts. Those who best understood oratory, and poetry ascribe their fall to this cause. The warmest advocates for modern music (I mean, as it is distinguished and separated from poetry, such as Sonatas, kc.) have nothing to shew us but unisons, har mony, and what not ; they must confess its powers and impres sions to j reach no f'^^ther than the nerves, whilst they leave to other; arts the understanding and the passions. It only .concerns painting to be divested of all kind of; scheme, and story, and reduced, to a mere harmonical , assemblage of blue, green, red, and yellow colours, audit may be made, as tickling and agreeable to the eye, as the other is to the ear : it has been more than once attempted, and with the same success, but such contemptible tricks are beneath censure. The vestiges of antiquity have, been the inlet and guide- in other arts ; unhappily nothing, of this kind remained for the musicians to form themselves upon, so that I cannot say positively, if it is not the single circumstance of its being of modern Gothic invention, that has turned me so much against it. I may venture to say as much as this without know ing either the geometrical musical proportions ^ or the • manage ment of any instrument. Whether or not, I will affirm with 51 confidence, that in the arts which I know anything of, it is evident ly the case: the French architecture is entirely daubed over with the beautiful things of art, from Versailles and the Thuilleries to the place Louis XV- Indeed it must be granted that their painters are far from being luxuriant or excessive in point of colouring ; on the contrary, (this is only what we promise) they are in the other slovenly, dirty extreme. Their affectation lies in the extrava gance of expression and attitude, in over-doing the adventitious and decorative parts ; Pierre and Boucher will be, whilst they are known, striking instariees of the grimace of expression, arid the outre and maniere of attitude. A retrospect on the periods of improvement of art would still more considerably enforce and elucidate this. The first artists went no farther than the mere inanimate man, horse, &c. The succeeding race made this man, &c. doing something ; action, story, and expression were added. Posterity were busied in the establishing, adding strength to the expression, beauty to the colouring, and ornament and decoration to the subordinate parts. People who were very able to deter mine whether this was like a man, horse, kc. or whether this seemed to speak, that to hear, were no longer masters of correct opinions, when matters became more complex, when profusion, ornament, and glitter were poured out before them. If truth and nature are plainly laid down before ordinary capacities, no one is at any loss about it ; but it is too true that folly or extrava gance of every kind may be so trimmed up, so varnished over, as to establish itself in the most popular manner, to the exclusion of every thing else. On recollection, it were better, I be lieve, I had not wandered so far in matters I am so likely to be mistaken in ; but I am easy, as my errors will be far from having any Aveight in your judgment, whilst they furnish your good nature and indulgence to me with an opportunity of exerting H Z 52 itself. You will probably repent your haying let me know that you like the little remarks I have hitherto made, as it will, when I have any leisure, incline me to tire you with them. I shall think of setting out for Italy about the next week, with a heart full of spirits and alacrity, and thank God with excellent health. I have remaining eight louis d'ors, and as I shall Avant some few shirts and a coat, I shall I believe, apply to Mr. Panshaw, for severi or eight more. I have been here a good part of my time, in a most unfixed, idle manner, which made my expenses more than I hope they will be hereafter when I get to Rome. You will make me the happiest man in the world, in con triving to send my chest off to Rome, as soon as possible, as I shan't know how to do without some things in it. Farewell, and God bless you my dear sirs, I shall, wherever I am, remain most sincerely. Your obliged humble servant, J.B, My best respects to my dear friend the doctor, to Mrs. Burke, Mr. Nugent, Mr. Ozier, and all friends. My compliments to Mr. Reynolds, Mr. Barrett, Mr Hamilton, kc. 53 Mr. burke to Mr. BARRY. London, no date. My dear Barry, I HOPE your kindness and partiality to me will induce you to give the most favourable construction to my long silence. I assure you that disregard and inattention to you, had not the smallest share in it. I love you and esteem you, as I always did ever since I knew you; and I wish your welfare, and your credh (which is the best gift of providence in the way of fortune) as much as any man ; and am much pleased with the step I hear you are taking to advance them. Mr. Macleane, your very good friend, tells me, that you are preparing to set out shortly for Italy. As to what regards you personally, I have only to advise, that you would not live in a poor or unequal man ner, but plentifully, upon the best things, and as nearly as you can in the ordinary method of other people. Singularity in diet is in general, I believe, unwholesome : Your friend the doctor is in that way of thinking. I mention this, as Macleane tells me, you have been ill, by Ordering your diet on a plan of your own. I shall be happy in hearing that you are thoroughly recovered and ready to proceed on your journey with alacrity and spirit. With regard to your studies, you know, iriy dear Barry, my opinion. I do not choose to lecture you to death : but to say all I can in a few words, it will not do for a man qualified like 54 you to be a connoisseur and a sketcher — ;You must be an artist ; and this you cannot be- but by drawing with the last degree of noble correctness. ¦ Until you can draw beauty with the last degree of truth and precision, you will not consider yourself possessed of that faculty. This power will not hinder you from passing to the great style when you please; if your character should, as I imagine it will, lead you to that style in preference to the other. But no man can draw perfectly that cannot draw beauty. My dear Barry, I repeat it again, leave off sketching. ' Whatever; you do, finish it. Your . letters are very kind in remembering us ; and surely as to the criti cisms of every kind, admirable. Reynolds likes them exceed ingly. He conceives extraordinary hopes of you, and recom mends above all things to you, the continual study of the Ca- pella Sistina, in which are the greatest works of Michael An- geloi He says, he will be mistaken if that painter does not be come your great favourite. Let me entreat, that ' you will overcome that unfortunate delicacy, that attends you, and that you Avill go through a full course of anatomy, with the knife in your hand. You will never be able thoroughly to supply the omission of this by any other method. The public exhibition, is, Ithink, much the best that we have had. West has two pieces which would give you- great hopes of him: 1 confess, some time ago, 1 had not any that were very sanguine; but in these he has really done considerable things. Barrett enquires very kindly for you — he makes a very good figure in this exhibition. N. B. The conclusion of this letter is by Dr. Nugent. 55 ' Though I have ,;not till now wrote a word to my dear f Mr, Barry, and that I shall now only write a word, I shall take it very ill, if you do not think I wish you as well, and loVe you as much, as if I had told you so twice every Aveek since I saw you last. It gives me pleasure to find, -by Mr. Macleane, that you are well recovered. God bless you. I am most affectionately yours. E. N. Mr. WILLIAM burke to M«; BARRY. St. James's,' Oct:^ 10,' I766ii Dear Barry, As I wrote pretty muph; at large, by , the la&lj post, I shall at present do little more than forward the enclosed^ and assure you that all which comes for, or from you, shall be taken care of. I was yesterday morning with Lord Shelburne, who very obligingly permitted me to prepare a draft for his signing to the British Minister at Florence. I am assured that a countenance from him, will much facilitate your access to places you may wish to be open to you. You will receive the letter by this post, and if only to oblige me, let me beg you not to con sider it as idle or improper, but wait on Sir Horace with the letter. I do assure you, that letters of this kind from the Secre tary of State are sought for by people of the first consequence when they go abroad, and don't let any whim make you despise it. I write with the same freedom I used to speak to you, for I 56 regard you with the same AA'armth. If it is asked what your road of access to the Secretary of State is, do Macleane and me the honour of saying, that the principal under Secretary of State in each office are your most intimate friends ; though we are not very great men, people have some little attention to us. Adieu my dear Barry, and believe me always, your earnest and warm friend and servant. WM. BURKE. I open my letter to put up Lord Shelburne's to Sir Horace Mann, which his Lordship has been so kind just to send me. Again I open my letter to acknowledge yours of the 56th of last month from Turin, and for which I am most entirely obliged to you. In my life I never read a more satisfactory ac count, and add to it, that I learn you are well and satisfied; you will therefore easily believe how happy it made me ; I shall by to-morrow's post let Ned participate my satisfaction. I have only time to say this. Adieu. To Mr. burke. Turin, Sept. 24, 1766. My DEAR Sirs, I LEFT Paris the 7th of this month, and had, thank God ! a most agreeable journey. The weather being ex tremely fine, the country of Burgundy, and the other southern 57 parts of France, made a most delicious appearance, being at that time teeming over with all the riches and abundance of autumn. We may in England talk as much as we please of cultivation and plenty, but I must honestly confess, that I never before saw any thing but the faint glimmerings of it, compared with this coun try, where nature seems ambitious of doing every thing herself. The people, who are extremely numerous, are (or seemed to me to be) for the most part, very amply employed in the gathering and storing up of fruits. Methinks Avithout any great poetical amplification, it is somcAvhat probable, when Bacchus made his rounds of the earth, that his head quarters must have been in one of the vallies of Burgundy, where on every side mountain peeps over mountain, and appears cloathed in all the variegated hues of the vine, interspersed with sheep, corn, and I may say, with every thing. This, and the crouds of busy contented people, which cover (as one may say) the whole face of the country, make a strong, but melancholy contrast to a miserable which I cannot help thinking of sometimes. — You will not be at any loss to know that I mean Ireland ; and that I glance at the extensive, unpeopled wastes where only now and then one is to see some meagre, scared fellow, who has almost a day's journey to drive cattle to a habitation, where his ill-fated family perhaps may make a Christmas dinner upon the offals of these very cattle; very little of which falls to his share out of the market that is made of them for other countries, — but hang them all, I have long since given them up, and will go on to give you such accounts of the Alps as I can, though I should repeat, as I often do, Avhat you know already, and have much better informations of than I can possibly give you. From the confines of France over mount Cenis, to within about thirty miles of Turin, we have been in one continued ascent, VOL. I. I 58 though strictly speaking it Avas all the way through Savoy, up and down the horrid ridges of the mountains, and sometimes in the most gloomy vales between them, which would have made it almost impossible to say whether we were upon the rise or fall in general, if it was not for a great river, by the side of which our road lay, and which takes its rise near mount Cenis, and tumbles and cascades all the way through rocks and precipices, into France. You may conceive how high its source must be by this observation (which I think is pretty just) that in every hundred yards taken one with another, it cascades near twenty feet at least; then taking in the length of the Avay, you will believe me much nearer heaveri upon mount Cenis than I was before, or shall probably be again for some time. We passed this mountain on Sunday last, and about seven in the morning were near the top of the road over it, on both sides of which the mountain rises to a very great height, yet so high were we in the valley between them (where there is a fine and large lake) that the moon, which was above the hori zon of the mountains, appeared at least five times as big as usual, and much more distinctly marked than I ever saw it through some very good telescopes. The mountains, seas, &:c. were so evident, their lines of separation so traceable, that I would actu ally have stopped the mule to have made a drawing of them, if I had not been in some apprehensions of a troop of Savoyard soldiers, who were at that time passing, and would doubtless have taken me up as a spy and a dangerous person. I was more than once cautioned how I let any of these people see me drawing, at which I was constantly employed all the way. My friend Barret was exceedingly out in his notions of Savoy and the Alpine country. The drawings he saw of them might be, as he said, bird's eye views — ^but had he been here himselfj he would have made a very different work of it; he would have seen, as I did, for above 59 five days together, the most awful and horridly grand, romantic, and picturesque scenes, that it is possible to conceive ; he would say every thing else was but bauble and boys play compared with them. All this tract down to Grenoble, one sees was the country Salvator Rosa formed himself upon : nobody esteems Salvator more than I do, yet I must say he has not made half the use of it he might have done ; the wild forms of his trees, rocks, kc. (for which he is condemned, as frantic, by some cold spiritless artists, whose notions reach no further than the arti ficial regular productions of their oaa'u climes,) are infinitely short of the noble phrenzy in which nature wantons all over these mountains ; great pines, of the most inconceivable diver sity of forms, some straight as arrows, others crooked as a horn, some the roots uppermost, are hanging over frightful rocks and caves, and torrents of water rolling amongst them. But I should lose myself in attempting to speak of them, and shall reserve for the colours and canvass the observations I have made. Though in the best hands any of these views painted singly must fall in its effect in comparison of the reality, where the continued succession of them leads on and advances the operation. One thing by the way, the people are just the species of figures for such a landscape ; though I believe they may he honest as they are said to be, yet every countenance has that ferocity and assassin look, which Salvator Rosa has so truly, and so agreeably to the costume, introduced into his pictures. Lest you may be tired with the length of this letter, I shall keep the king's collection at Turin, and other things, for the next, and I am, my dear sir, your's and the family's. With great respect and sincerity, J. B. 60 Two days before my departure from Paris Tleft your pic^ ture with Mr. Crammond, who is either to give it to Mr. Macleane, or to forward it by some opportunity. Mr. WILLIAM BURKE to Mr. BARRY. St. James's, Oct. 1, 1766. Dear Barry, I SHOULD be much mortified that you had gone to the English coffee-house at Rome, before this gets to it, fori know my friend too well not to be sensible of the uneasiness he is some times careful to give himself, and I love and esteem him too much to wish to give that occasion of exerting his industry. But the truth is, my idleness and my business conspired to make me catch as an excuse for not writing, that I was waiting for the arrival of your picture, which I told myself I was to ex pect every day, but which did not get from the custom-house till yesterday. I am glad to have now no excuse for a shameful delay of writing to a man I love and esteem, and to whom I am sure the distance will give value to a letter from a friend. Reynolds was dining with me when the picture arrived, and I will tell you fairly what he said. He declared the drawing to be perfectly correct, the expression just and noble ; Alexander's attention, and the physician's unaffected manner, could not, he said, be better. In regard to the colouring, he said he did not wish it other than it was. That colouring was a knack acquired 61 by habit and experiment; that nothing, however, could be more dangerous to a young painter than to indulge himself in that glare of colour, which catches the eye and imposes on the im perfect judgment, I do not at all suppose that his opinion is, that colouring is an idle or useless part of your art ; but if I ap prehend him right, I think his opinion is, that to begin with a wish of excelling in colour is to begin at the wrong end of the art. As our conversation riaturally dwelt on painting, I found that Reynolds's expectations of what would be your great object of attention, were the works of Michael Angelo, whom he considers as the Homer of painting : I could find that his own study had been much engrossed by this master, whom he still admires the most. He mentioned, indeed, his having for some months confined himself to the Capella Sistina, and begged me to desire you to let us know the effect it has on you, when you give it your attention. By the character Reynolds gives of this master, (for I must not, as you know, pretend to judge myself,) I think he pays you a compliment, in supposing that your own genius will lead you to the admiration and imitation of that great man, and. Indeed, I think, from what I know of you, that by your nature and turn of mind, and sentiment, you are more likely to follow this painter than any other, so that his compliment is also a piece of justice to you. Ned will, I am sure, have great satisfaction In the proof your picture gives of your ability. Reynolds really expects every thing of you, and so do we all ; nor shall Ave, I am corifident, be disappointed. I do not expect Edmund and Mrs. B. with your friend Dick these four or five weeks, and whether Ned is employed or not. Is no matter of anxiety to us; you will rely 62 readily, that in or out of place, our conduct will be what it should be. Your friend Macleane is this day made an under secretary of state, so that we are fellow labourers in the same vineyard ; and I am to warn you not to go immediately to Florence. In a post or two you shall, either from his principal. Lord Shelburne or mine, have a letter of recommendation for Sir Horace Mann, which may be useful, and procure you easier admittance to all you will wish to see, English is perfectly well, and much your friend ; Barrett Is so too, and flattered by your letter. Your box has been In the city these five weeks, waiting the departure of a ship for Leg horn, and will be directed to you at the English coffee-house at Rome. So do not think we have neglected you, or that we are capable of doing so. The good doctor is perfectly well. Our friends, that are In Ireland, do, I am sure, continue to love and esteem you ; and we shall be happy to know what studies and amusements engage you. In the latter or the former let me take the liberty to entreat you to be less attentive to little mat ters of expense. You see It has pleased God to Increase our own store, and that by the friendship of another: the least retribution we can make is, to be happy If we can be useful to another friend of worth and merit. I am, my dear Barry, Most sincerely and warmly. Your friend and servant, WILLIAM BURKE. 63 To Mr. macleane? from Mr. BARRY. (NO SUPERSCRIPTION.) Rome, Jfovember 2, 1 766. My DEAR Sir, I DELAYED three weeks at Paris, hoping to have an opportunity to see you, to return you in propria persona, my poor, though sincere thanks, for the favours you have conferred upon me ever since I had the happiness of knowing you. You will be so kind as to excuse me to Madame for not having waited upon her at my going away : it was a piece of respect which I owe any one you regard, and which nothing prevented me but our total Inability to understand one another, which must have embarrassed us both. The journey to Rome has been upon the whole pleasant enough. One of your observation would, besides other things, have had ample employment in tracing the French politeness through all Its stages and advancements, to the bru tality of the Savoyards^ and till you come to Turin, the capital of Piedmont, where I Avould not hesitate to say, humanity Is as bestial as it Is capable of. Their Insolence to strangers is very shocking indeed, especially whilst the French urbanity is so recent in one's mind. After one leaves Piedmont the people become more and more humanized, and at Florence and Rome, are reasonably civil and agreeable. My rout from Turin has been through Parma, Bo logna, and Florence ; and at all of those places, as there were many things to see, I proposed to myself no small pleasure. 64 There was a French officer who was an artist also, and accom panied us from Turin, who was our spokesman all the way ; as he understood the language, he inquired, at my request, after the Avorks of Corregio, and we were directed to a palace some miles from Parma, We Immediately hired a chaise, and got there an hour before night, AA^here we saw nothing but gardens and other common things, not worth the rnentioning, the pictures having been* removed to town some time before. On our return we found the gates shut, and after sending to the officer, to the governor, and what not, we were let In about one o'clock in the morning, almost frozen to death with a delay of above five hours before the walls. At Bologna, by a like acci dent, we saw none of the things we wanted. Our guide, after leading us from one silly thing to another, gave us the slip at last, to follow other strangers from whom he had greater expec tations. We had a letter to an English artist at Florence, and accordingly saw by his means for the day we stayed there, all the antiques and pictures of credit, which made ample amends for our former disappointments. The night before our arrival at Rome, I was stung by a scorpion in the middle finger of the right hand ; as I was Ignorant of the consequence and nature of those things, I would have had the finger taken off to save the hand, if the hostess had not luckily prevented me, by bring ing some bruised scorpion and oil in a pot, which she told me Avas Infallible, as Indeed I found it upon trial ; so that, I thank God, I have both my hands, all my fingers, and as much health and spirits to prosecute my studies, as any body. I have filled my letter, and taken up your time with these trifles, merely to avoid attempting any description to you, of the antiques and ancient pictures I have seen here, and at 65 Florence. I want words to tell you of the elegance, beauty, precision, and sublimity, of the Venus, the bust of Alexander, the Apollo, the Laocoon, and the Antinous of Michael Angelo and Raffael. — I shall not attempt it, and shall in the heartiest, sincerest manner, conclude Avith congratulating you upon your accession to the secretaryship. Nobody, I am sure, rejoices and exults in it more than. Your obliged humble servant, J.B. Mr, BARRY to Mr, BURKE, Rome, JVovember 2, 1766. Dear Sir, The receipt of your two letters, the day before yesterday, made me extremely happy, as I will do myself the justice to , say, that I feel as I ought to do every thing that con cerns and is interesting to the few friends God has blessed me AvIth. I am now almost ashamed to write to Mr. Macleane, lest it may bethought that the desire of honouring myself with the acquaintance and connexion of the Secretary is more prevalent with me than any love for his person or sense of the favours he has conferred upon me. There Is all the apparent reason In the world to be shocked at my baseness and Ingratitude in never writing to him, even after he desired It ; but as I have no thought of concealing any part of my conduct from you, I shall VOL. I, K 66 out with the truth, though I may suffer by it In your opinion. Mr. Macleane, with his usual warmth and good nature, has been often Interrogating me upon my alloAvance, and Insisting upon adding to it annually. He used every different mode of friendly persuasion, telling me hoAv much it would be obliging him to have an opportunity of being serviceable to any body you inte rested yourselves about, and I avoided writing to him, merely to take away any opportunity of his doing what in my opinion I ought not [to have accepted of. There Is no longer any reason for this disagreeable conduct In me, now that I find I shall be able, with God's help, to live very happily upon about forty pounds a year, whilst in my studies ; though for the present year my voyage and the buying of furniture and other necessaries, will unavoidably make It more. I am exceedingly distressed to know what to do about Lord Shelburne's letter — (letter of Introduction to Sir H. Mann). It is five or six weeks since I have left Flo rence, and did not know any thing of this letter till the day before yesterday : if you tell me by the return of the post, that it is necessary to go back to Florence and deliver It, I shall do It directly, or in a month, or two months, just as you think it may be proper. A good part of my time may be excellently employ ed at Florence after the antique and other things there, and it is but 150 miles off: the journey will not be very expensive, and I shall set off the very instant you appoint for It. You will be so kind as to let me know about this by the return of the post, as I perfectly agree with you in thinking that such a letter ought to be minutely attended to. I am, dear sir. Yours, J.B. 67 From Mr. BARRY to Mr. BURKE. Rome, no date, Dear Sirs, Since I wrote last, I received a letter from both of you, and I have no small pleasure to find what you advise with respect to study, so perfectly agreeable to the process of the ancient artists. Those who executed the Laocoon and the Torso of the Belvedere, must have attended very minutely indeed to that close anatomical Investigation you recommend to me. The deep knowledge of the ancients In anatomy, is, I think, as observ able in the Apollo, Antinous, and the delicate characters, as It is In such, whose flesh is of a more rigid > and membranous, tex ture ; and the disappearing of the muscles, as the figure approaches to the delicate. Is the consequence of as certain observations and principles, as their introduction would be in a figure of a dif ferent character ; many people have pointed out the absurdity of those who indiscriminately notch and score out all kind of cha racters into a mere myological mass, falsely taking myology, which should be a part In the painter's study of anatomy, for the whole of it. A myological figure Is a character In nature which ought to be known and studied to the bottom. The Laocoon, the fighting gladiator, are of this character, even independent of the muscular exertion and expression. But the Apollo, and that walk of character Is necessary lo be known ; where, of the very few muscles that remain, nothing is visible except the ori gins and Insertions just hinted, whilst the bellies of the muscles united Avith fat, kc. take one large, round, and flowing line. The knowledge, freedom, and greatness of style In drawing, K 2 68 are, I think, the only part of the character of Michael Angelo, which has been well understood. It has been, and is every day observed, that notwithstanding the number of figures in his Last Judgement, there is but one character of body, placed in a vast diversity of attitudes, the model of which is said to have been his porter : to speak my private opinion, it is not so li terally the case ; though I believe Michael Angelo might have intended it In conformity to a prevailing opinion, that at the resurrection all bodies will be of the same age and character. There are several plump and youthful figures in the celling of the same chapel. His Bacchus, his dead Christ, and other things, ought to make It very clear how successfully he could avoid a monotony of character, when it was his intention to avoid it. I do not think the expressions of countenance either In bim or in Raffael, indicate in a very clear and particular man ner the Intentions and particular state of mind of the person to whom this countenance is given. They would, generally speak ing, do as well for other figures, of intentions very different. This has appeared to me on seeing the Heliodorus, and the Trans figuration. And perhaps In the head of the father of the possessed boy. In the Transfiguration, and in other heads, Dominichino and Le Brun would have made an expression more peculiar to the situationof the person, more corresponding with the words which may be naturally supposed to come from the figure on this occasion. You will now certainly stop me and observe, that the cartoons in England flatly contradict what I say. I confess It, and will also confess, that besides these cartoons being almost the first sober examples of the way of treating an interesting history, they are (even in the prints, which is only Avhat I have seen) without contradiction, beyond every thing here, and in a just, proper, and Interesting combination of expressions, all centering 69 upon some simple and obvious particular. I have not the least scruple about pronouncing the cartoons the best of Raffael's works, though the elegance which he possesses above all moderns, does not come Into these designs, as the expressions are strong and passion ate, and the characters are mostly of that nature, where it was jti- diclous in him to have omitted it. I was some time ago at a conversation here, where were some artists, and English, and other gentlemen. Among other talk, Meng's copy after Raffael, which is at Northumberland-house, came upon the tapis ; and it was observed by one present (who from the nature of his business and situation is courted exceed ingly, by such artists as desire to make either money or friends here, as he and one or two more, of the same interest and opi nion, are the only channels through which the acquaintance of the English gentlemen come) it was observed by him, as I said, that Meng's copy was not well rehshed at first by the people at bomb, which was not to be wondered at, as it required some time to form the taste of a nation, and that he Avas sorry that Mengs was not In England to teach, ice. I begged him to excuse me. If I took the liberty to observe, that It looked a little oddly to expect the introduction of a good taste from a copy after Raffael by Mengs, If the cartoonsi, the best work of Raffael, which had been in England ever since the time of Charles the first, were not able to effect It. As he Is a man of great civility, I never would have thought of observing this, or any thing else, in contradiction to what he said. If I had not seen clearly Into the drift and tendency of his frequent hints, of the incapacity of the people at home, and that a nod from him would set his dependants to tear up and trample upon every thing we held sacred. Reynolds could not draw, his colouring was whitcj 70 was blue, was red, was every thing that could damn him. He stole what he had, and mangled what he stole. Barrett was nothing, could be nothing, the mushroom of a day, whose pictures, whenever the people came to have any taste, would be hung up at Rag Fair : in short, Gainsborough's landscapes were nosegays, and West, who, according to their letters, was so much the fashion, afforded a convincing proof, that draAving was not sought after, and that a true idea of art was wanting, as nothing would go down but Magilphs and mysteries. You may judge how agreeable to me was this treatment of Reynolds and Barrett, Gainsborough, Stewart, the exhibition, and all the artists. In the beginning I took it for the effects of envy, jealousy, and what not, which sometimes Infect the minds of artists, and thought it ought not to break any sociable ties between us ; but I had no sooner attempted to excuse our people at home from the aspersions thrown upon them, and from the prepossessions which our travellers here were likely to get against them, but I was immediately pointed out as a person who, not coinciding with the designs of the dealers, might be dangerous in the com pany of English cavaliers, where it was necessary every now and then to run out Into the praises of an Indifferent antique head, with a modern body and legs cobled to it, or of an old picture which they christen In the name of this or that master, and which has no other merit, but that, as nothing is visible, so nothing can be objected to. It requires no proof that there are great numbers of ancient statues and has relieves here, little Avorthy of notice, for any skill in the Avorkmanship, and are only preserved but for some costume, which they may serve to represent, or some opinion of the ancients, which they may elu cidate ; and this may be when they are entire, or In great part so. But there are legs, and thighs, and feet, and heads, brought 71 out of old houses, and gardens, and other places, most of which have lain unheeded ever since the fifteenth century, when they were thrown away as soon as they were found, as wanting every thing that could entitle them to any place In a repository. As the English have much money to lay out In Vertu, and have, perhaps, a greater passion for the ancients than they have, ge nerally speaking, judgement to distinguish among them ; those in whose hands they fall here, and to whom their commissions are sent, take care to provide heads Avith bodies and legs, and vice versa. Fragments of all the gods are jumbled together, legs and heads of the fairies and the graces, till, as when the gods p — d Into the cow's-hide, a monster is produced neither human or brutal. There are instances of some good things being sent over, but the multitude of bad ones make us the amaze ment and ridicule of French, Germans, and all other Indifferent people. It is a pity to see our gentlemen, who come out of England with the best intentions, and with a national spirit, so duped, and made even instruments of dissension betwixt the artists. The antiquarians and dealers are provided each with a set of puffers, and In return, Avhatever gentleman falls into his hands, he Is told, that next to the old pictures and statues which are In their possession, these are the only people of art ; and a job, of some trifling matter. Is suffered to fall to them, noAv and then, by way of holding them on, whilst they are seldom known, or so much as heard of. Every one knows the necessity there Is of a long succession of practice amongst any people desirous of meriting a character in the arts, and it is as visible, that, if in the time of Pericles, all places in Greece had been crowded with the works of other nations, it would have been a secret to the world whether or not the Greeks had any genius for arts. This, I take it, was the reason why the Ro- 72 maris never succeeded, and why perhaps we may come short of the length we otherwise probably would go. There is one thing may hold up an appearance of art In England for fifty or sixty years longer : if the legislature was to consider, that the vast number of pictures, kc. which we have of the Italians, French, and Flemings, are sufficierit to prove what they could do in art, it may be now time, (before every crevice is filled) that the trials of our own people should be countenanced, which cannot be the case^ if importation of art goes on much further. I have wearied you as well as myself, but you will excuse it, as these things seemed to me to affect the very vitals of art, and I would further add, that, though for the most part, intrigue and mer cenary ways may be prevalent here, truth is never without a witness, and there are a few who follow art for its own sake; these are as easily distinguished by their abilities as perhaps the others may be by their want of them: I am almost afraid even to send what I have wrote, as I al ways dread the resentment of base spirited people, incapable, as I know, of an open generous revenge. There are two sorts of people they are desirous of gaining over, — such, who are likely to be , known or recommended to the gentlemen, who come hither, and others, whose understanding and conversation may be usefully employed to their purposes, and from the com pliments paid me in the beginning, it should appear they judged me in some measure proper for them ; a very little time shewed the contrary, and on speaking civilly of the works of Reynolds, Barrett, Hamilton, who is here, Nevi, and others, it was whispered that I spoke too much for a young man, and they resolved from that time, that for the future, I should have but few opportunities of speaking in the company of Cavaliers, to 73 whom It was necessary to convey opinions of another nature. As we know each other, we are very quiet, and as sociable as I can, when we meet together some nights, which, as you would be desirous of my safety, is the course I think you would advise me to take for the time I stay here. You will, I believe, think it prudent to keep this letter to yourself, as, if it should take wind, these people would be soon advised of it, and God knows where it might end. I have just this instant received a letter from you. I am happy to find there are no dangerous circum stances from that unlucky accident, and I hope the leg is well by this time, and lost nothing of Its form, for it was a good one. No one is better stocked with good humour, spirits, and good company, than my dear friend Mr. Richard, to support his con finement. Of all things I would not wish him to stand upon it too soon; but it is ridiculous in me to advise about it, and though Dr. Nugent will laugh, and you will all laugh, you will all forgive me too. It would be idle to say, that I rejoice at the strength of the opposition, or at Mr. William's success, since whatever engages any of the family, my heart is surely wound up in it. I am sorry for the death of Mr, SissOn : it was my in tention, on my return home, to cultivate his friendship, as well as the friendship of all others you had a concern in. You will, I hope, be so kind as to continue your advice, at least as often as you find leisure for it, and as it may be agreeable to you. You will not find It easy to make me believe that there is in it, as you say, more freedom and copiousness than judgement. You ought surely to be free with a man of your oAvn making, and who has found in you, father, brother, friend, every thing ; and you cannot be too copious, since before I had the happiness of seeing or knowing you, the principles of a certain work appeared to me to lead to the perfec tionating of art amongst the revivers, as the VOL. I^ L 74 discourses of the Athenian philosopher with Parrhasius Clitori, and the Greek artists, tended to point out what was necessary to give the soul and last hand to art, As I mentioned in my former letters, I have been since I came here employed in seeing the different things, and studying the antique and nature. As It is now necessary to keep much at home, the hot weather being come In, I have begun a picture, which I Intend for the exhibition ; the subject is. Eve tempting Adam : It Is also painted in the lodge of Raffael, but does not please me, as I think it designed in a manner that neither explains the story nor interests the spectator. Mr. Reynolds can shew you a print -of It. I know you would think my time better spent In copying and studying the antique, Michael Angelo and Raffael, I think so too, but the doing of some one thing of this kind appeared to me necessary, especially at this time; and there will be some useful study In two figures, which ought to be of absolute beauty, as I conceive It. By the time the heats are over, it will be nearly done, and 1 shall then get out to copy. On my arrival I was obliged to draw about five pounds to make up the hire of the chaise ; and the buying a bed and other necessaries, will make the expense of this year about ten or twelve pounds more than the credit of forty which 1 had. 1 apprehended this some time ago, and asked the clerk, whether. If I wanted any more, he would give it me, which he agreed to. I went to him yesterday to get ten pounds more, at which he boggled, and said the credit was out, and that a fresh letter was necessary, but that to oblige me, and so forth, he would let me have it. I was told that no thing was done without a fee here, which I well knew before, and that to avoid his embarrassing and giving one trouble, it was ne cessary to give him half a guinea a year. There is nothing to be seen here without giving about eighteen pence of our money. 75 and as there are few who care to see, except they go with Ca valiers, when it costs them nothing, so it has been a little ex pensive to me. There is no working at the Capella Sistina, the Vatican, the Capitol, or any palace, without giving weekly, at least five paols, which Is half a crown. The ten pounds, AvhIch make fifty I have received, will bring me up this year very well, and I shall be very well able to do with forty-five pounds a year after, for the three years I intend staying here. Talking of money and expenses, which I am sorry are so considerable, has, I confess, soured me not a little, so that I cannot write any more, and shall close the letter with presenting my best respects to all the family, to Mr. Macleane, to Mr. Reynolds, Mr, Bar rett, and all friends, while I remain, dear sirs. Your obliged humble servant, J. B. Hamilton has near finished a picture of the death of Lucretia; If ever you see It, it will give you, as it has done me. Infinite satisfaction; when he is once known, he appears, (at least he does so to me) as amiable in his manners, as he Is unquestionably considerable for his talents in history. There is another in the history way, Nevi, whose character I shall give you at large hereafter, just telling you by the way, that it will be much to his advantage as a man and an artist L 2 76 Mr. WILLIAM BURKE to Mr. BARRY. Decembers, 1766. Dear Barry, Any letter that shews you are at your ease, and pleased with your situation, must always make your friends of Queen Ann-Street happy : Ave are consequently much so, in that of the 4th November from Rome. In regard to the first part of it, you wrong yourself and Macleane, If you were to suppose he did not do justice to the motives that made you decline his very friendly offers, and which kept you silent. I am however glad you have wrote to him, for he Is most deserving of your, and every honest man's love and esteem. I should on the instant have satisfied you on the point of your going to Florence, but that I had, and we all had, our doubts on the necessity of sending you a winter journey, upon a business that might be as well answered perhaps by a summer tour. On the whole, you must use your own discretion and de termination, according as it suits your general plan. And if you find it advisable to postpone the journey, inclose the letter with a very civil one from yourself to Sir Horace, and profess how happy you would be to receive his commands. Possibly it may get you some useful Introduction at Rome. I need not mention that It will be proper to say, that you mean to wait upon him, though not Immediately. I must now tell you that we are all perfectly well in health and spirits. Your friendship would be in the alarm, if you 77 knew that the administration Is almost for a certainty at an end. I shall necessarily, because it suits my honour, be out of place, and so will our friend Mr. E. B., but our affairs are so well ar ranged, that we thank God we have riot a temptation to swerve from the straightest path of perfect honour. Our friend E. B. has acted all alorig with so unwearied a worthiness, that the world even does him the justice to know, that In his public conduct, he has no one view but the public good; and indeed, Barry, there Is a satisfaction In thinking, that to a frierid intimate as you are, to AA^hbm we might trust our faults even, we have no one single motive of our conduct to state, but the one which Is visible and apparent, that is, a real disinterested desire and determina tion of acting strictly right. God preserve you, is all our wish, though signed only by the name of your ever faithful, WILLIAM BURKE. Mr. BARRY to the BURKES. Rome, Feb. 13, 1767. Dear Sirs, As you desired In the last letter, I wrote to Sir Horace Mann, and enclosed the letter of Lord Shelburne. I re ceived by return of the post, a most polite and obliging letter from Sir Horace, with a letter to Cardinal Albani, who is a great virtuoso, and said to be the protector of the English here, under the rose. 78 I have been looking about Rome for some pictures of Rafiael of a size that may not be too large for your rooms, but can dis cover none except Madonnas and such like. I would chuse to send you a copy of him in some classic story, which I believe you would like best, and of a composition pretty complex, in which 1 think he best succeeds. Without preferring or compar ing his works together, (as we cannot have every thing answer our purpose) I should think of sending you a copy of the mar riage of Cupid and Psyche ; a copy of which is at Northumber land house in the great room, T remember you was as much pleased with this picture as I am, and I believe this and its companion, for the subject, characters, and style of design, are amongst the number, if not at the top of his chief works ; the ex ecution of these pictures is agreed not to have been his, and Carlo Marat has painted an Infernal blue fondo or back ground to the figures, which makes them appear to a great disadvantage. There Is a noble large style of drawing, In all these pictures of the history of Cupid and Psyche, which Is not always seen in the works of Raffael, as he has been sometimes too finished in the detail, which makes him appear rather dry and petite. This picture Is exceedingly large, and if you would chuse a copy of it. In your next letter send me an account of the size you would have it, the larger the better, as I think the story and characters require at least, not to be brought into too small a compass ; the labour is nearly the same and the effect you know very different. If you should like better the Transfiguration, or the school of Athens, which were executed by himself, it will be still more convenient for me ; as copying the Cupid and Psyche Is attended with difficulties and disagreeable circumstances which the pic tures in the Vatican are not. I need not say you may fix upon any pictures of other masters if you please, for now I am here. 79 and am, thank God, most heartily contented, you have only to mention what you would have me copy, and the sizes you would have it, and I shall find the access every where very easy. Copying in the palaces here is attended with expense, in some more, others less ; but 1 believe one with another. It may come to near three shillings English a week, which is always expected by the fellow who takes care of the place, and Is not to be dis pensed with, though one has ever so many licences from the master. I have mentioned In my letter to Sir Horace, going to Florence about April next ; now, if you think it advisable, one may defer going there for a couple of years, as I may do at any time, or at my return, whatever I can do there now ; and besides, what with travelling, and one thing or another, the year will be almost gone without my being able to do much, and will be attended with expenses. 1 may Avrite Sir H. a letter of thanks and mention something or other, which is likely to prevent my waiting on him so soon as 1 expected. But this just as you advise, only that 1 am desirous of sending you copies of whatever you like here, and it will come in very usefully betAveen my principal studies. This makirig of the Roman school, but a sort of collateral study will, I believe, appear a kind of solecism In the world now-a-days. But though it is more probable that I am mistaken than the numbers of wise and rea soning artists and people, who think differently about the merits of the Roman school, yet, as I have great doubts about all kinds of reasonings, I shall in the matter of study regulate myself by tAA'o or three palpable and obvious facts. First, the Roman school (which is indeed the best school) is only above the Venetian and Flemish in point of expression. 80 style of design, and a just and dignified conception of the whole subject; yet In these particulars they are inconceivably beloAv the select antiques; and in the painting and couduct of a picture, as much below the Flemings and Venetians. Secondly, those who were imitators of even the greatest of the Roman school, have made but little of it, and the best of them are much below, and very different from, one's Idea of the perfection of art. Thirdly, as that which is most perfect is the most to be sought after, the antiques and select nature come in for design, kc. and any pic ture of the Venetians and Flemings, no matter how drawn, or what the subject is, fruit, bread and butter, any thing of theirs, will best shew how it should be painted. In studying the an tique, one may observe now and then, the use Michael Angelo and Raffael made of It, and the Flemings and Venetians may be consulted for the mechanical part. As this Is the result of the best observations I was able to make on all that I have seen, so I only wish for the future to follow it with that avidity and profit I have, I think, done since my arrival here. Although this may be thought too complex a pursuit, yet It Is nothing to that which is generally followed. People now, to be painters, copy and imitate every things Barocci, Murillo, Bernini, Carlo MarattI, Cortona, Mengs, and others of less note ; in whom art is little more than a painted and varnished shadow, the substance being quite lost and evaporated by the multiplicity of mediums and reflections through which it has passed from one Imitator to another. They go on, as I said, still grafting upon this perishing stock, that Is of the species of a mule, which was never Intended to succeed beyond the first trans fusion ; whilst invention and genius, which strengthens and comes to maturity only by the labouring and perpetual exercise of It, is lying either an uncultivated waste, or else choked up by what 81 they transplant from this noxious soil. This is clearly the ignis fatuus, which has so long misled the artists, and that to which Is principally owing the long decay of art; as certainly even less labour, more properly directed, would be attended with more success. But that I am afraid of being tiresome, I would mention to you some curious systems of Abbate WIncleman, the pope's antiquary, and of others here, with which we have been harrassed eternally about the no genius of the ultra-montanes for the fine arts. I first heard something of this doctrine in England. Expe rience has shewn me that it can only come from a baffled artist, who might intend It as an apology for his own bad success. And It is besides not an unserviceable notion to the business of an antiquarian, which is the last and general resource of these dis appointed people. You are all mad in England after Magilphs, as several accounts confirm to us. I Intend you an entire long letter, though I don't know whether you will have the patience to read it, upon these and other matters ; as yet I cannot think of it, as I am rather busy amongst the antique figures and bustos all the day, and at nights paint after nature at the academy. The mention you make of any affairs of yours, whether in or out of place, is always sure to give me pleasure, and a feeling which I have not words to describe : conferring with me, as I may call it, about any thing that concerns any of you is to the last degree flattering to me, and In the most sensible part. As I am likely to have my full swing of study here, In which under God I place my summum bonum, no moments are happier than those which call the authors of this, and other advantages, to the mind of. Your humble servant, J. B. VOL. 1. M 82 My most sincere love and respects wait upon the whole family, and Mr. Macleane ; my respects to Mr. Reyndlds. I do not know how to avoid the mention of a particular which I dare say will not be disagreeable to him ; his friend Mr. Paine has since he came here, executed a model of Venus and Adonis ; the no velty, genius, and agreeable manner with which he has treated It, has got him no small degree of credit amongst us, and it is the general opinion, that he has brought with him more elegance of thinking than usually comes, and that he wants very little but what he is in a fair way of acquiring here with application and industry. Compliments to all friends. To Sir HORACE MANN, from Mr. BARRY. Sir, As I cannot conveniently wait upon you at present, you Avill be so kind as to excuse my sending by the post the enclosed letter of Lord Shelburne. I hope to have the honour of making my respects to you in person, about the latter end of April, as the warm weather and long days will be more favourable to my scheme of making some studies after the pic tures, kc. in Florence ; . if in the mean time you have any com mands to honour me with, you will please to direct to me at the English coffee-house, Rome. I am, sir. With great respect. Your obedient humble servant, J. B. 83 Sir HORACE MANN to Mr. BARRY. Florence, January 24, 1767. Sir, The irregularity which the bad weather has of late occasioned in the posts, retarded the letter which you have fa voured me with, together with that which Lord Shelburne has honoured me with In regard to you, till It Avas too late to ac knowledge the receipt of them by the return of the post; I there fore seize this first opportunity to express my great desire to be useful to you, and to desire you to furnish me with the means of giving you any proofs of it, even before you come into Tuscany, if you should think me capable of doing it. At all events, I herein send you a letter for Cardinal Albani, who, in case you think proper to deliver it, (which I leave entirely to you to determine) will give you any assistance either In the pursuit of the object of your studies, or in any thing else you may stand in need of I beg that you be persuaded of the same desire in me, and that you will believe me with regard. Sir, Your most obedient. Humble servant, HORACE MANN. 84 Mr. REYNOLDS (Sir J.) to Mr, BARRY. London, no date. Dear Sir, I AM very much obliged to you for your remem brance of me In your letter to Mr, Burke, which, though I have read with great pleasure, as a composition, I cannot help saying with some regret, to find that so great a portion of your attention has been engaged- upon temporary matters, which might be so much more profitably employed upon what would stick by you through your whole life. Whoever Is resolved to excel In painting, or indeed any other art, must bring all his mind to bear upon that one object, from the moment he rises till he goes to bed; the effect of every ob ject that meets a painter's eye, may give him a lesson, provided his mind is calm, unembarrassed with other subjects, and open to instruction. This .general attention, with other studies con nected with.the art, which must employ the artist in his closet, will be found sufficient to fill up life, if it Avas much longer than it Is, Were I in your place, I would consider myself as playing a great game, and never suffer the little malice and envy of my rivals to draw off my attention from the main object, which, if you pursue Avith a steady eye, it will not be In the poAver of all the Cicerones in the world to hurt you. Whilst they are endea vouring to prevent the gentlemen from employing the young artists. Instead of Injuring them, they are in my opinion doing them the greatest service. Whilst I Avas at Rome I was very little employed by them, and that little I ahvays considered as so 85 much time lost : copying those ornamental pictures Avhich the travelling gentlemen ahvays bring home with them as furniture for their houses, is far from being the most profitable manner of a student spending his time. Whoever has great views, I would recommend to him whilst at Rome, rather to live on bread and water than lose those advantages which he can never hope to enjoy a second time, and which he will find only In the Vatican, where, I will engage no Cavalier sends students to copy for him. I do not mean this as any reproach to the gentlemen ; the works in that place, though they are the proper study of an artist, make but an aukward figure painted In oil, and reduced to the size of easel pictures. The Capella Sistina is the production of the great est genius that ever was employed In the arts ; it is worth con sidering by what principles that stupendous greatness of style is produced; and endeavouring to produce something of your own on those principles will be a more advantageous method of study than copying the St. Cecilia in the Borghese, or the Herodlas of Guido, which may be copied to eternity without contributing one jot towards making a man a more able painter. If you neglect visiting the Vatican often, and particularly the Capella Sistina, you will neglect receiving that peculiar advan tage which Rome can give above all other cities in the world.. In other places you will find casts from the antique, and capital pictures of the great painters, but it is there only that you can^ form an idea of the dignity of the art, as it is there only that you can see the works of Michael Angelo and Raffael. If you should not relish them at first, which may probably be the case, as they have, none of those qualities which are captivating at first sight, never cease looking till; you feel something like inspiration come over you,, till you think every other painter insipid in comparison, and. to be. admired only for petty excellencies.- 86 I suppose you have heard of the establishment of a royal academy here ; the first opporturiity I have I will send yoii the discourse I delivered at its opening, which was the first of January. As I hope you wIM hereafter be one of our body, I wish you would, as opporturiity offers,; make memorandums of the regulations of the< academies that you may visit in your tra vels, to be engrafted on our own, if they should be found useful I am, with the greatest esteem, yours, J. REYNOLDS. On reading ik^ letter over, I think it requires, some apology for the blunt appearance of a dictatorial style In which I have obtruded my advice. I am forced to write in a great hurry, and have little time for polishing my style. Mr. burke to Mr. BARRY. London, no date. My dear Barry, I AM greatly in arrear to you on account of correspondence; but not, I assure you, on account of regard, esteem, and most sincere good wishes. My mind followed you to Paris, through your Alpine journey, and to Rome; you are an admirable painter with your pen as well as with your pencil ; and every one to whom I shewed your letters, felt an Interest in your little adventures, as well as a satisfaction In your description ; be cause there is not only a taste, but a feeling in what you observe, something -that shews you have an heart ; and I would have you by all means keep It. I thank you for Alexander ; Reynolds sets an high esteem on it^ he thinks it admirably drawn, and with great 87 spirit. He had it at his house for some time, and returned it iri a very fine frame ; and It at present makes a capital ornament of our little dining room betAveen the two doors. At Rome you are, I suppose, even still so much agitated by the profusion of fine things on every side of you, that you have hardly had time to sit down to methodical and regula.r study. When you do, you will certainly select the best parts of the best things, and attach yourself to them wholly. You, whose letter would be the best direction in the world to any other painter, want none yourself from me, who know little of the matter. But, as you Avere always indulgent enough to bear my humour under the name of advice, you will permit me now, my dear Barry, once more to wish you in the beginning at least, to contract the circle of your studies. The extent and rapidity of your mind carries you to too great a diversity of things, and to the completion of a whole, before you are quite master of the parts, in a degree equal to the dignity of your Ideas. This disposition arises from a generous impatience) which Is a fault almost characteristic of great genius. But it Is a fault nevertheless, and one which I am sure you will correct* when you consider that there is a great deal of mechanic in your profession. In which, however, the distinctive part of the art con sists, and without which the first Ideas can only make a good critic, not a painter. I corifess I am not much desirous of your composing many pieces, for some time at least. Composition (though by some people placed foremost In the list of the ingre dients of an art) I do not value near so highly. I know none, who attempts, that does not succeed tolerably in that part : but that exquisite masterly drawing, which Is the glory of the great school where you are, has fallen to the lot of very few, perhaps to none of the present age, in its highest perfection. If I Avere to indulge a conjecture, I should attribute all that is called 8S greatness of style and manner of drawing, to this exact knowledge of the parts of the human body, of anatomy and perspective. For, by knowing exactly and habitually, without the labour of particular and occasional thinking, what was to be done in every figure they designed, they naturally attained a freedom and spirit of outline ; because they could be daring without being absurd : whereas, ignorance, If it be cautious, is poor and timid ; if bold. It is only blindly presumptuous. This minute and tho rough knowledge of anatomy, and practical as well as theoretical perspective, by which I mean to include foreshortening, is all the effect of labour and use In particular studies, and not in general compositions. Notwithstanding your natural repugnance to handling of carcasses, you ought to make the knife go with the pencil, and study anatomy In real, and If you can, In frequent dissections. You know that a man who despises as you do, the minutiae of the art. Is bourid to be quite perfect In the noblest part of all ; or he is nothing. Mediocrity is tolerable In mid dling things, but not at all In the great. In the course of the studies 1 speak of, It would not be amiss to paint portraits often and diligently. This 1 do not say as wishing you to turn your studies to portrait-painting, quite otherwise;, but because many things in the human face Avill certainly escape you without some Intermixture of that kind of study. Well, I think I have said enough to try your humility on this subject. But I am thus troublesome from a sincere anxiety for your success. I think you a man of honour and of genius, and I would not have your talents lost to yourself, your friends, or your country, by any means. You will then attribute my freedom to my soKcitude about you, and my solicitude, to my friendship. Be so good to continue your letters and observations as usual. They are ex ceedingly grateful to us all, and Ave keep them by us. ' . 89' Since I saw you, I spent three months in Ireland. I had the pleasure of seeing Sleigh but for a day or two. We talked a deal about you, and he loves and esteems you extremely, I saw nothing in the way of your art there which promised much. Those who seemed most forward in Dublin when we were there, are not at all advanced, and seem to have little ambition. Here they are as you left them : Reynolds every now and then striking out some wonder. Barrett has fallen into the painting of views. It is the most called for, and the most lucrative part of his business. He is a wonderful observer of the accidents of nature, and produces every day something new from that source, and Indeed Is on the whole a delightful painter, and possessed of great resources. But I do not think he gets forAvard as much as his genius would entitle him to ; as he is so far from studying, that he does not even look at the pictures of any of the great masters, either Italians or Dutch. A man never can have any point of pride that is not pernicious to him. He loves you, and always enquires for you. He is now on a night piece, which is indeed noble in the conception ; and in the execution, of the very first merit. When I say he does not improve, I do not mean to say, that he is not the fii-st we have in that way ; but that his capacity ought to have carried him to equal any that ever painted landscape, I have given you some account of your friends among the painters here, now I will say a word of ourselves. The change of the ministry, you know, was pleasing to none of our house hold. The measures since pursued both with regard to men and things, have been so additionally disagreeable, that I did not think myself free to accept any thing under this administration, nor did your friend Will think It proper to hold even the VOL. I. N 90 place he had. He has therefore, with the spirit you know to be long to him, resigned his employment. But I thank God, we want in our new situation, neither friends, nor a reasonable share of credit. It will be a pleasure to you to hear, that if we are out of play, others of your friends are In. Macleane is under-secre- tary in Lord Shelburne's office; and there is no doubt, but he will be, as he deserves, well patronized there, (The remaining part of this letter is by Mr. William Burke.) I have, my dear Barry, little to add ; I am willing enough to subscribe to Ned at most times ; I never can do it more to my heart's content, than in his regard for you. I know your regard for him will prevent your being offended at the liberty he has taken, of advising you in your own art. His sanguine wishes for your excelling, have drove him to It ; and there Is, to a man totally unskilled, such apparent good sense, that I cannot per suade myself that the man of real knowledge can be offended with them. As to our private affairs, Ned has told you that j am no longer in office ; it so happened, that consistent with pro priety, I could not continue ; and I thank God my affairs are in that situation, that I had no temptation from fear to be back- Avard in doing what I ought. I just mention this, lest your friendship might Induce you to be alarmed unnecessarily. Mrs. B., the Dicks, and the Doctor, are all well — let us hear from you soon. Adieu. 91 Mr. burke to Mr. BARRY. April 26, 1767. My dear Barry, I AM rather late in thanking you for the last letter, which was like all the others, friendly, sensible, and satisfactory. We have had a pretty stirring session hitherto, and late as it is, I don't think we have got through three parts of It. The opposition to the present ministry has been carried on with great vigour, and with more success than has of late years usually attended an opposition to court measures. You know too much of our situation and temper not to see that we must have taken a pretty active and sanguine part. You will rejoice to hear that our friend William has exerted himself two or three times in public with the highest credit. The hurry of business will account In some measure for the languor of our correspondence. There Avas another event which engaged us very unfortunately for some time ; but thank God, the effects of it are now in a great measure over. My brother, about nine weeks ago, had the misfortune to break his leg by a fall in the street. Both bones were broken, and In two places, but they AA'ere speedily and well set. After a long confinement, borne ^with a very good humoured patience, he Is now on his legs again, upon crutches indeed ; but there is a prospect that all will be well as ever. In appearance, as well as in effect. You feel so much for your friends, that I am glad to be able to give you the account of his accident and recovery together. All others are as you left them. The exhibition will be opened to- n2 ly 92, morrow. Reynolds, though he has I think some better portraits than he ever before painted, does not think mere heads sufficient, and having no piece of fancy finished, sends in nothing this time. Barrett avIII be better off than ever. He puts in a night piece In a very noble style, and another very beautiful land scape, with a part of a rainbow on a waterfall. They seem to be both excellent pictures, Jones, who used to be poet laureat to the exhibition, is prepared to be a severe and almost general satirist upon the exhibitors. His ill behaviour has driven him from all their houses, and he resolves to take revenge in this manner. He has endeavoured to find out what pictures they will exhibit, and upon such information as he has got, has be fore-hand given a poetic description of those pictures which he has not seen. I am told he has gone so far as to abuse Reynolds at guess, as an exhibitor of several pictures, though he does not put in one. This is a very moral poet. You are, my dear Barry, very kind in the offers to copy some capital picture for me, and you may be sure, that a picture which united your's to Raffael's efforts would be particularly agreeable to us all. I may one time or other lay this tax upon your friendship. But at present I must defer putting you to the trouble of any such laborious copies. Because, until we have got another house, it will be impossible for me to let you know what size will suit me. ' Indeed, in our present house, the best picture, of any to lerable size, would embarrass me. Pray let me hear from you as often as you can ; your letters are most acceptable to us. All your friends here continue to love and constantly to enquire after you. Adieu, dear Barry, and believe me most sincerely Your's, E. BURKE. 93 A few days before the receipt of your last letter, I wrote you a very long one ; I spoke of the course of your studies, I fear, Avith more freedom and copiousness than judgement. But your friendship, I dare say, will induce you to bear with my pre sumption in a matter I understand so little. Poor Dick Sesson is dead, I have lost a very dear and deserving friend. Mr. BURKE to Mr, BARRY, August 24, 1767, My dear Barry. It Is with shame I find myself so late In answering a letter which gave me such sincere pleasure as your last. Whatever you may think of my delay, be persuaded that no want of regard for you had the least share In it. We all re member you with much esteem and affection, and I hope we are not, any of us, of a character to forget our friends, because they are fifteen hundred miles distance from us, and away a year or two. I did, indeed, strongly flatter myself that Will and I might probably have taken a trip to Rome In the recess. But the session ran to a very unusual and mortifying length ; and as soon as it closed, a political negotiation, for bringing my Lord Rockingham to the administration, was opened, and thus our summer insensibly slid away ; and it became impossible for me, either In his company or alone, to begin an enterprise that would demand four good months at least. The mention I have riiade of this negotiation has, I dare say, put you a little in a 94 flutter. It came to nothing, because it Avas found not practi cable with honour to undertake a task like that, until people un derstood one another a little better, and can be got to a little cooler temper, and a little more fair dealing. At present, there is no prospect of a sudden change ; therefore we remain as we are ; but with all the content, which consciences at rest and circumstances in no distress can give us. We are now in the country, in a pretty retired spot, about three miles from town. Richard Is at Southampton for the benefit of sea-bathing, which has already been useful to his leg, and he gathers strength in the limb every day. This is our situation. As to your other friends, Barrett has got himself also a little country-house. His business still holds on ; and, indeed, he deserves encourage ment, for. Independent of his being a very Ingenious artist, he is a worthy, and a most perfectly good humoured fellow. However, he has had the ill luck to quarrel with almost all his acquaintance among the artists, with Stubbs, Wright, and Hamilton ; they are at mortal war, and I fancy he does not stand very well even with West. As to Mr. Reynolds, he is perfectly well, and still keeps that superiority over the rest, which he always had from his genius, sense, and morals. You never told me Avhether you received a long, I am afraid, not very wise letter from me, in which I took the liberty of say ing a great deal upon matters, which you understood far better than I do. Had you the patience to bear it? You have given a strong, and, I fancy, a very falthftil picture of the dealers In taste with you. It is very right that you should know and remark their little arts ; but as fraud will intermeddle In every transac tion of life, where we cannot oppose ourselves to it with effect. It is by no means our duty or our interest to make ourselves uneasy. 95 or multiply enemies on account of it. In particular, you may be assured, that the traffic in antiquity, and all the enthusiasm, folly, or fraud which may be in it, never did nor never can hurt the merit of living artists : quite the contrary in my opinion : for I have ever observed, that whatever it be that turns the minds of men to any thing relative to the arts, even the most remotely so, brings artists more and more into credit and repute ; and though now and then the mere broker and dealer In such things runs away with a great deal of profit; yet in the end Ingenious men Avill find themselves gainers, by the dispositions which are noU' rished and diffused in the Avorld by such pursuits. I praise exceedingly your resolution of going on well with those, whose practices you cannot altogether approve. There Is no living in the world upon any other terms. Neither Will nor 1 were much pleased with your seeming to feel uneasy at a little necessary in crease of expense on your settling yourself You ought to know us too well, not to be sensible that we think right upon these points. We wished you at Rome, that you might cultivate your genius by every advantage which the place affords, and to stop at a little expense, might defeat the ends for which the rest were In curred. You know we desired you at parting never to scruple to draw for a few pounds extraordinary, and directions will be given to take your drafts on such occasions. You will judge yourself of the propriety, but by no means starve the cause,.^: Your father wrote to me some time ago. The old gentleman seems to be uneasy at not hearing from you. 1 was. at some distance In the country, but Mr. Burke opened the letter and gave him such an account as he could. You ought from time to time to write to him. And pray let us hear from you. How goes on your Adam and Eve ? Have you yet got your chest ? Adieu ! — let us hear from you, and believe us all most truly and heartily yours. 96 (The remaining part is from Mr. Wm. Burke.) I happen to be In town for a day, and Ned has sent me this to forward, which I cannot do without saying a word for myself to a far distant and very dear friend. I must confess that I partake In the blame due to our Edmund, for the long silence that has been held here, which Is the more improper as the letter seemed to call for an immediate answer, and I am sure was such a one as deserved an early and hearty acknowledgement. And most certainly we have fifty times resolved to write, but that vile fiend, that foe to all good conduct, procrastination, by a promise of to-morrow still kept us Idle to-day. You are pursuing your studies with your eye fixed on fame, having, I dare say, little acquaintance with this hobgoblin, procrastination, the vilest con sumer and devourer of our time, and deceiver of our hopes. But there is another spirit of better temper and better nature, partiality to your friends and kind Indulgence to their errors, with which you are well acquainted ; and this will easily in duce you to overlook any step or omission of ours ; but let not even our errors deprive us of the pleasure of hearing frequently from you, Ned has told you all the nothings that concern us, so I shall only add, that we wish earnestly to hear soon and often of you. Adieu, — Believe us affectionately yours. W. B. 97 Mr. BARRY to Mr, BURKE. Rome, no date. Dear Sirs, We subscribe for the newspapers here, so that once a week, as changes were talked of, I had long since hopes of hearing something agreeable. Though I do not wish to give you often the trouble of writing, yet I should be glad to hear that all thefamily are well, that Mr. Richard is well recovered, and what ever else you please. I have more than once suspected that your silence was owing to your disapprobation of my conduct in having any disputes with the people here ; but it was a thing, that, though I never sought for, I could not well have avoid ed, as I was at that time Ignorant of the kind of conduct neces sary for this place; but our bickerings have subsided a good while, and Ave live together very agreeably, and are likely to continue so. I found upon a little consideration, that any copies after Raf fael In the Vatican, would have answered no purpose to you, as the whole composition of any pictures would be too large, and any particular part and group Avould come indifferently enough by itself, deprived of Its relation to the other parts and story of the pictures. There are single figures of the virtues, kc. painted in many parts of the stanzas, but I believe you would as little relish copies of them as I should the being em ployed about them ; the only thing that I could discover, Avhere I believe we shall be both satisfied, is the history of Cupid and Psyche, Avhich is painted in the angles, (or compartments) of the VOL. I. o 98 little Farnese. There are a good many of them, consisting of two, three, or four figures each, and designed In the highest gusto of Raffael. You will see prints of them at Mr. Reynolds's. The figures are as large as life ; but I mean to copy them nearly In the Poussin size, as the more convenient for you. As I am thoroughly satisfied of the entire superiority of about seven or eight antique statues, I thought studying those a little would enable me to succeed In copying Raffael. Accordingly I have obtained a licence for six months, and have been at work In the Capitol after the statues for some time past, and I shall be ready to go to the little Farnese about the latter end of February next, please God. There are also some things in the Capella Sistina, which will answer our purpose. I confess I have a difficulty more than ordinary In studying here, as my stay Is not a little expensive to you. I shall after three or four months spent on the antique, endeavour to contrive It so, as that what I shall do may answer the end of pictures for you, whilst they will be studies to me, as I do not find much relish for any thing here except the antique, Raffael, and Michael Angelo, About three years will complete what I mean to do, I have hitherto waved speaking out my whole opinion about Michael Angelo and Raffael, for a reason which should still incline me to be silent — they so often come near perfection, and so often depart from it In the same particulars, that I believe it Impossible almost to draAV up a general character of them, — I mean in those particulars where we may set up the antique as the standard, I see in no part of Raffael's works, any figure that I may call truly and correctly beautiful, like the Antinous or the Venus de Medicis ; or any that is truly grand, like the bust of the Alexander ; or sublime like the Apollo : as to the Torso, the Laocoon, and such like characters, he appears not at all qualified to succeed in them. The Angles which I shall copy at the little Farnese, 99 appear to be the utmost stretch of his capacity in point of beauty and character ; and upon a comparison with similar figures and characters of the antique, those of Raffael seem to be much wanting In a correct idea of the detail, and in an equality of proportion and correctness in the same figures. As to his cartoons, and his pictures in the Vatican, they may be more expressive of the passions, and may be more correct In a medi ocrity of character — a little more than that, which comes into any of these works, or even into his Transfiguration, In short, there is neither figure nor character In Raffael which Is standard in its way, Michael Angelo appears still less near the standard than Raffael ; the few pictures that remain of him, and certain seve rities of manner, as well as a choice of subject, in some measure out of the way of beauty, make one Inclined to rate him not so highly as he ought. He Is Infinitely above Raffael in point of knowledge and correctness, yet his ostentation and shew of this, and Raffael's art of concealing, with choice of subject and pleasing well wrought draperies, his want of It, bring them nearly to a level, at least Avith the bulk of mankind — ^yet I rather believe fewer people have attained Michael Angelo's merits than Raffael's, though no one has come near Raffael upon the whole, Michael Angelo's Moses, and many other things of his, are rather extra vagant, though accompanied with such proofs of knowledge and capacity as will for ever make his name jsacred among artists. Now, I have prevailed with myself to say almost all the ill that may be said of those two fathers of painting, you will, 1 hope, do me the justice to remember, that I have the highest and justest sense of the beauty, elegance, and propriety of Raffael ; though I believe them rather, perhaps, diffused amongst his works, than to be found in any particular one ; and I hope to give you some, though a faint idea of Michael Angelo's grandeur, knowledge, o 2 100 and even elegance arid beauty in some of his figures and stories in the compartments of the ceiling of the Systine dhapel. There is a great bustle here at fitting up of palaces and pre paring operas against the coming of the Emperor, which will be in the latter end of the year. He is to lodge, it is said, at the Villa Medici, just near my quarters, so that I shall have an op portunity of spinning out a letter or two with a 4escriptIon of his person. There was a very melancholy accident happened here two days ago.^ The daughter of one D'Auprat, (a wine merchant in the place D'Espagne, and well known to all the English who come here,) really a very fine girl, as to her person, and still more remarkable for her knowledge and practice in drawing, music, and languages, living and dead. — This girl was in love with a person whose affairs some time since obliged him to leave Rome. The father, in order to wean his daughter from a match he did not approve of, forged a lettet, giving an account of the mar riage of his daughter's lover. Shortly after which the daughter took the first opportunity of stealing out and throwing herself into the Tyber. Whilst she was In the water some people reached out things by which she might have saved herself, but she refused all assistance, and with a melancholy firmness plunged out Into the depths of the river. Amongst the various reasonings here on this unhappy accident, some ascribe It to a contagion she might get from the English, who used to lodge at her father's ; but the generality believe it was occasioned by her reading books, and making those compacts with the devil, which Is usual with such as are deep learned. Since as much learn- 101 ing and knowledge is in your family, as there is goodnature, if it be proportioned with its quantity of diabolical influence, Dr. Nugent and three or four more of the family are very deep in It. You will please to remember me to them all, to Mr. Macleane, Mr. Reynolds, Mr. Barrett, and Messrs. Hamilton, English, and whoever else you please. Mr. WILLIAM BURKE to Mr. BARRY. Paris, Oct. 10, 1768. My dear Barry, I HAVE been here on a party of pleasure for about three weeks, and I have really found it so. I had the day before yesterday a very particular pleasure in hearing from Mr. Crofts,^ who travelled with Lord Fitzwilliam, at whose lodg ings I met him, that you were well, and that great justice was done to your merit. I wish It had happened that you had been known to Lord Fitzwilliam himself Both he and Lord Car lisle extremely regretted that a countryman of great merit should have escaped them. I find you are particularly In the esteem of Mr. Hamilton ;* the world does him full justice, as a man of worth and as a connoisseur. Let me Intreat you by all means, my dear Barry, to cnltivate his good opinion. I wish I were near enough to give propriety to advice, but advice from a dis tance must carry a little air of reproach, which I am sure you will never deserve, and equally sure, that I am very much disin- * Afterwards Sir Wm. Hamilton. 102 dined to give it to a man, AV^hose worth I love and whose merit I esteem. But without offence, an absent friend may give his wishes, and I do heartily wish, that while you cultivate the esteem of a man of Mr. Hamilton's merit, you would think it beneath you to court the enmity of those of your own profession, whom you cannot esteem. If they have not a first merit they may have a second, a third rate ; and no degree of merit ought to be despised. If they are envious. It Is an honour to you to be the object of their envy ; but that envy. In any thing of good minds, left to itself, will grow into respect ; and it Is not wise to stop that growth, by disdain or fierceness; and If the people you fall among, have no kind of merit or worth, sure they are below your resent ment. In one word, my dear Barry, the world Is made up of little Avorth and little merit ; the greatest worth, and greate.st merit, is greatest only by comparison ; and If It were the common lot, it would not be remarkable : so that men who fortunately possess a great share, have a sort of obligation to those who have but a small portion, for these last serve like feet and inches, to measure gigantic merit. In short, believe me. It is shewing some respect to a man to quarrel with him, and I know you too well to think you will designedly honour a man you do not regard, with any portion, even the smallest, of your res pect : so for God's sake, my dear friend, withdraw this mark of respect from those you do not love, and live In the world with that indifference, which Is necessary to carry a man through It with comfort to himself. If I have supposed more than there is ground for, and make a mountain of a mole-hill, believe that I love you, and that nothing that impedes or retards that justice, which 1 persuade myself the world will one day pay you, nothing of this sort, can to me seem trivial or in different. 103 Ned and Mrs. Burke are In Buckinghamshire. They had thoughts of looking at Italy this last summer, but could not compass it. Mr. Reynolds and I make this scamper together, and are both extremely satisfied with our tour : we return in a few days, so that I hope to hear from you when I get home. The collections here are wonderful, and the magnificence of their furniture transcends ours by far. Mr. Reynolds desires much to be remembered to you. Adieu, and believe me with warm sincerity. Your friend and humble servant, WILLIAM BURKE. To Mr. REYNOLDS (Sir J.) from Mr. BARRY. Rome, May 17, 1769. Dear Sir, Nothing could have made me more really happy than the very kind letter you favoured me with lately. It came most opportunely to support my spirits at a time when I was In the hands of a doctor and surgeon, and 111 of a fever, which I believe was occasioned by a cold I got while working In the Va tican ; but thank God I am tolerably well got over it, and though it has kept me from work some weeks, yet, as I am got back again to the Vatican, and (what with bleeding and other evacuations in my illness) with a better frame of body, there is no reason to be dissatisfied. Whenever the Pope Is made, which I hope will be soon, I shall go to the Capella Sistina. 104 There Is a passage In your letter, which will be a sufficient excuse for what I am going to tell you, that I think myself rather reprehensible as a furious enthusiast for Michael Angelo, than as regarding him with any degree of coldness or indifference. I saw in his works only that deep knowledge of the human body, and that masterly style of drawing each part in particular, so noble in its form, and so adjusted to, arid corresponding with the other parts, that for a naked figure, taken simply as such, there Is nothing in painting to parallel him. It is only in the antique, where one sees the same knowledge and amazing fitness, in the detail of all the component parts of a figure ; and If this Is not the summum bonum of art, it Is at least very near It ; so that if. In any of my letters to my friends, I have been a little warm in expressing my feelings of the superiority of the antique to all things whatso ever, in fitness of parts, elegance and propriety of thinking, and Indeed every thing that could be shewn In a statue ; or if I have said that Raffael excelled In possessing the general parts of the art, and was nearest the antique In these things, and that Titian alone was the painter of painters, yet I never forgot that there was no examples of the naked to be found except In Michael An gelo, that prodigy, in whose works may be seen the difference at least of two centuries betwixt them and what was done by people immediately before him : one sees Raffael and all his contemporaries, as studiously concealing the naked, (no one chus- Ing to contend It with Michael Angelo in that part) as the other was of shewing it. I know but of two or three examples of naked figures in Raffael, in the Galatea, Diogenes, and Christ In the dispute of the Sacrament, and school of Athens ; and his St. John, The two former are, you know, not to be mentioned with Michael Angelo ; the St. John 1 will not speak of, as the original Is, they say, in France ; a comparison betwixt Raffael's Jonas, and Michael Angelo's Christ, would turn much Iri favour, of 105 Michael Angelo, though perhaps Raffael may have the advan tage in the elegance of his Idea and general form. You will excuse my mentioning these things to you, who are so much better acquainted with them already; but I wished to exculpate myself to you, and I will further add, that it was next to impossible that I should think lightly of Michael An gelo, as It is some years since I read a paper in the Idler, which has been pointed out to me as yours. I have a notion some how or other, that the arts would be just now of some con sequence and pretty much a public concern, did not the state competitors, of whom the papers are so full, divert the attention of the public into another channel. However, I can say with truth, that as nobody Is more an enthusiast for art than I am, so there is no one who rejoices more sincerely at the honor done art by the title and dignity his Majesty has graciously conferred on that person, whose plan of a public exhibition has been as serviceable to the art, as his perform ances were. The public opinion will supply what 1 would say. I am sincerely and heartily obliged to you, for your kind advice with respect to study ; It has given me great consolation to find that my whole course of study for near three years I haA'e been in Italy, has been so agreeable to the plan you men tion. I had the mortification here to see that I was taking quite a different route from most other people In study, as I never so much as employed myself for two hours upon any thing besides Michael Angelo, Raffael, and Titian, except my studies upon the antique, and nature : my own little things of inven tion, and a piece of a figure of a Magdalen by Annlbal Car- VOL. I. p 106 rache. As I was conscious that iriy notions of colouring were bad and ill grounded, copyirig of Titian, for some time, Avas, I thought, the only advisable course 1 could take, and I have reason to think I did not judge ill : the way of colouring I had then, was enough to damn even a good design and drawing, more especially ariiongst such people as ours who are floating about after Magilphs and mysteries, and very little likely to satis fy themselves Avith that saying of Annibal's, " Buon disegno e colorito di fango." It Is impossible for me to describe to you what an advantage I had in the acquaintance of Mr. Burke; it was a preparative for, and facilitated my relish for the beautiful things of the arts here ; and I will affirm from experience, that one gentleman of a literary turn,, and delicate feelings for the ideal, poetical, and expressive parts of the art, is likely to be of the greatest service to a young artist, and will be found the true corrective for those mechanical and practical perfections, Avhich. the ge neral herd of painters make such a stir about In their conver sations, of which this country furnishes the strongest instance in the world, as a long, succession of painters here has so corrupted one another, that there Is hardly: to be found one ideal beauty, in any Italian painter of the day. I should have the greatest obligations to you imaginable^ if you would favor me with your discourses at the opening of the academy ,^ which you were so obliging as.; to. promise in your letter. I long to read it in our coffee-house; as I could wish, by way of revenge upon the enemies of art, to Inspire all sorts iof artists with that enthusiasm for their profession> which will give vigour to their prosecution of study, and which, from what 107 I have seen In the Idler, I am sure your discourses must abound with, I am, dear sir, AVith the greatest respect and love. Your most obliged, And very humble servant, J.B. i shall be very particular and careful In making such collections of the institutions of the several academies as I can, I am tempted to say, by way of apology, for that part of my attention, which, as you observe, was employed upon my dis putes with some people here, that though I found It Impos sible for me not to be uneasy at It, as I saw what advantages it deprived me of (not of copying as you suppose) I saw also an artist for whose person and abilities I had the greatest value, helped out of the world, rather, lam afraid, before his time, and that the same thing had happened here before to one Craw ley, a sculptor. It was impossible, I say, for me not to have been moved at It, and If love of art, friendship for an inge nious man, who was doing honor to It, and regard to my own character as a man, and situation as an artist; here a burthen to my friends in England, and deprived of any occasion that might offer for lightening that burthen; If these things could not move me, I do not know what would; but as you so kindly interest yourself in my welfare, I will assure you with great truth, that I have taken care that these anxieties should never interfere with my plan of study, which I saw clearly enough, was the only pillar upon which must be founded all my hopes, p 2 108 You will oblige me in shewing this letter to Mr, Burke and family, as I shall not write for a few posts to come, and yet would be glad they knew I was alive and well, ' For Heaven's sake contrive it so as to get casts and moulds made for the academy, of the four basso-relievos in the garden of the villa Medici, the Christ of Michael Angelo, the arms of his Moses, and a good many other antiques, of which there are moulds made. Mr, BARRY to Mr, BURKE. Dear Sirs, I HAVE been eight days at Naples since I wrote to you last. I hope to be able to spin out a letter, with describ ing to you such things as I made memorials of in my sketch book, which is, I darC say, all you Will expect from me, as Ad dison has taken up whatever Is poetical, and Sharp all that is unfavourable, virulent, and scandalous, on the subject; so I will even stick to my sketch book, and begin with the fine pic turesque situation of Marino, rocks, old trees, Monte Jove, Lago d' Albano, the Campania, Rome, and the Sea, all in the view about you; from Villetrl you have the Mediterranean and Circe's island before you, a most perfect piece of the Appian way near Terraclna, AvIth foot passages and a low sort of stone posts (allow the phrase) on the sides. I could tell you how many stones broad it was, and the distance between the posts, &;c. but I cannot find I^lO^.Tali. .ecu ?^ & ^^^e- ¦cf>//Z'' L/i'f/^<^/ /// nr / /r'/ r /( / /¦f/'//\j, /¦/ /-rJiyr't/ff. 109 the draAvIng. The sides of this Appian way, from Rome to Na ples, are full of monuments of the old Romans ; but at Itri, a miserable little town. In the Neapolitan territory, are monu ments, which, though in ruins, gave me a most heart-felt plea sure. One Is a piece of raw hide, a little broader than the sole of the foot, tied on In the manner of the ancient sandal. I bought a pair of them, which I will put on to shew you the villany of our cursed gothic shoes, which by separating the foot from the leg by the line, which the termination of the upper leather makes upon the stocking, cuts off the foot from the leg, and loses that fine idea of one limb, which Is kept up in this vestige of the sandal. Another monument Is the manner of tying up the hair of the women. I gave one of them money, made drawings of it, loosed it, and made drawings again, so that Iknow every thing about It, and shall be of great use to our ladies, when I come home ; blessed be the poverty of this peo ple, and long may it continue to their latest posterity. It has preserved them, (though in the state of Ignorance) the elegant notions of their forefathers ; it has kept it out of their power to flaunt about after the deliriums and new fangled whims of fashion able people In great cities, and you shall not be able in your Lou dens, Paris, Romes, &;c. to cull me out such an object as one of these women, standing near a fountain, with her sweet antique formed vase on her head. At Naples, also. Is to be seen, amongst the vulgar women, the same way of tying up the hair as In many bustos, the cloth which ties across It in other heads of antiquity, and the rete, net, or cap, enclosing all ; and even without quitting the vnlgar women of Naples, I will shcAV you amongst them all the different head dresses of the nine muses on the Sarcophagus in the Campidoglio. With respect to the men of Naples, (I mean still the vulgar) were they ten times no more bloody, more ignorant, and more superstitious, than they are said to be, their carnaval dance, (which T saw) with their caiStanets and tambours in their hands, bringmg to mind the old fawns and satyrs; this dance alone should with me atone for all. Inow recollect that we have also at Rome after the vintage a sort of Bacchanalian procession In the evenings, the vintage peo ple, with flambeaus of the twigs of the vine, with tambourines, Sec singing and dariclrtg through the streets. To be sure, all our judges of music condemn their song as harsh and tasteless, but away with such judges ; there Is to me more meaning, joy, arid real propriety, in the bawling Bacchanalians, than In ten thousand of the best of their giddy, quibbling, trifling, Eumellis, Pechinis, &c. I find the love of antiquity growing upon me everyday. Good God, what will become of me by and bye, Avhen I leave Italy? but L will not run away from my subject. At Herculaneum L saw that the modems, with all their vapouring, have invented nothing, have improved nothing, not even In the most trifling articles of convenient household utensils ; our candlesticks are poor things compared with the stands for their lamps, and there is even an a.ntique kitchen, (tea urn) such as we use on tea tables to hold boiling water, with a place in it for the fire. The deuce abit is there any thing neAV in the world • There Is also a little bronze model of a chariot, and my friend Mr. Creagh is in the wrong, for the ancients had a pole to their chariots. I have made a drawing of It. Bronze bustos, nobly executed, two bronze figures of racers just startirig, a drunken fawn lying along a cag of wine and joyously snapping his fingers, a sleeping fawn, a Mercury in age^jo; the original Is said, with many other things, to have been sent to Spain ; but the elegant forms of the vases, dishes, lamps, and vessels, of all sorts, are neither to be conceived by one that has not seen them, nor de- Ill scribed by one that has. Of the pictures, the Satyr's kissing the woman who is lying along, and the companion picture, I have called my two Titians, a sort of a little frieze of dancing, women, slightly touched, evidently intended for nothing more than the tout ensemble ; but for so much, Raffael never was any time of his life master of so much elegance, spirit, and clever ness of execution. Two other conversation pieces of women, children, kc. which I also call my Raffaels. There are many other pictures 1 like, and some things In all of them; but Avith out the affectation of a new opinion, I honestly think the large pictures of Chiron, and Achilles, and the other large pictures, which are the most talked of, are the least valuable : perhaps they might appear so much inferior to the rest, as they are brought nearer to the eye, than the painter intended they should be, which makes the inaccuracies of them so striking: but as you well know that these were but paintings upon the walls In a village, and were to be considered In no other light tlian as ornaments contributing to the coup d'oeil, of a room, so there is no danger that the works of the ancient painters (which were al ways portable, and on wood) will suffer In the least from any objections these may be open to. I shall say but little of the ruins of Bala, the fine views, taking In Ischia, Caprea, Pausilippo, Vesuvius, kc. the Ap pian way, and the ruins of palaces, seen under and above the water, and the fine temples of Mercury, kc. on the sides, and the mount FalernUm, and the other mountains which enclose the lake Avernus, I have on the sides of the lake, made a sketch, which takes in the temple of Apollo, (as they call It) the lake and the Cumean Sybil's grotto. This grotto Is a most dreadful place, being regularly hewn through the rock into the bowels of the great mountain, God knows how 112 far; through small passages on the sides you go Into chahibers, out of which there are other passages, some choaked up with . earth, others filled with water; but on throwing in stones, the disturbed waters gulp, and rebellow, from one recess to ano ther, seemingly without any end to it ; and supposing these passages to have gone, in the direction they seem to have, but a very little way farther, one must unavoidably come Into the sulphurous fumes and hell-like stufas of Nero, in Avhlch I have almost sweated to death ; they are in the mountain, next door to this Sybil's cave, I must confess, I was struck with this no tion on the spot, that art and nature could never have united in forming a more proper theatre than this must haVie been to act Virgil's hell in; and It Is not impossible but the ancient priests and priestesses might have been inclined to jugling ; but deep learned points are not what I shall allow to myself, as I can be more affirmative when I speak of the two beautiful temples in the bottom of the bay of Bala, one circular, open at the top, and in every respect like the pantheon. It is sunk In water and earth almost up to the cornice from which the dome springs. There is also another ruin hard by, in which Is a room called the chamber of Venus. I will insist upon it, and no one shall cpntradict me, that the English will be the most glorious people In the world, 'if:they:Introd]uce this manner of stuccoing and ornamenting their ceilings. Ornaments, light and few, and basso-relievos, in the highest parts not more raised than about an inch, designed, by elegance itself; the highest moulding of the panels not appearing to exceed half an inch, nothing cut in. In short this room is the standard of ceilings. I am no longer for painted ceilings of any kind. There Is also at Rome, in the vine yard, Avhere is the Minerva Medica, an ancient sepulchre, stuccoed in the same taste, but inferior, Mr. Hamilton, our ambassador at Naples, said he would have what ren^alned of lapp/Cuaff .-^-/lA J I /y .IJl )/'/.// J j_jj)r/.// jyy do /.^j//,-i/ii 'U / r/// ,1//'/ ),//y2//,> J 7//n /•' /.(^////i-./Y-r'/Ti/ //.nj // ,r/j " / / / o/ ) Ur^SSS^^^J H^H^aaJ -(^17/r/A "> /.Vr/7/y 'xn-l ' OJ.)/ J ?/ ///r/,/ /"'/si/r/: -/" ^<'<''i' pl// U'J lir7ri/Z>/f:>^2f ("7^'^/ / ^ S.yo//////^/'/^7//r/.'/ ,v 'Y////// J h^^ 'rr^W/. ^-/'/v ' y^'' fj/P '¦ lis this ceiling of Venus moulded of, as some villains are every day demolishing and running away with pieces of it. At the Capo de Monte at Naples, is the finest collection of pictures, gems, medals, and vases I ever saw together. Corregio shews himself here to the greatest advantage; his large figures of God, Angels, kc. and other works of his, are full of that fine spirit and enthusiasm, which can hardly be too much admired. Here are also the best Parmegianos I have seen, fine pictures of Annlbal Carrache, Imitations of the Venetian and Parmesan styles, and a sweet picture of Diana and Acteon, in his own manner, but coloured Avith more foga than he in general has. Some good pictures of Bassan; the best picture I have seen of Julio Romano, It is in oil, the subject allegorical and larger than life. Drawings of Raffael, Corregio, Julio Romano, &;c. and a picture of the Last Judgement of Michael Angelo, the figures about nine inches high. It is said to be of his own hand ; and is highly and nobly finished. It seems in no respect Inferior to the large one In the Capella Sistina, and appears to have been painted before It, as it is more finished In that part where the resurrection from the dead is painted. This consideration it was, that prevented me from conceiving It to be a copy by Pelegrino Tibaldl, who has a great deal of Michael Angelas greatness of execution, though exceedingly Inferior to him in the enthusiasm of his Conceptions. Here Is, you know, that glorious monument of Titian's ability, the Danae, the wonderful fine cameo of the rape of Ganymede, either a copy of Michael Angelo's rape of Ganymede, or he copied this, but the former is the truth. I should never have done, were I to run out upon the vases, intaglios, cameos, &;c. of this collection. Now I have made an end of my tour to Naples, I will let you into VOL. I, q 114 the occasion of my going there so precipitately as I did, I men tioned to you In my former letter a very Ingenious artist, Mr. Run- ciman, who Avent to Naples for the recovery of his health. One day as his brother, some other artists, and I, were at dinner, there came to the brother two letters, desiring him to come directly to Naples, as Mr. Runciman was not expected to live two days; the brother applied to two or three different people for their company on this occasion, but they excused themselves. He spoke to me, and as I had a great value for the abilities of Mr. Runciman at Naples, and a friendship for both of them, I could never think of letting him go by himself on this melancholy occasion, as I feared something still worse might happen. We were joined after we had engaged our chaise, by two others. On our arrival we found that poor Runciman was dead and burled, and so had nothing to do but run about to see the things, and return back as soon as possible; though the journey was some thing expensive, yet as it was necessary to see what was there, you will I hope excuse It. Now I am in the mood for It, I will finish the disagreeable account of my situation here, that I began in my last letter. About a fortnight after my quarrel with Byres the antiquary. Sir Watkin Wynn and other gentlemen came back from Na ples, and as I was one day at work In the Borghese, t^ey all came in with Byres ; after they had seen the other pictures in the room, they came to where I was at work ; I removed my picture, and went to another part of the room, to give them an opportunity of seeing the original. When they had done, Byres, with an officious politeness, would have replaced my picture, which I would not suffer, and did it myself I went to work, the gentlemen and he behind me. My not dis- 115 covering any resentment to him at this time, was AA'hat I believe encouraged him to bestow large praises upon what I was about, Avhich Titian himself could hardly deserve : to which I an swered In nothing but a forced smile, and shaking of the head : he told Sir Watkin that I was the gentleman at whose house he had been four times without seeing me. I wanted to say something, but found my spirits too much agitated, for either reason or reflection to take place in what I should say ; I there fore remained quite silent, when I went home to dinner I wrote a note to Sir Watkin, which I have kept the following copy of ' Sir; I am extremely sorry, that you should have had the trouble of coming so often to my house, Avhen I was not at home; but it was occasioned by your antiquary's not chusing to remember his promise of advertising me of it beforehand, As there Is nothing I should be more proud of, than having the honour of yours, and other gentlemen's opinion of the little things I am about^ if you will excuse my taking the liberty to ask you to come once more, and also to be so kind as to favour me so far, as to send me notice beforehand, either to the palace Borghese, where I am at work, to the English Coffee-house, or to my own lodgings, you will, exceedingly oblige. Sir, your most obedient humble servant. J.B.' » * P. S. I shall take it as a particular favour, if you will come without the Antiquary.' This note I sent to Sir Watkin, but I never heard any more about It but this, that he said he would never think about me, as he heard I was a troublesome fellow, who made a great dis- Q2 .116 turbance In the place. The person who told me this, said he wondered how I could think of any thing but this from Sir Watkin, as I must have known that he was In the hands of Byres, Hewetson, Forrester, Delane, &;c. who had every oppor tunity to put things In such light as would best answer their own schemes. I said I knew all this before I wrote the note, but that as Sir Watkin had no other real knowledge of me than what the note afforded, I had a notion that he would have pro ceeded (as anybody else would have done) and not troubled him self with what any side or party might say of the other, unless he resolved at the same time to hear what might be answered to it. Here things have rested, and of all the lords and people of con sequence, who have been here for. near three years that I have been In Rome, 1 have seen nobody but Mr. Hamilton the envoy, and lord Fitzwilliam, and Mr. Croft, whom Mr. Hamilton sent here. You may assure yourself that I have made the most of my time and have laboured to some little purpose ; and my variity will offer you the proof of my assertion, by the great pains great people have been at to hide me, even when they knew how perilous the attempt might be to their characters. I dare say they did riot set out with the intention of going so far, but the opposition Imade to one account of knavery and injustice, put them to the necessity of following it by others. I am greatly distressed on the account of Doctor Sleigh, I wrote two letters since my arrival In Rome, and have never heard a word from him. It would give me real concern if he should entertain any bad opinion of me. If there Is any of your family who will write soon to hini, let them present my warmest love and respects. Mr. William made me happy In writing to me Avhen I M'as at Paris. As to Mr. Richard, he has never half an 117 hour to throw away upon the comforting of me In my banish ment. Mr. Boyer Is In Rome, and desires me to present his best compliments to him, God bless the doctor and Mrs, Burke and you all. My best respects to Mr. Nugent and Mr. Netter- ville, and my old friends, English, Barrett, Hamilton, &;c. Though I am not over and above pleased with the founding of an academy In England, yet a fine collection of gessos or casts of the antique, and the medals, sulphurs, books, kc. they intend ac cumulating, Avill be an acquisition of the greatest value to the public. For my own part, I should die of chagrin and melan choly in any place where there Is not this, as my thoughts day and night run on nothing else but the antique. I am happy to find Mr. Reynolds is at the head of this academy : from his known public spirit and warm desire of raising up art amongst us (which exerted itself so successfully In establishing the exhi- j3itIon, to which we owe almost all the art we can boast) he will, I have no doubt. Contrive this institution to be productive of all the advantages that could possibly be derived from It, and whilst It Is in such hands as his, we shall have nothing to fear from those shallows and quicksands upon which the Italian and French academies have lost themselves. 118 Mr. BARRY to Mr. BURKE, Rome, September 30, 1768. Dear Sirs, I AM SO much out of humour Avith myself for not answering sooner your very kind letter of July last, that I believe you will be easier satisfied with my old apology of application to study than I shall be myself. There is a particular In your letter I do not understand, you say, " I am glad of Hamilton's opinion, it cannot fail of being serviceable to you some way or other." What this alludes to I know not. Another particular in your letter also has altered the plan I laid down to myself, of making copies of my studies here ; your house Is full, and though there is likely to be many English travellers here this winter, I surely have not the least expectation of disposing of any thing, and have long since given up all thoughts of either friendship or profit in any person that I am likely to be shewn to here. You will probably call to mind from a piece of vanity that dropt froHi me in a former letter, that I do not think thus of my situation from any feebleness that I believe is discoverable In me on a comparison with others ; but Mr, Hamilton, our envoy, excepted, every one else that I have seen, has been entangled in the wiles and mediums laid for them by one or other of two or three clear-sighted, knoAvIng men, who are extremely well calcu lated for the prosecution of the business they have in hand. I am heartily sensible of your goodness and friendship in so frequently enjoining me to be upon good terms with the people 119 here ; but I believe If you saw how agreeably we kill the time when we get together (which is not seldom) how we laugh, how we drink, how we sing, how we tell stories and talk nonsense, you would be satisfied there was enough in all conscience to answer the purposes of relaxation and social Intercourse ; some of us, to be sure, know this to be nothing more than outside and false fire, yet that does not hinder our making the best use of it ; and though there be amongst us one or two discontented, recluse men, yet of the many English, Italian, and French that knoAv me, there is not even one, but has often taken notice that I was farthest from that character of any Englishman at Rome. You are accustomed to have a partiality for me, and notwith standing that I have not allowed myself to dilate and explain matters (which will be better reserved for our entertainment and conversation hereafter, of which I could fill volumes) yet I hope I have hinted just enough to keep my place still In your good opinion. My two copies after Raffael, together with many studies of things I liked at the little Farnese being finished some time, I have been ever since at work at the palais Borghese, and am far advanced in entire copies of tAvo of the most capital Titians I ever saw; one is called the three graces, the other an adora tion of the shepherds. Notwithstanding my enthusiasm for Raffael and Michael Angelo, (to whom I shall return when these copies are finished, for the short time of my stay here) I so far agree with the world as to think that Titian possesses as large a share of the art as any of them, and has conducted himself with as much, or even more strength of observation and judgement In this his inferior mechanical part. I have nothing now to say of him ; his character is truly draAvn by most writers — bad contour, limbs disproportioned, no expression or character in any thing above ordinary nature ; but my Ideas (I was going to say human 120 ideas) of a beautiful, true, and sound colouring cannot possibly rise above the performances of Titian ; whilst I cannot help affirming, that some great and industrious genius might, with allowing himself proper time and study so avail himself of the beauty, character, just symmetry, and elevated idea of the anti que as to carry the excellencies of Raffael and Michael Angelo very much beyond the point of perfection they have fixed them at. But to return to Titian and colouring. If it was not taking too much upon myself, I would noW venture to affirm, that all pretension to secrets and Magilphs Is to be met with only amongst knaves and fools: the former for reasons sufficiently obvious, may find it their interest to circulate such a notion, whilst there will never be wanting of the latter, who not knoAv- ing what to do Avith the common materials, are ready enough to imagine the fault does not lie in them, and desperately run adrift in the search of a terra incognita. It Is certain that there Is some little cleanliness required in the choice, preparation, and management of colours ; this allowed, Titian would paint just the same with my pallet as with his own. There Is nothing in his pictures whiter, bluer, or yellower— but they may be made now as much and even more so, if the merit consisted In that. But the judicious application and mixing together of things is what puzzles In Titian, for he hardly ever laid on a colour simple, pure, and in its full force. Bassano, Rubens, Vandyke, and Paul Veronese, are all good colourists, though all different ; with a little displacing of the favourite tints, less blue, less red, purple, or yellow, put on here, the other there, and you may change each of them into the other with respect to colouring, and you may transform any or all of them into Titian in the same manner. A few changes in the placing and force of the tints will convert an ill coloured French or Italian picture of 121 Pierre, Boucher, or Battoni, Into the colouring of Reynolds, of the Venetians, Flemings, and of nature. Then In this just distribution, strengthening, or weakening of tints, consists visibly the whole art of colouring ; the whole Venetian and Flemish schools worked upon the same principles as their founders, but with different degrees of verity in the application of them, and have continued in a sort of succession to this day : some colour animals well, some bread, fruit, and still life : others do well in the painting of carnations and the the nude ; and In short, every man of parts and genius amongst them succeeded more or less in representing whatever part of nature, long study and diligent observation give him a thorough and sufficient knowledge of: so that Ave find the success in prac tice has been always In proportion to the diligence and truth of the painter in laying on and ranging the colours, half colours, Aveakenings, strengthenings, &;c. In the same manner, and in the same individual places of his picture, that they are seen to occupy In his natural archetype. We ought therefore to have little hesitation about pronouncing that the whole arcana of fluids do not afford any one medium that will, In the hands of a man wanting In the fore-mentioned requisites, produce that propriety of colouring In all the different objects of nature, so variegated in itself, and so distinct in the one object from the other. So much your condemnation of Magilphs has encouraged me to say on the subject. The greater number of our people here have "been laid up with sickness of one kind or other, occasioned by the extraordi nary heats of the last summer. They are all now, thank God, either up or out of danger, Avhilst without ailment or complaint, VOL. I. R 122 God Almighty has preserved me through one continued and uninterrupted course of labour, which has not allow'ed me the time to see Tivoli, Frascati, Albano, or even to go three miles out of Rome ever since my arrival, though I have been pressed to It very warmly by parties of Italian, French, and English, who were desirous of taking a little mirth and good humour along with them ; for you cannot think what a pleasant fellow I am ever since my coming abroad, as I have been under no appre hensions either of getting into debt or of wanting my dinner. You may see by this, which is really the truth, how little reason there was for your dreading my becoming recluse and unsociable. I did not even knoAv myself that I was master of so much ease and tranquillity of mind, or had such a fund of natu ral gaiety, until I was put to the trial. But all that they could do and may do, I can assure you, never gave me any other real uneasiness than that as they put it out of my power to contribute In any wise to the defraying of my expenses here, (by the sale of any thing 1 have done or might do) I found myself under the necessity of being burdensome to you for it. Two nights ago, while we were chatting together at our coffee house, I happened, out of mere wantonness of talking, to say, that you and Mr. William were to be here this winter. The confusion I observed In some people upon it, occasioned my immediately improving the hint, and joining two others to it; four of you all coming out to see Italy together. They were very much embarrassed about it, as they foresaw it would in great measure put it out of their power to act agreeably to their Intentions this winter, which is, they know, the last I am to stay here. If this trick of mine does me no good, I believe it will do 123 me no harm, God bless you, sirs, my best respects wait on you, Mrs, Burke, and the whole family. My worthy and dear friend Dr. Nugent made me very happy by his kind letter ; he will, I hope, do me the justice to believe that It is neither through Avant of love or respect that he has not my acknowledgement in a sheet of paper directed particularly to him— the same, I hope of Mr. William, and Mr. Richard. I am fatigued, and am besides arrived at the end of my paper, but what need of my foolish apology, when the dear sirs at the top of my letter cannot be explained otherwise than by their being understood in It. FRAGMENT, or MATERIALS of a LETTER to Mr. BURKE ? {From Rome.) ON GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE. The manner of building called Gothic, Is generally believed to have been the Invention of the Goths, as the name Imports, and to have been- brought into Italy by those barbarians, after they had established themselves upon the ruins of the Roman empire, There are others, who believe that this method of building came into Europe from the east. As to the former of those opinions, I am persuaded that it would be difficult to produce positive proofs that the northern people had any species of architecture at R 2 124 all before their intercourse with the Romans, or that their habita-' tions were other than holes in the earth, or built of wood, or of mud and chaff, as Is still practised in parts of England and Ireland. The Irish historians say, that the Domliag of St. Klanan, built in the eighth or ninth century, was the first stone building erected in Ireland. I can easily conceive that architects might have gone Into northern countries, and Introduced their art and notions of ornament and magnificence, as the Romans did at NIsmes, fee. but It contradicts all that we know of the nature of art, to sup pose that architecture as an ornamental art, dependent upon designing and sculpture, could possibly grow up of Itself in countries where sculpture and the representation of natural objects was not previously studied and practised. The other opinion of the oriental original of this kind of architecture, will be also found upon examination groundless and chimerical, and is one of those mistakes which men might easily fall into, who are more learned in history and the revolu tions of government, than they are knowing in the arts. It Is well known that architecture, as well as all the other arts, fell greatly into decay in the decline of the Roman empire. George Vasari, in the proem to his lives of the painters, has taken notice ofthis, above two hundred years since : he observes, that day after day they declined, and lost by little and little the perfection of design, even before the arrival of the Goths. He speaks with.great feeling, good sense, and knowledge, on this decline of arts ; and he is so just and spirited in the descriptions he has given of the barbarities of Gothic architecture, that I am 125 surprised he did not observe the connexion there was between them, and that It was but the same thing still going on In a state of continued corruption. The beginnings of the barbarous architecture called Gothic, is traceable in those buildings erected in Italy, even before the arts were much declined, and long before the Goths had any footing there. The number of examples there are of this In all the different parts of architecture growing out of one another and Increasing, have convinced me that the Gothic architecture is nothing more than the architecture of the old Greeks and Romans in the state of final corruption to which it had fallen. The buildings erected between the times of Augustus and Adrian are as much remarkable for a chaste and manly plainness, as they are for elegance and beauty. The three Grecian orders, employed in the buildings erected in this period, are preserved in great purity ; and the Roman or composite order used in the arch of Titus, was ingeniously enough constructed, and happily united with great simplicity the ornaments of the two Greek orders, from whence it was taken. Hitherto there was nothing reproachable ; but there is discoverable in the buildings erected after Severus, a too great fondness for ornament, and a desire of novelty, and compounding the parts of architecture with a still greater degree of complexity ; and as this increased every day In proportion to the growth of effeminacy and decay of knowledge, their inventions, naturally enough, approached nearer barbarity than perfection. It was about this time that a considerable number of works were erected, in which the capitals and other ornamental pieces of architecture were in so fantastic a manner ; with so little of the true forms remaining. 126 that they serve indifferently for all kinds of things, and are with ease converted into candelabrias, chimney pieces, and what not. Examples of this kind of trash may be seen In abundance In the collection of Piranesi, who is well known in the world as an engenious engraver of ruins and ornaments. He has also pub lished at his leisure hours two books under the title of Magnifi- cenza di Roma, fee. In which he has engraved some of those things, and discourses upon them by way of depreciating the Greeks and their practice in the arts. Every one knows that for some time before the arrival of the Goths, ^he Roman affairs were in the utmost ruin,- anarchy, and desperation. Ignorance had altogether supplanted knowledge, and taste in all the arts ; and as they built but little, the memory of the old principles of architecture were almost quite worn out amongst them: and, were we to make a summary of all the corruptions which had crept into architecture from the time of Alexander Severus, down to the times before the arrival of the Goths, Visigoths, and Longobards ; how much It abounded on the one hand by affectation and caprice, and on the other, how much It lost by the decay and annihilation of all other arts, we have no reason to imagine that, when Theodoric and his suc cessors were inclined to erect new palaces and churches, they could be other than what they were, deformed, dispropor tionate, and ridiculous, with more labour and profusion of ornaments, than propriety, judgement, or science; so that when the Gothic king Theodoric had erected the churches and palaces at Rimini, Ravenna, Padua, Modena, kc. they were necessarily built In this detestable taste, for this simple reason, because there was no other in the country at that time ; and these buildings, as they were rich, ornamented, and extremely unlike any thing Fiz7. ybT/.z Fzg.i Fig. 2 Iig. 4 Fia.5. \iin s ( f / Marry delav. 127 that was heathen, became the models of all other Christian churches in Europe ; so that this kind of architecture went north wards fi-om Italy, instead of being transplanted from the north Into Italy, That no doubt may remain about this matter, I shall present a few drawings of examples of the different corruptions, as they grew up, one out of the other. Before the great niche in the pantheon, there are two large columns, and their pilasters, which are remarkable on two accounts ; the flutes are more than the diameter of a circle deep, and the fillets have the extra ornament of half a circle, (see fig, 1.) There is further under and over the flutes, an ornament, (see fig. 2.) but these columns and their pilasters are visibly the work of a different age, and do not belong to the building. In the very ancient church of St. AgnesI are also two columns very beautiful In other respects, which have the flutes and fillets in a manner still more ornamented and fantastic, as in fig. 3. This is so exceedingly like those ingredients which form the Gothic column or bundle of columns, that by only swellirig the convex parts a little more, and sinking the cavities. It becomes identically the same thing. In the old church of St. Lorenzo without the walls, are ex amples of the flutes and fillets winding about the shaft in the spiral form (see fig. 4.) the transition from this to the twisting of 128 the shaft itself was very easy (see the twisted ones at St. Mark'k, p. 132) and 1 am very certain, from various examples of this to be found in St. Giovanni di Lateran, arid many other places of Rome, that the column preserved In St Peters, and brought from Jerusalem, never did belong to any temple of the Jews, but must have been wrought either In Greece after Constantine, in Rome, or Jerusalem (if they will have it so) by Christian artists, in the time of the decline of arts. The supporting of arches by a single column (and not with a pillar, half column, and Imposts, as Avas the ancient practice) we have some examples of In the buildings done about the times of Dioclesian, Constantine, Valentinlan, fee. The beautiful ancient church of St. Stephano Rotunda Is also defective In this and other particulars ; the intercolumnatlon, or the spaces between the columns, came also to be widened out of all rule. In the church of the Minerva at Rome, the ground plan of the pillars which sustain the nave is square, with four half columns (see fig. 5.). The multiplying this makes true Gothic confusion. The ground plan of the pillars which support the nave of the duomo of Sienna, is also the same identically with this. The half columns are at least double the length they should be, and the capitals Corinthian, deformed a little. Some have the three tier of leaves, others are formed upon the same model of those capitals of trophies, fee, at St, Lorenzo at Rome, The Corinthian capital corrupted. Is most visibly traceable in almost all the Go thic capitals. Sometimes they play with, and enlarge the scrolls so as to give some idea of the remains of the Ionic (fig, 6,) and F.2-8. Vol.i. Fi(f., 129 at others they introduce trophies of crosses, holy lambs. Holy Ghost, fee, (fig, 7,) In the idea of the forementioned capitals of trophies of the ancients at St. Lorenzo, the base Is for the most part attic. In the second arcade of the second floor of the amphitheatre of Titus, is the same kind of roof as that in the baths of Dio clesian, Figures 8, and 9, The very nature of those arcades In the amphitheatre of Titus, made It necessary to use this kind of arched roof meeting In a point in the centre of four pillars, as the arcades cross one an other ; the necessity there was for passing from one arcade into the other, and of presenting the eye in all situations with such a portion of the building as to keep up an idea of the whole to gether, made this manner of arching necessary and proper, and the shortness, and solidity of the pillars, which sustain the arches j and the just proportion they bear to the voids between, gives a happy satisfaction to the eye. The corruption and carlcatura of this manner of arching, by only raising the points of centre a little higher, gives ex actly the Gothic roof, and the great number of breaks. Intro duced by the corruption of the other parts, fills It up Avith that chaos of divisions and subdivisions, which compleats the de testable characteristic of Gothic architecture. A more minute Inspection of the roof of the amphitheatre, and of that of Dio clesian, with an attention at the same time, to the Gothic roof of the church of the Minerva,* and other gothic churches, will * See figure 10. VOL. I. S 130 furnish a number of other proofs. But thus much has been sufficient for me before I close up this matter, that the Goths have been particularly fond of the Corinthian ; and this order is traceable in all their corruptions, as may be seen at St. Giovanni, and other places. In a word, suppose the Greek or Latin cross, a form given to build a church of, and suppose the different corruptions of columns, arches, roofs, breadths, and heighths we have instanced, to take place in It, It produces a Gothic cathedral. (See figures 11, and 12.) The flourishes at c. In fig. 12, are supposed to be of their own invention, and added by way of coup de maitre. And indeed the number of new buildings erected at Constantinople, must have fur nished an ample field for the improvements of all the corruption of architecture. But to return to the Gothic arch. The absolute origin and cause why the pointed arch came to be Inli-oduced, Avas the con founding the circular and square forms together, and the ill understanding of some few examples of the ancients, where the necessity of things constrained them to use those forms together. Besides the example cited from the amphitheatre of Titus, there is to be seen in Adrian's villa at Tivoli, a number of the cham bers Avhich are square, and as there was a necessity for covering them AA^Ith a vaulted roof, the four sides met In a common point in the centre of the ceiling, by which means each side of the celling gives exactly the same form of a Gothic arch, although they are in reality made up of half circles, crossing one an other. Others are arched only from two sides — as, see figures, 13, 14. There is at the duomo of Viterbo, a range of arches in the ? s- P.jy rm.. Fig. 13. Fig. 16. TS)~YU (F-'-Jx Fig. i/. .Stvry ^^Bii Fl31. '"ol.-l. .1. Fici.iS. Fg. ig . Fig. 23. 131 manner expressed In fig. 15. And there are many examples of such kind of arches at Venice ; particularly in the arching made use of in the second floor of the cloisters at St. Mark's palace.* St. Mark's palace is a great repository of the corruptions we have been talking of; some columns are too short, others too long, the scrolls of the Corinthian capitals made of leaves turned up, turned down, pine apples, and In some, the real scrolls are used both in the centre, and at the angles. In the centre of some of the capitals, where the central scrolls, fee. should come, they have indiscriminately placed, liori's heads, masks, half figures, fee. In other Corinthian capitals, they have placed pigeons In the angles where the scrolls should be. In the Corinthian capitals in the church of St. Mark, for the scrolls they have put rams, with their feet coming down upon the first tier of leaves ; in others the scrolls remain, and the leaves are thrown backwards as if they were blown by the Avind. Some capitals are inclining more to the Ionic, with a large heavy member of a cima recta fantastically ornamented Avith foliage. The same is to be seen at Bolsena, Sienna, and other places, where the bell of the capital Is sometimes covered Avith a sort of basket- Avork of true lovers knots, the ends of which form the scrolls at the angles. (See fig. 16, 17, 18,) In the loAver order of columns at St. Mark's, the capitals have eight faces, and upon the eight angles, are leaves, fee. in the form of scrolls, and In the centre of the eight faces, over a tier of leaA^es, are placed half figures fiddling, fee. There is the greatest confusion of all in these capitals when they come to gether, when four three-quarter columns are projected from the angles of a square pillar, as In figure 19. * See figure 23. s 2 132 The two Immense cplumi|s, which stand npar the water, in St, Mark's palace, were brought from Constantinople or Greece. The capital ^nd cornice are of white marble, and the column is granite, and in good proportion, although badly wrought in the member (o) — See figure 21. Of the twisted columns in St. Mark's there are four, two of them of oriental alabaster In good proportion as to the heighth and diameter of the shaft, on which the flutes and fillets twist round in a' spiral manner. The fillets are half round, and about seven in number, so that this was antecedent to the twist ing of a bundle of little columns together, as Is seen In the cloisters of St. Giovanni di Lateran at Rome, and other places. As these fillets are so fcAv in number, and the flutes so deep, they have exactly the appearance of a bundle of little columns twisted ; and by only lessening the number of them, or cutting through the flutes,. it Is the exact Gothic at St, Giovanni. See one of the twisted columns at St. Mark's, figure 22. The work manship of these columns Is bad, and seems of the time of the successors of Cqiistantlne. There Is on the outside of St. Mark's church figures cut in porphyry, of the most base and shocking workmanship that can be well Imagined; and yet the ancient sandal is figured upon the feet, and is like that sort of half boot used by the Emperors. They have crowns upon their heads, fee. but no Gothic monu- men in England is worse executed.* * See this account of the origin of Gothic architecture, again handled in an enquiry into the real and imaginary obstructions to the acquisitions of the arts in England, vol. 2. , F.232. Vol. J. A corruptedj Cafrital, of chFiHar at Viterbo. Fig. zo. Fig. 22. I] II pi 1,1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 I 1 1 irn G o 3' Fig. 12 \ V 133 If you will permit my continuing upon a subject, in which I am not likely to be tiresome, I will now give you some account of the modern architecture here, though as it Is a subject that I have long laid aside, what I shall say is rather the effect of obser vation accidently made, as the different objects fell in my way. In my opinion fewer structures of merit have rose at Rome in any way since the revival of the arts, than people seem to think. The architects of the fifteenth century were much offended with the Gothic way of building in former ages, and were desirous of restoring the science to the way of the Greeks and Romans ; but whether the employers would have it, that the new structures should be In conformity to some favorite notions, or differ in respect to general form from the heathen temples, or whether the artists, through a desire of some little originality, might Incline to it ; certain it is, that a material difference lies here, and I believe It will be found generally true, that the form or ground plans, which they substituted In the place of the ancient ones, were rather something which they retained of the Gothic way, than any new Invention of theirs ; so that were a man to suppose Goths to have schemed out a work, and laid the Ichnography of It, and that it was reared up after, by people Imitating the Greeks in little divisions, and things regarding execution, it would be found not unlike the generality of the works of architecture built since the revival at Rome. Of this, even St. Peter's is an Instance ; Bramante's design for it is like every thing I have seen of his, ex ceedingly beautiful, and entirely in the antique gusto of the Pan theon, Mole of Adrian, fee. He was succeeded in it by Baldassar Perrugi, and Sangallo: the last of whom possessed altogether a perplexed trifling Gothic gusto, and had so poisoned the essentials of the work, that notwithstanding he Avas succeeded by Michael Angelo, (who is I think rather an Antigoth than a 134 Greek) yet enough remains still to make it utter confusion to all spectators, who would be desirous of looking over St. Peter's as one building, and consequently giving the Idea of some general form. But we must do the justice to Michael Angelo to say that he removed as many of Sangallo's Impertinencies, as his credit at the court allowed him to do, which by reason of an ungenerous faction formed against him, Avas not much. That great man is in my opiriion rather heavy in the generality of his lesser buildings, but certainly, had he In this work been mas ter of the first planning of things, we may venture to affirm him better qualified for such a large work, than any man at that time at Rome, and certainly would have been more original, at the same time that he was less Gothic than any other. All modern discoveries in architecture, of configurations of cornices and pedi ments, grouping of columns, fee. are to me certainly Gothic, as may be seen In Borromini, Pozzo, and others, I shall conclude this with pointing out the only two modern buildings I like throughout, which are Bramante's little model of a temple at St, Pietro Montorlo, and Raffael's house, both of them beautiful in the last degree, and worthy of any age. Did I permit myself to launch out upon the Pantheon, the Colliseo, the temple of Vesta, fee. you would regard it rather as the raving of enthusiasm, than cool reason, and therefore to get out of the way of temptation, I shall close up the paper, with my heartiest respect and good wishes for the whole family, J.B, May, 22, 1768, 135 Mr, burke to Mr. BARRY. Gregories, July 19, 1768. My dear Barry, My silence has been long and blameable, I confess it, I am really sorry for It, but I trust you will forgive us some Inaccuracies in point of attention, when you are convinced We have none in point of real substantial friendship. Indeed none can value you more, or wish you better than all the persons who compose this family. On the close of the last parliament, I had thoughts, amounting almost to a settled resolution, of passing this summer In Italy, and had even made some dispositions towards my journey. The pleasure and instruction I proposed to myself from your company, were not the slightest objects of my totir: for which reason I wrote the short note, wishing to fix you at Rome, But I have been diverted another Avay. We have purchased a pretty house and estate, the adjusting of which has kept me in England this summer. With the house I was obliged to take the seller's collection of pictures and mar bles. He was a considerable collector ; and though 1, by this means, went to an expense 1 would not otherwise have incurred, yet I have got some pieces both of painting and sculpture, which you will not dislike. We are In Buckinghamshire, twenty four miles from London, and in a very pleasant county. So much for our situation. In other particulars we are, thank God, well as to health, and politically just on the same ground; out of em ployment, but with a quiet conscience and a pure reputation. 136 Will and I are both chosen into this new parliamerit. I think myself very unlucky In having lost one of your letters ; they are all worth keeping. I do not know any that have more curious observations, and better expressed. Your last observations on the improved architecture of the moderns, and its inferiority to the ancient, is truly curious, and, I believe, as just as it Is inge nious. I am proud to have found It confirm some notions I have had myself upon the same subject. As to the pictures which you are so good to think of for us, you will regulate them just as you please. We cannot say any thing precise of sizes ; because we have left the house in Queen Ann-street, where the doctor now lives, and have had only a temporary residence In town taken by the winter. As to this house, it is hung from top to bottom with pictures, and we have not yet determined which ought to be displaced. So, as I said before, follow your own Ideas ; but by no means lose an opportunity of disposing of a picture, which may make you friends or money, on our account. We hope to have some of your work when you come home- I am glad of Hamilton's opinion. — It cannot fail of being ser viceable to you some way or other. In the mean time I must again press it upon you to live on the best terms with the people you are with, even dealers and the like : for it will not follow, that because men want some virtues, that they want all. Their society will be some relief to you, and their intercourse of some advantage, if it were no more than a dispelling the un sociable humours contracted in solitude, which will, in the end, not fail of corrupting the understanding as well as the manners, and of utterly disqualifying a man for the satisfactions and duties 137 of life. Men must be taken as they are ; and we neither make them or ourselves better either by flying from or quarrelling with them; and Rome, and the trade of Virt^, are not the only places and professions In which many little practices ought to be over looked in others, though they should be carefully avoided by ourselves. I remember you wrote to me Avith a great deal of sense and much honest Indignation on the subject of some quackish pre tences to secrets In the art, such as Magilphs, and the like. We had much of the same stuff here. It is indeed ridiculous to the last degree to Imagine that excellence Is to be attained by any mechanical contrivances whatsoever. But still the overvaluing of foolish or Interested people ought not to induce us wholly to reject what may be subordinately useful. Every thing is worth a trial, and much of the business of colouring belonging to a sort of natural history. It is rather worth while to make experiments as many as one can. Forgive my trivial observations. Your friends here, the doctor, little Dick, Mrs, Burke, all frequently think of you. Mr. Reynolds and Barrett enquire for you very kindly. Indulge us with your letters as frequently as you can, and believe me, my dear Barry, with great truth and affection, your sincere friend and humble servant, EDMUND BURKE. Direct to me in Charles-Street, St. James 's-Square, VOL, I, T 138 THE SAME TO THE SAME. Gregories, October 8. Dear Barry, Some time ago I wrote to you very much at large, and with a great deal of freedom. But I trust you will have the goodness to attribute the liberty I have taken in laying before you my sentiments upon any part of your conduct, to my solici tude for your success In your profession, and your credit and satisfaction In life. I should not have troubled you again after so short an interval, if I had not received a letter relative to you from our friend Dr. Sleigh, who interests himself very much for your welfare. You see the business Is of Importance, and deserves your consideration. But the letter which you have inclosed will let you more fully into the business than I am able to do : and you will understand It much better than I can, as you are un doubtedly acquainted with the state of your father's affairs, and the situation of your family. Possibly this may find you before you leave Rome. If it should, I wish you a good journey through Italy. Pray think of the affair Inclosed as maturely as you can, and see what can be done In it. I am with the greatest truth and affection. Dear Barry, Most sincerely yours, EDMUND BURKE. All here desire to be remembered to you. 139 Mr. BARRY to Dr. SLEIGH. JVovember, 1767. Dear Sir, An excuse for neglect of writing is commonly what begiris almost every one of my letters ; as It is so generally the case, I must surely be to blame; and yet somehow there might be alleged this — that Mr. Macleane, who is second Secretary of State in Lord Shelburne's department, told me at Paris, that you either was in London, or would be there very shortly. I inquired this of my father, but got no answer ; besides, I had wrote you two letters from London, and since then, not having the pleasure of hearing from you, I was afraid it might not be agreeable to you to be troubled with another. You will also consider how lost I was to myself as well as to my friends on the new scene which opened to me in Italy, of the antique, Michael Angelo, and Raffael ; Avith which and nature, I have been occupied since my arrival : the moments 1 could spare from these researches were laid out upon some compositions of my OAvn, whilst the Inspira tion, allow me to use the word, caught from the antique, was upon me, — really and indeed I never before experienced any thing like that ardor, and I know not how to call it, that state of mind one gets on studying the antique. — ^A fairy land it is, in which one is apt to imagine he can gather treasures, which nei ther Raffael nor Michael Angelo were possessed of A little time will perhaps convince me of the folly and presumption of such deliriums, and yet neither time nor argument will or shall T 2 140 ever persuade me that the thing is not possible. We have in the antique a demonstration stronger than any in Euclid, that men formerly. In the articles of beauty, elegance, strength of expression, and propriety of character, were able to execute twenty, nay, a thousand times more than Michael Angelo or Raffael. The manner of study is clearly what has baffled and kept back the moderns. No wonder that people who could limit themselves to an imitation of Carlo MarattI, Carrache, Guercino, Corregio, Rubens, or even Raffael and Michael Angelo, have done but little. The standard for the arts should, I think, be like the man of virtue of the Stoicks, or the orator of Cicero ; ideal perfections which no man has filled up. We find artists great or trifling according as the standard and guide they set up for themselves, approached the one or the other. Imitations of Raffael are very Avell — of Carrache, ten degrees less well — of Carlo MarattI, twenty degrees lower, fee. There Is a sad canting and bandying about of unmeaning words, which prevails amongst dilettanti and professors of the art, which foments this spirit of Imitation. — Instead of considering the Italians In the fifteenth century, and some since, as great artists, they are called great masters; the attempt in a modern of thinking to dispute any capital perfection with the great masters, would be impudence, vanity, and as it were, heresy. The intimidated artist sits down amongst the overgrown tribe of imitators, fright ened out of that spirit and freedom of mind which. If indulged and pursued properly, would bring In view perfection ; in com parison of which the other is but as the drop in a bucket, or may be counted as the small dust of a balance. But I am afraid you will think I have given too great a loose to myself in ranting all this time; calling the opinions of the world erroneous, the 141 artists for near two centuries baffled and retarded by the folly of their own pursuits, and the possibility of being more beautiful, more correct, more expressive, and more pertinent and exalted In character than Michael Angelo and Raffael, and all this grounded upon certain discoveries made In the antique ! you will very naturally say here, it is talking to no purpose, as the Avorld has been long persuaded of the superiority of the antique in all the great essentials of design : if so, I say, that art ought not to have stopped at Raffael and Michael Angelo ; but you will further add, that as the excellence of the antiques is no secret, so they have been and are studied by all who form them selves for artists ; but this is denied by me. Many people make drawings after them, and are all the while very little more than practising several very curious manners of hatching with, and as they call it, handling a chalk, and but few, very feAv, think of them In the light I mean. This last article Is but too true, as I could shcAV clearly enough, but that I believe It better let alone, at least till I have the pleasure of seeing you, which I hope will be in about three years. In the mean time, for God's sake, do not wrong me so far as to suppose 1 mean to speak against and contradict the allowed superiority of Michael Angelo and Raffael to all succeeding artists ; no one can be more Avarmly of this Opinion than I am, as all the letters I wrote since I came here have verified. When I tell you that my objects of study, since my coming abroad, are purity of design, beauty, elegance, and sublimity of expression, you will not wonder at my preferring the antique to all things, next Raffael and Michael Angelo, Guido for some things, Le Sueur, Poussin, Le Brun, and Domi nichino; these are the artists my heart warms towards, and I have ranged them, I think, just in the order I love them. 142 The stay I made in Paris, of more than a year, gave me full opportunity of seeing Into the state of the arts there, and it may be truly affirmed, that amongst the present artists, there does not remain the least vestige of what distinguished the French school In the time of Louis XIV. They are either very insipid or exceedingly extravagant ; the two Vanloos (lately dead) Boucher and Pierre are the most noted: to any person who does really and on principle like the antiques, these Pierres, Bouchers, and Le Moiens, are little better than a nuisance. There is, hoAvever Greuze, who has merit of a solid kind, paints well, and has great sensibility and nature in his expressions : his subjects are taken from common life, generally some family concern ; but as you must have seen the prints after him, 1 shall go on to Mr. Louther bourg, a landscape painter : his manner is somewhat between Berghem and Salvator Rosa, and his merit is of the highest kind; not only the so much talked of Vernet serves as a foil to him, but even the best landscape painters we have, can by no means be brought into competition with him. Besides Greuze and Loutherbourg, 1 can mention no living artist that I like In France ; yet by the Avay we must allow Boucher and Pierre, fee. to possess great mechanical merit, but the error is in the concep tion of things ; and you know when an architect is either mad or foolish, the mere materials contribute but poorly either to the beauty or support of a building. As to the Roman artists, notwithstanding what may be said to the contrary, I have rio scruple at pronouncing them not worth the criticising, and I shall with a heart-felt satisfaction say, that Reynolds, and our people at home, possess, with a very fcAv exceptions, all that exists of sound art in Europe. You will 143 be desirous of hearing something about our artists here. Ha milton and Nevy are clever ; but as 1 cannot praise much, you will excuse my saying more, as neither friendship nor pique to any artist will incline me to abuse you with other accounts than 1 believe myself to be strictly true. There is a French sculptor here, M. le Brun, who is wonderful in modelhng o£ busts ; he has all that graceful finish, spirit, and nature, which is seen in the portraits of Vandyck ; his entire figures are far from being attended with the same success ; he has done a Judith for the church of St, Peters, which is really bad. We have some sculptors here too, amongst whom is a Mr. Nollekins, an Englishman, who is extremely Avell at copying the an tique. But for the merit of original sculpture we mtist leave that with the French, who are by no means either here or at Paris, so much fallen off as their painters. Now we are on the subject of Sculpture, do you remember the basso relievos On the fountain of the Innocents at Paris, the work of Gougeon in the time of Francis the 1st. Puget, Girardon, le Pautre, old Coustou, Bouchardon, fee. though all very able, yet have been visibly declining from the elegant simplicity of Gougeon, who has more of what one sees in the antique, than even Michael Angelo, or any other since the revival of arts,. The generality of people think Michael Angelo a better sculptor than painter ; Avithout affecting to differ from them, the contrary strikes me to be nearer the truth, whether it Is from seeing his statues and the antiques together ; I believe it may, but I could with all my soul wish to have you and Mr. Burke here, at the Sistine chapel, and the Vatican, fee. that we might admire together the two fathers of modern art, Michael Angelo and Raffael ^ of whom the short sighted criticisms, of 144 what French and English writers I have seen, give but a poor and a too erroneous Idea: their faults are exaggerated and their beauties not half fathomed. If there is any thing you would enquire about, whether such a statue is in such a place, how much of it remains, If any building is fallen down, or any picture much decayed, lam on the spot you know, and It but poorly expresses the warmth of my heart, to say I am always at your disposal. God bless you, sir, I am now going to the Torso of the Belvedere, and shall conclude myself with unfeigned love. Your obliged humble servant, J. B, P. S, I have seen the Polymetis in Rome ; without any doubt it is altogether the most able and useful work upon the heathen deities that ever fell In my way : it has been of the greatest profit to me — but betwixt ourselves. Is not his style very droll? — it appears to me that he made use of his daughter (if he had one) for an amanuensis, every thing is so very pretty and ladylsh. Oh ! the little, pretty, white feet of the Venus de Medicis. If you had not recommended it to me, I should be disappointed beyond expectation at finding enclosed in so trifling and coxcomical a style, a sense so ingeniously deep, strong, and manly. Now I am at Rome, where I Intend staying two years longer, and shall take up another year, with God's help, in wandering home ; my every thing you know, depending upon the kind of applications I shall make, let me beg of you to give me your 145 advice and opinion about the course of study you think most eligible. I will not say I shall follow it implicitly, because I know If I did, you would not send it ; but several rash and hasty measures, from which I cannot excuse myself, make me wish to consult such an opinion as yours. . I have pressed Mr. Burke to the same effect, and have got some advice from him, and will have more If I can. If a word from either of you would serve me, it is what I am sure you would both wish, and if It does not, why there is no harm done. Be so kind, sir, as to make my respects to Dr. Longfield,, and to some other gentlemen of your acquaintance, who did me the honor to enquire after me, as my father Informed me some time since. Dr. NUGENT to Mr. BARRY. I have not, it Is true, wrote to my dear and worthy friend Mr. Barry but once since he left us; and yet I can truly say that it was not from forgetfulness, nor from any variation in the course, or interruption in the continuity of the affection and esteem which I entertain for that gentleman ; whose own . good heart I shall leave to make partial allowances for certain fits of laziriess, a disposition to procrastinate, and various other weak nesses, which very often tend to generate blameable appearances, whilst the things they would represent, may in their reality be irreprehensible, or at least excusable. VOL. I. u 146 This goes to you in very good company. Mr. Burke tells you, what we are sure will please you much, that we are all very Ayjell, and as much yours, as you yourself can wish. After what he says, I need not assure you, that nothing can be more entertain- ing^ or more welcome to us, than your letters. Proceed, my dear Mr. Barry, and prosper in every thing. As to w.y omn. particular, I shall inform you that my health is, I think, rather better than it has been for many years. I am now in the coun- feiy at Mr. iBuiike'iS, and most sincerely and affectionately Vours, QHRISTOPl^ER NUGENT. Mr. BARRY to Dr. O'BRIEN. Rome, February 26, 1768, My dear Will, I waited ever since the receipt of your letter to no purpose, in expectation of being able to send you this by hand. It was unlucky our not meeting in Paris, but you had not advised me of the time I should expect to see you there. My stay in Rome will be for two years and a half longer, and then I shall set out, God willing, for Florence and Venice, where I 147 shall stay half a year, or so,^ — then on through Flanders to Eng land, where I hope to be at farthest in about four years hence. The vast collections here of statues by the old Greeks and Ro mans, and pictures of the Italians in Julius II, and Leo XM times, are the masters I attach myself to. The art being almost dwindled away to nothing amongst the present race of Italians, of whom, without fear of saying too much, it may be affirmed safer and better to avoid, than to imitate. Arts follow in the train of Minerva, or, to be less figurative, arts generally, if not always, accompany knowledge and power, and are surely not to be found existing amongst the people who have little either of the one or the other. This is one reason why we should be the less surprised to see the descendants of naked Picts, and savage islanders, rising In the arts of elegance and refinement in nearly the same proportion that Greece, and other nations, have been sinking and falling from them, — ^but enough of this, or I shall run irito a history of the ancients and moderris, and the migration of the sciences, and what not, which however would be less criminal than beginning again to advise, and as I now do, to recommend a certain course of reading to you. I know of nothing, my dear Will, that can excuse these liber ties that I take so frequently. If you do not ascribe it to a friendship evidently warm and sincere, though perhaps very little to the purpose. Agreeably to the practice of most men of study you probably have a bye course of reading, which you prosecute in your moments of leisure and retirement from your profession and main object. — Now, considering how much the u 2 148 acquisition of taste and elegance of thinking in all: the fashionable arts, is thought to depend on our knowledge of the ancients, and particularly the Greeks, I would recommend to you the reading often, if not translations of a few of the principal Greek writers, at least, compilations from them, such as the ancient history of Rollin, fee. and you may easily run through Plato, Zenophon, Pindar, and the few others. French translations may be had in abundance, as well as English ; if you can resist this temptation, you may very well content yourself with Rollin. It is a very agreeable piece of entertainment to trace step after step, the different periods of improvement in knowledge and arts ; and though this makes but an under part, and is generally overlooked as such, yet ^but I will here check myself again, as I cannot conceive how the devil I come to turn adviser and director, especially to one who is in so little need of it as you are. Perhaps It Is because I have so little to Inform you of concerning myself; two or three words being sufficient for that, viz. that I am Incessantly studying old statues, heads, and legs, fee. fee. Besides, I can say nothing of the place or its curiosities thaj would not appear worn out to you ; who must have read every thing that can be said upon these matters in the books of travels and descriptions. The convenlencies to be had here in matters of study, make my time pass away very agreeably. It is perhaps the greatest satisfaction most of us enjoy here. We are in num ber about thirty students, English, Scotch, and Irish ; and as there Is in our art every thing to set the passions of men afloat, all desiring consequence and superiority ; it is no wonder if distrust, concealed hatred, and ungenerous attempts, are perhaps oftener experienced, than friendship, dignity of mind, or open square conduct. 149 If you have heard any thing lately from Cork, Insert it in your next, as it is now a year good since I received any letter from that place. I am almost tempted to think there is something the matter In my family, which may be the occasion of this silence. Mr. Brabant, the Dane, has last week set out for Naples ; as I am uncertain whether you will receive this, I have no incli nation to spin It out to any greater length. You should have mentioned how long you Intended staying in Thoulouse, Avhether you purposed fixing there, or returning to Paris ; to no one of such questions could I receive the least satis fying answer in your letter, as you only speak of taking a trip to Thoulouse next month. This Is all you say on that article. I am obliged to you for the mention you make of your brother's suc cess — ^you do me but justice to think I am Interested in whatever concerns you. Your next will, I hope, bring better news of your health. Thank God, I can complain of nothing. — My health, vigour, and spirits, suffer no alloy, and my pension Is just sufficient to make the two ends meet together. Direct your letter to Monsieur Wm. Barry, gentllhomme, Anglois, a au Caffe Anglols h. Rome. Never mind postage, let me have a letter from you directly, and fill it with what you please, so you fill it. 150 Mr. BARRY to Dr. WILLIAM O'BRIEN. Rome, April b, 1769. My dear Will, I have not been able to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the 24th of December last before this time, which you avIU I hope excuse, when I tell you it was not altogether owing to my former laziness, as the litigations I hinted at In my last letter to you, have grown to such a height betwixt me and the antiquaries, picture-dealers, and artists (most of whom are the dependants and whippers-in of the forestalling gentlemen) that 1 have had much work upon my hands to defend my character from their attacks, and to Qj^pose (in the free spirit of philanthropy) a junta, whose In terests are Inconsistent with the good of the public, and whose schemes, so far as they had power to execute them, have been s^ubversive of every generous and honest endeavour. I will reserve the particulars of these and other matters for our conversation when I an^ so happy as to meet you, which I honestly assure you I much wish for ; but I am afraid we shall hardly be able to compass it before we arrive in England or Ireland, as by comparing our funds together, which I find to be nearly equal, we shall neither of us find It agreeable to our necessary eco nomy to travel much out of our road. I shall be much em ployed in finishing my studies here, as I Intend setting out for Venice, September next. I do not know what time I shall stay at Venice, whether one or two months. I shall also stay a little time at Parma and Bologna, and then go on directly for Lon don, which God willing, I shall make my head quarters, and 151 from whence I shall go over just to shake hands with you all in Ireland. Your descriptions of MontpeUier and Thoulouse gave me a great deal of pleasure, for which I would pay you off, with an account of Naples, where I have been lately, but that I have exhausted myself upon this subject, in a letter to a gentle man In England, who Is very fond of such things — and my pride and love of new matter will not suffer me to run over the same accounts twice: however, you will be no loser by it, as Addison and Gondamine have been there before me. My hearty love and respects wait on your father, mother, brother, and friends. I am really happy at the accounts you give me of your brother, my old schoolfellow Charles. I have had letters from my father since you wrote. Your family are well, and Con is going on very well. All my friends are also in good health, but there Is one thing, my dear Will, for which I can hardly forgive you ; you seem to be so Infected by the air of France as to stand upon ceremonies and punctilios with me : you must have an answer — ^you wont excuse delay, — return of the post Is for ever in your mouth, I would say, in your letters. Hang you for not making allowances for a poor fellow who is labouring night and day to make such acquisitions as will be necessary to support the character of an artist with some little dignity : and If ever you had a thought (let appearances be what they will) that old and warm attachments were likely to be supplanted by new ones in my bosom, I will say hang you again, for not knowing me better. But why do I throw out all this abuse upon you? if any body else did it, I should not be pleased. I was looking over your old letters which I have by me, and like a true Irishman, I fear I have been rather writ ing you an answer to some of them, than to that I last received 152 from you. But as nobody knows you better, surely there is no body loves you with more warmth and sincerity than your old friend, J. B. I have certainly said too much above ; for as I should be glad to hear from you, with what face can I ask you to write by the return of the post, or soon after. But do not mind that, be sure you write to me, and about what you please. Mr. BARRY to HIS PARENTS. Rome, JVovember 8, 1769. My dear Father and Mother, Can I believe that my poor brother Jack should die amongst you, and no one of you think [of making me acquainted with It. The satisfaction and hopes you have had from his sober careful conduct and application, which. I so often joyed to find in your letters. Interested me ten thousand times more about him than his being my brother. Poor Jack! he was the last of the family that I parted from, and amongst the last of those I would part with, and his death has blasted almost all the hopes I had of being useful to the family, as the business he was bred up to, and his sober conduct, gave me great expecta tions of his being able to put In practice some matters of archi tecture which my residence in Italy gave me opportunities of taking notice of; but this Is all over, and It seems you have another son remaining AvIth you who is of a very different cast; can this be Patrick, and is it possible tfiat his own future pros- 153 pect in life, the death of his poor brother, and the situation of his parents In their decline, can work no other effects upon him? But this Is not all, my father thinks of making his will; what can occasion this? For God's sake let such of you as are living, my fa ther, mother, my two brothers, (since I have only two) my sister and my uncle John, write their names at least, to a letter directed for me at the English coffee house In Rome, by the return of the post. I leave Rome In the latter end of January, and shall make but a very short stay at Venice of a fortnight or three weeks, so that If my father writes to me on the receipt of this, I shall either receive it at Rome, or a friend of mine who Is here will send It after me to Venice. My mind has some little ease In seeing that excellent man Dr. Sleigh, interest himself about my father and family. Good God ! in how many singular and un- thought of ways, has the goodness of that gentleman exerted Itself towards me. He first put me upon Mr. Burke, who has been under God all In all to me; next he had desires of strength ening my connexion with Mr. Stewart, which is the only con struction I could make of the friendly letter which I received from him In London, and afterwards he is for administering comfort to my poor parents. I shall with the blessing of God be In England about May next ; and I hope there is no need for me to mention to one, of my father's experience in the world, hoAv necessary it Is to be armed with patience, and resignation against those unavoidable strokes of mortality, to which all the world Is subject. As we advance In life, we must quit our hold of one thing after another, and since we cannot help it, and that it is a necessary condition of our existence, that ourselves and every thing connected with us, shall be swallowed up in the mass of changes and renovations, which we see every day in the world, let us endeavour not to embitter the little of life that Is before VOL. I. X 154 us, with a too frequent calling to mind of past troubleis and misfortunes ; and if ever God Almighty is pleased to crown my very severe and intense application to my studies, with any degree of success in the world, I am sure the greatest pleasure that will arise to me from it, will be the consolation it will give my dear father, mother, and friends. Your affectionate son, J. B. Mr. Burke was so kind as to send me Dr. Sleigh's letter, con taining the account of the death of my brother. I had three brothers, and he does not say which It was, but by the good character he has given of him. It must be poor John. Mr. burke to Mr. BARRY. GregoHes, Sept, 16, 1769, My dear Barry. I AM most exceedingly obliged to your friendship and partiality, which attributed a silence very blame able on our parts to a favourable cause : let me add in some measure to its true cause, a great deal of occupation of various sorts, and some of them disagreeable eriough. As to any reports concerning your conduct and behaviour. 155 you may be very sure they could have no kind of influence here ; for none of us are of such a make, as to trust to any one's report, for the character of a person, whom Ave ourselves know. Until very lately, I had never heard any thing of your proceed ings from others : and when I did, it was much less than I had known from yourself, that you had been upon ill terms with the artists and virtuosi In Rome, without much mention of cause or consequence. If you have improved these unfortunate quar rels to your advancement In your art, you have turned a very disagreeable circumstance, to a very capital advantage. How ever you may have succeeded in this uncommon attempt, per mit me to suggest to you, with that friendly liberty which you have always had the goodness to bear from me, that you cannot possibly have always the same success, either with regard to your fortune or your reputation. Depend upon It, that you will find the same competitions, the same jealousies, the same arts and cabals, the emulations of interest and of fame, and the same agitations and passions here, that you have experienced in Italy; and if they have the same effect on your temper, they will have just the same effects on your interest; and be your merit what it will, you will never be employed to paint a picture. It will be the same at London as at Rome ; and the same in Paris as In London : for the world Is pretty nearly alike in all its parts : nay, though it would perhaps be a little incon venient to me, I had a thousand times rather you should fix your residence in Rome than here, as I should not then haA^e the mortification of seeing with my own eyes, a genius of the first rank, lost to the world, himself, and his friends, as I cer tainly must. If you do not assume a manner of acting and think ing here, totally different from what your letters from Rome have described to me. That you have had just subjects of in dignation always, and of anger often, I do no ways doubt ; who X 2 156 can live in the Avorld without some trial of his patience ? But believe me, my dear Barry, that the arms with which the 111 dispositions of the world are to be combated, and the qualities by which it is to be reconciled to us, and we reconciled to it, are moderation, gentleness, a little indulgence to others, and a great deal of distrust of ourselves ; which are not qualities of a mean spirit, as some may possibly think them ; but virtues of a great and noble kind, and such as dignify our nature, as much as they contribute to our repose and fortune ; for nothing can be so uiiAvorthy of a well composed soul, as to pass aAvay life in bickerings and litigations, in snarling and scuffling with every one about us. Again and again, dear Barry, we must be at peace with our species; If not for their sakes, yet very much for our own. Think what my feelings must be, from my unfeigned regard to you, and from my wishes that your talents might be of use, when I see Avhat the inevitable consequences must be, of your persevering in what has hitherto been your course ever since I knew you, and which you will permit me to trace out to you beforehand. You will come here ; you avIU observe what the artists are doing, and you will sometimes speak a disapprobation in plain words, and sometimes In a no less expressive silence. By degrees you will produce some of your own works. They will be variously criticised ; you will defend them ; you will abuse those that have attacked you ; expostulations, discussions, letters, possibly challenges, will go forward; you will shun your brethren, they will shun' you. In the mean time gentle men will avoid your friendship, for fear of being engaged in your 'quarrels : you will fall into distresses, which will only ag gravate your disposition for farther quarrels; you avIII be obliged for maintenance to do any thing for any body ; your very talents will depart, for want of hope and encouragement, and you avIH go out of the Avorld fretted, disappointed, and ruined. Nothing 157 but my real regard for you, could Induce me to set these con siderations in this light before you. Remember we are born to serve and to adotn our country, and not to contend with our fellow citizens, and that in particular your business is to paint and not to dispute. What you mention about heads, hands, feet, fee. I think is very right ; you cannot to be sure do without them ; and you had better purchase them at Rome than here ; as usual you will draw for the charge. If you think this a proper time to leave Rome, (a matter which I leave entirely to yourself) I am quite of opinion you ought to go to Venice. Further, I think It right to see Florence and Bologna; and that you cannot do better than to take that route to Venice. In short, do every thing that may contribute to your improvement, and I shall rejoice to see you what Providence Intended you, a very great man. This you were in your ideas before you quitted this : you best know how far you have studied, that Is, practised the mechanic ; despised nothing till you had tried It ; practised dissections with your own hands ; painted from nature as well as from the statues, and pourtralt as well as history, and this frequently. If you have done all this, as I trust you have, you want nothing but a little prudence to fulfil all our wishes. This, let me tell you. Is no small matter ; for It is impossible for you to find any persons any where more truly Interested for you ; to these dispositions attribute every thing Avhich may be a little harsh in this let ter. We are, thank God, all well, and all most truly and sin cerely yours. I seldom Avrite so long a letter. Take this as a sort of proof how much I am. Dear Barry, Your faithfiii friend and humble servant, EDMUND BURKE. Direct as usual. I5S THE SAME TO THE SAME. April 15, 1768, Dear Barry, I AM heartily ashamed for myscslf and all your friends, that we have so long neglected to write to you. By and bye we may make up for our neglect ; at the present I have only to say, that I thank God we are all well, that we shall endea vour to make amends for this neglect, and that you will be so good to continue in Rome until you hear again from some of us. My dear Barry, Most affectionately yours, EDMUND BURKE. Mr. BARRY To Mr. BURKE. Rome, April 8, 1769, Dear Sirs, Not hearing from you since my writing the two last letters (one of Jan. 6, the other since) has given me some fears^ though I really do not know what for. You, I know, will not disapprove of the part I have acted, as I sought no quarrels. 159 but rather avoided them, borne with but too much, and In the end, only endeavoured to guard myself from som!e strokes that must otherwise have made a deep wound in my character ; but there has been enough of this in my two former letters. At present I have finished as to my studies in colouring, fee, at least Ishall think no more about it, till I arrive in England, as I have gone through three or four Titians, fee. Five months more spent on the antique, Michael Angelo and Raffael, will fully complete all that I intend doing In Rotoe, and three weeks at Bologna, and a month at Venice, will be all that I shall think of until I see you. I am forming myself for a history painter i my studies haA'e been so directed as to carry me as safely as I can through a little path, where, notwithstanding the great number of painters In the world, I am not likely to be jostled down by too much company ; and as the prosecution of my plan depends more on the antique than it does on any thing else, so I have a particular to mention to you, which distresses me much. A general belonging to the empress of Russia, has had Several of the great antiques moulded off, to send to Russia. Now, foi- about eight pounds, I can get fresh good casts of several heads, torsos j feet, fee. that would be of the last importance to me when I get home. For a guinea I can also get what is good of the sulphurs, of Intaglios, fee. The particular that distresses me is about this money. Dr. Sleigh has not once wrote to me sirice June 1 765 ; however, if I had your consent, as he proposed being of use, I would Avrite to him to try if he would realize this sum for me, and as much more as will pay the freight to Londori. But this I should never have thought upon without consulting you, from whom, except what I received from your friend Mr. Macleane when I was at Paris, which you knew of before, I have 160 received all the money that ever was in my possession since I left you, and for a long time before. My enemies, you see, so contrived It as to make my pro fession of no profit to me in Rome, for which I will certainly strike a balance with them. If ever they suffer me to get to Eng land. It has been a real grief to me that I could not contri bute hitherto to lighten the expenses your good nature and generosity led you Into for me. I have nothing to say In my own behalf but that I shall carry myself so, both as a man and an artist, as never to bring a blush on your face on my account. The object of my studies is rather contracting itself every day, and concentring upon a few principal things, compositions of one, or a few figures, three or four at most, turning upon some particular of beauty, distress, or some other simple obvious thing, like what is to be seen In the antique groups, or like what is told of the Greek painters, which exactly corresponds with what we find In the statues that remain of them. This is what occupies my thoughts, and for which I shall leave all your great and splendid compositions to those who are better qualified, and have more genius and inclination to execute them. There Is a book just now come out of Cavalier Piranesi's which is exactly wrote In the same spirit of decrying the Greeks as his Magnificenza, published some years ago ; in this magnificence of the Romans he was upon much betl er grounds, for there is certainly no kind of comparison between any thing that has been publish ed by either Stewart or Le Roy, and what is to be seen of antiquity at Rome. But Piranesi has no where shewn that these Roman Q) ag?AJ?:^.a/ri/ ^/ct^/Zi^tuA^'^ or^Oy Aco/zfjU' /¦r/-^CL 2 J^F^3SaM^ o/^ 161 antiquities were executed by Romans, and there are more reasons than one to assure us, that the Greeks ought to come in for a large ishare of the credit of the works in question : but in his late work he is still more^out of the way, for he sets up the Egyptian and Tuscan remains to dispute It with the Greeks : in point of anti quity and inventing the elements of art, something might be allowed him, but Avhen he comes to talk of comparing them for intrinsic merit with Greek works, all who have seen the monu ments he talks of, must smile at it. But there is something deeper than one would suppose in this scheme : the dealers play into one another's hands (see the book), and he has heaped toge ther a great profusion of marbles of one sort or other, which he would be glad to sell ; but as nobody will be ever likely to mistake them for Greek workmanship for a very obvious reason, the reviving and carrying into extremes his old prejudices against the Greeks will be still the more grateful, should it con tribute to facilitate the selling of his collection, for which end this book is published by way of advertisement. The schemes, impositions, absurdity, and Ignorance I every day s.ee diffusing itself in the world, will, I am afraid, some time or other make an author of me ; as whenever I walk abroad I find myself prying into and writing down remarks on Egyptian termes, obelisks, buildings, old and new statues, fee. fee. But, to return to Piranesi, I should be glad you saw his book. The work is In Italian, and there Is an English translation in the opposite columns. The Egyptian monuments that J have seen here, and which he overrates much, are two lions at the fountain near the baths of Dioclesian ; they are little more than what sculptors call blocked out, and were certainly only fit to be seen at a distance with some piece of architecture (as a VOL. I. Y 162 fountairi or other thing) In one general view, which he isays was the intention of the person who made them ; but of this I am not sure, as all the Egyptian works In Rome are In the same rude unfinished way, as the four termes of granite in the capitol ; the figure of the Sphynx which he mentions, on the obelisk in the Campus Martins, is indeed more finished in the part pf the face ; but it is in a poor, dry, and petite manner, very undeserving of commendation. With respect to the Egyptiari termes in the capi tol, there is little to be said by me in their favour, and enthusiasts for remote antiquity may talk much of their general proportions, but an intelligent obserA'^er will see the nothingness of this by only taking notice of the Imitation of an Egyptian terme iri the Campidoglio found in the villa Adriani, and probably done in his own time by some Greek (it is in white marble) but in so noble, just, and masterly a style, that nobody but a stupid enthusiast, who Indeed seldom compares, as he never doubts, could have overlooked it. There are in the capitol some more of these imitations of Egyptian termes, sOme deities, and a bust of Adrian. in black marble, and all found in the same villa of Tivoli ; and Avere one also to compare those lions, or Avhatever they are, near the baths of Dioclesian, with the antique lion on the stalr^caseof the BarbarinI palace, or even with the lion done since the cinque cento by Flamminio Vacca, It would be like comparing a half finished model with nature. Yet I like those ' Egyptian lions much better than I do any other piece of work manship I have seen of what remains of that people. There is a good character in the head ; and the turn of the head and attir tude of lying down, is tolerably well kept up, I shall reserve the Tuscan for my next. We have nothing that I can hear of at Rome, which people call Tuscan workmanship, except the vases in the Vatican ; I have seen them some time ago in Mr. Hamilton's 163 book — ^but on Maffei's overrating of the Tuscans, Piranesi's mis take about citing Greek workmanship for Tuscan, and the origin and migration of art hereafter. With respect to Piranesi, 1 sincerely regard him as one of the best engravers that has ever appeared in the world, in the things he has generally employed himself about ; and he will go down to posterity with deserved reputation. In spite of his Egyptian or other whimsies, and his gusto of architecture flowing out of the same cloacus with Borromini's, and other hair-brained moderns ; his avarice, which stimulates him to almost every thing, would take very 111 what I have been saying, so that it Avere better you took no notice to any body, of any of these remarks coming from me: 1 shall no longer have any fears, when I get amongst my friends In England : truth, love of the public, love of art and of Ingenuity, wherever found, will always sway my opi nions, free from national prejudice, jealousy on account of rival- ship, or any other of those base motives which actuate little people — little people did I say ? modesty would have found out another word, but I am writing to you, from whom 1 am not used to conceal the half-formed thoughts of my heart, so that I may say, that I will never be of the number of little people in this particular. I shall roll up my picture of Adam and Eve, and some copies of Titian, fee. and send them off before me, but I shall advise you of this before I do it, and I should be happy if Mr. Reynolds took the trouble to look about a good place for the Adam and Eve in the next year's exhibition, but there Is time enough for this, and I shall with God's help be in England myself before that time. I am heartily obliged to my much esteemed and dear friend Y 2 164 Dr. Nugent, for his goodness in remembering me. I trust in^ God that I shall find him, Mrs. Burke and the family in good health on my arrival. I have many longings to enjoy once more those evenings of Improvement to me in good nature and good humour, the remembrance of which will be ever most grateful to me. Some time ago Mr, Burke desired me to direct to him in Charles-Street St, James's-Square, but as I am not sure whether he received the two letters I sent him there, I take this method; of reaching him. Mr. BARRY to Dr. SLEIGH. Rome, JVov. 8, 1769. Dear Sir, I REALTY do not know how to express to you the grateful feeling I have of your goodness, in interesting yourself in the anxiety of my parents. My poor father and mother, who are violent in a tenderness and affection for their children, must have had some consolation in your kind attention for them, especially on the loss of my brother, of Avhose care, industry, and good intentions, our family had many hopes, and by the accounts they have often given me of them, not without reason. I do not know what to think of my father's turning his thoughts, especially at this vexatious time, upon the making of his will. Is he ill ? I am full of doubts and uncertainty ; good Goid, what 165 must be the situation of the family, should he be dead too ? I ATould set off directly for Ireland, but then to what pupose? as my business would neither serve them nor me in Cork, and I should rather diminish than add to any Httle thing they might have to subsist upon. I have therefore made up my mind upon finish ing my studies here; which two months more in Rome, and about six weeks in Venice will, I hope, enable me to do; and although I cannot answer for my succeeding in the way of mak ing money, yet I could give you very sincere assurances, that with respect to industry and application to my art, the generous allowance of your friend Mr. Burke has not been thrown away upon me : but If my father will think of making his will, though God grant there may be no occasion for It this many a day, there will be no reason to think of making the little he will have to leave our family, less by any division of it for me. Whatever there is, be it all for them, and 1 have that reliance on God, my profession, and my friends, that in such a place as London is, where art is so caressed, I shall bring such a portion of it Avith me there, as will not only put me out of the want of any thing else, but will further enable me on my own part to make some little additions to any thing my father may have to leave them. I am then, thank God and my friends, provided for, and the greatest part of my anxiety Is only how I may pro vide still better for the poor people at home. As I hope to be in England about May next, should. I be able to go over to Ireland shortly after, you must certainly be one of the dearest objects I can light upon there : it is a long time that I have not wrote to you ; for as I received no answer to tbe tAA'^o last letters I sent you, I had some notion you were inclined to drop any correspondence with me ; more especially as there 166 were so many of our artists here, who gave themselves much trouble to sink my character; perhaps more out of anger at the consciousness of their own idleness and inability than any thing else. Heaven and earth were moved to do me prejudice ; not an atom of my character escaped, and as some of them, who were not the most Inactive, had correspondence and connexion in Ireland, I had reason to imagine, that you might have heard something, which had given you a disgust to some part of my supposed conduct, and as your friend Mr. Burke knew every thing about that matter, and as my i.^tention was every day more and more concentred upon art, I left to time and our different pursuits (they In faction and idleness, and my friends and I at the study of arts) to settle these differences — and the event is naturally what might be expected. I am, dear sir, with gratitude and warmth, J. B. Mr. BARRY to the BURKES. Rome, JVov. 8, 1769. Dear Sirs, If you just take the trouble to look over the two enclosed letters to Dr. Sleigh, and to my father, you will see all I have to say on the melancholy occasion of Dr. Sleigh's letter. 167 I have about a week ago finished my studies after the statues of the Belvedere and other places, and have nothing to detain me here at present, except a collection of antique heads, which I Intend making studies of, and by about the latter end of January next, shall set out for Florence and Venice, where I hope to compleat my little scheme of art, and be with you, God willing, in May next. When I was at the Laocoon, I had an opportunity of seeing into the absurdity of a modern remark and practice. There was in the time of Poussin and Flamingo, at the villa Lu- dovisi, a picture of naked children painted by Titian, which Poussin and Flamingo formed themselves upon, according to the opinion of several writers, and which I believe to be true, as there is in my neighbourhood, a very careful drawing of It by Poussin, and which agrees excessively well with the style of the boys, modelled by Flamingo : the reputation of the boys of Flamingo came In a little time to be so fixed in the world, that he became a standard for boys with all succeeding sculptors ; these boys, though they may be acknowledged a good imitation of children about a year old, cannot therefore in reason be a good model for boys in a more advanced age, and yet the writers and people who find fault with the sons of the Laocoon, calling them little men, will find their criticism grounded on the above absurdity ; for upon examination I never saw so happy a system of character and proportion for boys of sixteen and seventeen years old, as In the two sons of the Laocoon. And besides one thing which you will observe as a remarkable propriety in this, is the character and age of the father, which seems better to accord with sons of that number of years ; as well as the considera tion that these boys according to custom might attend at a sa- 168 crifice, where a child of a year old would be useless. The Me- leager (commonly called the Antinous of the Belvedere) I often, as well as many others, thought had a little carlcatura In the sway of the attitude. Upon a very narrow Inspection, I see it was occasioned by the restoring and putting of the figure together. It grows late, and I shall refer any more to another opportunity. I am, dear sirs, with my whole heart, your obedient humble servant, J. B. Mr. BARRY to Mr. (afterwards sir) WM. HAMILTON. Rome, without date. Sir, Not to make the liberty I take in writing to you too intolerable by keeping you in suspense with apologies and excuses for it, I shall just beg leave to acquaint you, that Lord Fitzwilliam and Mr. Crofts, In a conversation they had on their return home, with Mr. Burke a friend of mine, said many civil good natured things of my picture of Adam and Eve, and my other little studies, all of which they quoted you for. The satisfaction my friend had in hearing that any thing of mine, was honoured with your favourable notice, (whose character a? 169 a man of taste, I find he is no stranger to) is a thing that very much affects my concerns, as I am supported during my stay abroad by that gentleman and another of the same name. Indeed, were it not for this single account, which my friends in England had of me, it is more than probable they must have imagined that I had done nothing, and slept away my time; as care has been Industriously taken, that I should be kept out of the way of acquiring here either friends, character, or any thing that may be useful or agreeable in the carrying of a man through life. Except yourself, who I heard had set out Avith the resolution of seeing all the artists In Rome, and Lord Fitzwilliam and Mr. Crofts, who came In your name, I have never been shewn to any other, of all the many travellers and people of dis tinction who have visited the artists here : however, a man whose mind is occupied In studying the antique, and the people of the cinque cento, may bring himself to that pass, as to be In some measure content to give up the profits of his profession, if it was not that the profits of this, as well as most other professions, are Inseparably linked to and followed by reputation and character, which we all have a hankering after. You will, sir, I hope forgive the liberty I have taken In writing to you, as I do not believe it will be In my power to have the honour of waiting upon you at Naples, and gratitude would not suffer me to think of leaving Italy, (which I shall do in about half a year) Avithout returning you my most sincere thanks for the obligation you have conferred upon me. I am, sir, with the greatest respect. Your most obedient humble servant, J. B. VOL. 1. Z 170 Mr. BARRY to the BURKES. Rome, July 8, 1769. My dear Sirs, Though nobody writes to me, yet I can pick up agreeable tidings of you from the ncAvspapers, and reports here. Some how or other the figure that you have made In the late great questions, has swelled me up into an Intoxication of happiness ; Avhat do I mind a ylle catalogue of an exhibition. In which all that Is of worth and value in the kingdom Is shame fully turned upside down ? I prepare myself to hear that you are more abused in proportion as your abilities come to unfold themselves to the world ; but I must content myself with saying thus much, though there surely can be no reason to suppose any feigned warmth or attachment in me, when ypu are the subject. With regard to rny situation here, there is nothing that can happen to spoil my relish for the good ncAvs of my firlends. Notwithstanding the high opinion I have of your knovvledge and discernment, and the just sense that I have of your friendship for me, yet I am sure that you, and even all the wisdom of the world, could not have contrived a thing that would have served me so effectually, as the malice and opposition of my enemies have done. I saw from the beginning that I was hated, (though I kept much of it a secret from you) and hated for the very dis positions I relied upon to recommend me; I saAv every avenue of assistance shut up from me by their power and Industry, except 171 that glorious one of my profession, and I endeavoured to take a sure hold of that ; my love of art naturally, and my desire of not disappointing your good intentions in seriding me hither, would have, no doubt, called forth all my Industry ; but that was nothing to the stimulus which urged me on, and as the cause was virtuous, I found myself of that stubborn disposition either to conquer or perish In it; so that I werit seriously to Avork and left to them the Cavaliers, and the Avasting away of their time In' dressing up phantoms arid distorted maccaronies in my name ; so that if nature ever did any thing for me In the way of genius, it has had all the fair play and justice, that almost unexampled un wearied appllGatlon to the best things could do for it. My ene mies themselves see it now, and it only serves to embitter them the more. I would to God that Hussey, (in whose steps I have been long treading) had been provided with a little of my stiff- neckedness, and he would not have, foolishly, and in a pet, thrown up his abilities and his art. I am loth to mention Hogarth, though his memory ought to be blamed for his ungenerous treat ment of my poor Hussey. I have finished my studies after Raffael in the Vatican, and I have been a long time in the Capella Sistina, so that it Is impossible for you to Imagine what an enthusiast I am for Hussey 's drawings sincfe I came more nearly ac- qtiainted with Raffael and the antique. For God's sake, send me some account of him. Is he still alive? and is It yet possible to get him to do any thing for his country. I am ac quainted with two of his friends here, and shall be happy to let them know something about him. It is a great pity that he did not perceive the possibility of gathering roses out of that path which his enemies sowed Avith thorns for him ; of this I am so clearly convinced, that had I a friend or brother to send here, and could z 2 172 have any dependence upon the strength and firmness of his mind, I would wish him of all things to be throAvn Into the same situation that I have experienced ; where his mind might grow strong by the exercise opposition will give him, and his conduct require to be so guarded and watched as to give oppor tunity to weed out all the asperities of his disposition : his know ledge of men and the world would be much, and the knowledge of his profession more. All these advantages may be had In such a situation, as you know well ; and it has been my en deavour to turn it to as good an account, as my portion of ability was capable of: and my dear sirs, be assured of this, that hoAvever disagreeable it was to me to be obliged to live at variance with them, yet 1 am now satisfied that it was the true regimen for such a habit of body as mine : had 1 lived quietly and upon good terms Avith them, much time would have been wasted away in eating and drinking, and lounging, fee. I should have contented myself perhaps with some particular portion of my art, and neglected the proper correctives for my deficiencies, which were many ; but when they attacked my colouring for example, 1 went to study Titian, and soon had the pleasure of seeing them silent upon that head. Correct drawing, style, and invention, were what they knew to be the main objects I always had before me, so that I found them in the end reduced to the pitiful shift of giving up my character as an artist, and with an affected candour alloAvIng me even merit there, In order to take away from me as a man — and indeed this was more in their power, for though the body and the soul of a picture will discover Itself on the slightest glance, yet you knoAV it could not be the same with such a pock-pitted, hard-featured lit tle fellow as I am; and from my being constantly at work upon all the fine things of art, which the travellers visit, they are as con stantly necessitated to give daily vigor to their villany against me. 173 so that I shall be surprised if you have not been frightened with the terrible accounts given of me ; but they serve for me and my friends here to laugh at, as we are In the secret, and know that nothing of this can stick, since these cavaliers never so much as spoke to me, many of them never saw my face, and none of them my work, so that I see nothing even to hinder my being on good terms with them hereafter ; as I detest as much as themselves, the shocking figure of the raw-head and bloody-bones that has frightened them. I have been longer in the stanzas of Raffael at the Vatican, than I imagined it would take me, and though 1 have been some time In the Capella Sistina, yet I believe it will take me a month longer or more ; after which 1 shall wish to return to the antique for another month; so that, God willing, about Christmas I shall be ready to wait your commands what route I shall take, and as I shall never have an opportunity of making this journey again, I could wish that you was content 1 should just see Venice, and I am indifferent about any thing else now : perhaps if my stay here was delayed till March, the Aveather would be more favour able to my scheme of profiting by the journey ; but in this 1 shall be entirely determined by you. No doubt it is to your attention to the great and interesting national business that 1 am to ascribe the silence of the family for this long time past, for it is not possible that the weak malice of my enemies could have attempted upon me in a quarter where I am so well known ; but this is Idle. — You, I am sure, heartily rejoice, as I have reason to do, with me in a persecution which has been productive of so much substantial good. I wrote an ansAver some time ago to a most obliging friendly 174 letter which I received from Sir Joshua Reynolds, I am really happy at this other mark of distinction which is bestowed upon his unquestionably superior talents. Nobody rejoices more than I do to find the world Inclined to make those acknowledgements to abilities and virtue. I am yours, my dear sirs, with every epithet that can belong to one entirely devoted to you, and to the whole family. J.B. If you have an entire confidence In this good news I send you of myself, you will not be sorry for It when you see me, and Avhat I have been doing. You will be so kind to remember me to whomsoever you think It will be agreeable. Mr. BARRY to the BURKES. Rome, no date. Dear Sirs, The enclosed Is the bill of lading for five cases, Avhich, except a few things in my head, contain all that I am worth in the world. There Is a Laocoon, the Torso of the Belvedere, the fighting Gladiator, fee. and In the smallest of the cases. No. I. are three copies after Titian, I wish you to open this last men tioned case immediately on its arrival, as there is also In It my picture of the temptation of Adam, If It should be in time for the exhibition, and that Sir Joshua Reynolds can procure a good place for It near the sight, he will exceedingly oblige me in put ting It in, but, if It cannot be near the sight; let it not be exhibited 175 at all. As I shall set out for Rome by the beginning of next Aveek, I hope by the blessing of God, to be In England about June next. The journey cannot fail of producing something In the way of improvement, and if you know how I have spent my time since my coming to Italy, you would be persuaded that my industry stands in no need of the spur, as my studies have been altogether concentered upon the antiques, and the heads and great originals of the Italian schools ; I shall have very little to delay me after quitting Rome, except at Venice, and perhaps at Parma, I shall have a sort of, curiosity to look a little Into the beginnings of art at Florence aud Venice, for at present I am but little satisfied with the accounts of It, which the Italians have published. The belief that Cimabue, Giotto, and Taffi, were the restorers of art, and Improvers on the Greeks, is with me rather suspicious; for there Is at the church of St. Maria In Cosmedin, a picture of the Madonna and child, as large as life, done with some skill, and brought from Greece in the time of the Iconoclasts. There is also In the Vatican library the Russian calendar with some hundred figures painted in it, and the Greek artist's name at the bottom. There Is a taste, spirit, and ability in the figures ofthis calendar, which is not to be met with In any other work of art executed in Italy from the time of Constantine, or at least from the time of Charlemagne, down to the age of Masaccio in the fifteenth century. The pictures In the two gospels of Charlemagne's time are abominably bad in every respect. Some Bolognese and Roman writers say that Vasari has given a false account both of the ip^. fancy and perfection of modern art, in order to do the more 176 honour to his couritrymeri, the Florentines ; and perhaps there may be also some reason to complain of them all, as Italians are not over just In what they say of the works of the Greek Chris tian artists. This is a matter, to be sure, of very little import ance, and which I should have taken no notice of, had it not been for a search of another nature that I have taken up lately. I have no doubt you will consent to my publishing of it, when you see it, and until then, I shall say no more about it, except that It is short, touches but upon a few things, and takes up but little time. The studies and proofs of my industry that I can produce before you on my arrival, put me out of all fear of your upbraiding me with mispending my time In enquiries foreign to my real business here; and although I go over with poor hopes, and 1 think a melancholy prospect enough, yet this arises rather from my fears about the taste of the public, than from the know ledge 1 have of myself, i shall say nothing about the catalogues offish, fowls, fruits, roses, snuffers of the moon, fee. which have been produced in your exhibitions. I have seen them all lately, and 1 begin noAv to think that I have taken the wrong end in my studies, and that the antiques and old Italians are more sought after from their characters, which are upon record, than from any real feeling of their excellence My poor master, Hussey, Is dead, and was always but little noticed, and yet there was In his time a great noise about pictures, and painters were much em ployed. Your friendship and feeling for my Interest are, I think, as visible in the warm picture you have drawn of my conten tious disposition, as In any other part of your generous conduct towards me; but then shall I assure you that I am not that cen sorious inspector and publisher of the defects of other artists. ^No, you know me better, notwithstanding what you have said, and J know that, whether from my vanity or virtue (ifi have 177 any) you will ne\'er meet with an artist, more warm and just to the merit of his brethren, or more Inclined to overlook their deficiencies than 1 am. I love art and consequently cannot hate an artist of abilities, and I am persuaded that the writings of Du Bos, Winkleman, and others, have given the world such an unfavourable idea of our people, that nothing can save us from the imputation of barbarians, but our producing a set of artists, who will altogether throw a noble lustre on the different branches of art. This is only what can bring the nation into notice with fo reigners; a miserable fellow, who would monopolize to himself all the character for knowledge and abilities in art, would defeat his own schemes, for let him be supposed to have ever so great skill, yet he must unavoidably be enveloped In the general obscurity of his country. You know I began my Adam and Eve shortly after my arri val here. This I hope will be some apology for whatever de fects you may see in it, though I confess I touched It over very lately in many places. If you Avill, after It is exhibited, give it away as a present to some acquaintance of yours, you will oblige me — but only I should be glad that you kept the three Graces after Titian, and the half figure of the Madonna with the child, as they are studies, which may serve to regulate my future conduct In coloring. The large picture of Raffael at the little Farnese, of Cupid demanding Psyche from Jupiter, a copy of which Is at Northumberland-house, is a picture, which though not of Raffael's execution, yet is with reason looked upon as one of his greatest Inventions. In it are all the gods and goddesses of antiquity, from Jove to Hermes. I have always spoke my mind out to you, and I shall do the same now. There is not one of all those figures that either agrees with the antique VOL. I. - 2 a 178 statues, or with the character and description of the deities in the Avritings of the Greek and Latin poets. I am quite clear that this great defect, Avhich runs through all Raffael's works, where he has treated heathen subjects, would have been remedied, had the Cultivation of Greek learning In Italy preceded the labours of their artists. I am encouraged by this difference, that I see in the characters of this picture, from the poets and antique statues, to go on with a very beautiful and Interesting subject, and almost similar, which I have taken out of a Greek poet, and where all those personages make their appearance. The studies I have made from the antique, will, 1 hope, with the use I shall make of ydur reading and opinions, carry me through this work. You will see a large drawing of it, on my arrival, which has got me some credit with the few people to whom I have shewn It. O ! I could be happy on my going home to find some corner where I could sit down in the middle of my studies, books, and casts after the antique, to paint this work and others, where I might have models of nature when necessary, bread and soup, and a coat to cover me. I should care not what became of my work when It was done ; but I reflect with horror upon such a fellow as I am, and with such kind of art in London, Avith house-rent to pay, duns to follow me, and employers to look for. Had I studied art In another manner, more accommodated to the nation, there would be no dread of this, but Hussey 's fate is before me. At my instigation, Mr. Morrison the antiquary has sent to the academy a cast of the Torso of the Belvedere. I told him I would mention it to Sir Joshua Reynolds, to whom Morrison's corres pondent is to send it: Sir Joshua will, I know, excuse my writing to him. 179 Mr. BARRY to Mr. BURKE, Florence, no date. My dear Sirs, I LEFT Rome the twenty second of April, and from some examples of Gothic architecture at Viterbo, Bolsena, Sienna, fee, 1 am altogether confirmed In the notion which struck me at Rome, . that what is commonly called Gothic architecture Is neither the invention of a Northern or Eastern people, as It is generally believed, but is really the state of cor ruption, to which this art arrived by a gradual process In the hands of the same people, the Greeks and Romans. Mr. Ram say, In his Investigator you know, opposes the one to the other, merely to shew that there is no such thing as taste, nor any foundation whereupon we can ground our preference of the one, or our disrelish for the other. He may sit down, like the fox In the fable, and rail at taste and Grecian art as long as he pleases, but every rising nation will admire and imitate it, Ave are doing it, the French have done it before us, and the Italians before them. About the middle times of the Roman empire, they began to let fancy run wild, and forsake the Greek taste in small matters, then In greater : they by little and little lost the memory of the rules; and this manner called Gothic In architecture, was just the state which the art arrived to by insensible degrees, from Au gustus to Theodoric, and the times after him. When they began to build Christian churches, their returns back to good taste and Greek art are just as gradual, and I have had infinite satisfaction here In Florence, (which you know has been the cradle of the arts) iri tracing the footsteps of it. Vasari has been an excellent guide to me, he Is a most candid noble minded fellow, and the 2 k 2 180 warmth and enthusiasm with which he speaks of his country men he will never be accountable for, with any Intelligent man who sees what they have done ; as I now perfectly agree with Vasari In all that he has said of the times from Cimabue to Da Vinci at least. It will be to no purpose my repeating any thing after him, and if you recollect the three proems to his lives, they are Invaluable. Many of the old things before Masaccio are perished, and the chapel of Masaccio was near undergoing the same fate, as the vile friars were about a year sincegoing to white wash the Avails, but were providentially prevented by an order from the grand Duke. I fear very much for several other dirty walls here, if the grand Duke goes away, as it is said he will. The large picture of Father Cimabue in the church of St. Maria Novella I have reverenced ; there are so few remains of his other works, of Giotto's, or of the Greeks who were their masters, that there is no comparison now to be made, and for the Greek Christian pictures that remain at Rome, as I do not know identically when they Avere executed, I can determine nothing in the way of comparison. I shall here allow myself a few bye remarks upon some few of the old Florentines. Vasari in his account of art divides It into three periods from Cimabue to Masaccio, and from him to Da Vinci, fee. who were authors of the perfect taste. I shall begin with Masaccio, in whom I see many particular things very nearlv perfect : there is an amazing variety in his heads, naturally and well painted, the faces In particular are draAvn with great accu racy, the attitudes of many of his figures are extremely natural and firm : they centre well upon their feet, and the feet are often in an excellent taste, and with great ability are put different AA^ays 181 in perspective. He has reached after every thing that is good, and one can easily find in him sound examples of perfection In every part of the art, except in sublimity, beauty, and knowledge of the minutiae, and the foreshortening of figures. Torsos, limbs, kc. His drapery is excellent, in a large manner, and well painted ; the colouring of his heads is well, in some excellent. The lower part of Raffael's Dispute of the Sacrament, (which is one of his best pictures, and that the best part of it) Is exactly in the taste of Masaccio. There are five or six figures of Masaccio that would stand so well in It, that it would be almost impossible to distinguish Raffael's work from Masaccio's. There is a portrait of Raffael here at the AltovitI palace, which Is Indeed altogether in the style of Leonardo da Vinci ; and so is his Transfiguration in the same style ; but his Dispute of the Sacrament is particularly of the leaven of Masaccio. Contemporary with Masaccio Is Lorenzo Ghiberti, who seems to me to be the original source of that style in sculpture which we call Michelangelesque. He is astonishingly great for a man of the time he lived. His bronze figures at Orsan Michele in Florence, are exactly in the style of the cinque cento. One of his evangelists in particular Is so very like Michael Angelo's work, that I could hardly persuade myself it was done so long before Angelo's time. I cannot hesitate a moment in pronounc ing that this figure was the model upon which Michael Angelo formed his manner : there Is here the grand and fierce air of the face, the same loose play in the bend of the arms, at the fingers, wrist, and elbows, and the same contrast in the turn of the head. The minutiae of the naked is not as exact and well studied as In Michael Angelo. His gate of the Baptisterium of St. John, which was first executed, and which carried the prize from 182 Donatello, Brunelleschi, and others, has great merit in it. The naked body of the Christ scourged is excellent. There is a grace ful turn in the parts of the figure, and they are well finished in a good proportion. The compositfons of many of the stories smell of the age he lived in. They are for the most part stiff and little varied ; but there are good parts in them. But In the second gate, which faces the cathedral, and which he finished some years after the first, it is the most astonishing thing that can any where be seen — how much he advanced art. I speak coldly of It, when I say, that though it has served as the model for basso-relievos ever since, yet It has never been equalled In any one part; the beautiful grouping of things, the happy perspective of his objects, his leaves and ornaments, and the laying out of his compositions, none of his successors have been able to touch him In. But these were only mechanical parts, in which they might Imitate him at a distance. But the noble reaches of Ghiberti's imagination is only to be paralleled amongst the ancient basso-relievos. When Eve rises into creation at the command of God, she is supported by little Loves, who are usher^ ing Into view the sweetest Idea of a woman that I ever saw. His little figure of Sampson, Vasari mentions, and his praises are w^ell bestowed upon it. — In one word, this is the man that entirely removed the Gothic stiffness, and established in its place a poeti cal manner of treating things ; Ideas of true beauty and perfec tion on the one hand, and of real grandeur and sublimity on the other. And on the whole of his works he seems to have known every thing of art, but the expression of the soul iri the counte nance, which was reserved for his successor, Da Vinci, and the absolute knowledge of the detail of all the parts of the figure, which belongs to Da Vinci and Michael Angelo: but as this could riot come Into his little figures, they are many of them perfect. F/SZ. Vol! ^^.y/t r. '¦/¦/- r>/^ I//// //¦¦/// r^7/ (^77(' o/ mc^L/^li^cui of t'Ae <.FJ^y'j'>ri/l7A.:7/l:7//(//7 (^ at 183 Donatello is an excellent sculptor, but inferior to Ghiberti, and Vasari praises him too much. Brunelleschi the architect> is also a most excellent sculptor. His Christ crucified, large as the life, in S. Maria Novella, Is excessively well understood ; as to the anatomy, better than any other work I know of that time. The attitude is good, with an agreeable air in the parts ; the legs, thighs, knees, feet, fee. are well formed, and with very great truth, which indeed reigns throughout the whole. It appears a little meagre, and not In so beautiful, bold, and masterly a man ner as Ghiberti. I have been cruelly disappointed here with respect to L. da Vinci. I counted upon seeing in this his native city. In the duke's collection, some few drawings of the naked at least ; in which, for every reason, he must have been most excellent : but here is nothing of him in the naked. His Medusa's head Is in the gallery, and I will say nothing of it but this, that neither Raffael nor Michael Angelo, nor any other, ever did, or had ability enough to do any thing like it. But then what Is there in It ? Nothing but an obscure gloomy head full of agony, with water in the eyes, and environed with snakes and venomous ani mals. His own portrait painted by himself, which Is in the gallery, gave me an entire disrelish to all the other portraits that are there ; so that you must not expect I should do otherwise than pass them over In silence. Raffael's portrait In the AltovitI palace Is just like his Transfi guration, highly and beautifully finished In Da Vinci's manner ; a great strength, breadth, and relievo In the shadows ; the hair Is, to be sure, finished in the manner of another head of him, which I have a copy of, by single hairs, and in a painful laboured way ; 184 but he has contrived It so, that this hurts not the picture ; it falls down in great and noble masses, which are adjusted in so large and free a manner, that It Is at least equal to any thing he ever did : it Is not only in every part of It without a fault, but sense, simplicity, beauty, and perfection prevail equally all over it, in the attitude, the character, and finish of the face, and the beautiful masses of the hair. The Madonna della Segglola at the Palace-PItti is one of the best of Raffael's works ; the face of the Madonna Is singularly beautiful, and of the little kind like the Venus de Medicis. In the head of the Bambino Is a character of nature and truth that I never saw in any thing else ; the hands of the Madonna lie won derfully in perspective, but are a little mannered and squadrate, so as not to correspond with the head ; the arm of the Christ is also a little squadrato, and Michelangelesque, but these faults are hardly visible. Baccio Bandinelli seems to me to be altogether unworthy of the age he lived In, coming after Masaccio, Ghiberti, fee. and contemporary with Da Vinci, Michael Angelo and Raffael : there is no one thing in any degree of perfection in Bandinelli ; big Christ, supported by God the Father, Is ill conceived, poorly characterized, and worse executed ; It is heavy and out of all proportion, the legs are too short : his Adam and Eve are his best work, but unworthy any other man of the same time. The figures are bad in many parts, ordinary In others, and beautiful in none : they stand like posts to be looked at, as there Is no story or circumstance that links them together, but the tree and the devil, Avhich are in the midst. The Eve is as big as the Adam : they are both equally strong and equally feeble, male 185 and female beauty is but poorly characterized in either. The Adam Is particularly bad, his body ill made out and of a poor character. As I spoke of Ghiberti in the general run of his works, I will return to him for a moment, just to tell you that the hands and arms of his St. John Baptist are admirably well made out, with great nature, simplicity, and knowledge of the minutiae, Where- ever I can make exceptions for particular works of any man, I always do It to the utmost of my knowledge, and if I could speak in favour of any particular work of Bandinelli, I would do it here. With respect to Fra, Bartolomeo, I cannot determine whether Raffael studied his manner of colouring or not : It rather appears to me, from every thing that I have seen, that the manner Raffael first adopted (after that of his master) was Masaccio's, which he after quitted for that of Leonardo Da Vinci, In the Palace-PittI is a Madonna, child and angels, fee, by Parmegiano ; it is large as life, and the best picture I ever saw of him. Beauty and grace reign throughout the picture. There is vast truth and certainty of drawing, in the legs, heads, feet, fee. and, were it not that grace is pushed a little beyond the mark, this picture might stand unrivalled. He has not, as In others an affectation of grace, but rather real grace, beauty, and elegance, carried a little too far, so as to lose nature and simplicity in action, and attitude. Titian still holds his character with me, he is the man of all the Avorld that paints in perfection. His Venus, in the gallery, is defective in no part of the drawing (which is more than I can VOL. I. 2 b 186 say of any other figure of his) and there is a happy idea of beauty kept up throughout the head, body, and limbs. The character of beauty is of the small kind, like, very like the Venus de Medicis, which he certainly must have seen, for many reasons, before he painted it. Strange has altogether lost the character in his print, his figure is in every respect of too large and clumsy a style. The same might be said of his print of Titian's Danae at Naples, and yet I will do Strange the justice to say, that he has happily kept the tone of both these figures (which is the material thing In Titian) and upon the whole, I believe there does not now live another engraver that would have done them as welL The antique statue of the three graces. In the library of Sienna, are about the size of small life. They have lost some of the arms, and one of the heads. They appear to be of very good Greek workmanship, and the pictures of Raffael and Pinturicchio, also in the same library, have at first sight, much the look of Albert Durer. They are most wonderfully fresh and well pre served. Infinitely beyond any thing of his at Rome. The per spective is admirable, the figures, though dressed In a Gothic and barbarous manner, are well and firmly drawn, and In a good proportion. In the sacristy of Lorenzo at Florence, are some figures of Michael Angelo; parts of them are finished, and other parts only blocked out in the marble. 1 can say with truth that I admire some things in them as much as I ever did any thing ; but other things are really very bad, caricature, and distorted : his Pieta in St. Peter's at Rome, his Christ at the Minerva, his Moses, and his Capella Sistina, are his best works. 187 Mr. WILLIAM BURKE to Mr. BARRY. April 24, 17 70. My dear Barry, How often have I, and have all of us, resolved to answer your last letter ; that prudent and wise man, whose maxim It was to put off nothing till to-morrow that could be done to-day, saved himself a world of mortifications, and did his busi ness Into the bargain : but it Is cheaper to applaud and admire wisdom than to follow it. By our delay too I fear I write to no purpose, and that this will scarcely catch you, and yet It Is much wished by Edmund, Sir Joshua and all your friends, that you should make some stay at Bologna. I am so Ignorant that I will not affect to tell you the object of staying there, nor is It need ful, for your own taste and knowledge will much better direct your attention than any thing I could say. The vessel with your boxes is not yet arrived, so that to our great regret, your appearance at this year's exhibition is Impos sible : whenever it arrives, you may rely upon our attending to your directions. We are very glad to find that you have employed your pen In your own art; as from what you say in your letters upon that subject, Ave are confident that you will shew a knoAvledge and judgement that must do credit, as well as do service to the art; nor do I say this in compliment, for your letters when you speak 2 B 2 188 of painting, do manifest much thinking, and much knowledge. You will not do us justice, if you suppose us inclined to upbraid or even to suspect your having neglected your studies or thrown away your time In idle disputes : but do you think if Ned's child were far distant from us, we should not have a thousand fears and anxieties ? Our prejudice and affection would easily persuade us that he was always right, and yet we should fear the world would have their prejudices too, and think him in the wrong. But Independent of our regards, do not imagine that we hear nothing but the wrong, justice Is done to your merit too, and we do hear of you in terms that makes us proud. Ned Is very sensible of the extremely polite manner you speak concerning your Adam and Eve, and you may be sure he will not dispose of it to your dissatisfaction. Continue, my dear Barry, that noble enthusiasm that looks to fame alone, depend upon It too, that It Is the truest road to fortune ; nor dread poor Hussey 's fate. Taste as well as art itself Is hourly Improving, and at all events, please God to preserve them, you have friends that will not leave you to soup and bread, and a coat in a corner. As a man, you are loved, as an artist they know your taste, are confident in your industry, and expect, as friends, to participate your fame. We shall be glad to see you, but do not hasten. — I am particu larly desired to beg you to stay a time at Bologna. If elsewhere you find reason of delay, stop and take your time, finish your travels and your studies before you leave them. Mrs. B. has been very III lately, but, thank God, she Is now much better. We expect almost every day poor Richard to set off for the West Indies. Ned's little boy is every thing we could wish, good In his person, excellent In temper and disposition, attentive and diligent In his studies beyond his years. He is turned of twelve about three months ; he has read Virgil and Horace, and some 189 prose writers. He has gone through about four books of Homer, and is reading Lucian, with really a scientific knowledge of Greek, There is a young gentleman with him, an excellent scholar, and an excellent man, to whose care we are indebted for the happiness of the child's conduct. We are all most af fectionately yours; Sir Joshua, whom we love and admire, is heartily in his regards for you ; as almost in every thing, I am my dear Barry, your affectionate friend and servant, WILLIAM BURKE. At Turin, be so good as to call at our minister's there, and enquire for Mr. Cooke, my particular friend. He will be happy to see you. Mr. BARRY to the BURKES. Bologna, no date. Dear Sirs, I AM still in Bologna, and I am afraid, as the season is- far advanced. If I shall be obliged to stay here much longer, that it will be hardly in] my power to get out of Italy before the beginning of spring, as the winter Is exceedingly severe in those parts. My picture of Philoctetes is finished, and those artists who have seen it and my other things, have been more favour able in their opinions of that and of me, than I could have well expected ; the figure is larger than the life. I did it as well as 190 I could, and as to the point of time, fee. in the story, I folloAved closely the Greek epigram upon Parrhasius's picture of the same subject, and I found the Philoctetes of Sophocles, an useful com ment upon it. I have not as yet sent it to the institute, as I am without money, and if I should be much longer so, I must think of pawning it with some painter, if I can. It Is a little unlucky that it is not some saint, or miracle of a saint, and then perhaps as much might be raised upon it as would have paid my lodgings; but I doubt even, as the Italians are all full of the idea of selling pictures to the English, who are full of money, and the richest, and consequently, the most re spected people In the world, but that the idea of an Englishman's expecting to get money from them for pictures, would be thought a most extravagant solecism. As you desired my stay ing some time at Bologna, when 1 had finished at Venice, I came back to Bologna, as it was not losing ground In my journey, and would, I well knew, be more agreeable to my plan of study. The post after you received my last letter, Messrs. Nettervllle and Nugent received a bill for thirty pounds, which I foresaw, from my stay in these places, would be necessary to carry me home. It is almost a month since Signor Vergani (to whom I gave the bill) came to my lodging to tell me the bill was refused payment. The letter which he read to the people, at whose house I lodge, made me a little uneasy, as I love to live in harmony and friendship with all people, particularly with the Italians, for whom I have the greatest esteem ; and 1 then foresaAv that the doubts it gave them of my morals and probity, were in no wise favourable to those impressions I hope to leave on all people, with whom'I live : however, 1 endeavoured to content myself the best I could with the accident. Vergani has heard nothing further about it since, so that about the latter end of this week, 1 shall be 191 obliged to pawn the watch, which was given me in Paris by Mr. Richard Burke, as I have nothing else, upon which I could raise any thing ; studies of the antique, of Michael Angelo, of Raffael and Titian, carrying no value with them amongst pawn-brokers. I am very fond of Guercino ; his two pictures at St. Gre- gorio, and at the Carthusians are excellent. I have seen no picture of him any where equal to that at St, Gregorio : Agos tino Carrache Is admirable in his Assumption of the Virgin, There are In no work of art in Bologna, stronger examples of sound merit and real knowledge, taste, and drawing, than in some heads, hands, and arms, fee, of this picture ; Guido has a little figure of a Christ, in the same church, which is also admirable: as to Ludovico, and Annibal Carrache, I never wanted a high opinion of them, and I am never like ly to want it, as it encreases daily, the more I see of them. Some pictures of Cavedone also deserve the repu tation they have. I have at present but little gusto to write any more. I wish to get upon my journey, to send you some account of Corregio, My love and best repects wait upon the family, upon Sir Joshua Reynolds, and all friends. I am, dear sirs. Yours whilst I exist, J. B. 192 Mr. BARRY to Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS. Bologna, JVov. 17, 1770. Dear Sir, I hope you wiU excuse the liberty I take in troubling you with the care of this letter, for Messrs. Burke, which I beg you will send to them speedily into the country, if they be there, as I have some reason to think they are, by my receiving no answer to the three last letters I sent them. To one of which at least an answer was exceedingly necessary for me, as it was upon a money affair ; but to be sure these letters have never reached them. As both you and Mr. Burke advised my staying some time in Bologna, I am extremely sorry that so much of my attention was left to my own taste and discernment. I could have wished to have known how the old Bolognese painters stood in the judg ment of my friends ; and when your name was mentioned In Mr. William Burke's letter, I really hoped that some advice would have followed It, regarding the particular manners and differ ences that are found in the good pictures here of Ludovico, An nlbal, Agostino Carrache, Guercino, Guido, and Dominichino: I remember one day at your house a very just and useful re mark you made upon the solemn low tone of colouring of Ludo vico. Guercino has also much of this manner in his fine pic ture at St. Gregorio, with this difference, that I observe in this picture of Guercino more mellowing and fuoco in the colour ing. Many of Ludovico's pictures have been cleaned and retouch- 193 ed a few years'ago, as I have been informed, and are much the worse for it. It is a great pity that Guercino did not paint all his pic tures in the grave majestic tone of this at St. Gregorio. He has in the general run of his work too muCh white among his colours. There is hardly any thing that could be more welcome to me than a letter from you, in which I could wish above all things, that you would speak your opinion plainly upon whatever ad vantages you think I might derive from Correggio's works at Parma, or other works of art which lie in my way home, and which I have not yet seen. By letters from Rome, I am informed of the arrival of my things in England, so that before this time you will have seen my pic ture of Adam and Eve, by which you will be enabled to point out to me whatever remedies, you think may be necessary to correct my deficiencies. It is what I expect from your candour and the obliging friendly dispositions which were manifested in the letter you favoured me with in Rome ; I wish ardently you was to do it, as It is much my Interest and desire to fortify myself as well as I can in my profession, before my arrival in England. Messrs. Nettervllle and Nugent, merchants In the city, will Inform you by penny post, whether the bill I drew upon them is paid ; if so, and that you think of favouring me with a letter, direct to me at the post In Parma ; but if the bill Is not answered, direct to me at Bologna, where your letter must infallibly find me. I am, dear sir, with great affection and respect, your most obedient humble servant, J, B. In consequence of the compliment made me by the Bolognese artists of receiving me Into their body, I have painted a picture of Philoctetes for the Institute ; the figure Is larger than the life. VOL.I. 2 c 194 Mr. BARRY to Mr. BURKE. Bologna, same date. Dear Sir, I wrote you by the last post, but as I am afraid that some accident, miscarriage, or your being in the country, or in Ireland, or I do not know what has happened, which has occasioned my confusion, I now write to you through the hands of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who I know will forward it speedily wherever you are; as I foresaw after my arrival in Bologna, that I should in some time want money to carry me home, I gave Vergani, the banker here, a bill, which he was to forward to Messrs. Nettervllle and Nugent. I asked nothing from him till the bill Avas paid; above a month ago his correspondent wrote to him that the bill was reftised payment, but that Messrs. Nettervllle retained it In their hands, in expectation that another friend would come, who they believed would answer the bill, of which Vergani's correspondent was to inform him by the succeeding post. More than a month is now past, and Vergani has heard nothing further about it. He tells me he is afraid that the letter is lost, or he does not know what has happened, and I am a small matter In debt in my lodgings which is daily increasing, the people full of doubts and disquiet about me. Not able to go out of the house for Avant of a winter coat, my mind Is so uneasy that I am not master enough of myself to be able to paint, so that if the bill of Vergani should not have been paid, or I do not hear from you 195 by the return of the post, I must be obliged to take a Avalk some morning out of my lodging, which I am very unfit for, leave all my little studies behind me, and go, where God knows, for I do not. I am yours and the family's, J. B. As to the pictures of the old masters here, it was my opinion that it was better for me to visit them often, than to copy them, as I had already formed my stile of drawing, colouring, and com position, by copying much at Rome and Venice of the antique, Michael Angelo, Raffael, and Titian, so that I began and finished that picture of the Philoctetes to put up in the Institute, as it would, in case It merited the attention of travellers, be seen by every one who came to Bologna, through which all pass. Mr. WILLIAM BURKE to Mr. BARRY, London, December, 7, 17 70. My dear Barry, I HAVE time but to say a word, to thank you for your two letters, one by post, one through Sir Joshua; we are all well. The inclosed will shew you that the 30^. was paid, and had we known how to address you, we should long since have wrote to you. Inclosed I send you the acknowledgement of the 2 c 2 196 house here. Inclosed you have a letter from your father, who Is in a bad state of health, and, with great deference, it were wise and not Improper to see him before he dies. You may, dear Barry, be assured that we would do any thing sooner than leave you distressed in a strange country ; but still cash is not as plenty as it was some time ago, so that if you haA^e further occa sions, mind not to draw so many days after date, but after sight, which gives us time to look out for the money, which is other wise due before we see the bill, and is an unnecessary inconve nience. When I say this, take It as it is meant, not as the least lessening of our regards or willingness to be always useful to you. I am sorry to tell you that one of your five cases is wanting ; your Adam and Eve and that case is gone down to Beaconsfield. I will only say that your friends are thorougly pleased with them, or if they have objections, I leave them to themselves to make them. I am glad to hear you yourself are so well satisfied with your Philoctetes. The remaining three cases are in an empty house opposite to us, for our house is very small, and would not hold them, but they are safe. We heard from Richard the day before yesterday. He was well and doing well. Ned joins in the most affectionate regards to you. Mrs. B. is with her lovely boy in the country, but both Avell. I am, dear Barry, Most truly yours, WILLIAM BURKE. 197 -' Mr, BARRY to Mr, BURKE, Bologna, no date. My DEAR Sirs, Yesterday Signor Vergani came to my lodging with an account of the bill's having been paid : It has delivered me from much shame, and from ten thousand distresses which you cannot conceive, and which It would ansAver no purpose at pre sent for me to describe to you. From the letters I wrote to you without receiving any answer, and from the accident that has happened regarding that bill, I had argued myself firmly into the persuasion that both you and Mr. William were In the country some where or other, or were come abroad to see Italy, as you often mentioned : which of these was matter of doubt and speculation, the only thing certain with me was that my letters had not reached you. In the confusion I was in, many schemes offered themselves to me, one was to forward a letter to you through the hands of your friend Sir Joshua Reynolds* which I did last post. However this would have answered no purpose, as I could not have been able to stay in Bologna untl* even the arrival of the answer. Another scheme Avas the run ning naked out of my lodging and turning friar, when L imagined that by the means of my art I should meet with a sort of reception — ^but this was a remedy that I thought much worse than the disease. What I had at last agreed upon was, by the means of pawning what I had with some body or other, to raise 198 as much money as would carry me to Turin, where I intended applying to Mr, Coke, your friend. But I am delivered from the disorder occasioned by the delay of the bill, without the appli cation of any of those caustics, by the same hands through which all my emollients come. It Is now the 20th of November, and as I have not as yet seen Parma, It is a matter of doubt with me, whether I shall be able to get out of Italy this winter, however this will depend entirely upon the letter I hope to receive from you at Parma. The great and essential parts of the art are not to be learned at Bologna, as the three Carraches, who are the noblest characters that this place ever produced, are In the leading articles of design and colouring, far short of the degree of perfection we find in Michael Angelo, Raffael, and Titian. The Carraches are not to be disesteemed for this, as there Is a happy aggregate of all the parts of the art, which Is not to be found in the others ; and though a man might not make the Carraches, Guercino, fee. his model in great matters, yet there Is much of the art to be learned from them, and If I do not profit myself exceedingly from what I have seen of theirs. It is more my fault than theirs. It is a matter of doubt perhaps, whether some of their pictures, taken in the lump and balancing one thing with another, are not of the first class of pictures. I am here tempted to say something upon the different characters of merit of the three Carraches, of Guercino, Guido, fee, but 1 find It a little puzzling; as Annibal Is a Proteus, and admirable in all shapes, Ludovico is different in his styles, and always proper and adapted to his subject, and Agostino has left but few pictures behind him, in which are some particulars even superior to the capacity of either Ludovico or Annibal • 199 though upon the whole, Agostino seems the least formed in the practice of a picture of the three, and yet he seems to have had an amazing and graceful practice in his drawing. Dear sirs, I am and ever shall be. Yours and the family's, J, B. If Parma does not answer my expectation, and that the weather permits, and that I have no orders from you to the contrary, I shall go on directly for England. Mr. BARRY to Mr. BURKE. Parma, January 13 ^ 1771 My dear Sirs, I HAVE had fears upon me for some time past that you were dissatisfied with my picture of Adam and Eve, and that it has not answered the opinion that your friendship and par tiality entertained of my abilities ; I believe it, but however, if you consider the time that I did It, and the many advantages of improvement I have had since, perhaps It will not be unreason able to suppose that the next picture you see of mine may be less defective, and have more merit; as I can now say, that the mechanical parts of the art, design and colouring, fee, I have 200 -studied separately one after the other, and from the best exam ples of each ; 1 have been attentive and industrious, and what I shall do when I go home will best tell how far I have succeeded. I am now just quitting Italy, and I am happy at It, as I am burning with a desire to see what I am able to do, and what is to be the consequence of all my hard labour, and of all the money you have expended to give the labour its proper direction. I have reason to believe that you will say I have neither deceived you nor myself. When I arrived at Modena about a month ago, by the means of a letter in my favour, to Signor Pagani, who is keeper of the duke's gallery of pictures, drawings, fee, I had a fair opportu nity of seeing every thing, and satisfying myself In some particulars which I wanted to know. There Is in the gallery at Modena, a Venus foreshortened by Annibal Carrache, which is in every respect worthy of him, and there| Is also a Pluto by Agostino, that is still better than the Venus of Annibal : the Pluto smells a little of the academy, and Indeed this Is a defect that in my opinion runs through the greatest part of the Avorks of these tAVo Carraches. Ludovico Is more natural and simple, but then he has not the elevation of character and dignity of the other two. It might be objected here to me, that this elevation and dignity of the other two Carraches is owing to the very par ticular, which I point out as a fault ; but it is not so, for there is in the antique statues all that is estimable as to the designing part of the three Carraches without the faults. There is also here a picture by Ludovico, but 1 did not like It — ^there is nothing in it of that great merit which Is so justly admired in his pictures at jBologna. There is also in the gallery a most extensive and excellent collection of drawings — ^but those of Polidore Cara- 201 vagglo, Parmegiano and Raffael pleased me the most. Parme giano I am In love with. These drawings of him shew all elegance, spirit, and mastery Imaginable. There Is a study in black chalk by Raffael of one of his figures In the Transfiguration, but my favourite of all is Raffael's drawing of the Calumny of Apelles. This drawing (to speak only of the execution of it) is elegant and beautiful, and at the same time It Is correct and true. Shortly after. Raffael's time this manner of drawing had been laid aside by the great masters ; what with sketching, flourishing, and masterly strokes, the truth and exact scrupulous correctness of form and contorno, have hardly been attended to by any artist, and I have seen them all ; Hussey has been the only man that has strode in Raffael's steps. I do not speak of Hussey 's inven tion, for I do not remember well his two figures at Northumber land house, but I will say that he was able to correct in some places this drawing of Raffael's (glorious as it Is); and that by his Intense study of the antique, of anatomy, (which he made an elegant and true use of) he was by a great deal more knowing in the naked than Raffael has shewn himself in this or in any other work. But to return to Raffael's Calumny, there is a print pub lished of it in Crozat's collection, which Avas done from a draw ing that is now In the possession of the king of France ; whether that In France be original or not is more than I know at present. Vasari, in his life of Benvenuto Garofalo, mentions a drawing of this subject, which Raffael gave to Benvenuto : perhaps it Is this at Modena. Doctor Pagani the painter, to whom, as I told you before, I was recommended, is publishing an account of the pictures, fee. of Modena. This I was happy at, as I expected through his means to find out something of the works of Francesco Bianchi, VOL. I. 2d 202 Avho was so much celebrated by Vidriani, fee. According to them he was also Corregio's master, and they praised his works for those very particulars of colouring, fee. which we ad mire in the pictures of Corregio at present ; but Pagani and I searched all those places mentioned by Vidriani, and there does not now remain the least vestige of him. The church has been rebuilt, another has been white- washed over, and all is gone. However, according to these writers, and to George Vasari, Cor regio must have been better off as to masters, than any artist of Italy. Francesco Bianchi had beautiful colouring, graceful atti tudes, great invention, fee. and Andrea Mantegna, his other master, was the best draftsman, and had more of the antique than any other artist of his time, so that there is but little faith to be given to the vulgar story of his doing every thing by the force of genius, and what not, which Mr, Webb has Inserted In his book. I am afraid all other stories about great geniuses are as groundless as this, if the truth was known. I have seen here those figures of terra cotta by Antonio Be- garelll, and I think the compliment that Michael Angelo paid them was extremely Idle and ridiculous. He said that if these terra cottas were marble, they would destroy the credit of the antiques. Angelo's statues are in marble, and they are ten thousand degrees beyond Begarelli, and yet much inferior to the antiques. The truth Is, . that Begarelli Avas a good sculptor, he had tolerable good notions of the Avhole of a figure together, he had a little of gusto in his attitudes ; his women in parti cular — some merit In his draperies, and little or none at all In the naked — so that what could have tempted Michael Angelo to give him such a character is out of my poAver to divine. 203 The last tv^orks of Parmegiano are here in Parma, at the Madonna della Steccata. They are six detached figures, a Mo^ ses, three Sybils, and an Adam and Eve, though I will chari tably believe Eve was by somebody else ; I am at a loss about what 1 shall say of these figures, for fear you will think that. I forgot what I have often wrote to you about the superior talents of Raffael and Michael Angelo in the designing part ; but no matter, the truth is to be preferred to any consideration. At the time he did those figures, he sCems to have got over (or laid aside) the carlcatura of perfection and elegance, which are to be found in many of his former works, and in many of his designs. This Moses Is of a most noble and enthusiastical gusto, and re gular design; two of the Sybils please me beyond description, they are in the true Greek taste, and of about the same degree of merit for the finish and execution as the Juno of the Campi doglio, or the Farnese Flora, or any Other excellent antique of the second class ; the proportion is good ; the heads are in pro file, and highly beautiful, and the drapery is executed with a lightness, taste, and spirit, that I never saw in any painted work before. I thought Raffael Avas the best painter of drapery; it may be so in general ; but then 1 must be allowed to except these two Sybils. I do not knoAv how it has happened, but the other Sybil, which is in front, does not please me near so much. The same thing struck me also in his picture at St. Margarita, in Bologna. The St. Margarita, which is in profile, is beautiful, and perfect to a very great degree ; and the Madonna, which is in front, appeared to me clumsy, inferior, and ill tinderstood, which is the identical fault of this Sybil. Even the Moses, which is in front also, wonderful as it is, might, perhaps, be criticised In the left thigh, which is too long for the view that it is painted in. The Adam is also a figure of uncommon merit. It is true, 2d2 204 these figures are orily In chiaro sCuro; they are "b'^sldes consi derably raised above the sight, arid in dark weather, can hardly be seen, so that they are not likely to become dilettanti pictures. Notwithstanding, I am not ashamed to say, that, if Instead of losing himself upon his curst alchymy, he had painted the entire arch, so as to produce a mass of work altogether, which would be extensive enough to force Itself upon people's atten tion, he would undoubtedly have made as great an eclat in the world, and with as much justice, as any painter has done since the restoration of the arts ; and for my own part, I see talents In this man, which give flatly the lie to an opinion, which is very general, viz. that the perfection of art rested with Michael Angelo and Raffael, because It was Impossible that modern ge nius could go beyond them. The few works that remain of Parmegiano are not to be sure more valuable than the works of Raffael and Michael Angelo. This was Impossible, from the un happy accidental concurrence of circumstances in his time, yet there is discernible in him powers imprisoned of a superior kind to what the others have shewn, and they had full opportunity of shewing all they knew. I delayed here (Parma) six weeks, as 1 saw that it would be extremely useful for me to make a copy, or rather a study of some parts of the celebrated picture of Correggio here. It was three weeks before I could get to work at it, as I was obliged to wait until another who was there before me, had finished his copy. However, I have now finished what I proposed doing, and I shall set out In two or three days, when It is dry enough to roll up. I shall not stop any more on my journey, except three or four days In Paris, so that with the blessing of God I shall be soon at home. I shall give you my opinion of Cor- 205 reggio probably by the fire side, as I warit to see some pictures that are in Paris before I speak out. As Milan Is Iri my way to Turin I shall stop there a few hours, to examine the picture of Da Vinci : at present, I know riot what to think about It. Vasari mentions, that in his time, many of Leonardo's pictures, painted in oil upori the Walls, were much ruined, either by the purgation of the walls, or by something that he used among his colours. Raffael du Fresne says that this picture of the Supper, at Milati, Avas ruined in his time, which is more than a hundred years ago, and if 1 do not forget, it is asserted by others before him, that this picture Avas much in decay. On the other hand, I have been informed by many artistsi who have lately seen this picture, that it is at present fresh arid in good condition. I hope to be able to account for this wheri I see the picture, as I think I knoAV Leonardo's hand-writlngj The story of this picture belrig white-washed over is almost In credible to me. There is at the Capuchins here, in Parma, a most excellerit picture of Hannibal Carrache, in which an attempt at uniting the different styles of the great schools of Italy is palpably eviderit. There are at the garderi palace three pictures by Agostino Car^ rache, which pleased me infinitely. One, where Cupid is string ing his bow, with a little love on each side of him pointing the arrows, and dipping them in a fountain. Helicon, I suppose. The Cupid is designed with great beauty and correctness, and the other two pictures shew the most masterly abilities in the chiaro scuro, colouring and invention. These pictures, make one regret that he has not left more works of the kind behind him, for he has a sweeter and more poetically pleasing invention 206 than either Hannibal or Ludovico ; and these works, and his pic tures at St. Salvatore, In Bologna, shew that he was not inferior to them in all the rest. I am happy to find, by your letter, that the family are all alive and well. My father's letter brings me an account of the death of Dr. Sleigh. O God ! I am concerned, you cannot imagine how much, I flattered myself with the hopes of making him sensible by some means or other of my love, esteem, and gra titude ; but he is dead, and has put it out of my power ; and I ought to be d — d for not writing to him oftener, but my cursed application to study prevented it, as I thought, that en deavouring to obtain abilities was the greatest pleasure I could do him, O God ! his death, and the death of my brother have been deep wounds to me. I cannot understand how one of my cases should be lost, I have been consulting with myself, which of them I could.be most content to give up, the Laocoon, or the Torso, or the Gladiator, or the heads, or the books, drawings, prints, and studies; as I cannot say — the loss of any of them would be the destruction of the little peace of mind that is remaining to me, as I almost foresee that I am likely to be but little out of my art. I am very sorry that 1 must be obliged to draw for twenty poundg In order to get to England, as what, with my delays in Bologna and here, there will be but little of the former sum remaining. I am, fee. J. B. 207 THE SAME TO THE SAME, Bologna, September 8, 1770. My dear Sirs, On my arrival at Venice, I received your letter, which had lain there some time, by Avhich I found there Avas another letter for me lying in the post-house at Bologna, I wrote to a friend who sent it to me, and I cursed myself heartily for having neglected to examine before I left Bologna. The friendship and love you have and express for me, affects me; Avhat am I? or what can I say or do ? It has been the only means by which I was enabled to satisfy those longings after art, which burnt me up. It is flattering and grateful to my vanity ; and If there Is love and gratitude in my nature, it Is likely to give me the pleasing sensations at least, of making them act within me. As I had done nothing when I was at Bologna besides making a dissection, and procuring a copy of the little manuscript treatise of HercolelelH's upon anatomy, I resolved when I had done with Titian at Venice, to return back to Bologna, and give up Padua, Vicenza, Verona, Brescia, and Bergamo, as there is nothing to be learned In those places except in the article of colouring, and this, agreeable to my maxim of going always to the source, I was resolved to study In Titian alone, whose best works are at Venice. I have said formerly that I find Titian is the only modern who fills up an idea of perfection in any one part of the art. There is no example of any thing that goes beyond 208 his colouring, whereas, the parts of the art in which Michael Angelo and Raffael excelled, are almost annihilated by the supe riority of the antiques. This I long ago saw, and yet I was resolved to study both Raffael and Michael Angelo with as much avidity, as If I had not seen It ; although I will honestly confess that I used some reserve in my choice of their works, and much have I laid aside, as they were not to be reconciled with the rigid Greek examples by which I would square my conduct. Seeing and examining have brought me into that state of mind, that if any man was hardy enough to assert that the study of the an tiques and Titian alone (exclusive of all other painters) was the surest and most likely method of producing perfection, I would not, I could not contradict him. The Mosaic pictures of the Christian Greeks at St. Mark's are just what Vasari describes them, without light and shadow, abominable drawing and proportion, and standing on the point of the toes ; so that my notion of the prejudices of Vasari Is likely to come to nothing ; but then the Christian Greek pictures which are at Rome, and which I mentioned In ray former letters, are the work of more early times, when the arts were not so very much fallen. There Is nothing now remaining of Georglone except two pictures : looking after him cost me infinite trouble and vexation. One of these pictures is at the Scuola de Sartorl, the Virgin and Child, St. Barbara, fee. It is exactly what one would con ceive of Georglone ; the drawing exceedingly defective, and although the gusto of the colouring Is of the highest and most beautiful kind, yet there Is wanting the finesse and little artifices of Titian to make It as perfect as it is gustoso. Vasari says that 209 Georglone took the first hint of this beautiftil manner of relievo and colouring from Da Vinci ; and Ridolfi, who did not want the will to dispute Vasari's assertions, has passed this over in silence; but It is true indeed ; and the pictures of Da Vinci that I have seen, and the picture of his scholar Bultiafio at Bologna jus tify it. Titian's pictures of St. Peter the martyr, the annunciation at the school of St. Roch, the St. Lorenzo at the Jesuits, the assump tion of the virgin at the Frari, and the Venus at Florence, are undoubtedly (for an union of all the parts of painting) his most complete and masterly performances, though I do not think they are his most valuable ones. The St. Peter martyr has no very gross defects in the drawing and understanding of the parts ; there is on the contrary, much correctness and a great disposition to wards a fine style In the forms of the limbs, great and noble expression, the greatest degree of enthusiasm, and strength, and the most sensible and manly conduct throughout the whole ; for my own part I never look for any thing in Titian but his colour ing ; yet putting the subject, which admits of little variety, out of the question, if this picture was well examined arid all its defects and excellencies, and the qualities and degrees of them weighed against even the defects and excellencies of the Trans figuration of Raffael, I will not pretend to determine which of them would turn the balance — ^but yet Raffael would outweigh him. He has In all his works a certain urbanity of character, a divine and pleasing soul, which nobody shares with him, except Da Vinci, and sometimes Parmeggiano. Titian's St. Lawrence at the Jesuits is also designed in a most masterly manner, the body and limbs of the martyr are through- VOL, I, 2 E 210 out of the same beautiful, light and genteel character ; the foreshortening is conducted with ability, and in many places is very Michelangelesque ; but as it is a night scene, there is little to be learned from it in the article of colouring. The Annunciation at the school of St. Roch is a very great monu ment of the abilities of Titian ; the ideas of the figures are beautiful and graceful, and it Is conducted with an amazing management, care, and a compleat and delicate finish in every part of it. The Assumption of the Virgin at the Frari is also another work of Titian, remarkable for great excellence, in^ dependent of the colouring and clear obscure; the heads, necks, fee. are most of them of a great and noble character, inuch above common nature. The Madonna and little angels are extremely beautiful and well drawn, and the management of the chiaro scuro, and composition, is such, that notwith standing It is in bad preservation, yet if it was put in the same room with Raffael's dispute of the Sacrament, and School of Athens, it would perhaps demonstrate a great deal of bad ma nagement, and much want of skill In some parts of the painting of those celebrated performances. I remember Avhen 1 was at Florence, that my regards for Raffael made me advise Bastianello, the custode of the gallery, to re move the St. John of Raffael into some other chamber, for as it hangs opposite to the Venus of Titian, It suffers much, and no intelligent person can help looking upon it with much coldness and indifference. These, and a few other pictures of Titian are of a style of character different from the general run of his works : there are, as 1 observed before, good qualities in them, •independent of the colouring, fee, although the degree of perfection of those qualities is not carried to as great a length as they are in Raffael and Michael Angelo ; and they seem to be in Titian effected rather by feeling than science. 211 There are other pictures Of Titian, in Avhich beauty, ele gance, expression, truth, and character of draAving, are not so much attended to ; but then the colouring, and management of those pictures is in the greatest Imaginable perfection, even so as to please me more than the others, except the Venus ; but not withstanding all, I cannot heartily relish Titian's draAvIng. I have arrived at that unlucky pass that nothing will go down with me but perfection, at least in some one of the grand essen tials of a picture. And this is enough to satisfy me in any work done since the restoration of the arts ; although I am well con vinced, from the practice of the Greeks, that men are capable of much more, arid I am as firmly persuaded that the Italians also would have shown it, were it not that certain combinations of education and other accidental circumstances prevented it; what they have done, and the particular places in the arts where they have broke off short, and wandered away from the true scent, and the reasons that induced them to it ought to put the matter beyond all dispute, except with Winkleman, Du Bos, Montesquieu, and such visionary philosophers, who draw all their knowledge of the arts from the clouds and climates, and who appear to me in much the same situation as that of Dr: Sharpe, with a short stick in his hand, raking in the ordure of Naples, with the view to get Information of the manners and way of thinking and acting of the inhabitants. But to return to my other class of Titian's pictures, which are only remarkable for the painting. There is at the Salute, his picture of St. Mark, St. Roch, St. Sebastian, and Cosmo and Damian; his St. John at St. Maria Majore, hisTobit and the Angel at St. Marcilliano, the St. Jerom at S. Maria Nova, three pictures 2 e5 212 by him at the Borghese-palace, his Bacchus and Ariadne at the Aldobrandini, and the half figure of Christ, fee. at St. Roch's. This half figure of Christ is in one place ascribed by Vasari to Titian, and in another place to Giorgione; there Is an exact duplicate of It at the Incurabili, which Boschlnl says Is Gior- gione's ; now which is original or copy, or which belongs to Titian or Giorgione, I could not determine. Titian's pictures are divided by somebody or other, I forget whom, into three different manners ; the first that of Bellini, his master, fee. But I have seen no pictures of Titian In the manner of Bellini. With respect to colouring. In the first works I can discover of him he has adopted the manner of Giorgione, which he kept to all his life after. The difference In Titian's manners, if they will have it, is in the drawing and style of composition, expression, and character, and a greater or lesser degree of finish in his works. His early pictures are stiff and unvaried in their attitudes, some of them want truth, science, beauty, character, or expres sion In the whole together, or in certain parts in particular; and although he was never in any time of his life arrived to any other knowledge of these particulars than what was almost acci dental and occasional, yet the differences In his works are in these matters, and, as I said before, in the greater or lesser care and finish which he employed in his works. In the latter part of his life his reputation only seems to have given a value to his works, for, as in drawing and in every thing that depended upon form, he never had arrived by a proper study to any sure and determined knowledge and principles, his pictures are con temptible, monstrous, and disgusting, when he laid aside his usual diligence and attention to nature. There are some pictures of his to be seen of this kind, particularly his St. Sebastian at the Barbarlgo-Palace, which to me appears nothing more than a most 213 disorderly mass of colours, jumbled together by the dashing and slobbering of a pencil. This is one of his last pictures, and his approaches to this manner, from the care, delicacy, and complete finish of his pictures in the early time of his life are very gradual, so that this is not the only bad picture of his, and yet horrible as this manner appears to me, it has not been without Its admirers. The greatest part of the works of Tintoret are considerably made up of this leaven, and the Avorld has been taught to believe that It Is the effect of true genius — that it Is Maestroso, and such cant, as at once gives the lie to all our notions of sound art. From this absurd principle differently modified, may be traced out many of the seemingly different manners and corruptions of the Venetians, Romans, Florentines, Bolognese, fee. The greatest part of Tiritoret's pictures are executed in this beastly manner : and yet his large work of the crucifixion at St. Roch, and his resurrection of Christ at the Doge's palace ought to be excepted out of this censure, as they really prove that he was capable of better things ; however, you will say that this is so much the worse, as It vindicates the capacity at the expense of the morals, and shews that man to have been wanting in love and respect for his art ; who could ponsent to the putting such indigested stuff In public and honourable places ; while his accepting pay ment for them leaves us but a poor Idea of his honesty. There is a picture by Sebastian del Piombo at the church of St. Gio Chrlsostom, which has the highest kind of merit in it ; it is a close and fine imitation of Giorgeone's manner of painting, united with a good deal of elegance and truth of drawing ; It gives me a much greater idea of his merit than what he has done at Rome, after the designs of Michael Angelo. 214 The works of Palma Vecchio deserve great praise, they are re^ gular and well conducted in every part, Paris Bordone Is be yond all others the best imitator of Titian's manner of colouring, but then it is no where possible to find any man of character In art, who was so childish and uninstructed in the drawing and forms of his objects, Paul Veronese cannot be omitted in ever so slight an account of the Venetian painters ; otherwise I would willingly pass him over, as I am afraid to speak my mind about him; he has a very great character in the world, and no doubt he deserves it ; but there is a certain languid unfeeling coldness takes possession of me, when I look upon his works, that I can hardly suffer myself to examine either his excellences or his defects. He is different from Tintoret with regard to the finish^ ing of his pictures, he is correctly attentive to the pursuing all his objects through all the parts that compose them Avith an ex ecution (and as the Italians call It andamente of pencil) which is easy, spirited, and agreeable, but then Tintoret appears to me a man of infinitely more feeling, and his picture at the Scuola of St. Mark's, notAvithstanding all his slobbering, interests me more than any thing 1 have seen of Paolo's. I can have the patience of sitting down to criticize and abuse this and other works of Tintoret ; but of Paolo I do not know what to say : In short, one painter is a very improper person to give an account of another that is out of the pale of his school : They must think of one another, as the Calvlnists and the Catholics do — all without doors in damnation ; and as in the way of conceiving of a subject and all the figures and forms that compose it, I have hitherto endea voured to abstract myself from every thing that is not Greek or like the Greeks, so perhaps it ought to be no disparagement to Paolo that I turn up my nose at many of his admired composi tions, that I look upon what is called his grand machine, and 215 the riches of his invention to be in truth, nothing more than a false grandeur and an affected splendor, flowing out of brains more filled with trifles than solidity. Rubens has made up his manner entirely from the pictures of Tintoret and Paolo, notwithstanding all the learning and fine poetical fancy discoverable in his pictures. He Is In matters regarding taste, as vulgarly erroneous as Paolo. I can bear with Vittore, Scarpaccia, the Belllnis, fee: one sees in them art not arrived to maturity, whatever they have is right, but they have not every thing. But when art comes to pass maturity, and manner and affectation get into play, it might be relished by the natives, who are growing up into more manner and greater affectation, but a stranger cannot like It, he has no principles that can reconcile it to him. I offer you this reason In order to avoid saying any more about the mannerists of Venice or Bo logna. However, I Avill not forget old Bassano ; there are many of his works which are very excellent. I am got back again to Bologna. I have mentioned to you before, that I think the three Carraches are indeed very respect able for their great ability; I have a great opinion of Do minichino, and of Guido also. There is an excellent picture of the Murder of the Innocents by Guido, as St. Dominico, ano ther In the Cardinal's palace, fee. But there Is here a picture of the Marriage of St. Catherine by Parmeggiano, which is a caput operae. It is worthy of Raffael or any man, and further, there is In no one part of it any affectation or caricatura of Grace. It Is highly beautiful, exact and solid. There Is no great matter in the two draAvings that are here of Hussey, he was a young man when he did them. The academicians of Bologna have done me the honour to send me a diploma, but my admission into this body 216 was more owing to the obliging dispositions of two friends of mine here, Mr. Keableand Signor Bianconi, than to any merit of mine, as it was done entirely Avithput my knowledge. It will occasion my staying here for about three weeks longer. In order to paint a figure, which I Intend presenting to the institute. As from my stay at Venice, this stay which I intend making at Bologna and a little at Parma, I might probably want money, I shall draw upon Mr. Nugent and Nettervllle this post. A gentleman, Mr. Soils, obliged me the other day with a pe rusal of the Remarks on Grenville's state of the nation. Perhaps the ship is arrived before this time, I should be glad to know it, as I am in fear for the gessoes and some few of my studies after Titian, fee. If you was to write to me at the post house in Bologna, If I should not be there when your letter arrives, it will be sent after me to Parma. Is Mr. Richard set out? and how does little Richard (but he Is a fine lusty fellow now) still go on with his Greek ? He will be of great use in explaining Homer and Pindar to me, when you two will be taken up with the affairs of the nation. My dear friend the doctor, I hope, still remembers me. I long much for a t^te a t^te with him and^Mrs. Burke. You and the family avIII, I hope, for ever consider as an indubitable part of their property, your affectionate and humble servant. 217 Mr. BARRY to the BURKES. Dear Sirs, In order to divert my attention from disagreeable reflections upon the fatigues and extraordinary expenses of travelling In this time of the year, as I have also an idle day upon my hands In waiting for the diligence, and as there Is no thing worth looking after here In Lyons, except trade and manufacture, in which I have neither knowledge nor taste, so I shall turn to my old resource • of more pleasing me morial. I shall say nothing of Corregio's ceilings In the Duomo, and In S. Giovanni at Parma : they are, I will allow, what might be expected from the great abilities of such a man ; but as I do not like this kind of painting where macchia and effect Is more consulted than expression, beauty, form, and character, so I shall leave for others to say about It whatever they please. Cor regio's fragment of the Annunciation is excellent, full of grace and beauty. His Madonna della scudella is admirably well coloured In all the parts, and In the Avhole together, but the drawing Is bad and much wanting In the proportion, fee. This picture is a convincing testimony, that he was Ignorant of drawing (very ignorant) and yet some part of his other picture of S. Girolamo, at the academy, proves as convincingly that he drcAV well, and very well, and in excellent, proper, and va riegated proportions. To reconcile this might be more diffi cult and troublesome than useful, and therefore, I will only VOL. I. 2 F 218^ suppose either that this Madonna della scudella was an early work of Corregio's, or that sometimes he made light of the drawing of his figures, or that sometimes he succeeded in his drawing more from pains, and a habit of mere imitation, than from principles and knowledge. There are other pictures by him in S. Gio vanni, in which there Is much to praise, and somethirig to dis praise. In the palace of S. Vitale is a little Madonna and Child by him, which is A^ery excellent, and much like Titian's manner of colouring, which is very different from the general style of Corregio. In the same palace is also a most beautiful precious little picture of S. Cecilia, and two angels by Parme gianino : it is admirable in every respect, for most elegant true drawing, good colouring, most gracefully invented, and cleanly and well finished; the landscape and foliage are full of taste, spirit, and beauty. There is also a collection of drawings, several by Parmegianino, which are now engraving by Signor Bosse, a man of merit both as a stuccatore of fruit, fee. in which he is very able, as in engravings In aqua-fortis. There are also two studies, done with a pen by Michael Angelo, for figures in his Last Judgement. There is also a picture, Avith Leo nardo da Vinci's name wrote upon il ; there is much of a painful, laboured merit In some parts of it, but as it Is totally devoid of taste, it cannot surely be his, so that the name must have been forged. The famous Volta In Piacenza, by Guercino, merits all the praise which is generally given to it. It is his best and most gus toso manner of colouring, with a chiaro scuro, broad, and as the Italians say, piazzafo. The style of design, and the naked, are infinitely more noble, and more in the historical character, than he generally has them. Of all the Avorks I have seen of Guer-- cino, this is Avhat does most honour to his character. 219 The two bronze equestrian figures of Alexander, and Ranu- sio Farnese, are very good, and also the bronze basso relievos on the pedestal shew much taste of design, invention, or com position. There are some singularities* In the manner of work ing those basso relievos, which we will reserve for conversation, as I want to come to matters of more importance. In the academy of Milan is Raffael's Cartoon (in oiled char coal, or black chalk) for the school of Athens : there are parts of It not finished, others only in the contorno, some few parts of It different from the picture. The head of Diogenes is rather a placid, general sort of a head, without that acute, cri tical character of face, which he has given to him In the picture. As this cartoon has merit enough to pretend to be original, the above particulars incline me to think that it Is undoubt edly so. There Is a piece of an admirable cartoon by Julio Romano of a battle. Also a drawing of Michael Angelo, for the angle of the Capella Sistina, of the brazen serpent. It is outlined with a pen, and washed with bistre and white. Angelo's powers in the naked all are agreed upon ; but there Is besides In this draw ing, an admirable conduct in the grouping and composing the figures ; and a general effect, and broad piazzato manner of chiaro scuro, which 1 could hardly have believed, had I not seen this drawing, notwithstanding I had seen the picture. There is here also a holy family, fee. by Bernardo Lovino, in which the pleasing sweetness in the heads of the Christ, the * For particulars concerning the singularities here alluded to, see vol. 2. 2 F 5 220 Virgin, and the S. Anna, deserve every commendation, and is not Inferior to Leonardo da Vinci himself, whose scholar he was. As to Da Vinci, there Is here of him, a half figure of S. John Baptist, a bust of Christ, and a portrait of the Duchess Beatrice. In the sacristy of S. Celso, Is the S. Anna, Madonna, fee. of Da Vinci : it is a copy by Salaio; the great sweetness of character, the roundness, and great relievo, breadth of effect, deep thinking and gusto, in those pictures, verify what Vasari says, that Leonardo was the pillar and foundation of the per fection that was given to art In the cinque cento, Giorgione might well have drawn from this source his strength of relievo and shadowing, and Raffael his pleasing sweetness, expression, precision, and truth of nature ; and though all those perfections do not exist together in any single work, yet they might be Avell collected from his works In general. As to his picture of the Last Supper, which has made such a noise in the world, the account I have to give you about it Is as follows ; when I came into the Reffettorio, I found a scaffold, erected, which on ascending, I saw one half of the picture cover ed by a great cloth; on examining the other part that was un covered, I found the skin of colour, which composed the picture, to be all cracked into little squares of about the eighteenth of an inch over, which were for the most part in their edges loosened from the vrall and curling up — however nothing was materially lost. I saw that the picture had been formerly repaired in some few places ; yet as this was not much, and as the other parts were untouched, there was nothing to complain of. The won derful truth and variety of the expressions, so well described by Vasari and Rubens, and the admirable finesse of finish and re lievo taken notice of by Armenini were still remaining. Whilst 221 I Avas examining this part of the picture, tAvo gentlemen came up the scaffold and drew aside the cloth which covered the other half, which to my great horror and astonishment was re painted. One of those men seemed, to be at great pains to shew the vast improvements the picture was receiving by this re painting : but the repainting and the discourse so kindled my indignation, that 1 Avas no longer master of myself: What, Sir, said 1, is it possible that you do not perceive how this painter. If I can call him a painter, has destroyed the picture in every part on which he has laid his stupid hands ? Do not you see that this head is distorted and out of drawing, that there is no longer significance or expression in it, that all his colouring Is crude and wants accord ? Do, Sir, open your eyes and compare it with the other half of the picture which he has not as yet buried Linder his cursed colours. He answered me that this was only a dead colour, and the painter Avas to go over It a second time. O confusion, said I, so much the worse; if he has thus lost his Avay Avhilst he Avas immediately going over the lines and colours of Leonardo's work, what Avill become of him when he has no longer any guide, and is left blind and abandoned to his own ig norance : and turning myself to tAvo friars of the convent Avho stood by, fathers, said I, this picture and the painter of It has suffered much by the ignorance of your order. It was white washed over some years ago, it has been again hurt in Avashing off the white, and now you have got a beast to paint another picture upon it, who knoAvs no more of the matter than you do yourselves ; there Avas no occasion for thus covering it over Avith new colours ; it might be easily secured in those parts that are loosening from the wall, and it would stand probably as long as your order will. The friar told me that he did not under- 222 stand those matters, and that he spoke but very little Italian/ that he was Irish, and that it was by the order of the Count de Firmlan, who was secretary of state, that this picture was re. painted, and that the convent had no authority and had given no order for It.^ Indeed then countryman said I, the world will be very little obliged to Count Permian ; it were to be wished, and It will be for the interest and honour of your convent, If you can prevail upon the count to spare at least what Is remaining of the picture and take down the scaffold immediately." There Is In this church of the Dominicans the Christ crowned with thorns by Titian; it is certainly In the number of his very best pictures. All that is admirable In Titian's character is to be found in this picture, and it is in excellent preservation. In S. Celso there Is a good picture of Paris Bordone, the tone of colouring in the landscape and figures is as usual very TI- tianesqUe. There Is in the Reffettorio of the church, a large picture of Abraham, Melchlsadeck, fee. by Paolo Lomazzo, a man famous for his writings upon art. One sees in it that he knew every thing and imitated every thing ; there is Raffael, Da Vinci, Titian, and every body to be found in it, and yet it Is good for little : it is a mere hateful caput mortuum without perfection or worth of any one kind. In Turin I saw the royal collection of pictures, but, except a picture or tAvo of Guido, which I did not like, all the rest are Flemish and Dutch, Rubens's, Vandyke's, Tenier's, Rembrandt, Scalken, fee. They are without the pales of my church, and though I will not condemn them, yet I must hold no intercourse 225 with them. God help you, Barry, said I, where is the use of your hair-breadth niceties, your antiques, and your, fee. ?— Behold the hand- writing upon the wall against you ; In the country to which you are going, pictures of lemon peels, oysters, and tricks of colour, and other baubles, are in as much request, as they are here. I am now in Paris, and expect with the blessing of God to be over with you on the heels of my letter. 1 will just look over the things here, and will bring you accounts about them In my pocket. I say nothing to you of Savoy and the Alps ; the country was no longer to be found, all was snow, and sleet? and misery. My head was disturbed and clogged Avith the drams and the wine with which I was obliged to fill myself in order to thaw the blood of my veins. I am, dear sirs, whilst I live, as I should be. Yours and the family's, JAMES BARRY. It has been said that Mr. Barry was continually occupied at Rome in contentions and dlsptites, and it avIII appear from his correspon dence with the Burkes, that more of ill-will and Avrangling pfessed and re-passed between him and others at Rome, than those friends actually approved of. But Barry was a man who seldom saw with the eyes of others : his vIcavs and opinions Avere peculiar to himself, and as his own, often widely differing 224 from those of ordinary minds, he had an unguarded force of language and manner to maintain them, which, with those Avho could not cope with him, created enemies ; and when enemies once declare themselves, one must be cautious of reports ; there is therefore nothing to say on this matter in addition to what the reader has found In the correspondence — -who must have been delighted with the elegant and friendly exhortations often thrown out by Mr. Edmund Burke, not so much to curb the irritable and boisterous temper of the young artist, as to sooth and allay it. In the midst of these contentions he found time to see what was worth seeing, and to digest most things he saAV-— so that few men ever profited so much by their residence in that centre of ancient and modern art as he : and while others were thinking him idle, he Avas swallowing with the thirst of enthusiasm at uncertain and unequal intervals, more than their calculations could well com prehend. It is related by those who were his fellow pupils, that there was no method or regularity In his study, that his hours of attending the galleries were uncertain, and often out of the or dinary time set apart by other artists, and his habit of copying the antiques the quickest, and what they considered themost un- artlstlike, as he always employed an instrument called a delineator. But the truth is, that he left the glory of drawing by the eye, with the colouring, varnishing, and finishing of mere copies to Inferior artists, and was contented with the accuracy of outline and tenour of design, on which, at his leisure he could study the proportions, and by analysis and induction, build up the philosophy. If it may be so called, of the piece before him. In this manner all the fine antique statues passed under his hand, (and as the drawings and sketches Avere among his papers, it can be said) with a scientific accuracy and 225 unwearied Industry and minuteness of research which astonish. He has gone over the Apollo, Venus de Medicis, Laocoon, and many others, in all variety of aspects and reductions of size, with their proportions measured and noted down with geometrical exactness. It is doing his Industry an Injustice by pretending to mention the names of the antiques which he studied in this way ; he had gone over the whole series, as well as many of the bas- reliefs, which he thought essential to the knowledge of design. Puny malice, therefore, must not rob him of the praise due to Industry, nor represent him but as an example to be imitated in this Instance by every youth pursuing the same studies, and as verifying in himself the lines of the poet, which he so often in culcated to his own pupils : " Painful and slow to noble arts we rise. And long, long labours wait the glorious prize." In the same manner with the paintings at Rome and elsewhere, he disdained being a copyist, and only executed a few, and those either to hold the remembrance more strorigly on his mind, which are generally unfinished, or where he finished them, to gratify some friend. He executed one or two In this way for Mr. Burke. But if his hand was not employed upon the copies, his mind generally was on the originals — so that he has drawn up critical remarks on most of the celebrated paintings he saAV — ^with what success will be seen in the course of his wTltlngs. In 17 71 Mr. Barry arrived in England after an absence of five years, mostly spent at Rome. An artist with acquirements by VOL. I. 2 G 226 nature and education, such as he possessed, was not likely to remain long undistinguished in the profession he had chosen, and without delay he boldly struck at some chef-d'oeuvre of ex quisite taste and skill, which Avas to raise or sink his reputation as a painter, perhaps for ever. The maxims of Mr. Burke, in matters of literature and the fine arts, had always made Impres sions on him, proportioned to their weight and excellence. In a letter of that admirable writer to him at Rome ; " It will " not do," says he, " for a man qualified like you to be a con- " nolsseur, and a sketcher. — You must be an artist ; and this you " cannot be but by drawing with the last degree Of noble correct- " ness. Until you can draw beauty with the last degree of truth " and precision, you will not consider yourself possessed of that " faculty. This power will not hinder you from passing to the " great style when you please, If your character should, as I " imagine It will, lead you to that style in preference to the " other. But no man can draw perfectly, that cannot draAv " beauty." To paint this delicate and difficult subject under the character of Venus,* was the first dawn of his career in England. How far he succeeded must be left to the different tastes of connoisseurs ; but if the Galatea of Raffael was considered as a specimen of ideal beauty in that day, or the Venus of Titian some years after, or the Venus de Medicis always, as rivalling both ; the production of Barry stands on a level perhaps with the latter, as it excels in all the power of exquisite and poetic conception, the two former- It was certainly sufficient to obtain for him probably all he * There is a large print from this painting, executed by Mr. Valentine Green, and and another of smaller size by G. S. aud I. G. Facius 227 wanted — an acknowledgement from the public, of his powers in delineating Grace and Beauty in their highest ideal form. His next attempt Avas to exhibit his facility in passing to the great style, and his picture of Jupiter and Juno, painted the year after, left no doubt of his abilities on this point.* * There is a letter preserved in the Morning Post, at the time of the exhibition of 1773, which embraces some excellent observations on the grand style of painting, with allusions to this picture of Jupiter and Juno on Momit Ida. "MR. BARRY. " It has been a matter of surprise and concern to me," says the writer, " to have seen, during a course of several years attention to the progress of modern art, so many students visiting Italy, and returning without any appearance of having considered art properly, or of having known any but modern performances : this has induced me to enquire for a cause to which it can be owing ; as I am certain I have known young men who shewed in their dawning talents that promised excellence, I account for it as follows. Every one who has any acquaintance with the history of art, knows, that soon after its revival in Italy, it was carried to a degree of perfection that has caused a reverential respect to be paid to the professors of that time, by all those who have followed them. The excellence of the great masters alluded to, must either proceed from a vigour of mind, above what their successors have possessed, or from a different system of study. I will allow in this art, as in every way in which the faculties are exerted, we shall see instances of particular men, excelling all others in their peculiar branch of study. Admitting this to be the case, I do not believe it to be the cause; that has prevented modern art rivalling, in any respect, ancient : I assign another — the great works produced in the time of Leo the Tenth, were composed by men who informed their genius by an unaffected study of nature in all its effects, and corrected it by a pure attention to the simplicity, grace, and chastity of the antique. They examined the anatomy of the human mind, as well as the body ; and though we see them excel in the latter, it was considered by them as a means, not as an end. They knew the soul to be the spring of action, and the body to be the machine by which it expresses itself: by a true feeling of this, they always argued from the cause to the effect ; they- did 228 His Adam and Eve had already served as a proof of his science in draAving the male and female forms, in a correct style of ideal human character, and was further enhanced by expression of soul, without which painting can only please the eye, and not the not find a passion for the action, but a constant attention to nature informed them how the passion would demonstrate itself; they enriched their minds by a thorough acquaintance with the belles lettres, and knew it required them to be men of extensive knowledge out of the art, to excel in it. Poetry warmed their imagination. History informed them of facts, and Philosophy taught them causes ; they felt the uses de rived from such studies, and knew that a more thorough knowledge only enables a man to describe more justly. Possessed of great natural powers, and having thus cultivated them, they did not fearfully hesitate, and observe only through the medium of another man's prejudices, but boldly and independently exerted their own fa culties ; they made use of their own eyes to see, their own imaginations to conceive with, and were regulated by their own informed judgement : fixed upon a ground so firm, their works were sublime, just, and original ; but soon the scene changed ; losing sight of the higher requisites which really form a Raffael and Michael Aiigelo, succeediiig professors began to affect excellence in the more mechanical branches of study only; and though it was almost by imperceptible degrees, yet the bias once changed, simplicity and native grace were gradually lost sight of, and in their room, affectation and manner gained a general dominion. This has been the entire ruin of the French school, and if not exploded, will prevent an Enghsh one from ever producing excellence. At present, the nature of study appears to me to be limited, and promises to encourage it as much as ever. The young student is admitted to an academy, where he is astonished at the facility with which some senior member represents the model before them; charmed with this, he never looks with his own eyes, but adopts, as far as is in his power, the manner of his favourite master. He learns to think, that a leg or an arm cannot be graceful but in certain directions; that the head should have this inclination, and the body that position, in order to preserve conbast. Cramped by such rute, without daring to express a spontaneons feehng which may not be agreeable to it, he learns to produce actions as unnatural as if the figures were tied in the po sition ; his mind remains unopened, and his views are never elevated or enlarged by having the real necessary qualifications pointed out to him ! he looks no farther than his chalks, paper, and model, and thinks the academy figure, neatly finished and corrected according to rule, as the ultimatum he is to seek after. With notions very little expanded, he visits Italy, where, induced by the reverence attached to the names. 22^ mind. From these works, worthy of the Greeks, what shall we say to his descending to paint the death of General Wolfe Imme diately after — we say descending, because, however dignified he bows to the altars of Raffael and Michael Angelo, and passing on, unfired by their example, prosecutes his studies on nearly the same footing as before ; that is, by an en deavour to rival or excel in their own way, his contemporaries there. He composes history representation, where the effect of this ruinous system of study is at once seen. Having never accustomed himself to consult nature, and observe the passions, he is entirely unacquainted with either truth or learning : imagination gives place to groupes of figures assembled in general, and designed in particular, so agreeable to their academic studies, that one would imagine they were copied from such draw ings. This keeps up his credit for a while, but as truth only is lasting, (even in an age of affectation) he sinks by degrees, till he becomes the mere portrait pamter; the thirst after which branch in this country, supplies him with that success he had no title to expect in the highest walk. I now turn more directly to my first purpose. After my expectation had from time to time been disappointed, I was much pleased to find a strong tincture of originality in a Venus exhibited the last year, which was painted by the artist now before us ; this picture was poetically conceived, the subject well understood, and the emblems just and explanatory. Some parts of the drawing were incorrect, and the colouring was defective, but it is to Mr. Barry's honour, that the objections lay against the lower parts of his art. I was particularly attentive to what the present exhibition would produce from this gentleman, and was not at all surprised to find many artists coi> demning his Jupiter and Juno, as I look upon such criticism to be the natural effect of an education, confined, as before related. Objections may be made against the executive parts of this picture, but there is a strength of conception and a knowledge of the sublime in it, which gives me double pleasure; as T think the man who pos sesses so much vigour of mind, will be able to establish a truer species of study than has been hitherto adopted. I shall add, that being certain how necessary it is for painting to be cultivated upon other principles, in order to raise it to perfection, I should have given liberal commendation to one of less merit than Mr. Barry, if he appeared to feel the necessity for more extended knowledge, and shewed a reso lution to break through the contracted and mechanical views to which the student is generally confined/' 230 tlie subject might be, and worthy of public intei-est ; yet to a man, who all his life had been condemning modern costumes of dress, as clogging and disfiguring the human form rather than embellishing it, such a work must have appeared to him in an inferior light, and been undertaken in vita Minerva— It turned out so ; for except the expression of certain countenances in the picture, and particularly that of the dying hero, the rest Is unworthy of Barry, and falls Infinitely short of the popular paint ing on the same subject by Mr. West. He never spoke of this picture, yet It is said to have been exhibited, but to have ob tained no praise. The same principles with respect to modern costumes of dress operated to produce an aversion in him to portrait painting; which is mentioned here to Introduce a short misun derstanding between Mr. Burke and him about this period. The occasion was in consequence of a portrait of Mr. Burke to be painted by him at the request' and for the use of Dr. Brock- lesby. The letters which passed on the occasion avIII explain the business — ^but it may be necessary to premise, that about this time a kind of 111 humour had possessed Barry, in conse quence of the extreme intimacy of the Burkes with Sir J. Rey nolds, which led him to suppose that those friends overlooked his merits to aggrandize Sir Joshua's. There might be (for these things are common to frail human nature) some envy entertain ed by Barry towards Sir Joshua, for his respectable connexions and his splendid mode of entertaining them, and perhaps some little jealousy in the mild Sir Joshua towards him, for a repu tation that was rising to eclipse or outrun his own. W^hatever might be the cause, we see Barry standing upon a point of silly etiquette with the man of all others In the world he most 231 honoured and loved — and In a way to endanger the imputation of ingratitude, had it not been for the dignified moderation dis played by Mr. Burke on the occasion. Mr. BURKE to JAMES BARRY, Esq. Sir, I OUGHT to apologise to you for the liberty 1 have presumed to take of troubling you with Avhat I find an unseason able visit. I humbly beg your pardon for the Intrusion. My apology Is this : My worthy friend Dr. Brocklesby, who has honoured me so much as to desire , my picture, and wished to have it painted by you, complained to me yesterday, that he lias been two years desiring it without effect. I should be very in sensible of this mark of his attention, and very undeserving of it, if I had not endeavoured, as far as in me lay, to obey his obliging commands. I have therefore several times, almost in every week since he first spoke to me (except about two months when I Avas wholly In the country, without coming to town at all), presented myself to you, that If you Avere not better en gaged, I might sit to you. You have always been so much employed that you have required a day's previous notice of my intention, and for that reason declined to paint the picture at the times which suited me. It has been very unfortunate to me that my time too Is so Irregularly Pccupied, that I can never with certainty tell beforehand Avhen Ishall be disengaged. No man can be more sensible of the Insignificance of my occupations. 232 but to me they are of some importance, and the times of them certainly very Irregular. I came to town upon very pressing business at four on Thursday evening; yesterday I had some hours upon my hands ; I waited upon you ; but I found impro perly. Contrary to my expectation a gentleman who was to go out of town with me this morning, delays till half an hour after four o'clock; this gave me near five hours to djspose of, and which I was willing to give to my friend's wishes. I waited on you exactly at half an hour after eleven, and had the pleasure of finding you at home ; but as usual, so employed as not to permit you to undertake this disagreeable business. I have troubled you with this letter, as I think it necessary to make an excuse for so frequent and Importunate intrusions. Much as it might flatter my vanity to be painted by so eminent an artist, I assure you that, knowing I had no title to that honour. It was only in compliance with the desire (often repeated) of our common friend, that I have been so troublesome. You, who know the value of friend ship, and the duties of It, I dare say, will have the goodness to excuse me on that plea. On no other should I deserve it, for intruding on you at other times than those you should please to order. Nobody, I flatter myself, regards that time more ; or pays, and has always paid, a more sincere (though a very un learned) homage to your great talents and acquirements. I must once more repeat my apology, hoping to obtain your par don on thcusual plea of not committing the same fault again, I am, with the greatest respect and esteem, sir. Your most obedient, And most faithful humble servant, EDMUND BURKE. Saturday July 9, 17 74. 233 Mr. BARRY to Mr. BURKE. Sir, It is some time since I have found It necessary to train myself In such dispositions and habits of mind as were In my judgement best calculated to carry me with quiet and ease through a situation every way encompassed with thorns and difficulties : and I did flatter myself with the hopes of being able by this time to meet any attack upon my quiet with a proportionable degree of patience and serenity of mind. But I have been mistaken ; for your letter has vexed me, it has ex ceedingly vexed me. There are passages in it which you perhaps can explain, and which I wish you would ; indeed the whole cast and Ironical air of it seemed to be meant as an but I am not (I thank God for it) In any misfortune, and if I Avas, it Is with difficulty I can bring myself to believe that you would be Inclined to add any thing to the weight of It ; and yet you tell me, " that knowing you had no title to flatter yourself " with the vanity of being painted by so eminent an artist as I " am ;" you mention " my being particularly knowing in the " value and duties of friendship," and you talk of "your very " sincere, though unlearned homage to my great talents and " acquirements." — What am I to understand from all this ? if it Is the language of contempt and anger why it is so, and how comes it of all people in the world to be addressed to me? Surely there must be something In your mind ; what is it ? I should be glad to know it in its full extent, and permit me to say VOL. I. 2 H 234 that I ought not to be left in ignorance of any matter that is likely to make a breach between us. As to Dr. Brocklesby 's picture, it is a miserable subject to be made the ground of a quarrel with me. I will paint it, as I always was earnestly in clined to do, when I can get a sitting upon the terms that are granted to all other painters ; I only begged the notice of a day before-hand, and you well know that much more is required by others, and from the very nature of the thing It must be evident that this business cannot be carried on without it. If this should not be found convenient, I am sorry for it, but there is no reason of complaint on any side, as I am resolved not to spoil what I have done. I am, sir, with great respect. Your obliged humble servant, JAMES BARRY' July 11, 1774. To JAMES BARRY, Esq. Sir, I HAVE been honoured with a letter from you, written in a style, which from most of my acquaintances I should have thought a little singular. In return to an apology of mine for an unseasonable intrusion, couched in language the most reispectful I could employ, you tell me that I attack your quiet and en- 23 5 'C '¦fi '1* My finances are pretty low at present, therefore. If your Grace should think proper to send me any part of the price of the pic ture. It would come very opportunely. I count upon six figures In it, and I had twenty guineas a figure for the picture I sold to Mr. Palmer, of the Chiron and Achilles,* which was of the same size. If your Grace should not much like the picture, do not take it, as I hope to have something else by your arrival * This picture was excellent for the classical simplicity of its composition and correct style of drawing. It is now in possession of the Earl of BucLan. VOL. I. 2 I 242 in town, that 'you may like better, and If I have not, I avIU endeavour to make it. I have the honour to be, your Grace's most obedient, and most humble servant, J. BARRY. August 29, 1773. The DUKE of RICHMOND to Mr. BARRY. Goodwood, September 1, 17 73. Sir, I RECEIVED yesterday your letter of the 2;9th of last month, and am obliged to you for the account you give of the schemes relative to St. Paul's. If I recollect right the picture of Stratonice has but four capital figures in it, the other two being only companions : how ever, I do not mean to value the picture by the number of figures. On the other side of this paper I send you a draft on my bankers -for a hundred guineas, which I should hope you would think a sufficient price for the picture, but If you do not, I will imme diately send you another draft for twenty more. I beg you will send the picture to my house at Whitehall, and am, sir. Your most obedient, Humble servant, RICHMOND, kc. 243 To His Grace THE DUKE OF RICHMOND. October 14, 17 73. My Lord, Your Grace has, since I had the honour of writing to you, doubtless heard from the newspapers that An gelica, Cipriani, Dance, Reynolds, West, and I Avere the artists fixed upon by the academy to execute the pictures for St. Paul's. Dance had chosen for his subject the raising of Lazarus, Rey nolds the Vlt-gin and Christ in the manger ; West, Christ raising the Young Man from the Dead ; and mine was the Jews rejecting Christ when Pilate entreats his release. I do not know what the other two were to be, as the Individuals were out of toAvn when we had our meeting. We had some disputes before we could agree about the size of our figures^ but the result was, that no figure should exceed seven and a half feet, or be less than seven in height. I neglected add ing this piece of intelligence to what I had before the honour of writing to your Grace, as 1 had some suspicions that It was not all got over, and the event shews that they were not 111 founded. Sir Joshua Reynolds, who had undertaken the management of this business. Informed us last Monday, the day after his return from Plympton, Avhere he was chosen mayor, that the archbishop of Canterbury and bishop of London had never given any consent to it, and that all thoughts about it must consequently drop. As there are but few artists interested in leading the arts Into such a channel as this would be, it is no wonder to me that there are so 2 I 2 244 few who regret the obstacles thrown In the way of It : but If it could be supposed that these difficulties do really originate from the tender consciences of those two bishops, it is weak and Incon sistent beyond all description. When St. Paul's was built, they carried on the necessary ornaments of it as far as their finances suffered them. Many parts of the history of St. Paul are painted in the dome : his conversion Is carved on the facciata ; there are large statues in stone of the apostles all round the church, and there are eight wooden angels, human size, about the organ ; and Westminster Abbey is even more than abundantly filled up with carved images, and representations of dead men. Mengs and othc^ natives of foreign countries, where art and the human mind have been long since in a vitiated, sickly, and dying state, are employed without scruple in pictures for the churches of our Universities ; and It Is well known that there are but few sacred places in England where art has not long since been so far introduced as to make It impossible for us, with any appearance of consistency, to wallow in the filth and grossness of Jewish ar guments and ideas. You know, my Lord, that when the people on this side of the Alps, about two hundred and sixty years ago, were freeing themselves from the fetters of the Roman pontiff, the arts, which (unfortunately for this country at present) were the glory and ornament of Italy at that time, Avere wrapt up in the same bundle with papal encroachments; they were con founded with what they were but accidently connected Avith, and every argument was tortured to criminate them: so that however justly we may be disposed to set a value upon the love of freedom and independent spirit of our forefathers, yet it would be very unAvise and unbecoming us, after so much litera ture and Greek elegance have been poured into the country, 245 to bind ourselves down to the ignorant, passionate, and weak decisions of a people, when they were but just emerging from barbarity. When I shall have the honour of seeing your Grace In town, it will make me happy to have your remarks upon your picture of Stratonice, and I expect myself upon the revision of it with a fresh eye to discover perhaps something to amend. As there is nothing more flattering to me than the honour of your Grace's notice, so there is nothing I more really wish than the happiness of giving your Grace whatever satisfaction Is in my power. I have the honour to be, with the greatest respect, your Grace's most obliged and most obedient servant, JAMES BARRY. Shortly after the failure of this scheme for decorating St. Paul's, another prospect opened, highly flattering to Mr. Barry's wishes, by a proposal, made through the hands of Mr. Valentine Green, to the same artists, for ornamenting the great room of the Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce In the Adelphi, Avith historical and allegorical paintings. This proposal was rejected by the artists themselves. This was in the year 17 74. In 17 75 he published an Inquiry into the Real and Imaginary Obstructions to the Acquisitions of the Arts in England. 246 The design of this treatise was evidently formed while he was " at Rome, and appears to have been occasioned by the taunting reflections made by foreigners, and often Indolently admitted by the English themselves, of the Insufficiency of the Genius of these isles for producing any thing exquisite and noble In the fine arts. Montesquieu, who had rung the chimes on the power of climates, and had calculated human capacity by degrees of latitude, was at the zenith of his reputation in Italy as well as France, and his specious system of the Esprit des Lois wanted not followers in a country where the amenity of climate was supposed to produce the finest degree of human excellence, and td place the character of man high, though at the expense of other regions less gifted by nature. In all countries the herd of talkers on philosophy and the arts are sure to follow for a time some favourite and fashionable writer, on Avhose system they fix their faith, in proportion as the speciousness of his reasoning and elegance of style flatter their love of novelty, indolence, and national vanity. Du Bos and Montesquieu were both writers of this kind, and had so far cap tivated the minds of the Italians and French, that their systems were the most popular and prevailing at the time Mr. Barry visited Rome. Mingling in the societies of literati and artists in that city, he soon had to learn the hard lesson of the inability of British Genius for works of the first kind in painting and sculpture, and to hear the two authors quoted in support of the assertion, as well as another author, at that time resident In Rome and in the plenitude Of reputation, Winkleman. It is singular to what absurdities human reasoning can be carried, where a system is to be built up — forsooth, because the excesses of heat and cold diminish, suspend, and destroy the mental facul- 247 ties, and even life itself; the intermediate degrees must produce all the varieties of human excellence or degradation, Avhich we meet with on the surface of the globe. Without attempting to refute such principles by scientific reasoning, Mr. Barry takes the better mode of doing It by historic evidence, and shews that whatever influence climate may have in different countries, the rise and degradation of nations have been entirely owing to moral causes — that in this rise and fall, fluctuating like the fluid in the barometer, the fine arts have, Avith the morals and capacities of the Inhabitants, flourished and decayed ; revived again, again to sicken and die : and this in countries the best endoAved by nature according to the system of Montesquieu,^ for perpetual refinement : proving this general position by the histories or examples of Greece and Italy with respect to the fine arts, he turns with becoming Indignation to the insinuations of these writers on the Incapacities and want of Genius of the In habitants of the British Isles for the higher productions of art, and proves that climate had no share in the influence of keeping back these productions, but that England, at the period the rest of Europe was rising Into a love and proper feeling for painting and sculpture, was thrown out of the sphere of their attractions by the reformation, by political revolutions, and civil dissen sions — and finally by the general turn of the public mind to me chanical Inventions, to trade, manufactures, and commerce. In vindication of British Genius for poetical capacity, which Is the basis of design, he gives an animated critique on the works of Milton, and shews, that the grand and chaste imagery ofthis poet was worked up on the purest and brightest selec tions of Ideal beauty and sublimity : and taking an example of the figure of the Devil, as represented by Tasso with horns 248 and hoofs, glaring eyes, and a tail — hideous rather than grand, he contrasts it with the majestic figure of Satan as delineated by the English poet — and defies the purest period of poetic or graphic art, at any time, to produce a standard more compleat of real sublimity. In like manner he takes the sweet scenes of Paradise with Adam and Eve, and particularly the descrip tion of the latter by Milton, for the purest model of Greek ideal beauty. " Cedite, Romani Scriptores, cedite Graii." So much for the Inability of British Genius! In every country where the fine arts have risen to a standard of perfection, they have advanced to this state by Imperceptible de grees, promoted, retarded, forced back, and again advancing by accidental circumstances, with which the climate had little to do ; and he takes occasion to instance this in Italy with respect to paint ing, sculpture, and architecture — in which last, he proves, that what is styled the Gothic, and generally considered as the inven tion of a Northern people, was nothing but the varying and in creasing corruptions from the Greek and Roihan architectilre : in other words, that the Gothic was a style growing out of the two former, as they declined. In a barbarous period. Perhaps Mr. Barry was not the first writer who suggested this ; but his keen discrimination enabled him to be the first to prove It. On this work, Mr. Burke was pleased to communicate his opinion and observations in the following note to the author. 249 TO J. BARRY, Esq, R, A. Broad Sanctuary, Sunday, January 15, Ills. Mr, Burke presents his compliments to Mr, Barry, and is ex tremely obliged to him for the honour he has done him in his early communication of his most ingenious performance on paintings, from several parts of which he has received no small pleasure and instruction. There are throughout the whole many fine thoughts and observations j very well conceived, and very powerfully and elegantly expressed. They Avould, however, have appeared with still greater advantage, if Mr. Barry had at tended to the methodical distribution of his subject, and to the rules of composition, with the same care with which he has studied and finished several of the particular members of his work.. According to the natural order, it is evident, that what is now the 13th chapter, ought to follow Immediately after the Sth ; and the 9th to succeed to what is now the 19th. The sub ject of religion, which is resumed in the 19th chapter, ought more naturally to follow, or to make a part of the 9th, where indeed it is far better (indeed perfectly well) handled ; and where, in Mr. Burke's poor opinion, as much is said upon the subject as it could reasonably bear. The matter in that last chapter is not quite so well digested, nor quite so temperately handled' as im the former, and Mr. Burke fears, vrill not give the satisfaction" which the public will receive from the rest. There are a few parts which Mr. Burke could not have understood if he had not been previously acquainted by some gentlemen to whom VOL. I. 2 k 250 Mr. Barry had explained them, that they are allusions to certain matters agitated among artists, and satires upon some of them. With regard to the justice or Injustice of these strictures (of which there are several In the latter part of the book) Mr. Burke can form no opinion. As he has little or no knowledge of the art, he can be no judge of the emulations and disputes among Its professors. These parts may therefore, for ought he knows, be very grateful and possibly useful to the several parties which subsist (If any do subsist) amongst themselves. But he apprehends they will not be equally pleasing to the world at large, which rather desires to be entertained with their works, than troubled with their contentions. Whatever merit there may be in those reflexions, the style of that part which most abounds with them is by no means so lively, elegant, clear, or liberal as the rest. Mr. Burke hopes for Mr. Barry's obliging and friendly indul gence for his apology for the liberty he has taken in laying before him what seemed to him less perfect. In a work, which in general he admires, and is persuaded the world will admire very highly. Mr. Barry knows that objections, even from the meanest judges, may sometimes be of use to the very best writers, and certainly such little criticisms may be of service on future occasions, if Mr. Barry should continue to oblige the world with further publications, on this or any other subject (as there are few to which he is not very equal) and should turn his talents from the practice to the theory and controverted questions of this pleasing art. 251 After the publication of this Enquiry, Mr. Barry felt himself committed for proving to the Avorld the capability of British art, by some production of his own. He had wished, in conjunction with other artists, to give the proof by the painting of St. Paul's, and when this scheme failed, we see him rejoicing in the other opportunity which offered, of decorating, In conjunction with the same gentlemen, the great room of the Society of Arts, kc. This also came to nothing by the refusal of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and of the others following his example. Three years had now elapsed since that refusal had taken place, when it occurred to Mr. Barry to undertake the painting of the same room by himself, under certain conditions ; the principal of which was, not to be Inter fered with in the choice and prosecution of his subjects. In 17 7 7 his offer was made to the society, through the means of his friend Mr. Valentine Green, and was accepted.* Here let it be remarked once for all, that this offer was of such a singular nature for disinterestedness, that perhaps the history of painting does not furnish another such example. It was not the offer of a man at his ease, with wealth and time at com mand, but that of a young beginner, struggling with poverty, having few friends, and unfortunately of peculiar and stern habits of thinking and acting, not likely In a superficial age, to create many more ; and much of whose time was unavoidably " to be spent in provision for the day that was passing over him." He has been heard to say, that at the time of his under taking this work at the Adelphi, he had only sixteen shillings in his pocket ; and that In the prosecution of his labour he had * See the account of pictures al the great room of the Society of Arts, Adelphi, page 216. 2^2 252 oft€«B, after painting all day, to sketch or engrave at night sttme design for the print-sellers, which was to supply him with the means of his frugal subsistence. He has recorded some of his prints as done at this time, such as his Job, dedicated to Mr. Burke,* birth of Venus, Pojemon, head of Lord Chatham, king Lear. Many slighter things were done at the pressure of the moment, and perhaps never owned : It would be vain, therefore, to make inquiries after them. To these labours of the night, he principally looked for the means of his subsistence ; and one is almost tempted to wish that some institution had been at hand for supporting him during the gratuitous labour of this public work — if such establishments were not liable to abuse, and if * The following is the note of Mr. Burke to him on the occasion. "To JAMES BARRY, Esq. " Mr. Burke presents his best compliments to Mr. Barry, and begs pardon for making use of another's hand, in giving him his thanks for the great honour he has done him by inscribing to him the print of Job ; as well as for the prints sent to his son Richard, of the other five designs : but being obliged to go out in great haste, after hav ing been engaged in business for the vvhole moming, he is under the necessity of dictating this note while he is dressing. *' Mr. Barry does him too much honour in thinking him capable of giving him any hints towards the conduct of the great design in which Mr. Burke is very happy to find he is engaged. Mr. Burke is, without any affectation, thoroughly convinced, that he has no skill whatsoever in the art of painting ; but he will very cheerfully turn his thoughts towards recollecting passages of modem or middle history, relative to the cultivation of the arts and manufactures ; and Mr. Barry will judge better than he can, whether they are snch as will answer his purpose. " Mr. Burke will have the pleasure of waiting on Mr. Barry to communicate to him vfhat occurs to him on the subject at his first leisure moment." 2d May, 1777. 253 genius was not best tried by struggles and In the school of neces sity. By the following letter, hoAvever, to Sir George Saville, it would appear that he had formed a wish of this kind from the liberality of private individuals ; but with what success, there is no authority for saying. — Probably no notice was taken of the application. To Sir GEORGE SAVILLE, Bart. Sir, Seeing your name in the list of vice-presidents of the Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures, and Com merce, I take the liberty of addressing you about a matter 'relative to that society. In consequence of resolutions which they passed in March, 17 74, I, In conjunction with nine other artists, received a proposal from the society to paint each of Ug an historical picture for their new room at the Adelphi, which might coincide with the views of their institution ; they proposed expending 300/. In making an exhibition of our performances, the profits of which we were to receive as a consideration for our labour. The artists met to consider of it, and whether from some jealousies between us of the academy among ourselves, or with the other artists, whom the society thought proper to join with us on this occasion, or from some dislike to the proposal itself, our answer to the society was a refusal. It however appeared to me then, as it does now, that though such an under taking did not wear a very lucrative appearance, yet that an artist of abilities might derive credit to himself and to his country by the opportunity that such a space would afford him 254 of contrasting Avith some of those justly admired works, fof w Inch travellers visit other countries at this day. I therefore about a month ago proposed to the society to take the whole execution of this painting on myself, provided the choice of sub jects Avas allowed me, and that they would further indemnify me in the necessary expenses of canvass, colours, and models. This they have agreed to do, and on the 57th of last month they sent me a copy of their resolutions, by their secretary, Mr. More, authorising me to take up the materials on their account, and to go on with the work. I have begun it, and my Intention is to carry the painting uninterruptedly round the room (as has been done in the great rooms at the Vatican and Farnese galleries) by which the expense of frames will be saved to the society. And though I mean to ground the whole work upon one idea, viz. Human Culture, I shall yet divide It Into different subjects expressive of the different periods of that culture. In one I take the story of Orpheus reclaiming mankind from a savage state, as it is glanced at by Horace. This story has been often painted in another way, and from attending more to the letter of allegorical and poetical metaphors than to the spirit of them, hitherto I think very ineffectually; as, however it might do in words, a man encircled with beasts, tygers, birds, &;c. playing with ten fingers upon an instrument of four or seven strings, is a subject little susceptible of either expression or improvement, and gives us but an imperfect idea of the undertaking of that legislator, poet, and musician. In the second subject I take that point of time at the Olympic games, when the Hellanodics are distributing the rewards to the conquerors in those several contests, by Avhich the Grecians were formed to such an admirable pitch of mental and bodily vigour. This picture occupies that whole side of the room behind the president's chair, and is forty-two feet by 255 twelve. The two pictures next, which are fifteen feet by tAvelve, are, one, — the contest and matching the competitors, and the other Prodicus reading to that assembly his performance of the choice of Hercules, Action the painter, and a number of other ingenious men, producing their several performances. I shall have an opportunity of enriching the work with the portraits of many of my contemporaries of worth, which posterity will thank me for. The three other pictures that remain, I shall de dicate to matters of more recent discovery, and more Immedi ately relating to the abilities of our own people. The reason, sir, for my informing you about these matters is, that however I might be actuated by public spirit and a love of fame, yet I can tell you, and without any- great vanity too, that I have more ingenuity than money, and that in consequence of a disappointment I lately met with, it will be necessary for me to think also about house-rent and subsistence : and as there is no character I should feel more pleasure In being obliged to, than sir George Saville, my request and wish is, that you, sir, would subscribe twenty or ten pounds yourself, and prevail with such of the society as you think proper, to subscribe also, to make in the whole the annual sum of one hundred pounds to be given me monthly or quarterly as the work goes on. I shall by that means be enabled to give myself up entirely to It until it be finished, which with God's blessing will be in about two years, and then the sum of 200l. which I shall have received, shall be paid back to you, and to those other public-spirited gentlemen who lent it to me. If the exhibition produces nothing, or that the society should neglect to make one, you will then lose your money; but a public Avork will be com- 256 pleated, and I shall be happy ; as the opportunity of throwing myself out in such a work will be to me a reward fully suffi cient. It is in some measure a necessary comment on a book which I wrote two years ago, and which " I take the liberty of sending you. I am, sir, with the sincerest respect, your most obedient humble servant, JAMES BARRY. 29, Suffolk-street, Charing Cross. April 19, 177 7. He varied the plan of the compositions from that which is mentioned in the above letter, and Instead of two years, the work cost him seven ; but he brought it to an end with perfect satisfaction to the members of the society, for whom it was in tended ; and who conducted themselves towards him throughout witk every liberality and gratification within their power to ful fil: they granted him two exhibitions, and at different periods voted him fifty guineas, their gold medal, and again two hundred guineas, and a seat among them. For the description of the work Itself, the reader Is referred to publications mentioned in the subjoined note ;* while in this * An account of a series of pictures in the great room of the Society of Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce, at the Adelphi. By James Barry, R. A. professor of painting to the Royal Academy. 1783. Cadell.-^A letter to the Rt. Hon. the President, Vice Presidents, and the rest of the; noblemen and gentlemen of the Society for the Encouragement of Arts,, Mjanufactures, and Commerce, Adelphi. By James Barry, R. A. professor, 1793. Printed for the author.— A letter to the Dilet^ tanti society, by the same. Passim. 1779- Walker, Paternoster-row. — A poetical 257 place will be submitted to him one of the first criticisms offered on the paintings, and perhaps the best. It was sent to the artist (immediately upon the exhibition of 1783) anonymously, and seems to be, from every mark of Internal evidence, the produc tion of Mr. Burke. The letter is long, but the reader's time in pe rusing it will be amply repaid by the style and matter it contains. To JAMES BARRY, Esq. professor of painting, royal academv. Sir, As you have submitted your works to public inspec tion before they are finished, in order to avail yourself of any observations which may be made upon them, I conclude that any individual who offers you his opinion generally and in detail, and his reasons for entertaining that opinion, will not only do you a real service, but likewise act towards you with that kind ness and civility, which It becomes every member of the com munity to observe toAA^ards a man who has certainly laboured with very, meritorious zeal and industry to serve It. This all Epistle to James Barry, Esq. containing strictures upon some of the works of that celebrated artist, by Francis Burroughs, Esq. 1805. Carpenter, Old Bond-street. — A Neat description, published in an useful pocket work, called a Picture of London — and a short account, presented to visitors, at the room of the society, VOL. I, 2 I' 258 must allow, whatever their opinion may be of your success^, though I think there can hardly be two opinions concerning your work, considered generally, and with relation to its main design. It certainly surpasses any work which has been execut ed within these two centuries, and considering the difficulties with which the artist has had to struggle, any that is now extant. As I flatter myself that these difficulties are now at an end, I shall consider the work abstractedly from them as a great effort of modern art, which from its splendid and substantial merits is likely to have a great influence upon the taste of the times, and in this light is of general importance, and demands the attention of every Individual, to contribute as much as he can to render it perfect ; for it Is well known that trivial errors are of great consequence in great men, and great works ; for those Imitators who cannot reach their merits will surpass their faults. As you have explained your OAvn principles, I shall, in the first place, make a few observations upon them as being of more importance than the execution of your work ; — the faults in the latter affect only artists or great judges of art, but faults in the former affect the whole community Avhen they come from persons of high re putation. Your distinction between abstract ideal character and beau ty, and imitative. Is undoubtedly just, but I think you carry It too far when you depreciate the one to raise the other. So far from setting them at variance, it behoves every friend to the art to endeavour to evince the necessity of uniting them. Without the power of combining and abstracting, the most accurate know ledge of forms aud colours will produce only uninteresting trifles : but without an accurate knowledge of forms and co lours, the most happy power of combining and abstracting will 259 be absolutely useless ; for there is no faculty of the mind which can bring Its energy Into effect, unless the memory be stored with ideas for it to work upon. These ideas are the materials of invention, which is only a power of combining and abstracting, and which without such materials would be in the same state as a painter without canvass, boards, or colours. Experience Is the only means of acquiring ideas of any kind, and continued obser vation and study upon one class of objects the only way of ren dering them accurate. The painter who wishes to make his pic tures (what fine pictures must be) nature elevated and improved, must first of all gain a perfect knowledge of nature as it is ; before he endeavours, like Lysippus, to make men as they ought to be, he must know how to render them as they are : he must acquire an accurate knowledge of all the parts of the body and countenance : to know anatomy will be of little use, unless phy siology and physiognomy are joined with it, so that the artist may know what peculiar combinations and proportions of features con stitute different characters, and what effect the passions and affec tions of the mind have upon these features. This is a science which all the theorists Iri the world cannot teach, and which can only be acquired by observation, practice, and attention. It is not by- copying antique statues, or by giving a loose to the imagination in what are called poetical compositions, that artists will be en abled to produce works of real merit, but by a laborious and ac curate investigation of nature upon the principles observed by the Greeks, first to make themselves thoroughly acquainted with the common forms of nature, and then by selecting and combin ing, to form compositions according to their own elevated con ceptions. This is the principle of true poetry, as well as of" painting and sculpture. Homer and Shakspeare had probably never seen characters so strongly marked as those of Achilles 2 h 2 260 and Lady Macbeth, at least we may safely say that few of their readers have, and yet we all feel that these characters are drawn from nature, and that if we have not seen exactly the same, we have seen models or miniatures of them. The limbs and features are those of common nature, but elevated and improved by the taste and skill of the artist. This taste may be the gift of nature, the result of perfect organization, and the skill may be acquired by habit and study; but the ground- work, the knowledge of limbs and features must be acquired by practical attention and accurate observation. And here. Sir, that portrait painting which you affect so much to despise, is the best school that an artist can study In, provided he studies it, as every man of genius will do, with a philosophic eye, not with a view merely to copy the face before him, but to learn the character of It with a view to employ In more important works what Is good of It, and to reject what Is not. It was in this view that the great painters of the Roman and Bolognese schools collected such numbers of studies of heads from nature, which they afterwards einbellished and Introduced in their pictures, as occasion re quired. Hence that boundless variety which Is observable in their works ; the want of which is the only material fault of your great and masterly picture of the Olympic Victors. I do not mean to recommend to the historical painter to make his Avorks an assemblage of carlcaturas, like those of Hogarth, and some of our present artists ; but as there is scarcely any cha racter so insipid that a Shakspeare or a Fielding would not have been able to discover something peculiar in, so there is scarcely any countenance so vacant but that there are some trifling fea tures which may be of use to a skilful and ingenious artist; though It seldom or ever happens that any character of counte nance Is sufficiently strong and perfect to serve of itself for the 261 hero of a poem or picture, until it has been touched and embel lished by the foistering hand of the poet or painter. Portrait painting may be to the painter what the practical knowledge of the world is to the poet, provided he considers it as a school by which he Is to acquire the means of perfection in his art, and not as the object of that perfection. It was practical knowledge of the world which gave the poetry of Homer and Shakspeare that superiority which still exists over all other works of the same kind; and it was a phi losophic attention to the imitation of common nature (which portrait painting ought to be) that gave the Roman and Bolognese schools their superiority over the Florentine, which excelled so much in theoretic knowledge of the art. I was the more sorry to see any censures drop from you on this branch, because It will give little snarlers an opportunity of saying, tliat with a spirit of pedantry common to all arts and sciences, you censure what you cannot attain. I am one who think you can attain it, if you would turn your attention that way ; and I sincerely wish you would, because there is no doubt but that, if you possessed the Imitative powers only in the degree which Mr. Gainsborough does, added to the poetical taste and genius which now animate your works, you would be the first ar tist that has appeared since the revival of arts. It was in the com bination of these two powers that Annibal Caracci excelled; you have Indisputably surpassed him In the one, and it will be your own fault if you do not rival him in the other. I entirely agree with you that the rage of the inhabitants of 262 this country for having their phizes perpetuated, whether they are worthy of It or not, is one great obstacle to the advancement of art ; because It makes that branch more profitable than any other, and therefore makes many men of great talents consider it as the ultimate object of their art, instead of the means of that object. But there is another error on the contrary side not less fatal, which is the contempt our young artists are apt to en^ tertain for the lower detail of nature, and the forward ambition which they all have of undertaking great things, before they can do little ones — ^^of making compositions before they are acquainted sufficiently with the constituent parts. We are told that many ancient artists bestowed their whole lives upon a single compo sition. — Such was Apollodorus who made the Laocoon, and Lysimachus who made the famous Hercules, destroyed by the Crusaders at Constantinople in the 13th century, together with many more of the sublimest productions of Grecian art and genius. W^ are not to suppose that these great artists employed so many years In chipping one block of marble, but that the greatest part of the time was employed In studying nature, par ticularly the vast and intricate branches of physiology and pathology, in order to enable them to execute perfectly the great works which they had conceived. These sciences are in a man ner neglected by the moderns, but the author of the Laocoon was as deeply skilled in them as Haller or Gaubius, and hence he has been able to give that consistency of expression which prevails through the whole body, from the face through every muscle to the ends of the toes and fingers. I was once told by a person who had spent many years In experiments and investigations of this kind, that every discovery he had made disclosed to him fresh beauties In the Avonderful group of Laocoon, and that to understand it thoroughly would require to know more of the 263 human body than most of our anatomists attempt to know. It Is not enough to know the forms, positions, and proportions of the constituent parts of the animal machine, but we should know the nice changes that are produced in them by the various affections of the mind, as grief, agony, rage, kc. Without this we may produce splendid compositions and graceful figures, but we shall never approach that perfection to which the ancients arrived. A perfection, to which I fear the very constitution of modern society is an Insurmountable obstacle. Such a minister as Peri cles might perhaps overcome it, but considering the present system of education, it Is scarcely possible that such a one should appear. To distinguish between what is good and what is bad falls to the lot of many, but to distinguish between what Is barely good and what is truly excellent falls to the lot of few, and it very rarely happens that any of these few are kings and minis ters, who are able and willing to reward an artist for giving up his whole time to one object, which he must do, if he means to make it truly excellent. There is another erroneous principle which seems to have crept into your book, which is extremely general in the present age, and is a principal cause of our faulty taste. This is the confounding greatness of size Avith greatness of manner, and imagining that extent of canvass or weight of marble can contri bute towards making a picture or a statue sublime. The only kind of sublimity which a painter or sculptor should aim at, is to express by certain proportions and positions of limbs and features, that strength and dignity of mind, and vigour and acti vity of body, which enable men to conceive and execute great actions : provided the space in which these are represented, is large enough for the artist to distinguish them clearly to the eye 264 of the spectator, at the distance from which he intends his work to be seen, it Is large enough. A space which extends beyond the field of vision, only serves to distract and mislead the eye and to divide the attention. The representation of gigantic and monstrous figures has nothing of sublimity either in poetry or painting, which entirely depend upon expression. When Clau- dian describes a giant taking a mountain on his shoulders with a river running down his back, there is nothing sublime In It, for there Is no great expression, but merely brute strength; but when Homer describes Achilles advancing to the walls of Troy> clad in celestial armour, like the autumnal star that brings fevers, plagues, and death, we see all the terrible qualities of that hero, rendered still more terrible by being contrasted with the Vene rable figure of Priam, standing upon the walls of Troy, and tearing his white hair at sight of the approaching danger. This is the true sublime — ^the other is all trick and quackery. Any madman can describe a giant striding from London to York, or a ghost stepping from mountain to mountain, but it requires ge nius, and genius experienced in the ways of men, to draw a finished character with all the excellencies and excesses, the virtues and infirmities of a great and exalted mind, so that by turns we admire the hero and sympathize with the man — exult and triumph in his valour and generosity, shudder at his rage and pity his distress. This Is the Achilles of Homer, a character ^very where to be seen in miniature, which the poet drew from nature, and then touched and embellished according to his own exalted ideas. Had he drawn him with great virtues and great abilities, without great passions, the character would have been unnatural, and of course uninteresting ; for a vigorous mind is as necessarily accompanied with violent passions, as a great fire with great heat. The same principle which guided Homer 265 should guide the painter In studying after nature. He should attempt to copy and not to create, and when his mind is suffi ciently stored with materials, and his hand sufficiently exercised in art, then let him select and combine, and try to produce something superior to common nature, though copied from It. But let him not imagine, that because he can produce great things, he can therefore produce good things, or that when he has covered a great extent of canvass with bold and hasty sketches, he has produced a fine picture, or sublime composition. Such works, compared with the beautiful and animated little compositions of the Bolognese school, put me in mind of Clau- dian's battle of- the giartts, compared with Virgil's battle of the bees. In the former all the objects are vast, but the action and expression extravagant and absurd, and the whole cold and unin teresting. — In the latter the objects are minute, but the action and expression bold and animated, and the whole together warm, clear, and spirited, I have seen a large cartoon copied from the little picture of the vision of Ezekiel by Raffael, in which the copyist thought, without doubt, to expand and illus trate the idea of the author ; but by losing the majesty of the countenances, AvhIch makes the original so sublime, notwith- stariding its being in miniature, his colossal copy became ridicu lous. Instead of awful. It Is with great concern that I have observed of late years this taste for false sublime gaining ground in England, particu larly among artists. I attribute it in great measure to certain compositions, which have been extolled by interested prejudices, and admired by credulous ignorance, for no other reason, than because they were not understood. Few readers take the trouble of judging for themselves, so that when a work is ushered into VOL. I. 2 m 266 the world Avith great pomp, and under the sanction of great names, its real merits are examined only by a few, the genera lity being content to admire, because it Is the fashion to ad mire. If the work under these circumstances be pompous and unmeaning, its success Is sure, as its pomp dazzles and its va cancy puzzles, both which are admirable Ingredients to procure respect. This I think is . the true way to account for the ap plause and admiration that have been given to those miserable rhapsodies published by Macpherson under the name of Ossian. They Avere ushered into the world with great pomp, as the pro ductions of an ancient bard, and recommended by the respect able authority of Dr. Blair, aided by all the national prejudice of the Scotch. Fcav therefore Avere willing to allow that they disliked them, and still fewer bold enough to declare their dis like openly. Hence they have been received by many as stan dards of true taste and sublimity, which the author modestly declared them to be. The consequence of this was corrupting all true taste and introducing gigantic and extravagant tinsel, for easy dignity and natural sublimity. I attribute this false taste to these poems, because I see so many artists who have been working from them ; all of whose works are tainted with it ; and indeed it can hardly be otherwise, as the poems themselves (for so they are improperly called) are nothing but a confused compilation of tinsel and fustian, such as any one might wrltei who had impudence enough to publish. Fashionable authors have great Influence upon the taste of a nation: Seneca and Luean certainly corrupted that of the Romans ; and Homer as certainly formed that of the Greeks. Before his time, Sidon was the country of the arts, as he himself frequently mentions ; but as soon as that spirit of true taste, elegance, and sublimity, which he had breathed into them, began to operate, they infi- 267 nitely surpassed all other nations. The shield of Achilles con tains all the beauties of picturesque composition which have ever been imagined ; and Phidias owned that whatever expres sions of majesty he had been able to give to his Jupiter, were owing to Homer. Why will not our modern artists continue to search this rich and Inexhaustible mine, instead of copying the fantastic Ideas of every ignis fatuus who catches the atten tion of the day ? We have an excellent translation, or rather paraphrase, for those who cannot read him in his own language ; and it cannot be said that his subjects are hackneyed, as few of the moderns have worked after him, and the works of the ancients are mostly perished. I am persuaded that understanding Homer well, especially In his own tongue, would contribute more towards perfecting taste, than all the metaphysical treatises upon the arts that ever have or can be Avritten, because such treatises can only tell what true taste is, but Homer every shews it. He shews that the true sublime is always easy and ahvays natural, that it consists more In the manner than the subject, and is to be found by a good poet or good painter in almost every part of nature. Could this truth be once established, I think a great obstacle to the advancement of the arts would be removed ; but while a prejudice prevails, that great works must be of great size, and that sublime compositions cannot exist but in great space, it is Impossible such compositions should be often at tempted ; for the size of the rooms and manner of furnishing them, necessary to make houses comfortable in a northern cli mate, exclude very large pictures. This prejudice is of modern growth, for the immoderate size of the pictures of Polygnotus at Delphi, was never looked upon as worthy of imitation in the more polished ages of Greece, but only to be defended on account of the vast variety of poetical beauties introduced by 2 M 2 268 the genius of the artist. The finest works of Apelles arid Zeuxis were either single' figures, . or compositions which did not exceed three, or, at most, five figuires. Having extended these observations much farther than I at first Intended, I shall defer entering into a detail of your work until I know your sentiments of what I have already written, which, if you think worth while, you will direct to R. J. L. at the Cocoa-Tree, Pall-Mall. Mr. Barry, who In general detested anonymous communica tions (as he had been often annoyed by abominable ones) Avas struck with the value of the foregoing letter, as the production of no common mind ; and whether he suspected from whom It came, or really wished for further remarks froin one so capable of delivering them, he thought fit to return the following ansAver; but the Intercourse appears to have ended there. For R. j. L. at theXOCOA-TREE, PALL-MALL. May 11, 1783, Sir, 1 THINK myself much honoured by the attention you have bestowed on my opinions and works in the long and very ingenious letter 1 received last night; and if my opinion of it' 269 be of any consequence with you, I will frankly confess, as a piece of general reasoning. It is oft the whole skilfully and Inge niously managed; though perhaps It Is not yery happily calculated to answer the particular purposes it professes to in tend. My opinion of the several members or parts of It Is various ; some I like very much, some very little. In the intro duction I have to thank you for some civilities, and In your third and fourth pages, it gave me no small pleasure to see opinions which I have so long entertained, so very acclirately and forcibly expressed, though I was much to seek for any direct reasons, why they should have been stated with so mucTi formality to me; and I am fully persuaded it Avould be found necessary to state them very differently, if it was your Intention to set your name at the bottom instead of the anonymous signature of R. J. L. In some of the subsequent pages I think you are much mistaken, and in others, (permit me to say without offence) you appear to want candour, or at least to lie under some unhappy preposses sions and prejudices, which warp and mislead your judgement to a very great degree. There are many reasons which at present induce me to decline stating the particulars I wish to discuss with you : one is, that It would take up too much time, and I do not love writing, espe cially to an anonymous correspondent. But whoever you are, if you will favour me with a meeting, I shall take it kindly, and we will talk over these matters to what extent you please. Do not deny me this pleasure; there is something about you that might be of much advantage to me, and which amicable conver sation only could extract. My great and indeed only object Is, to weed out whatever faults, and to possess whatever excellence I can. I see plainly you might assist me in it, and therefore 270 you ought to do it ; and If I shall not be able to make you any suitable returns for your attention and trouble, it will not be from the Avant of Inclination and endeavours to attempt it. But if unhappily you should refuse me the pleasure of conversing with you, yet at least continue your observations, as well on my: pictures as on my opinions ;* throw aside all Intention of unne cessary controversy, , and endeavour to make your remarks more immediately pertinent and adapted to supply the deficiencies of my performance. I shall adopt whatever brings conviction Avith it; and though I may make no use of the rest, yet from the specimen you have already given, I propose to myself no small pleasure in the perusal. JAMES BARRY. Of the fleeting criticisms of the day, little Is knoAA^n; they Avere frivolous or valuable according to the preparation of mind each spectator carried with him. The exhibition of a series of philosophical and classical paintings could not be supposed to please every body : since many of those who run to see sights In London could not comprehend them. But persons of real know ledge went aAvay pleased. It Is recorded that Jonas Hanway, in quitting the room, de manded his shilling, and left a guinea In Its place, as a payment more in poise with the pleasure he. had received. Even Dr. * Contained in the published account of the pictures. 271 Johnson, whose visual organs were not fitted for entering with enthusiasm Into matters of painting, made this remark upon the pictures, as preserved by Mr. Boswell : " Whatever the hand " may have done, the mind has done its part. There is a grasp " of mind there which you will find no where else." Mr. Townley In a letter to Mr. Barry observed of the pictures, " that " they were certainly composed on the principle of the great " chef d'oeuvres of painting, which were so much approved by " the most intelligent and elevated minds amongst the ancients, " and that they would no doubt do the same credit to their Inge- " nious author." The following letter might have been written under the im pulse of the moment, but the admiration expressed in it, is at least a genuine mark of the unexpected pleasure and surprise, occasioned by the first sight of the paintings. THE EARL OF ALDBOROUGH to Mr. BARRY. Great-Glenham, near Saxmundham, May the 26th 1783. Sir, The day before I came here I had the unspeakable satisfaction of seeing your great instructive works at the Adelphi, and was nearly as much entertained with reading your book upon them in my way hither. When I return to town I shall again and again visit those unequalled performances ; they will stand the comparison of past, and test of future ages, for origi nality of design. Instruction, colouring, energy, and disposition of figure, taste, and judgment, and success In the invention and 272 execution. You have taken in all the perfections, combined all the qualities of Raffael, Titian, Guido, and the mPst celebrated artists of the Grecian and Roman schools ; and your literary works prove you possess all the liberal arts, as well as painting, and reflect equal honour on the age you live In, as shame to this country, for the want of due encouragement. It is a national con cern to place you at the head of an academy of the belles sciences at a stipend equal to your merit. 1 feel happy In boasting of you as my countryman, and regret my house and table was not ho noured with such a guest, while you was so laudibly employed ; how I should have benefited and improved in viewing your pro gress in such unrivalled paintings, I beg leave to subscribe to a double set of your engravings of them, and protest I should rather be master of the six pictures then all the paintings, cartoons, &:c. I have ever seen. Was I to expatiate as I might on your excellencies, it would take up more paper and time than 1 can spare, or" your delicacy could relish. May every honour, success, and happiness attend so elevated a genius, so skilled an artist, so good a writer. I propose returning to town on Saturday or Sunday, and would be extremely happy to see you at Aldborough-House, Stratford- Place, any time the week folloAving. There you avIII see some of your friend Hamilton's performances. I agree In sentiments with you as to him and portraits, and Indeed In almost every thing you have written. My house and fortune are at your service till your circumstances equal your abilities, and the wishes of, sir, your friend, admirer, and humble servant, ALDBOROUGH. 273 Of the profits arising from the two exhibitions, they are stated at 503/. 12^., and my Lord Romney nobly presented him with a hundred guineas for the portrait Avhich had been copied Into one of the pictures, and he had twenty guineas for the head of Mr. Hooper. Perhaps he received other sums for portraits em ployed In the work, but ofthis there are no documents to speak from. Mr. Barry was ever impressed with a sense of the risques which paintings are unavoidably subject to in a croAvded and bustling capital, as well as of their own perishable materials; his next wish was therefore to preserve some memorial of those he had just executed, by engravings. It was enough, he thought, to preserve the Idea or design of each, and he seemed regardless of ornamented finishings, which in his opinion often detracted from, and seldom added to, the truth or spirit of the originals." On this work he Immediately embarked, and brought the prints to a conclusion, so as to receive subscriptions on their delivery, in the year 1795. Previous to his commencing this work, he had been elected professor of painting (178^), in the room of Mr. Penny, and in the Intermediate time he had painted two pictures for the Shakspear gallery ; and in this year an office fell vacant which he thought might have furnished him with a little Independency, while undertaking some other public work ; and one cannot but wish that his hopes had been realized, and that all murmurs had ended here, of his poverty and privation of comforts. The place was In the gift of the late duke of Richmond, as master-general of the ordnance. The following, letter to that VOL. I. 2 N 274 nobleman contains the application; to which is added his Grace's answer, which must have been perfectly satisfactory even to Mr. Barry himself. To THE DUKE OF RICHMOND. My Lord', Your Grace's goodness and indulgence to me, which I have long since experienced, encourage me at present to trespass upon your attention for a few lines. About tWo months ago, upon the death of Mr. Stuart, (Athenian Stuart) who succeeded. Hogarth in the place of Sergeant painter, I men tioned to Mr. Townley my wishes to obtain that, or some such place. In order to enable me to carry on at my own expense some Work of art for the public, with more convenience and ease to myself than 1 experienced in that work at the Adelphi. Mr. Townley immediately wrote to Mr. Agar and others of his friends, through whose means the matter Avas mentioned to his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, the Lord Chancellor, and other personages ; but as upon enquiry the place was found to produce no more than eighteen pounds a year, I begged Mr. Agar to let it drop. At present I am informed that the death of Mr. Benja min Wilson might leave some vacancy of about one hundred and fifty pounds a year in your Grace's department of the ord nance, which, if I should be thought worthy of filling, would give full scope to my views upon the art and upon the public. At present I am at work upon one of the subjects from Shak speare for Alderman Boy dell ; but as these subjects afford more of the Gothic than of the heroic, are full of barbarisms and ana- 275 chronisms of every kind, and come as much within the compass of the grossest Ignorance, as of the most extensive knowledge, I shall get to something of more importance and more worthy of the eighteenth century, whenever it Is in my power to create an opportunity. I have gone through a scene of great labour since I had the honour of seeing your Grace. I have finished and read those lectures upon the theory of the art, which as professor I am annually to deliver in the Royal Academy, and 1 have finisb- ed the prints of the work at the Adelphi, all but the picture of the Society. Trusting that your Grace's goodness and indulgence will ex cuse this liberty 1 have taken, I have the honour to be, with the sincerest respect, your Grace's much obliged and affectionate humble servant, J. BARRY. To JAMES BARRY, Esq. WhitehaU, June 19, 1788, Sir, I received your letter of the 16th Instant, desiring to be appointed painter to the ordnance in the room of Mr, Wilson, deceased. I find that some other persons, as Avell as yourself, have con ceived that his employment was that of a Limner, whereas, al though bred to that profession, the business Mr. Wilson did for 2 N S 276 the ordnance was only that of a House Painter, which he had undertaken by contract, and this will now be given to some per son in that line. I am, sir, your most obedient humble servant, RICHMOND, kc. How far the subscription for the prints which he brought to a conclusion in 1192, enriched him, is not known; but with the sums they produced, and that arising from the exhibition of the paintings, he appears to have deposited seven hun dred pounds in the funds : but to this wealth he never afterwards made any great addition, for he never possessed more than sixty pounds a year from the funds, a sum barely sufficient to pay the rent and other charges of his house. Yet such was the indepen. dence of his character and habits of frugality, that from this period he was never known to be without money — though it Is certain, that when he was deprived of his salary of thirty pounds a year as professor in the Royal Academy, he had no other source for his ordinary subsistence to the time of his death, but the casual sale of these prints ; of which one year with another, it is not probable that he made above forty or fifty pounds ; and this, from a sort of delicacy he had of ever offering them for sale, and never al lowing a friend to purchase, if he could by any means prevent him. Indeed his friends had always more difficulty to obtain them than strangers, from a scruple he had of laying them under contributions as he thought, for his maintenance. Considering the scantiness of his capital, one is chilled to hear that his little should ever have been made less by two burglaries committed at different times on his house, which deprived him of several hundred pounds. One happened about this period, 27 7 1794, but the loss was fortunately repaired by the munificence of a noble lord, whom he always spoke of with profound respect and gratitude, and that of his friends the Hollis's. The reader will excuse the publishing the copy of Mr. Barry's letter to that nobleman on the occasion, and we hope for his lordship's Indulgence In doing It without his permission ; which has not been solicited, lest his delicacy might have been an ob stacle to the gratification of the public In perusing, and to our own in sending It to the press. To the Rt. Hon. THE EARL OF RADNOR. My Lord, Your lordship was gone into the country, when I called in Dover-street the very evening after you were so good as to honour my cell with a visit. I much wished to return every acknowledgement and thanks for your kind favour of the fifty pound note on your banker, and for your great deli cacy In making it payable to the bearer, without any mention of my name. But as It was not agreeable to my wishes, that your lordship's kindness should be concealed, I did not receive it myself, but left it at Messrs. Langston, Amory, and Towgood's bank, where I had about forty pounds remaining of one hundred pounds legacy, which Mr. Timothy Hollis left by will to the painter of that work on Human Culture at the Adelphi. The next day after the robbery, as I was going to take up ten out of this forty pound, in order to repair the locks and other 278 damages, and for current expenses, I met, near St. Paul's, with Mr. John Hollis, the nephew of my valued frierid Timothy Hollis, to M^hom I told my misfortune ; and when he could not prevail with me to accept of fifty pounds, by way of repairing some part of my loss, he went to Mr. Hollis Edwards, another nephew of old Mr. Hollis, and got from him fifty pounds, which with his OAvn fifty, he left for my use with my friends the bankers in Clements-lane, as I found some days after, when I had occasion to call there. Any circumstance Is welcome that brings that worthy old gentleman Timothy Hollis to my recollection : who, although he neither had shining talents, nor any wish for the reputation of them, nor Indeed of any thing likely to catch the public at tention : yet he possessed such a high degree of candour, be nevolence, and all those amiable qualities which are Of so much more frequent and daily use in society, as 1 do not recollect ever to have seen outdone by any other man. His zeal and ardour for virtue and excellence, living and dead, was very great, and by much the most active part of his character ; and amongst my other obligations to him In the course of near twenty years acquaintance, I am his debtor for a good part of my attention to many of the excellent characters found in modern history, with whose portraits his portfolios were furnished, as his memory was with interesting anecdotes of their lives. I shall never think of Barnevelt and Grotius, without re membering those silly, transalpine, greekling prejudices, against every thing Dutch, Avfiich had kept them so long from my ad miration, and which were fortunately laid aside from my colli sion with the opinions of Mr. Hollis, who had received part of 279 his education in Holland. I remember Avell that the unambi tious and amiable private virtues of this man were full in my view, when I wrote the beginning of the account of that picture of Elysium, and nothing but the fear of offending, added to the horror of being thought to flatter him, could have Avithheld me in that place from Indulging my feelings by the mention of his name. The recollection that there are such good people, and that I have met with some of them, is a grateful necessary counterpoise to prevent the spirits sinking under the oppression and de spondency which my loss could not fail to occasion, If it should have disabled me from prosecuting the work in which 1 was engaged, and which I noAv hoped to execute with more ease and independence than I had formerly experienced, and with a possibility of presenting it to the public without troubling them with any previous intimation : but on my being robbed of this little matter, which was thus scraped together after so much labour, and by denying myself the greatest part of what others consider as. necessary to existence ! my next resolution was to sell out seven hundred pounds which I have in the funds, lodge it with a banker, and draw for it according to the occasions necessary for carrying on this work, which 1 was determined never to aban don. The good providence of God, having already enabled me in one great work deposited with the society, to do something of a deeper and more serious reference to the interests of national education in the proper exercise of the human faculties, than the general run of mere amusement productions, to which our art has hitherto been but too much confined. My next hope was to be enabled to make another effort for the public very different, though not less important, by endeavouring to dress Milton in a 280 way somewhat adequate to the weight and dignity of his matter, and to the reputation of the country and enlightened age we live in. The work is in good forwardness, and though at present a little interrupted by the consequences of the unlucky visit of the thieves who broke into my house, is nevertheless, with God's blessing, likely to go on, even without touching my little matter in the funds, which your lordship's kind interposition and that of my other friends, makes no longer necessary. It is no small consolation to have such friends as can thus confide to my care a trust of so much rhoney for the public service in the depart ment of art : a man cannot want zeal after such an Instance to stimulate him, If your Lordship should, on your return to town, have any occasion to go to the society, and would be so good as to present them (or any Individuals of them, to whom I have the honour of being known) with my respectful compliments and wishes for a place in their recollection, whenever they should have occasion for any matters In my way ; the weight and dignity of Its coming through such a channel could not fail to give all desirable effi cacy : and as I only live for the public, there is no shame In seeking whatever aids may be honestly obtained; that can the better enable me to resist the desperate and virulent attacks of a combination of wretches, who, like the dog in the manger, though not able to make use of hay himself, can yet endeavour to keep the ox from it. I am, my Lord, with great respect, your Lordship's much obliged, and very humble servant, JAMES BARRY. December 26, 1794, 281 The death of Sir Joshua Reynolds (1 792) enabled Mr, Barry to open in full praise on the character and merits of that eminent artist, which he did both in his lectures and in private discourse. For several years before Sir Joshua's death, they had good sense and candour enough to acknowledge each other's deserts, and perhaps Avere not a little chagrined that any misunderstanding should ever have clouded their free Intercourse and communi cations. They both stood together^ at the head of their contemporaries ; the one with more polish of mind in the theoretic, and a minuter attention to the practical parts of his art; the other with more vigour, richness, and originality of thought in both, which ren dered him more capable to conceive and execute works, which the former would have entered upon Avith diffidence and reluc tance; for it was late in life before Sir Joshua turned his hand to historical paintings ; yet even here he shone with a lustre inferior only to that of hlis younger rival. It Is praise enough that he was the first portrait-painter in the time he lived, and almost the first as an historical pne; and that nobody will ever bear away the palm from him, as an elegant writer on the art he professed. .Sensible of the merits of Mr. Barry, and of the just tribute he bore to the memory of Sir Joshua, the Marquis and Marchioness of Thomond (then Earl and Countess of Inchlquin) requested his acceptance of Sir Joshua's painting- chair. His answer Is worth preserving, from the respect It bears to the nature of the present and to the memory of its former owner, "Mr, Barry presents his respectful compliments to Lord and VOL. L 2 o 282 Lady Inchiquiri, with every acknowledgement and thanks for their Inestimable favour conferred on him this morning. In the gift of Sir Joshua's chair, " Alas ! this chair, that has had such a glorious career of fortune, instrumental as It has been In giving the most advantageous stability to the otherwise fleeting, perishable graces of a lady Sarah Bunbury, or a Waldegrave, or in perpetuating the negligent honest exterior of the authors of the Rambler, the Traveller, and almost every one, to whom the public admiration gave a cur rency for abilities, beauty, rank, or fashion. The very chair that is immortalized in Mrs. Siddons's tragic muse, where it will have as much celebrity as the chair of Pindar, which for so many ages was shewn in the porch at Olympia ! This chair then of Joshua Reynolds may rest very well satisfied with the reputation it has gained, and although Its present possessor may not be enabled to grace It with any new ornament, yet It can surely count upon finding a most affectionate, reverential conservator, Avhilst God shall permit it to remain under his care." JVo. 36, Castle-Street, Oxford- Market, January 30, 1794. : The next work which we find Mr. Bany engaged upon, was an extensive design he had long meditated, of painting the progress of theology. He had already painted the progress of the intellectual and moral qualities of mankind— those qualities which are supposed to bind man to man in a state of society, and, as they unfold, to display all the blessings of civilization and refinement. The succeeding work was to delineate the groAvth of that more important state of mind which connects man with his Creator, and to represent the misty medium of connexion 283 which the Pagan world had with their false gods, and the union of Jews and Christians with their true God, by means of Revelation. . His large painting of Pandora was intended to exhibit the former part, and the designs of the Mosaic doctrines from Milton (which he alludes to In his letter to the Earl of Radnor) and others from the New Testament, the latter. On designs or on etchings, pertaining to these matters, we find him engaged to the time of his death, as well as on a set of large etchings of certain groups from two of his paintings at the Adelphi, His time, however, was on one Occasion employed on a work, not quite so tranquil or praise-worthy ; this was in composing that Intemperate book, which he called ^Letter to the Dilettante Society. We are willing to pay a just homage to many original and excellent observations on the fine arts diffused through this irregular publication, and wish that they stood unconnected with any hasty and Impassioned narrative of his misunderstand ings with the Royal Academy, Here however Is displayed all that a reader need to know of the causes, the progress, and result of his quarrels with that body, In which both parties appear to blame — Mr. Barry for losing his temper so often, and that public body for ever losing its temper at all, so far as to expel him in consequence ofthis publication: his expulsion was in 1799. In 1 800 he undertook a design or drawing to celebrate the Union of the two kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland. Peace and Harmony he rightly appreciated as the fostering deities of 2 a 2 284 science and the arts, and he hailed this great measure of an Union, as the harbinger of permanent love and tranquillity between the sister kingdoms ; he therefore put forth all his abilities in a design to perpetuate the remembrance of the event, typified by those virtues which constitute the happiness, arid by those emblems which denote the strength of great communities by Union. It was his intention to have painted it, and it is to be lamented, that so grand and expressive a drawing was neither painted nor engraved. In a letter to the late Mr. Pitt he thus expresses himself on the occasion. " I have made a design for a picture and an engraving on the Subject of the happy union of Great Britaift and Ireland, which union has been long the desideratum of all well Informed and good people, and Avas unfortunately overlooked and neglected In the reign of James the Ist, when the abilities of Sir John Davies were employed in settling the affairs of that kingdom. However, by the long withholding and delay of this great riational blessing. In being reserved for our times, and for the glory of your administra tion, the most desirable opportunity Is thus afforded to me of employing my art, and such abilities as I may happen to pos sess, in the commemoration of this glorious achievement, and of the hero by whom It was achieved. Surely there never was nor could be a Holy Union more pregnant [with felicity and blessings of every kind, and made up of more naturally cordial and coalescing materials, than that which you have thus happily effected. As my mind has been strongly Impressed with this persuasion and those feelings, the above-mentioned design for a picture, and an engraved print, has emanated from me, accom panied with more venustas, unction, and happy adaptation, than will be found In any thing else which I have hitherto done." Among the large figures, which he engraved of his elyfiium, he 285 finished a slip of copper to Introduce Isabella of Spain, Las Casas, and Magelhaens, which he inscribed (1800) to Mr. Fox. With this Illustrious statesman he had never been in any habits of Intimacy, yet he admired the great powers of mind which adorned him as a public character, as well as many of his ami able virtues, as a private Individual. Mr. Barry sent with the inscribed plate the following letter to Mr. Fox. To THE HONOURABLE J. C. FOX. Sir, • As I have thought It a necessary matter, and of a piece with my whole work at the Adelphi, and the prints which have arisen from it, to make use of your name In the inscription under the figure of Las Casas, Isabella of Castille, and Magelhaens, which you will find in the second strip of the roll of paper, oi: print, which goes with this letter, and which I pray you to ac cept, I could not refuse to my own feelings the indulgence of employing your name, although I had no opportunity of obtain ing your permission for It, as the distance Is too great for my waiting on you at St. Anne's Hill, and It would be no less diffi cult than troublesome sufficiently to explain the matter by letter. Although I should be sorry to trespass too much on your time, yet I cannot refrain from requesting your acceptance of the second edition of my letter to the Dilettante Society, with a hope that you will find the leisure to read It; many matters are agi tated there, which, however inadequately Jiandled by me, are 286 yet well deserving your attention, and which are of much more importance to the country, at least to the reputation of It, than they can be now to me, contented as I am with having discharged my duty (however dangerous), by an, honest, unreserved, and necessary exposure, which was honour sufficient for me, and was all that in fairness the art and the nation were entitled to expect from me; that (I thank God for It) is now done; I am account able for no more ; therefore, whatever remains to be done towards the completion of this matter, so Interesting to the national repu tation, must be now looked for from others who ought well to consider the reputation that must follow from the liberality of removing, or the Illiberality of fostering, giving stability, and cA'en multiplying and skreening those mischievous obstructlpns that may prevent the employment and the application of the universal language of art to the great ethical and pplitical pur poses for which It Is so admirably calculated. Polished Europe, and all Its admired writers, native as well as foreign, having so long since fixed their stigma and just re probation upon our propensity to the low pursuit of mere portraits, and other such matters of Inconsequential beggarly imitation, where fine genius and elevated liberal information could have no concern, and having even arraigned the climate and capacity of the country on that account; our people have at last entered the lists of superior art, and Avith no small boasting of patronage, with the exterior and the formalities of a Royal Aca demy, and so forth, we are now so far engaged and pledged, that It Is impossible to go back ; we cannot now retreat from the struggle without a more than ordinary disgrace. But why retreat from what It Is so much within the power of the national capacity to effect ? Let British genius be furnished but Avith the 287 necessary pabulum of that collection of materials which it has been the unremitting object of my endeavours to obtain for It, and there is nothing further to fear ; the end will be surely ob tained, whether there be any Royal Academy or not, or whether the patronage be well or III directed ; for although patronage may, as has sometimes happened by a kind of invidious sinister politics, be thrown away upon impotent, sycophant servility, and consequently come to nothing, or to what is worse than nothing, yet without patronage, or perhaps struggling against patronage, some noble, generous characters, thus happily furnished with the proper materials for an artist-like education, may be enabled to raise the reputation of the country even in despite of the patron age of it. I remember, two or three years since, when I saw you at the dinner of the Royal Academy, how much Mr. Townley and I regretted your being accidentally so misplaced, so surrounded with some trifling members of the academy, that it was impossi ble to get at you, and to draw you out into some of those sym posiums which might administer to the exalted association of art with Intellect and high utility, and would probably be very different from those which remain to us of Zenophon and Plu tarch, gifted as you are with the accumulated acquisitions of an age very superior to the times In which they lived. It is indeed of the last Importance to society, that great statesmen should look deep into art, and to Its extensive possible applications. They cannot too sedulously remove themselves from the every day consideration of mere common things. War and the sinister politics which foment it, cannot last for ever, and sooner or later the efforts of those arts which humanize, will hold their due and distinguished place In the estimation of mankind. But begging 288 your kind and well known indulgence for thus having, with so much forwardness, trespassed on your time, I shall proceed no further than to subscribe myself, which I do very sincerely, your most devoted humble servant, JAMES BARRY. October 5, 1800. P. S. As I know that your friendships are eternal, though your enmities are not, the little matter that occurs in page 93, of the Dilettante Letter, though very Inadequate and short of my affection to the memory of Mr. Edmund Burke and Sir Joshua Reynolds, will, I am sure. Induce you to read over the whole letter and appendix, without suffering yourself to be offended by the little technical jargon which occurs at the onset, in the first and second pages, and I believe only there. Mr. FOX TO Mr. BARRY. Sir, I HAVE received yours of the 6th Instant, together with the book and prints, for which I return you many thanks. The figures In the print appear to be in the grandest style, but I confess I do not yet perfectly comprehend the whole ojF the plan. I will certainly find leisure to read the book, which, as far as I can judge from the few pages I have as yet had time to look at, Avill give me great pleasure. I am, sir, your obedient servant, C.J. FOX. St. Anne's Hill. 289 Those friends of Mr. Barry, who knew how to appreciate his qualities as a painter, and knew with what future subjects his mind teemed, could not but regret that his time. If not mispent and wasted on etchings and engravings, should not have been better employed on things In a higher sphere of art — which he himself was incessantly panting to be employed upon — and would have been employed upon, had he not been prevented by the res angusta doml. Certainly to the most superficial obser ver every conveniency was wanting to him by the dilapidated condition of his house, for conducting any work of painting on a great scale. He had indeed begun and finished his large paint ing of Pandora under the same roof — ^but things had become worse ; his house was Intolerable, and he himself, like his house, was delapidating by age, and therefore, unequal to struggle with the same or rather with Increased Inconvenienoles. This situation of his, lamentable In all respects, fell very for tunately under the knowledge and inspection of a nobleman, who possessed an exalted mind to discriminate neglected worth, and a heart capable of assisting it. This was the Earl of Buchan. We have ransacked with pleasure all the papers which throw a light on the friendly communications of this nobleman with Mr. Barry, and as those communications often afforded a comfort to his wounded feelings, with the same pleasure we shall lay a part of them before the reader — for, these are the things which embalm the memory of the Great, Avhen their gratifications and their ho nours, their pomps and their politics are lost in the flood of time, and, like themselves, forgotten. Knowing the very straitened circumstances, and yet the high spirit of the man, which would have disdained pecuniary assist- VOL. 1. 2 P 290 ance from any single Individual, the benevolence of the Earl of Buchan suggested a mode of soliciting the aid of the public by means of a subscription. In a great and finely dlsposed.natlon, like that of Britain, every public character, who has deserved well by his known works. Is a child of the public ; and If he is lost for want of aid, it is often in consequence of ill-timed importunities, of sullen pride, or indolent despondency. His Lordship must have been sensible of this, as he was well aware of the good countenance with which any request might be made by him to the public in favour of Mr. Barry, sanctioned as he was In so doing, by the benevolent permission granted to him from the most August Q^uarter. He accordingly wrote a letter to Dr. Taylor, the secre tary of the Society of Arts, &:c. (May 10, 180:?) for that gentle man to lay before the members, urging the necessity of some plan of subscription to be set on foot In favour of Mr. Barry. His Lordship had previously communicated his intentions to Mr. Barry himself, telling him In a letter dated from Dryburgh Abbey, April 50, 1802, that he was looking for an opportunity " when he might proceed to take such steps as he thought de cent and proper, honourable to him and to those who esteemed him, and such as ought to be adopted by the Society of Arts or other public bodies, or by Individuals in them, for stamping his merit as it ought to be, and for rendering him easy and Inde pendent." In May following Lord Buchan writes to him again In the fol lowing words, " Dear Barry, as I have no notion of shadowy, unsubstantial proofs of esteem, so I have sent you enclosed a letter fbr the secretary of the Society of Arts, which you may either deliver or not, as you may be advised, or as you yourself may think proper. 291 if I am perfectly convinced, as In the case of Mr, Fox, that no thing could be so honourable to you In respect of personal esteem, as the completion of my views In this matter, nor, as there can be nothing of a political nature involved in It, would I hesitate to say, that were it to take place, it would in your case be even more perfectly agreeable to one's feelings than that connected with the Whig Club and party in his." From the distant residence of the Earl of Buchan in Scotland, from the Society of Arts not being justified In acting as a body towards a subscription, and from Individuals feeling a delicacy in beginning one ; the purport of that benevolent letter linger ed for more than two years, much to the discomfiture of poor Barry, and to the dissatisfaction of his noble patron. On a renewal of the applications by his lordship to the society, at the end of this time,* the spark caught fire, and a subscription went on with spirit and effect — when Lord Buchan addresses the fol lowing letter to him. * Of the letters kindly written by his Lordship on this occasion, we find the following to the worthy Dr. Taylor, Secretary of the Society. Edinburgh, December 28, 1804. Sir, I HAVE learnt with great satisfaction that the respectable Society for the Encouragement of Arts, of which I have the honour to be ope of the most ancient members, has employed that eminent engraver, Mr. Heath, to engrave the portrait of 2 P 2 292 My DEAR Sir, It gave me great pleasure to learn from Mr. Taylor, seei-etary of our truly useful and respectable Society of Arts, Sec. at London, that a considerable number of our body have come forward to co-operate with me in testifying their respect for you and gratitude for your zeal for the society, and for the advance ment of the fine arts. I have contributed my mite towards an annuity for your being enabled, with tranquillity and comfort, to employ your time in the prosecution of your favourite art, and in the society of those you like, by an exemplary annuity often pounds, which I am confident Mr. Barry, from the original picture, which that great genius and excellent man had long ago painted and copied into the picture of the Olympic Victors in the hall of the Society in the Adelphi. I request of you at the first meeting of the honourable Society, to assure them of my high approbation of this act of justice to a gentleman whose merits are acknowledged universally, except in his own country, where he has been strangely neglected, except by your much and justly esteemed institution ; to be connected with which from my early youth, I consider as one of the handsomest feathers in my literary cap. I am glad to hear that this print of Mr. Barry's portrait is meant to be prefixed to the next volume of your transactions, and hope that in the preface a just tribute of praise will be assigned to the Leonardo da Vinci of our country and nation, whose name, in spite of envy and detraction, will be handed down to the latest posterity. But, sir, this is not enough. I desire to renew my request to the individual members of the Society, as well as to the Society at large, that a donation of yearly annuity may be settled on the worthy Barry, as Emeritus of the Society, and of the fine arts of painting in Britain. I know very well that the Society cannot grant such an annuity as a society, but it can with propriety recommend to its members, as individuals, to unite in covering such grant, and in this I will with great pleasure co-operate. Be pleased, sir, to communicate 293 will be followed up with what may be sufficient, not to pay the debt of the society and the public due to your merits, but to your desires; I shall long to see your print from the Pandora, a picture with which I was more captivated than with any thing I have ever seen. I am, my dear sir, with sincere esteem and admiration of your talents. Your obliged humble servant, BUCHAN. Edinburgh, February 11, 1805. these sentiments and this proposal to the Society at its first meeting, and to inform me of the result of its deliberation thereupon. I am, sir, with high respect for the honourable Society, and with regard to yourself, your obedient humble servant, BUCHAN. In another letter to that good and excellent man, as well as tasteful architect, the late Mr. Bonomi, his Lordship says, " Mr. Barry is a gentleman for whom I entertain, and have always entertained a real esteem. I sincerely look upon him as one of the most scientific men in his fine art we have now in Europe, and without doubt the first in our islands. Exquisite taste has its root in exquisite sensibility, and this root has been the root of all evil that has befallen Mr. Barry. Rafiael and Tasso, and all the great men of taste and genius in former time.s, have been martyrs, in one way or other, to the same structure of mind ; and his friend Edmund Burke would have fallen a martyr to it, if it had not met with the political phrenzy of the day. I entreat you to say every thing to Mr. Barry that can assure him of the continuance of my esteem and of my sincere wishes. " Is the birth of Pandora finished ? Has he completed his etchings of the noble com position at the Adelphi ? Has he any new composition in hand .?" 294 Mr. BARRY to the Rt. Hon. the EARL of BUCHAN. My dear Lord, My long esteemed and ingenious friend Mr. Cooper, kindly assured me two days since, that he would immediately write to let your lordship know the happy effects AvhIch were likely to result from your letters to the Society of Arts in my behalf; which letters really appear to be providentially instru mental in arresting In great part the outrageous progress of my persecutors, and their instruments, and perhaps may further enable me to give a termination to that interesting Miltonic matter, which (to the no small comparative honour of the coun try) associates so congenially Avith the sublime, beautiful, ex quisitely graceful sensibility of the Homeric characters, which enrich Hesiod's composition of my Pandora. I much envy your Lordship the glory of rescuing from the claws, fangs, and pesti lential breath of such a Hydra, a very laborious series of efforts ; the united object of Avhich was (as well as of that which is exe cuted at the Adelphi) to furnish useful entertainments to the public, and perhaps to achieve some little reputation for the nation in the only matter which had unfortunately been neglect ed, and which countenanced foreigners in the habit of Indulging their sarcastic reflections upon the climate, and the capacity of our people. I have great satisfaction of knowing from one of the committee 295 of subscribers, which has been formed for carrying into execu tion your Lordship's plan, that that plan is to be communicated to the presidency and to the society at large, and I have too many obligations to the condescension of many of the noble characters, who form the presidency, not to wish most earnestly for the continuance of their countenance and good opinion on this occasion- I am at present, to use a sea phrase, resting upon my oars, with too much distraction of mind for any actual occu pation, except reading. The condition of the house, and the season of the year, will not even allow me to venture to take off any impressions from the plates of the large groupes of the work at the Adelphi ; some of Avhich have been lately called for ; and the plate of the Pandora Is too large to take off any good proof from It in my own press, so that I cannot even know that It is finished until I go out to see it done at some other press : but for that there will be time enough after I shall be, with God's blessing, enabled to remove from this house, and to print the written account* of the picture which is Intended to go along with the print. With the most heart-felt recognition of your Lordship's great kindness, and most obliging delicacy, I remain. Your devoted humble servant, JAMES BARRY. * A Fragment of this account is printed in vol. ii. of this present work. 296 The Rt. Hon. the EARL of BUCHAN to Mr. BARRY. Edinburgh, April 19, 1805. My dear and worthy Barry, Permit me to recommend to your kind reception and attention, Mr'. G. Watson, portrait painter here, who will have the pleasure of handing to you this letter. He is a worthy man and a good artist, who goes up to London to see for a fort night what is worthy of notice In his art in the metropolis and neighbourhood, I have placed your portrait in my sanctum sanctorum of taste in your fine art ; and should wish to have at Dryburgh Abbey some easel picture of your hand, as a memorial of the friendship and the circumstances that knit our minds together. The interview of Milton with his Quaker friend* in this study, which I admired when I saw you last, would be what I should particu larly covet. — A great man in circumstances similar to your own. I am pleased with the notice taken by Mr. Burroughs of your letter to me, note 4 1 (see Poetical Epistle to Mr. Barry by Francis Burroughs, Esq. 1805, Carpenter, Old Bond-Street, page 93) where, under the shelter of Agrippa's name I have taken pride to myself as your friend, BUCHAN. * A painting of this interesting scene Mr. Barry intended for Lord Buchan, but died before he began it.— An excellent and finished drawing of it, from which Mr. Barry made an engraving, is now in possiession of his Lordship. 297 The Rt. Hon, THE EARL of BUCHAN to Mr, BARRY. Dry-Burgh Abbey, St. BoswelVs Green, July 12, 1805. My dear Sir, I have had the pleasure to receive and carefully to peruse your excellent letter of the 3d current, which by some accident came to my hands only this day. The subject you dis cuss In that letter Is extremely interesting to me, and I wish with all my heart that there was a better prospect of the refined view you take of your noble and useful art being more extensively diffused, and consequently more perfectly relished and under stood. " Non omnia possumus omnes." In the mean time let ifs, like wise men, and, what Is better, like good men and good Christians, avail ourselves, with resignation to the Divine administration of human affairs, of those advantages which are afforded by the pre sent circumstances, to render the evening of your day calm and tranquil in the renewed exercise of your eminent talents. Let us purge our recollection of those disagreeable and una. vailing regrets, which are connected with past events, and set ourselves to co-operate with the enlightened and meritorious Individuals who have come forth AvIth a brotherly love, and fatherly care to shew you their kindness, and to place you In such a state as to pursue without interruption or insult the " jucunda oblivia vltae," and at the same time the beneficial use of that genius with which all, however prejudiced by party, must VOL. I. 2 8 298 allow you to be eminently endowed, and as I earnestly desire that every thing relating to your present posture should be con ducted in the ^vay most agreeable to your feelings and most honourable to your virtuous and Independent character, so, if agreeable to yon, and to the respectable committee of the mem bers of the society and others, I would with deference suggest the naming of a small sub-committee to procure, under your eye, a proper residence fit to answer the purposes which the practice of your art demands or requires ; and in such a situation as may be least exposed to the shameful and deplorable invasions from an ignorant rabble, which you have suffered in Castle-Street. If you do me the honour to communicate this letter to my friend Mr. Whitefoord, the present chairman of the committee, with my affectionate compliments, I think that worthy gentleman may think it not improper to lay it before the gentlemen con joined with him in the attainment of the common object we have in view for your honour and happiness. I remain, my dear sir, with sincere esteem, yours, BUCHAN. P. S. I shall be anxious to know of the safe arrival of this letter, and of Its consequences. The Rt. Hon. THE EARL OF BUCHAN to Mr. BARRY. My dear Sir, I AM anxious to know from yourself, that you are able again to resume your truly interesting work with safety 299 and comfort, and that all other matters relating to your welfare, are proceeding according to my wishes. I long much for a proof of your etching from the admired and admirable Birth of Pandora. How much pleasure it would give me to see that fine picture in Scotland, (which I have taught to know your merit) and to dig out monuments of your fame from our modern Gothic rubbish ! Our worthy friend Bonomi charges himself wlth< these lines from, my excellent Barry, your assured friend, BUCHAN. Edinburgh, January 13, 1806. This was probably the last letter his lordship wrote to him, as Mr. Barry's death happened in the month following. The sub scription, Avhich had been the fruit of that nobleman's suggestion and earnest wishes, had now closed, and the sum arising from it amounted to about one thousand pounds, with which the commit tee of Mr. Barry's friends, judged proper to buy an annuity for his life, of Sir Rob. Peel, Bart. This annuity, scanty Indeed in the eyes of modern wealth, would have been amply sufficient to supply the evening of his life with those convenlencies, which had been long wanting to him, aided, as It would have been, by his inherent order of frugality, and his utter indifference to every thing sensual and superfluous. But his friends hailed the event, chiefly as the means for his being placed in a house more suitable for his pursuing his other works — Death however baffled their hopes and expectations. 2^2 300 On the evening of Thursday, the 6th of February, 1806, he was seized, as he entered the house where he usually dined, with the cold fit of a pleuritic fever, of so intense a degree, that "according to the information of his friend Mr. Clinch, who found him In this state, all his faculties were suspended ; and he him self unable to articulate or move ; which probably gave rise to the reports in the public papers that he was seized with a palsy. Some cordial was administered to him, and on his coming a little to himself, he was taken in a coach to the door of his OAvn house, which, the key-hole being plugged with dirt and peb bles, as had been often done before by the malice, or perhaps the roguery of boys In the neighourhood, it vvas Impossible to open. The night being dark, and he himself shivering under the pro gress of his disease, his friend thought it adviseable to drive away without loss of time to the hospitable mansion of Mr. Bonomi. By the kindness of that good family, a bed was pro cured in a neighbouring house, to which he was immediately conveyed. Here he desired to be left, and locked himself up, unfortunately, for forty hours, Avithout the least medical assist ance. What took place in the mean time, he himself could give but little account of, as he represented himself to be de lirious, and only recollected his being tortured with a burning pain In the side, and with difficulty of breathing. In this short time was the death-blow given ; which by the prompt and timely aid of copious bleedings, might have been averted ; but without this aid, such had been the reaction of the hot fit succeeding the rigors, and the violence of the Inflammation on the pleura, that an effusion of lymph had taken place, as appeared afterwards upon dissection. In the afternoon of Saturday the Sth, he rose and crawled forth to relate his complaint to the Avriter of this ac count. He was pale, breathless, and tottering, as he entered the 301 room — with a dull pain in his side, a cough short and incessant, and a pulse quick and feeble. He related that his friend Bonomi had caused an arrangement to be made for receiving him in his house, and stated with great emotion, the satisfaction he ex pected from the kind attention of Mrs. Bonomi, who would sup ply him with those necessary aids which sickness required, and of which he must have been deprived, had he been under his own roof — destitute as he was of a servant, and the common convenlencies of bed-linen. He was recommended . to return immediately to those friends, as being more fit for his bed than for making visits. In the situation he was in, succeeding remedies proved of little avail ; his danger was obvious : by the advice of his learned friend Dr. Combe, and. of the writer of this account, he was once bled, but it afforded him little or no relief. With exacerbations and remissions of a fever, symptomatic of effusion, and organic lesion, he lingered to the 22d. of February, when he expired. The same manliness and fortitude of character, which had marked him through life, never quitted him on his death bed.' Of his danger he was warned by his physicians, Avhich he heard without the slightest emotion of mind, and immediately con^ versed on other things with the same freedom and cheerfulness of thought, as if he been in perfect health and safety. His body was opened under the experienced eye of his friend Mr., Carlisle ; when the mischief instantly displayed itself, by the appearance of a large quantity of lymph and ichorous fluid on the pleura, with riiarks of preceding inflamiriation,, which had 302 extended into and through the substance of the lungs. Stones were found in the gall-bladder, with marks of adhesion and thickening of the parts around that cavity, the result of inflam mation, which that gentleman remembered to have relieved him from some years before. All his other viscera were so compact and sound, as to portend a long life, if It had not been cut short as It was, by accidental and acute disease. The honours which are paid to the dead, who have been emi nent for their genius or virtues, and whose works bid fair for a place in the annals of a nation, are ever regarded with senti ments of respect by the present generation, and heard of with satisfaction by succeeding ones. Such honours had been paid to Sir Joshua Reynolds at the grave, and the same were due to Mr. Barry. It became therefore the wish of all his friends, that he should be interred as respectably as possible ; and as Sir Joshua had been buried in St. Paul's, that his body should be deposited near the same spot. It required no pause to foresee, that from the grateful sense, and the respect the Society of Arts had always entertained for him, they would almost without a vote, and by acclamation, permit his remains to be buried from that hall which his genius had adorned. To the honour of that respectable, and finely feeling body of men, be It recorded, that no hesitation took place, and to the honour of one of their Vice Presidents, the worthy Sir Robert Peel, Bart, the friends of Mr. Barry were indebted for two hundred pounds, to defray the expenses of the funeral, and for the erection of a tablet to the memory of the deceased in St. Paul's, when a gratuitous leave shall be obtained from the Dean and Chapter for that purpose. On the eve of March 13th, 1805, the body was taken to the 303 great room of the Society of Arts, where it lay in state till the preceding day — ^when the funeral took place, folloAved by a numerous and respectable train of the friends of the deceased, and of the members of the Society. Nothing could be more solemn and impressive than the ceremonial of the deposit of the body in that great room. — We read with reverence and a due regard to departed genius, of the Transfiguration by Raffael being placed at the head of his coffin,* as he lay in state — and of the catafalque, set up in the church of S. Lorenzo In Florence, and adorned with appropriate devices for the funeral honours paid to Michael Angelo. But these ceremonials could not be felt with more solemn reverence than those on the present occasion, Avhere a great author lay surround ed by his own works — -and those works, objects of celebrity in the present day, as they are likely to be those of admiration, as time shall render distant the period of their execution. Such are the principal occurrences which we have been able to collect In the life ofthis eminent artist. They present but a scanty train of dates and events — ^but what has a painter's life * Vasari relates this circumstance and the feelings it excited, in the following words, which feelings many must have experienced who visited the Adelphi that night. " Gli misero alia morte al capo nella sala, ovelavorava, la tavola della Trasfigurazione che aveva finita per il Cardinale de' Medici, la quale opera, nel vedere it cofpo morto e quella viva, faceva scoppiare I'anima di dolore a ognuno chi quivi guardava." Vasari. Vita di Raffaello da Urbino. 304 more to offer ? His Avorks, like those of the literary man, are performances in the closet, the slow eductions of mind, which are more praiseworthy perhaps in proportion as they flow in stillness and quiet, unaccompanied by circumstances which furnish the biographer with action and anecdote. The remain ing part therefore of the account which may be giving of Mr. Barry, is a summary of the writer's recollections of him, a cha racter as imprinted on his mind, which with some may have the fulsomeness of a eulogy, but with others who knew and loved the man, and who could pardon his few foibles in the abundance of his excellencies, there is fear of censure not so much from ex aggeration as from deficiency. The most prominent feature in the character of Mr. Barry was the fine enthusiasm he possessed after art, and for the acquisition of all knoAvledge which referred immediately or remotely to it. If he gazed at and admired the sublime face of creation in homage to the Creator, the eye of devotion, was always the painter's eye, which never glanced lightly over those parts which he thought subservient to the pencil. The effulgence of the rising or the glare of the setting sun, with the bold masses of gold-skirted clouds in an evening sky, fired him Avith ungovernable rap ture, but with the keenest ainbitlon too, to steal the phenomena, Prometheus-like, for the purposes of his art: rocks, mountains, and objects of stupendous mass of every kind, roused him in like manner, but only In subserviency to his graphic designs. Few things, even" in the subordinate scale of nature, escaped him which had a tendency this Avay — though his mind naturally run after the sublime. But these natural objects belonged pnly to a province in the 305 domain of his study. His chief business was with men and the affairs of men, with their actions, passions and characters — here his observations and studies tended also to a point, the perfec tion of his art, as far as it embraced the high style of historical painting. We have seen that In the early part of his life, his studies were ardent ; In the decline of life they were equally unwearied, and on his death-bed his only complaint was, that his physicians kept him from books, and that he was losing time. Through a long course of years, with this unremitting application, and a power ful memory, his erudition became considerable, and extraordinary for an artist. His knowledge of the dead languages, indeed, was very scanty; of the Greek amounting almost to nothing, of the Latin not furnishing him with more means than just divining the sense of a passage, and that not always without the help of a dictionary — his pretensions went no further : yet with all this defect of classical preparation, no man was better read In and Informed of the learning Avhich the ancients have left us than he, Whatever had a reference directly or Indirectly to the fine arts, in their writings, he had studied by the help of translations, with a patience and perseverance peculiar to himself, and had trea sured it so firmly in his mind, as to make it almost his own. Few men therefore could draw more readily for any fact or occurrence in ancient history than himself; and his memory teemed so strongly with the most important ones, as handed down to us by the sacred and profane writers, that his relation of them had the allurement of graphical representation — He painted while he related. But civil history as well as poetry bore but a small share in the sphere of his learning ; he was well read, and not many ecclesiastics better, in church history. He was vox. I. 2 R 306 led to this most probably by the many subjects of a religious na ture, which painting and sculpture had embellished In Italy : all which subjects he had studied in the writers themselves, to form his judgement of the accuracy of the pencil which had delineated them. Every man, who is the master of his own education, and whose studies are desultory, like the traveller without a guide over an unknown region, will have to diverge In a variety of directions, and to pass and repass often the same ground ; but if his ardor and perseverance enable him to accomplish his journey, he is sure to see more and see better, than the man who goes straight by a beaten track. The studies of Barry were of this nature : it is doubtful If he had ever read through the Bible, or the AATitings of the fathers in any series of study, much less the controversial writers. Yet he had gleaned voluminously from them all, and was not only well acquainted with their lives and characters, but would occasionally set his broad sails Into the subjects on which they had treated, and weather the contentious and endless sea. If not to the satisfaction, as least to the admira tion of those around him. There were certain of these writers, Avhom he had pinned his love and homage on, and whom he always emphatically called his heroes — Pascal, Antony Arnauld, Nicole, Bossuet, Fenelon; and so completely did his veneration for them carry him away, that he hated their enemies, as if they had been his own ; and he not only imbibed, as far as he could, their learning from their writings, but he caught and practised upon their love of virtue, their vindication of the Christian religion, their fortitude under persecution, their system of abstinence and self-denial. He 307 compounded himself, if it may be so said, of such men, taking from each that excellence which he had admired in him. Of the two last, the one roused his congenial energy with his grand and powerful style, the other delighted him with his beautiful, mild, and truly classical imagery. With such guides In religion it was not easy perhaps for a Catholic to go wrong, and in morality, not easy for any man. The religious subjects of the Italian paintings had conducted him to the study of theology and religion. He was led into mythology by the magic of Grecian sculpture. The tenour of his mind, early impressed with a love and admiration of the beautiful and grand, naturally induced him to value the charac. ter of the ancient Greeks ; but when the power of the Grecian chisel burst upon his eye in Italy, his enthusiasm as an artist was wrought up to Its highest pitch. Grace, beauty, grandeuri force of expression in character, combined with unsullied correct ness, never raised superior fervour in any poet's or painter's mind ; and on these qualities, as exhibited in the sculpture of the Greeks, was he to fix his lever, by which he was to move and raise the admiration of others in his own productions. He has been heard to remark that he had seen nothing, and felt tamely for art, till that sculpture had caught his correct eye, and fired his poetic mind. No vestige of this ancient art was Indifferent to him ; the pro duction and the subject of It became a source of study, and the artist and scholar went hand In hand with equal zeal and a balanced profit. Thus by degrees did mythological learning ground itself in his 2 R 2 308 mind, so that there was scarcely an author which ^ he had not read ; and he carried into these subjects such a judgeiiient and taste as qualified him for an able critic of those matters. Super added to this, he had a particular aptitude of mind for discover ing the meanings, which often lurked under mythological emblems. He Avas impressed with high notions of the gravity of the ancients, and could not be persuaded that any thing which came from their hands, was without some meaning of an ethical or physical tendency. There was a philosophy, therefore, even in their wildest productions of imagination ; and their mytho logical tales, extravagant and even ridiculous as some of them appear to us, contained some useful lesson or concealed truth, and were not unAvorthy of the patient investigation Pf artists and philosophers. Lord Bacon was of this opinion also, as may be seen by the admirable treatise he has left us, De Sapientia Feterum. With respect to this mythology, as It descended frOm the earliest times, his discriminatiori in the fine arts enabled him to observe vestiges, in some of them, of an antiquity so remote as to soar above history, or any written record; and as the learned and elegant M. Baillie traced the relicks of a perfect astronomy to a remote but unknown people, so would Barry strengthen the same reasoning by a multitude of observations relating to vestiges in the fine arts, which could not be traced to any ancient natiPn on record, such as the Assyrians, Babylonians, or Egyptians, and therefore belonged to some people long anterior to them. He had not the least doubt of the existence of such an ancient unrecorded nation, from, 1st,. The fragments of an astrono mical science, as proved so ably by Baillie.* 2d, From the * Vide I'Histoire de I'Astronomie ancienne, et Lettres sur I'Atlantide. 309 remnants of a mythology diffused so universally among succeed-, ing ancient nations. And 3d, The scattered remains of an art much superior to what succeeding nations possessed for ages afterwards. As to where this nation had existed, he was decid edly of opinion with Count Garll, and according to the tradition preserved by Plato, that it was nearthe coast of Africa, on some island In the Atlantic ocean, and not as M. Baillie had conjectured, and endeavoured to prove, on the Asiatic continent between latitude 45 and 50. He agreed with Carli In the proofs ofthis great, but lost island, from its abundant remains In the scattered. isles of the Canaries, Cape Verd, and others, but more than all, in certain traces of similarity of buildings, customs, religious rites, and names, among the Peruvians, Mexicans, even the south sea islanders, and the ancient nations of the African and Asiatic continents. It was with views towards researches of this kind, or to expli cations relating to history or mythology, that he honoured the labours of antiquaries, givlrig them in other respects very little credit for hoarding and collecting, and still less for assum* ing to themselves the right of deciding dogmatically on matters of taste, which so often lay out of their acquirements, arid prpperly belonged to other men better prepared (as he thought) to decide — the artists. We believe that he took an early dislike to antiquarians, and mere collectors, from the consequence he observed some of them assumed at the time he studied at Rome, and the mischief he supposed they did to modern art and artists, by dragging the public attention to the crudities they collected; and thereby diverting It from fostering and encouraging modern works of merit. He had many complalrits of this nature to make, and some of them perhaps well founded, which are detailed In his 310 letter to the Dilettante, and which it is pleasant to see, have^served as a kind of text to the vigorous and spirited, as well as highly poetical work of Mr. Shee, Rhymes on Art. But such complaints are neither novel or uncommon ; Michael Angelo was as much anridyed by aritiquarian mania as Mr. Barry, arid had no way of punishing the injustice of such men but at the expense of any claims they might have to judgement or taste. But we repeat again that Mr. Barry honoured the researches after antiquities, and thought them useful where they tended to ex plain or Illustrate ancient art or science. His strong mind in every thing considered the object and the motive. He could therefore distinguish between the solid labours of a D'Ancarville, and the mercenary restlessness of a Jenkins — ^between the useful investigator and expounder of antiques, and the vain collector. If he judged of men in this respect according to their value, so he judged of things, and blamed the attention, time, and praise so often bestowed on objects unworthy of regard: whose only merit was their antiquity— of no value in their own time, of no use in this, the refuse of mean art. But of those choice speci mens, which displayed the beginning, progress, and perfection of art, or which threw a light on any facts, customs, or usages of ancient time — which embellished mythology, Illustrated history, or fixed chronology, no man was more an enthusiast, or stamped a value more becoming the objects than himself For the use which the study and researches of coins convey, he was a great friend to numismatic learning, and without pre tending to much knowledge this way, yet he possessed that acu men of taste and science In the designs which coins display, that his observations were generally novel and valuable. He had a 311 greater respect for collectors of this kind than for any others, finding them more useful and less arrogant or interfering to depress art of modern time. From the admiration which he entertained of many of the ancient coins, of the medals of Pisano, Hamerani and others struck In more modern periods, for boldness of design and vigour of execution, he was naturally led to contrast them with and lament the meagerness of art exhibited In the coins of this coun try. An application which the Lords of the Council had made to the Royal Academy for improvements In the coinage, fixed his attention more pointedly to the subject ; and as the academi cians could not agree among themselves on the suggestions they were to offer, nor he with any of them, he drew up a letter to the Earl of Liverpool on this Important subject, in which he struck out some bold and useful observations on the Improvements of the national coin — recommending a deep relief of figure filling the whole space of the coin, and sunk in a cavo bed. A mode, , certainly, of Improvement, and with the two-fold utility of effect and preservation. A coinage of copper which soon followed the publication of this letter, embraced In part Mr. Barry's object, but not to the extent in size or execution of the design, which he wished for. To preserve his claim to these suggested Im provements, he was not content with the publication of the above- mentioned letter, but he painted Into one of his pictures at the Society of Arts, an imaginary coin or medal of Alfred, and has . treated the same subject in a preface to one of the volumes of the Transactions of that Society ; where, with really Grecian taste, he. recommends typifying the common coin of the three kingdoms with the rose, thistle, and shamrock Intertwined round the bor der or rim of the coin. It is in the same preface, where he 312 suggests "a design for a new medal of that Society, simple and grand, and explanatory at a glance, by the combined heads of Minerva and Mercury, of the purposes of that useful institution.* Round the rim In the design which he drew of this medal, he has carried the same wreath, Avhich if executed with, the bold relief he intended, woujd not only be ornamental, but compli mentary to the three kingdoms, as well as a preservative of the main design It encircles. So easy could his mind descend to these smaller branches of art — but his love of the grand tended to the nobler subjects of design. And there Is no doubt that, if he had been employed upon those for sculpture or architecture, his Ideas in both these branches would have been Michel-angelesque. On the science of architecture he had spent a great deal of study, from a desire he had entertained of bringing a brother forward In this line, but. whose early ^eath dissipated his views. He Avas therefore competent to speak on the best specimens of ancient and modern architecture, in their different styles, and his critiques generally abounded with those masterly strokes of a fertile and bold genius, as to fix always attention, and sometimes admiration. But whatever his skill In the different branches of the fine arts, or his general learning might be, posterity will be engaged upon him chiefly as a painter; let us therefore examine what rank he Is entitled to in this line. * Since the death pf Mr. Barry, the heads of Minerva and Mercury have been adopted by the Society of Arts, &c. for the design on their new medal, and were modelled for that purpose by the classical hand of Mr. Flaxman, in a style, if not more characteristical, certainly more beautiful than those in the drawing of Barry. SIS There is an expression of his in one of his letters to Mr. Burke, which will give us a clue to ascertain the principal object he had always In view, and which. If he accomplished, will entitle him to rank as a master in this noblest branch of art. "I find," says he, " Titian Is the only modern who fills up an idea of perfection in any one part of the art. There is no example of any thing that goes beyond his colour ing, whereas the parts of the art In which Michael Angelo and Raffael excelled, are almost annihilated by the superio rity of the antiques." In other words, that there was some thing wanting In the beau ideal of forms, which whatever the ancient marbles might, the canvass of the moderns did not pos sess ; and which none of the Italian schools, not even the Ro man, so celebrated for its nobleness of style, had pushed to its perfection. Is Barry the artist who has supplied this most important desideratum? has he approached the perfection of the Greek antiques in the beau ideal ? We may go farther, and ask, has he, in no instance. Improved on that supposed perfection ? Ariy of these questiPns answered affirmatively, (and they cannot all be denied) will entitle him to rank as a master — by this term is meant an artist who has advanced the progress of his art by his skill and invention ; who has advanced a step, and that step an important one: and whether the writer may be accused of ignorance and presumption or not, he affirms that neither Mi chael Angelo nor Raffael, nor the eminent masters, who have followed them, have produced for truth, science, beauty, cha racter, and expression, any figures that equal, much less excel, the Angelic Guard in the picture of Elysium ; the Youth on horseback, and group of the Diagorldes, in the Olympic Games ; the three figures of Jupiter, Juno, and Mercury, in the picture of Pandora ; the Adam and Eve ; or for exquisite ideal beauty VOL. I. 2 s 314 iri Ithe female form, his Venus, in which if he has not rivalled the Venus de Medicis, he has at least avoided what he thought a, defect in the ideal beauty of that statue, the visible marks of maternity. This exquisite; Ideal, which from the Greek statues, he is the first who has transferred ori canvass, was the fort of Barry, for which his; scientific and poetic mind amply qualified him. For the mechanic of colouring, though what he has adopted, seems always appropriate to his subjects, he Is not so. famous. But itcannot be said that he is defective, unless the tinsel and glare of less accomplished painters should be preferred to Jt, Of the subjects and style, of his compo sitions, though the facility and playfulness of his pencil was suited to all the beauty, grace, and elegance, which female form ever exhibited, on the canvass of Corregio or Parmeggiano, yet he suffered not his mind to be led away by enchantments of this kind; the bent of his. genius, was after compositions. of a grave nature. He delighted not to speak of his Venus, the female dance in his harvest scene, or the sporting nymphs in his picture of the Thames, though the beauty of form, and the grace of actipn and attitude ravished every other eye ; but he took praise on his subjects; of the Olympic games, and the Elysium, because he thought: that these subjects, independent of the execution, de- 'seryed praise from the solemn and useful lesson they cpn- veyed. IJe had impressed himself very early in life with an idea pf the dignity and solemnity of a painter's profession. The art of painting, like that of poetry, professes to please and to instruct. Its aim Is accomplished when this double ob ject is obtained; but in his opinion the pleasure ought in all cases tpjae, subservient to the instruction: where the contrary pre- 315 bailed, the art would become a pander to the passions, a meri- tricious guide Into the regions of depraved taste, frivolous and effeminate, like the age, whose corruption it was tending to pro mote. The'artist therefore whose ambition was to overstep his own time, and descend with credit and honour to posterity, to cling to the chief object, moral instruction, without spurning or losing sight altogether of pleasure, which might follow In the distance. This rule Mr. Barry observed with a steadiness and rigour be yond any other artist of ancient or modern time. He may be istyled emphatically the Ethical Painter; for whether he sought his subjects from the Pagan or Scriptural history, whether they were the pure inventions of his own fancy, or drawn from record^ ed facts. In no Instance has his pencil traced a line, but with a moral or instructive effect ; so grave and guarded is he, that there is no instance in his pictures, Avhere he has permitted himself the slightest levity In action or countenance sufficient to raise a smile, much less of buffoonery, even in his lightest productions, to excite a laugh. In his picture of the Olympic Games he has levelled a blow at buffoonery and Avit in the person of Aristo- jphanes, sufficient to determine In Avhat light he held this species of popular but trivial qualification. In this respect the man never varied from the painter. Were his moments ever so free and social, he never aimed at wit of broad humour. He might wish to raise admiration by his re marks, but he disdained to excite a laugh ; and a conversatiori which had orily merriment for its object, soon disgusted him ; because his golden rule was -here reversed ; and Instruction arising from general conversation was sacrificed to mere pleasure. With all this, if he liked his company, he was far from being churlish or morose, but a cheerfulness beamed over him, Aviiich 2 s 2 316 soon discovered how susceptible he was of the satisfaction of giving and receiving instruction : And in this exchange he was on the whole a very fair trader, not arrogating more Conver sation than fell to his share; though it often happened, if the subject washistory, religion, or the fine arts, that most of4t really fell to him, as he had most to say, and that, with an enthusiasm arid warmth which seemed proportioned to the value of the subject, or to the contradiction, sophisms or quibble that had previously roused him. Nothing was more easy than to make him animated and eloquent on any subject where he felt the least interest, and such had been the extensive circle of his studies, that tbere were few subjects he did not feel some interest in. The impression which, as has been said, he imbibed early of the seriousness of a painter's charge, grew AvIth his ambition to distinguish himself, and was fostered by years and serious studies. The levities of youth, the fashions and snares of social life had no allurements to Avin him from his purpose ; and not mere ly what had a vicious tendency in the art, but what had not an use ful one met his aversion or disrelish. No persuasion or prospect of emolument could have induced him (for example) to paint the jollity of a tavern scene, the uproar of a Middlesex election, the feager pleasures of a bear baiting, or a horse race ; because he looked on these pleasures as vicious In themselves, and unworthy of memorial or record, and thought that the pencil was prosti tuted which perpetuated them, as giving consequence to a de praved bent of the public mind which ought to be directed to nobler pursuits. Even in the business of portrait painting, though no man approved the motives of love, friendship, and respect which had preserved to us the resemblances of persons celebrated for birth, beauty, talents, or moral worth, more than 317 he ; yet he condemned the general rage after this branch of art, as arising from vanity ; and where there was nothing to celebrate in fijrm, feature, intellectual or moral excellence, as worse than useless ; because art In running after individual and vulgar nature, was diverted from its nobler pursuits, and the artist himself levelled to the condition of a mechanic, who was drudg ing for subsistence. He lamented the taste of the public which commanded, and the situation of the artists which submitted to such works, and of course strenuously resisted every temptation to embark in them. But the meed of fame and not wealth was his object ; in pursuing and obtaining which, he has left a fine memorial of what every artist may do, who has any spark of the Vis divinior vfithm him, who has application, time, and a deter mination to excel — and a glorious example of achieving great things with little means, by flinging aside the incumbrances of casual wants, and the vain allurements of Society, and devoting himself, like a hero, to the grand objects he had in view. These objects In a mind so creative, ardent, and richly fraught as Barry's, rose like the Epics of Homer and Milton, Into one vast and sublime, yet connected and systematic whole. Illimitable as the subject seemed, his genius brought it within the necessary circle laid down by Aristotle for the epopee, of a beginning, a middle, and an end. This subject, which we state as the most comprehensive ever considered or undertaken by painter or poet, was no less than the complete history of the human mind in its various stages from barbarity to refinement, both with respect to its multiplied relations of man with man, and its more solemn relations of man with God ; and In the final retribution awarded to all in a future world. It Is obvious that the former part of this work to be complete 318 must have coriiprehended the whole of ethic and natural seienpej the other branch would have comprehended the mytholpgy of the Pagan world, and the theology of the Jewish and Christian ; and the concluding part, that which he has so ably and learnedly achieved In his picture of Elysium. In the stanzas of the Vatican sprung this .vast cPnception in the mind of young Barry, and what Is singular, in front of the pictures of Raffael, Intended by that immortal painter to repre? sent part of the same subjects. We.mentiorithis circumstance as a proof of the daring and enthusiastic turn of this young man, of the consciousness of his owri powers, and of the keenness of his glance, which discovered the failure and defects of his precursor, and of the determination instantaneously assumed, of breaking a ispear with him on his own ground. In most men such a deter- minatlori would have been presumptuous, and would have ended like the. heroic actions conceived over the fumes of wine, or the golden dreams of a selfish and vain fancy. But in Barry to con ceive and to execute admitted of no interval ; and at Rome^he began his design of Pandora, which was to eclipse Raffael's Mar riage of Cupid arid Psyche; before an assembly of the gods in the little Farnese palace, and to serve the first in a series of theologir- cal science. So far as vigour and justness -of character in the delineation of each of the gods upon the pure Grecian models could go, he has succeeded and outstripped Raffael ; and he has succeeded in conveying a tale which Avas to serve as the first of a series, representing the relation the human mind had Avith the Deity in the Heathen world, and the prevailing belief -in the origin of mtmdane happiness and misery. Pandora was the first of women created— the Heathen Eve ; and^as endoAved by the gods with all attributes necessary for insuring satisfaction and .happiness, lAvith one sple injunction committed to' her charge, 319 AA'hich by violating she was to entail pairi and misery on man kind. There is in the story much to attach the attention of the philosopher and scholar, as to the opinion of the ancients, how death and sin came Into the world; nor uninteresting to the divine, as conveying the universality of opinion in ancient times, that the Deity created human existence Innocent and pure, with means tp Insure the duration of its own happiness; but by diso bedience and perversity it entailed misery on itself ; What picture or pictures he designed to follovs^ this. In order more fully to pourtray the progressive errors of the human mind In the Pagan religion, Ave cannot say; but np doubt his systematic fancy would have completed this part of his subject, in order to open with a sublimer effect on the history of the Mosaic and Christian doctrines. It is well known that the purity of his taste had led him to the brightest and deepest fountain of poetic and historic imagery for the delineation of the Mosaic system of religion — that is, to the Paradise Lost of Milton. To the genius of Milton he paid such adoration and homage, that to rise to the height of his descrip tions, he thought would be the fame of his pencil and the completion of a principal part of the subject he had in view. It was not a little to illustrate on canvass what the poet had con ceived, and that In the grand, soleinri, and ethical way which such a poet had intended ; yet Barry began his Miltonic designs with equal enthusiasm and effect; intending them but as a part; of a great whole, AvhIch his own poetic fancy and power of in-; ventipn Avas to supply. The temptation of Adam is probably the only one which 320 exists on canvass, and this he painted at Rome, which Is men tioned as a corroborating proof that at Rome he had formed his general subject. But he has left v^uable drawings of the other parts, beginning. with the triumph of MIchaer and the casting out of the evil angels from heaven ; of Satan haranguing them after their fall ; of his conflict with death at the gates of hell ; of his escape fi-om the nether world, and arrival at the palace of Chaos and old Night ; his arrival in paradise ; the descent of Uriel to inform Gabriel of the escape of an evil spirit ; the detec- ticm of Satan by IthurieU our first parents after their fall ; vision of human miseries ensuing on his posterity pointed out to Adam ; the dismission from paradise. In the midst of these horrid scenes of rebellion, disobedience, divine anger, and punishment, which are too much in a conti nued series of paintings for human feelings to relish ; like the great poet whom he was following, Barry knew where to intro duce the reppses, to bring back the calm desired, and his designs of God the Son in the beneficent act of creating the world; of the angel In the bower conversing with Adam ; of Adam and Eve ii^ their state of innocence and bliss ; of the same at their morning orisons ; fill the mind with a pleasure in proportion to the agitation it had previously suffered. It cannot with certainty be said how many, and what other subjects he Intended to take from the Paradise Lost, to exem plify the Mosaic theology ; but the designs he left behind him pourtray, as may be seen by the above-mentioned series, the early relation of man with his Creator ; the obedience enjoined and broken, and the consequence which was foretold to happen, *' of death brought into the world, and all our woe." 321 Perhaps certain subjects from the Bible, typefying more dis tinctly, the nature of the faith and worship of the Jews, and their intimate connexion with the true God, together with examples of virtues rewarded and of vices punished, might have fallen into his plan; but there Is no authority for such an assertion, for he has left no memorial behind him, nor Is It remembered his hav ing spoken of such a part of his subject. Perhaps he reserved many details of this kind until he came to the next part of his subject, the doctrines of the revealed religion of Christ ; which he has been heard to speak of with that love, enthusiasm, and rapture, that If the subjects could have been finished before age had enfeebled his natural powers. It must have been the most Interesting part of the whole, particularly to Christians of the present day, who stand related to God by the holy mysteries of this religion. It Is not to be wondered at that Mr. Barry should contemplate this division of his subject with peculiar ardour, unction, and delight. — He, whose faith on the mysteries of the Incarnation and miracles of Christ was built on a rock. All who knew him can testify with what ardour he dwelt on these subjects, and how eloquently and manfully he would withstand every encroach ment made by levity or Infidelity on the doctrines of revelation. Philosophes of the French school, deists, and sceptics of every kind met with no quarter from him here. And he was so well convinced of the futility of the pagan philosophy, as having offered no permanent motives or rules for moral conduct, and of the abominations of the French philosophy, as offering no motives but what have led to vicious ; that his heart and mind gave into the Christian religion with redoubled faith and ardour.. And there is no doubt but this part and continuation of his subject VOL. I. 2 t 322 would have carried Avith it all the interest and importance which belong to it, or which could have been stamped by genius, pene trated, enriched, and animated by knowledge and faith. It , Is a loss to the arts, perhaps to mankind, that he never lived to finish this subject. It could be seen how vehemently desirous he Avas of putting a finish to his main design, by the frequent and loud exclamation, " O God ! how I long to have a place where I cari be at my work!" Of this work it is painful to announce that only detached parts remained — Designs, but such as they were, they were finished in his usual great style of drawing, and consist ed of the Annunciation ; of the Nativity, after the manner of the Notte of Corregio ; of the Baptism of Christ In the Jordan, an admirable drawing designed with simplicity, but grandly impres sive ; Pilate presenting Christ to the Jcavs, and exculpating himself from any guilt in his blood; Judas casting down the thirty pieces of silver, admirably expressive of remorse and self- condemnation, and of the haughty Indifference and insulting satisfaction of the high priests and elders,* To what extent did he mean to pursue the subject of the Christian revelation? Did he intend painting the characteristic and chief traits in the life of our Saviour; to Introduce the Ordina tion of the Sacraments; to exemplify and contrast that proud, but unsound principle of the Stoic school, to bear and forbear, AvIth the natural, graceful, unassuming, and chief feature of the Chris tian, made up of meekness of heart and a forgiving disposition ? It is impossible to say — he has left no memorial of his ultimate intentions; but from the detached and broken parts, it is proba ble that this was his intention, with such Intermediate links,, that * These fine drawings were sold at the auction of his effects, probably to diflerent gentlemen, some of whom it is to be hoped will have the taste and spirit to send them to the engraver. 323 the subject would have flowed before the spectator's eye in one continued, instructive, and pleasing stream, and such as the consolatory history of universal redemption might be supposed to represent. In this ample and sublime manner his wish and intention Avas to convey the progressive culture of the human mind under the two great divisions of philosophy and theology ; and it may be said without any extravagant admiration of the man, that the School of Athens and Dispute of the Sacrament, convey but a scanty delineation of the two subjects, in comparison with the learned, poetical, and systematic mode intended by Barry. Raffael's range of subject is more confined, as he chooses the moment of consummation of human culture, the acme of philosophy and theology. Barry's range is so ample, that it appears almost without limits, as he takes in the progression of these subjects, such as they appear in different periods of time or stages of society. The one oversteps all bounds of probability, by disregarding the unities of time, place, and action ; for exam ple. In the picture of the School of Athens, Individuals are brought together who never existed at one and the same period of time ; they are assembled at Athens for no defined purpose, and with no circumstance peculiar to Athens, and may be occu pied as far as the spectator can determine, like the evil spirits after their fall, " In vain wisdom all, and false philosophy. Finding no end, in wandering mazes lost." Whatever may be the grandeur, variety, and spirit of the figures, the dignity of the heads, the grand style of drapery, or 2 T 2 324 the beauty of colouring, for Iri these things the inimitable Raffael Is visible, and Barry halts behind him ; still the same objections apply In the picture of the Dispute of the Sacrament ; the spectator remains to be informed who the actors are, what they are about, and how they came together at one place and time; and when he has had this Information, he is not much wiser or more satisfied. In no part of Mr. Barry's work are violations of the unities observable. Fiction no where soars above probability ; because where the scenes are on earth, his personages, almost all, are Imaginary ; or if real personages, he has made choice of such as existed at or nearly the same period of time. There Is but one Instance to the contrary, which is in his picture of the Thames, where to honour the memory of Captain Cooke, and to compliment his friend Dr. Burney, he has associ ated them with Sir Walter Raleigh, Drake, and others, of an earlier period. To profit therefore by the free scope of general representation of real personages, he places his scene in Elysium, where probability Is not overstepped; where the action is uni form, which Is the acquisition and discussion of reserved know ledge, though the individuals are variously and divldedly grouped. And the. eye is carried over the different parts of this immense picture without fatigue or confusion by the natural pauses and breaks every where interspersed, and at last conducts the imagination to that supposed centre, the throne of Deity, from whence life and immortality are brought to light. If in the room of the Society of Arts Mr. Barry has told his- story clearly, strongly, and with as many requisites of the epic as painting will admit, though not so amply as his expanded mind intended; since it is certain, if the place and opportunities had alloAved, his intention was to have introduced episodical 325 parts, which had reference to other branches, of culture In the human mind, such as jurisprudence and legislation, natural phi losophy, poetry, kc — so Is It certain, that In the most Important of all, as connecting man with his Creator, and as the source of his eternal felicity hereafter, or theology, he would have con ducted his subject with due effect. He required only that countenance and encouragement of the Public, which genius so laudably pants after and deserves. But If he lived not to complete his great subject, the delay of which lay not with him so much as with the adverse circum stances under which he laboured, let it not be supposed that he spent his time idly or unprofitably : few men ever calculated the value of their time so rigidly as Mr. Barry : if he was a miser in any thing, it was in the careful economy of this treasure. It has been noticed how much he was dissatisfied. If the loose moments, which mankind are willing to throw into the lap of social inter course, and to abandon for any chance pleasures they can bring, were not spent profitably ; that is, each moment bringing Its charge of grave and useful Instruction and delivering it up into the common stock for the benefit of the company. If such was his attention to the proper use of his social hours, we may well suppose that those appropriated to himself were not suffered to slip away unemployed; and indeed after turning ofte's eye from his larger works of the pencil, to his lesser labours of the graver, from his canvass to his plates, we may be astonished that so much should have been accomplished by one man, solitary, un assisted, unpatronized, and unprotected ; who, whether all his apprehensions were imaginary or real, had certainly enemies enough to qualify an expression he frequently used ; that it was extraordinary he could ever accomplish what he had done, when he had so often to defend himself with one hand, while he 326 painted with the other. Yet his spirit and industry carried him through a larger series of etchings or engravings than perhaps ever fell to the share of any man who had not made that branch of art his professed occupation. He has etched or engraved almost all his paintings, and also many of his other designs, which he Intended, but had not place or opportunity to throw upon canvass. It is to be wished that he had engraved them all, for such is the strong and masterly style of his art, that it will not be easy to find an artist who can catch his manner and force of expression. This manner of etching or engraving Is peculiar to Mr. Barry ; it is coarse, but nervous, strong, and energetic. Here, as in every thing else, he disdained to please only ; there fore all softness and delicacy of line, all fineness and finish, every thing to flatter the eye without reaching the mind, he flings aside to fasten with more effect and depth on the main points of his design, and knows that his Instrument conveys the tale use fully, if It conveys it strongly ; and that adventitious ornament and finish may be a necessary appendage to weakness of subject, but can add nothing to that which is sufficiently strong to sup port itself. With various degrees of merit and excellence, which it is not the business here to enter minutely into, has he con ducted a long series of etchings or engravings ; the principal and most important of which are those which refer to his work at the Adelphi. All of these paintings he engraved, undertaking the work under the encouragement of a subscription of ten gui neas the set. This series comprised what he called the smaller set, but he engraved the principal groups in the Elysium, and that of the Diagorldes in the Olympic games, in a larger and finer style some years afterwards, introducing certain characters into his Elysium whom he had unjustly, as he thought, omitted in the painting ; such as the person of Isabella of Spain, the great princess, by whose magnanimity and patronage Columbus accom- ¦ 327 plished his discovery of America ; the person of Calvert Baron of Baltimore, the founder of the colony of Maryland, and wise legislator of that code which Penn afterwards adopted for the colony which he established ; and perhaps others, Avhich we do not recollect. The principal subjects of his other engravings are, his Pandora, which he has left unfinished ; Job reproved by his friends, dedicated to Mr. Burke. The conversion of Polemon, dedicated to Mr. Fox. Polemon, an Athenian beau, reeling home from a night's debauch, enters at early dawn the lecture room of Xenocrates the philosopher, at the moment he is discoursing on the wretchedness of intemperance, and folly of vanity ; expecting when he en tered a subject for ridicule, the young man's attention becomes suddenly fixed by the seriousness and poignancy of the philoso pher's remarks, and the artist seizes him at the moment that he is stealing from his head his garlands, and is in the posture and attitude of a man Avho felt the shame of his conduct, and the workings of a roused reflection. The heads and figures of the group composing the audience, are finely conceived. This de sign was undertaken In consequence of some sarcastic remarks made on the levities of the late Mr. Fox, by either Price or Priestly In a club to which Barry belonged ; these men looking on Mr. Fox without hope, while Barry defended him, and pro duced at the next meeting the above design, 17 78. Jonah, from the painting by Michael Angelo, 1801, dedicated to the late Duke of Bridgewater. King Lear, from a painting done by Barry for the Shakspeare Gallery, 17 76. 328 His present Majesty delivering the patent to the judges of their office for life ; and Her Majesty and the Princesses patronising education at Windsor, both intended for additional paintings in the great room of the society at the Adelphi. Philoctetes In the isle of Lemnos, from a painting he executed at Bologna, In 17 70, and presented to the Clementine Academy there, for the honour they had done him of electing him a member: this painting was engraved In 1785, by Rosas- pina ; but the two prints bear no comparison for energy of ex pression. Birth of Venus, 17 76. Head of the late Earl of Chatham, 17 78. Jupiter and Juno, from a painting by him. Rise of America, with the decline of Europe. An allegorical design he etched at the heat of the American war, when those who espoused the cause of the colonists, suffered their imagi nations to run riot on the sunshine that was to bless America, and to lament the eternal gloom that was spreading on this side of the Atlantic, the worst of all Barry's productions. 17 76. In the Miltonic Series, the Archangel Michael triumph ing over Satan, the subject he had chosen for a painting in St. Paul's. Satan risen from the fiery gulph, and hurling defiance at the vault of Heaven. Battle of Satan and Death, with Sin interfering. Temptation of Adam. Adam and Eve after their fall. Milton dictating to Elwood the quaker.* * He executed many small prints — the chief of which were, Jupiter and Juno on mount Ida; Saint Sebastian; Holy Family from Raffael; Repose in Egypt: Tasso in prison, crowned by Urania and attended by the Graces ; Horace ; Heads. 329 Having spoken of him for his genius and learning, it may be necessary to trace some lines of him, for his virtues and foibles as a member of society. The basis of his temper was of a cheer ful and good-humoured cast : if he had been bred a mechanic, with employments succeeding to his wishes, there is scarcely a man, who would have passed through life more cheerly or un concernedly ; but fate threw him on a profession, which built up itself of ideal charms, generally charms away its votaries by a thousand phantoms of ambitious hope, which are scarcely ever to be realised during life, or If realised, never worth the sacri fice of repose which accompanies the pursuit of them. For one fortunate Rubens, ennobled and enriched by sovereigns, or for one even-tempered Reynolds, who, as Dr. Johnson observed, was the most Invulnerable of men, we meet AvIth numbers In the class of painters, whose happiness In pursuit of fame has been broken up, and whose fame even, came too late to be enjoyed. The more eminent their genius, the less happy their condition ; as if Providence, in whose hands are genius and happiness, prof fered the one to withhold the other. Barry inherited the gift with the hard conditions. His life had been, with respect to natural and common enjoyriients, a life of privation ; and with regard to the expectations he had formed, a life of disappointment. These circumstances soured a naturally good temper, in spite of religion and philosophy, of which he possessed no mean share. Add to this (as he thought) VOL, I. 2 u 330 a host of men, who discovered an enmity to him, who were glad to obstruct his views, and depreciate his merits, who felt elevated In proportion as he was depressed. It must not be de nied but much of this enmity Barry drew on himself A man can never have a contemptuous opinion of others, with whom he Is often obliged to act In life, that is not ultimately per nicious to him; and it is to be feared that Mr. Barry's opinion of cotemporary artists was not so liberal, or conciliating, or be coming his own eminent place among them, as Avas to be wished. As he was never a hypocrite to conceal his sentiments, their resentment became a matter of course ; and except two or three friends, whom he retained among them, the general class of these gentlemen was certainly hostile to him. The oppo sition he met with In the Royal Academy, to several useful schemes which he proposed for the advantages of the Academy, as a seminary for young painters, tended to foster and augment the ill-will on both sides. This Is not a place for the history of their disputes, which are detailed In several parts of his writings; but as they tended to Inflame an Irritable temper, (for of all men Barry belonged to the genus irritabile vatum) and ultimately by his expulsion from that body, to make him drink the cup of bitterness In his last years. It may be frankly asserted, that one of his greatest misfortunes was his having been an Academician. It would have been better for him to have pursued his great designs without this (to him doubtful) honour: and though it would have deprived the world of the lectures, which form the principal object of this volume, yet it would have saved him from drinking of that noxious cup, which was voted, seemingly in defiance, if not in consequence, of many of the same virtues which have endeared the memory of Socrates. 331 Let him not be traduced however, by giving the reader the smallest reason to suppose that the asperity of his temper was constant and habitual : no, it was only occasional, when his mind brooded over the difficulties, the opposition, neglect, and disappointments he had met with through life. And even here it was curious to observe, how ready he was at times to correct his falling, and even to glory in the trials he had suf fered, quoting often. If not always profiting by, the best ex amples of endurance in the Stoics, of meekness under sufferings in our Saviour, of patience in Socrates, of austerity and self- denial In the early fathers, and of that love of poverty and in dependence, which distinguished the brightest characters in the Roman republic. His mind was treasured with these examples, from which he sought much of his consolation. He adopted a short maxim which he was often wont to repeat, and which consoled him also under the disappointments he had suffered ; it was that of Penn, no cross, no crown ; believing that buffetlngs, trials, and hardships alone make the man, and the good man; and that every thing was accomplished, when this latter was obtained ; the reward being in the satisfaction of an unblemished con science, and In the expected retribution of a happy immorta lity : that ease and sensual enjoyments of every kind sapped the probabilities of obtaining this, by wedding the individual to the world, and enticing him to rely on the varnished arts of society, and on pleasures futile, fleeting, and unsubstantial : that pure morality was at such variance with the arts of life, or with the world, that no treaty could exist between them: there was no steering between both without sacrificing one or the other. He had no opinion of virtues therefore, that accommodated them selves to the arts of society : any, the least deviation from a 2 V 2 332 virtue was a homage paid to vice, and was a sin, differing but in degree, from such which mankind consent to reprobate. He would instance this In a variety of ways, and draw his in stances from the lives of men, who otherwise had passed for fair characters, but who suffered themselves to be swayed occasionally by private interest, pique, or some unlawful bias of the heart, at the expense of truth, justice, or probity. There was, it must be owned, a sternness and severity often In his maxims on this head, to which It was impossible for a human individual, not a recluse, to tutor himself. He himself saw, and admitted the difficulties ; but his answer always was, that the glory lay In those difficulties, that they were the touchstone of God, who with Infinite wisdom and goodness had placed beside It conscience, that monitor, which instructed the savage and philosopher equally as to the rule of right and Avrong. That a peasant could not plead ignorance of, nor the most cunning casuist argye away his real feel ings on, the slightest deviations from right. That the degree did not alter the difference as to the violation towards God, of whose di vine Being we could form no idea, but by his attributes ; that God was truth, God was justice, mercy, benevolence, consummate probity, and prudence ; that wherever we gave up or de viated from these, we gave up and deviated from Him ; that wherever we acted up to these virtues, and loved them, we loved and obeyed Him, and frail human nature was limited In pro ceeding farther. Although no man's rule of faith could be more invariable and steady than Mr. Barry's, and to the principal doctrines of the Roman Catholic Religion was rivetted, even to a degree which 333 many of his protestant friends justly thought bigoted, yet was he a Catholic after his own way, and at times was very liberal, par ticularly with respect to points of discipline In that church, resem bling the late Dr. Geddes, whom he has been heard very much to applaud for the pains which he had taken to soften down the aspe rities of their church. It was a favorite opinion of his, AvhIch he had imbibed from the writings of Grotius, Bossuet, Dr. Butler, and others, that a general reconciliation might take place between the Catholic and Protestant churches, withput touching on any of the fundamental articles of faith, and by only sacrificing on one side or the other certain non-essential and merely disclplinal points, which perhaps tended more to fetter true religion, and to keep up animosities, than to any solid good. He was very zealous and eloquently so upon this subject, arguing, that as states had abandoned the pernicious error of waging war for the sake of religion, so the present time was the most fitted for a general council of learned and candid divines to settle a recon ciliation between the prevailing sects. That on one hand the papal authority was so humbled, and on the other the general voice of Infidelity and impiety so loud, that without such an union of the churches, the Christian religion was altogether endangered, to the ruin of states, and dissolution of all social order. He was wont to attribute to the groAvth and multiplicity of sects the chief evils, particularly revolutiPnary ones, to king doms and states, and would illustrate his point by the example of that convulsion which brought Charles I. to the block, attribut ing it entirely to the sectarian principles which grcAV out of the Reformation : that to the same principles which alloAved every man to think for himself In matters of doctrine and faith, and to expound the scriptures as suited his ambition or interest, arose 334 by an Imperceptible gradation the various opinions which have distinguished, as he thought, unitarians, deists, and atheists, of modern time, AvIth all the antecedent and intermediate casts, which went to form the most pernicious climax of errors In the humari heart and head: that the French Revolution was the effect of these operations, which had pervaded almost entirely the upper orders In that kingdom, and by the manoeuvres of the phi losophes had begun to penetrate the middle and lower ones. — - That as early as the regency of the Duke of Orleans, the trains were laid of this tremeridous and pestilential explosion ; but the ground had been unwittingly prepared in the former reign by destroying the liberties. Independence and high character [of the Galilean Church : It Is not necessary to follow or defend him in these opinions, nor would they have been mentioned, but that his profound knoAvledge in the ecclesiastical history of France, entitled him to have an opinion, and there is nothing amiss — ^but the tincture It receives from the religion he professed. His mind delighted In difficulties, and he probably had employed as much thought on the practicability of an Universal ^Church, as ever the Abbe St, Pierre had done on that of a perpetual peace ; led on like him enthusiastically by the greatness of the object and Its importance to the happiness of man. From the declamations he has been known to fall into, in favour of civil liberty, and In praise of the ancient Greek Re publics respecting the arts, many ran away with the notion, that he was a republican, and disaffected to monarchical institu tions. He often declaimed for victory, from occasional love of opposition, or momentary pique and prejudice. Dr. Johnson was known to do the same. But in his cooler moments, he has 335 been heard again and again to assert, that no governments could be worse for a peaceful and virtuous man, than those worthless Greek republics, as he called them. In the Athenian, Avhich was the best, moral worth was always In danger from democratic turpitude. But to say no more, that man's republicanism will go for little, who Invariably worshipped the character and memory of Charles the first, and detested the selfishness and hypocrisy of parties, who planned and achieved his downfall. Though he abominated the memory of William III. yet he hailed the de liverance ; which was achieved by his coming, and spoke highly of the characters who brought about the great work of our constitution, which he considered as the wisest fabric of government ever planned by the mind of man. It is necessary to say thus much, in order to vindicate him from aspersions, which have occasionally been uttered against him on this head. In his enthusiasm after art, he was apt to overrate his pro fession, and to place its utility too high in the scale of human occupations, lamenting that an universal taste did not prevail for the highest style of art. No man was better fitted to shew that this style can only be understood, and consequently relish ed by the educated and polished orders of society, and that the mass of mankind have something else, and perhaps something better to do, than to be gazing on pictures and statues. This always was, and always will be the case. The bulk of Italians never heard of Corregio or Raffael : who among our peasantry know any thing even of a Milton ? who among them will ever hear of a Reynolds, or a Barry? There was a better reason for his lamenting that so much of 336 the superfluous Avealth of individuals should be thrown away upon the sumptuary rather than the fine arts ; upon inanities or monstrosities ; upon things which are not likely to impress posterity with much reverence for the good sense, or good taste of the period. His ordinary language of conversation was often coarse and un polished, and he had acquired a bad habit of interspersing It with oaths ; yet we have seen him several times in the company of men of rank, when he put himself on his guard ; and his language became not only correct, but polished, and even courtly: if he could catch the forms of beauty for his canvass, he kncAv where they lay for language and sentiment — and there Is no doubt, if fortune had led him more under the eyes of the great, his manner would readily have transformed itself Even as it Avas, people soon forgot his rough language and his oaths In the strength of his mind : we have witnessed many Instances of this, and once saw a devout old lady entering the room where he was, hold him for some time in a sort of horror. The conversation how ever happened to turn on the nature of Christian meekness, which gave him an opportunity of opening on the character of our Saviour — with that power of heart and mind, and energy of words, that in spite of the oaths Avhich fell abundantly, the old lady remarked that she never heard so divine a man in her life, and desired to know who he Avas. So with respect to his dress, of which he was always very negligent, and even at times squalid, that strangers would stare when they saw him In company, as if a beggar had been picked up and brought in. Yet his appearance was forgot, the moment 337 he began to discourse on any subject. Such are the efects pro duced by a vigorous and and commanding mind, whose power, by the reveries It calls up, can agitate or compose the passions, suspend the senses, and aggrandize or annihilate the casualties of time, place, and objects. In his person he was rather under the common size, but with limbs well set together, and active even to the last : In his face one could see lines prematurely engraven by the workings of impassioned mind, so that he appeared older than he really was. There was something Very sweet and agreeable in his smiles — but his looks, when roused by anger, were ferocious indeed. Of such sensibilities was he compounded, that according as things floated in his mind. It Avas not uncommon to see these op posite extremes at very short intervals of time. It required no long acquaintance with him to see his character for frankness, boldness, and decisipn, as of one who despised subterfuge and contrivance of every kind, and who disdained a lie from his heart, with all its subordinate colourings Pf simulation and dis simulation : He was indeed a very honest man : but one of his greatest characteristics was his fortitude, that quality of the heart which never suffered him to feel ^depressed in the midst of his comfortless situation — a situation which the poorest man could not envy, and which few men could have sustained so many years as he did — that is. In a house which presented the picture of a ruin by its sunken walls and broken windoAvs, without a servant, without a bed that could be called a bed, in coldness, dirt, solitude, and poverty. The last is perhaps a strong word, not applicable in a rigid sense, and certainly not in his oaa'u opinion, who felt rich if he had but wherewith to procure food, raiment, and a shelter, despising other wants. VOL. I. 2 X 338 He felt less for himself as to these wants than his friends felt for him ; among Avhom, a nobleman of great and correct mind (as has been related) kindly thought it his duty to solicit for Mr. Barry the assistance of the public, as a debt due from that public to him. A sum of money Avas accordingly raised by subscription, but was invested too late to be of any use; and the probability is, that as the assistance had been withheld so long, in the pride of his heart Barry was not sorry to escape without tasting the obligation. LECTURES ON PAINTING, DELIVERED AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 341 LECTURE I. ON THE HISTORY AND PROGRESS OF THE ART. Gentlemen, So much has been written on the subject of painting, that it will^now be difficult to say any thing in the"^ way of general theory, which has not been already either observ ed upon, or hinted at by some one or other of the ingenious and learned writers of those countries of Europe, where this art has had the advantage of being early cultivated and more encouraged. Therefore without being at all solicitous to avoid or to follow the tracks of others, I shall proceed to discharge the duty I have been honoured with, by laying before you such a series of observations as appear to me best calculated to lead your atten tion Into that track of study, which conducted our predecessors to the excellence that has rendered them so Illustrious, and which must enable us (if any thing can) to sustain and to perpetuate this excellence, and to proceed to the further attainment of what ever other desiderata may yet remain for the completing and perfecting of art. Of all the creatures within the sphere of our inspection man alone appears to be endowed with powers for contemplating 342 many of the great designations, the extensive and various uses, de pendencies, and relations, in the creation that surrounds him: hence he Is Impressed with that just sense of beauty, of wisdom, order, and goodness, which not only form the foundation of religion and virtue, but of all his Intellectual satisfaction and happiness. With these powers for contemplation, the passion for imitation is also congenial to his mind, and exhibits one of the most pecu liar, and most glorious characteristics of the exalted nature of this substitute of Providence upon earth as the governing animal. The powers of imitation are In nothing more evident than in poetry, which employs words or arbitrary signs, iand in the arts of design, where the images of the objects themselves are exhi bited to the senses in all their realities of form and coloun I shall hereafter have occasion to dwell more particulariynpon these modes of imitation, as compared with each other ; but at present our remarks avIII be confined to the imitation effected by the arts of design, particularly that of painting, which compre hends all the others. The rude beginnings of the arts of design are traceable amongst the most savage people; the growth and progress of them are co-extended Avith the general Improvement of the human faculties ; and the greatest and wisest nations of the world have ever considered these arts, particularly painting, when taken in its full and comprehensive sense, as one of the most accomplished ornaments of polished society. Though it 343 will be foreign to our purpose to dwell long upon the little which happens to be preserved of the memorial and accounts of ancient art, yet a short survey of this matter may not be Avholly without use. But little is known of the Assyrians, who appear to have been the most ancient nation ; and yet, scanty as our information Is^ we find them to have been familiar with the arts, which they practised to no inconsiderable extent. It is recorded of Semiramis (who flourished about a century before the calling of Abraham) that on a wall round one of her palaces, different animals were raised in bas-relief, and painted from the life ; and it is worth remarking, that these figures were relieved and painted on the faces of the bricks before they were burned, and consequently must have been vitrified or enamelled. There was also painted on another wall the several manners of hunting all kinds of beasts. Here Semiramis herself was repre sented on horseback, striking a leopard through with a dart, and her husband NInus, Avith his javelin, wounding a lion. We find mention also of colossal statues of their idols, and also of Ninus and Semiramis, some in gold, others In brass ; and that these works of sculpture In Assyria were not confined to temples and public places, we may be reasonably assured from the mention of the little images which Rachel stole away from her father's house. That the career of the arts in Assyria was also a very long one, we may learn from the golden statue, sixty 344 cubits high, of Nebuchadnezzar, set up fourteen hundred years after the stealing of Laban's Images.=:= On Egyptian art I shall proceed to speak AAdth more pleasure, as we have sufficient monuments yet remaining to authorise our deciding with more certainty upon the skill of their artists, as to taste and execution. * As I shall have occasion in another part of these lectures to establish some weighty consequences on this recorded as well as remarkable fact, respecting those coloured, basso relievo, historical representations, which were vitrified, or enamelled on the brick walls of Babylon, at so early a period as the time of Semiramis : it is with great concern I feel myself obliged here to take notice of a very mistaken, and ill advised passage re specting this matter in one of the most deservedly celebrated works of our time. Dr. Lowth, in his new translation of the prophecy of Isaiah, chap. 9- verse 10, — the bricks are fallen, but we build with hewn stones," has the following note on that passage, p. 77. " The eastern brides (says Sir John Chardin, see Harmer's obs. p. 17'6) are only clay well moistened with water, and mixed with straw and dried in the sun ;" so that their walls are commonly no better than our mud walls: see Maundrel, p. 124. That straw was a neceesary part in the composition of this sort of bricks, to make the parts of the clay adhere together, appears from E.xodus, c. 5. These bricks are properly opposed to hewn stone, so greatly superior in beauty and durableness." And page 95 the bishop has the followmg note on ch. 13. 19, " we are astonished at the accounts, which ancient historians of the best credit give, of the immense extent, height, and thickness of the walls of Nineveh and Babylon : nor are we less astonished, when we are assured by the concurrent testimony of moderns, that no remains, not the least traces of these prodigious works are now to be found. Our wonder will I think be moderated in both respects, if we consider the fabrick of these celebrated walls, and the nature of the materials of which they consisted. Buildings in the East have always been, and are to this day made of earth or clay mixed or beat up with straw to make the parts cohere, and dried only in the sun. This is their method of making bricks ; see note on ch. ix. V. 9. The walls of the city were built of earth digged out on the spot, and dried upon the place ; by which means both the ditch and the wall were at once formed ; the former furnishing materials for the latter. That the walls of Babylon were of 345 It has been justly observed (and will hold good of all the Egyptian statues and fragments of statues, which 1 have seen at Rome and in other places) that the Egyptians, much as they had practised In the art, yet never rose to any perfection above that of practical mechanical conduct. They carved the human figure, male and female, in materials the most durable and diffi- this kind is well known, and Berosus expressly says apud Joseph Antiq. X. 2. that Ne buchadnezzar added three new M'alls both to the old and new city, partly of brick and bitumen, and partly of brick alone. A wall of this sort must have a great thickness in proportion to its height, otherwise it cannot stand. The thickness of the walls of Ba bylon is said to have been one fourth of their height, which seems to have been no more than was absolutely necessary. Maundrel, speaking of the gjirden walls of Damascus, " they are," says he, " of a very singular structure. They are built of great pieces of earth, made in the fashion of brick, and hardened in the sun. In their dimensions they are two yards long each, and somewhat more than one broad, and half a yard thick," and afterwards speaking of the walls of houses ; " from this dirty way of building they have this among other inconveniencies, that upon any violent rain the whole city be comes by the washing of the houses, as it were a quagmire, p. 124. When a wall of this sort comes to be out of repair, and is neglected, it is easy to conceive the necessary consequences ; namely, that in no long course of ages, it must totally be destroyed by the heavy rahis, and at length washed away, and reduced to its original earth." And on ch. 30. 13; the bishop has the following note. " It has been observed before, that the buildings in Asia generally consist of little better than what we call mud walls. All the houses in Ispahan, says Thevenot (Vol. ii. p. 1 59-) are built of bricks made of clay and straw, and. dried in the sun ; and covered with a plaster made of a fine white stone. In other places in Persia, the houses are built with nothmg else but such bricks made with tempered clay and chopped straw, well mingled together and dried in the sun and then used; but the least rain dissolves them. Sir John Chardin's MS. remarks on this place of Isaiah are very apposite " Murs en Asie etant faits de terre fendent ainsi par milieu et de haut en bas." This shews clearly how obvious and expressive the image i^ 158." By this citation from Exodus, and those passages from so many travellers and learned men of high credit, it would appear, that bishop Lowth, was persuaded himself, and VOL. I. 2 Y 346 cult to be wrought, in porphyry, granite, ^nd In basalte ; but tfiey neither did, nor, as it should seem. Intended to do any thing more. Their figures appear neither to act nor think, and have more the resemblance of dead than of animated nature. They have ob served the general proportions in a gross and general way, not only without selection, beauty or discrimination of character. meant to persuade his readers, that the walls of Babylon were only built of mud and straw, dried in the sun; and from his mention of the ancient historians of the best credit, who speak of those walls, without noting any circumstance of difference be tween the ancient, and the modern accounts or surmises, another proof is afforded of the truth and general extension of an observation, which I have long since had occasion to insist upon ; namely, that the bulk of men seldom see any thing either in the great spectacle of nature, or of arts, that they are not by previous studies taught to look for. Men must be taught to see, and to distinguish, and however paradoxical this may seem, yet nothing is more true : but let us turn our attention to the Abbe Terrasson, a knowing and judicious French academician, habituated to the conversation and work shops of artists, and consequently to that gusto, or quick conception, which results from the knowledge of things, and not of mere words ; and although no better at Greek scholarship than our learned bishop, yet we find, that in lieu of mud walls dried in the sun, Diodorus Siculus, as rendered by the Abbe Terrasson, has burnt brick walls, brique cuite, with bas-rehefs, four cubits high, executed on the faces of those bricks, whilst they were yet fresh, and afterwards coloured, and then vitrified by the same heat which burned the bricks. Even the learned Latin translator of Diodorus omits the very word of his author, himviraro which specifies those figures being in relievo, contenting himself with rendering what he supposed to be the sense and matter of Diodorus without regarding that word, htrnvTcwea in which he saw no meaning or refer ence : although in the Lexicon of Constantini, it [Jialuwow] means, informo, signo, in- sculpo, insignio, imprimo, &c. As to the mere matter of burning those bricks, ^ eos in fornacibus coquebant,' are the words employed in Wesseling's edition of Herodotus. The ancient writers were not mere dealers in words, as is too often the case with their trans lators. The knowledge of things, and the knowledge of words, being too often con founded, it is distressing to reflect what must be the fate of many exquisite gustoso re marks on arts and artists in the hands of mere bald scholarship, which is not able to penetrate even the mere surface and exterior of things : mere words, whether Greek, or 347 but even without attending to that detail of parts, which to an intelligent eye is no less observable in each particular member, even in the positions of inaction and rest, which they had chosen to represent. Ingenious writers ascribe this defect to their want of being skilled In the science of anatomy Avhich their great respect for the dead did not permit them to Latin, or English, are but a poor qualification, when unsupported by a deep and famiUar knowledge of the things treated of; and yet for the most part these are the people, who presume to hurl indignation and anger, where they are not permitted to legislate, who can see nothing ancient without admiration, or modern without drawback and censure. However, this efirontery and hardiesse has but little relation to the amiable and respect able character of Dr. Lowth, though it may to a large proportion of the band of his literary associates : he was culpable only in not permitting Herodotus and Diodorus to judge of what they probably saw in common with so many others. The instances of metallurgic knowledge occurring in the very same page of these ancient authors should have convinced the bishop, that the Chaldeans could have been no strangers to brick- burning, to terra cotta ; the knowledge and uses of which must necessarily precede, and accompany metallurgic experiments and practices. It is difiicult to conceive how the bishop should have forgotten the remarkable fact of the consultation at Shenaar, long before Semiramis and Babylon : Go to ! (say the subjects of Nimrod) let us make brick, and bum them thoroughly, and they had brick for stone, and slime had they for mortar: and against this passage in the margin, the Hebrew word is intimated to mean bum them to a burning. Surely the bishop had no occasion to have shrunk back from the passage respecting those painted or enamelled bas-reliefs on the burnt brick walls of Babylon, as related by Diodorus. It was not too much for the capacity of the time. The glass beads of all colours found upon the Mummies of Egypt may be well supposed coeval with the time of Semiramis : the metallic and semimetallic substances diluted with those glasses whilst in fusion, might make his conscience easy on this head ; and even to go still farther back, what shall we say of the glass cases, and statues of metal, enclosing the dead bodies and other similar practices by the very Ethiopian predecessors and teachers of these Egyptians, so long before the existence of Semiramis, and also possibly so long before the existence of any mummies in Egypt. But if after all, the bishop was still resolved uj^iir walls of mud and straw, what hindered that he could not prudently have gased them with a facing of burnt brick, of which he might have exam- 2^2 348 to cultivate : but they must have been equally averse from in specting and studying the living body, since they could no where find any person, who was not very bloated and formless indeed, where a much greater variety of figure, and detail of parts, was not too obvious to be overlooked. However, this fault is less palpable In figures at rest, and in female figures, than in the male. pies in Vitruvius and Palladio, more especially as the great river Euphrates, and the lake and the ditch formed from it, would be likely to operate incessantly and much more de structively, than the mere showers of rain observed by Thevenot, which after all could not be very frequent in such a climate? It is also possible, that from these accounts of Maun drel and Thevenot, the reader may conclude too generally respecting the usE^e and the state of the arts amongst the more modern Persians : for the ingenious Mr. Daniel has fa voured me with a sketch of part of a tomb, and with two other sketches from ancient brick buildings in India, where the, bricks are coloured on the faces, and, as he says, an nealed in the burning : these bricks which are well burnt appear very similar to the bricks used by the ancient Romans, much resembling what we call tiles. It is greatly to be wished that the East India directors would give orders for such suffi ciently accurate and adequate drawings to be made and published of whatever is remain ing, which might elucidate the ancient knowledge and arts of the Hindoos. Certain matters might even be moulded ofi^. How admirable would such a collection accom pany the Asiatic Researches, and whilst (differently from most other books) it would communicate information that could not mislead ; it would comport well with the whole truth of things, whenever that truth might be discovered. To us at a distance the satisfaction would be infinite, as we should enjoy the certainty of never having occasion to unlearn any part of the information that such a collection of etchings would commu nicate ; and even those gentlemen on the spot in India who may be laudably employing any attention to this enquiry, would find' the greatest conceivable advantage in having al ways at their elbow the entire collection, which as in all other similar researches aff'ords the best guide for the elucidation of each particular. There are many curious particulars respecting general knowledge, which might be as certained by a better acquaintance with the antiquities of India. The heads from Elephantis (which are in the hall of the British Museum) appear neither to be Hindoo 349 The profile figures painted on their mummies in the British Museum are drawn in the same Inaccurate way with the figures In low relief, which are carved on their obelisks. The eye, but half of Avhich can be seen In profile, is notwithstanding drawn at full length, the same as it would appear In a front vIcav. An example of this may be seen in the sphinx we have in the aca- workmanship, nor any representation of the character of the Hindoo people. The hair, and other characteristic -particulars, shew a strong resemblance of the Egyptian, or rather the African Isis, of which two specimens may be seen in Dr. Hunter's Museum ; and the head of the Sphinx, which I remember having drawn in the courtile of the Belvedere at Rome, is more of the Negro character than of the Egyptian or any Asiatic people. The fine loose and almost masterly fragment of a large hand, and the body of a child also from Elephantis, now in Mr. Townley's hall, are of a much higher, and of altogether a different gusto from the piece of real Hindoo sculpture in the same hall. The large-head of Isis at Lansdown-house, as all the other, particularly the finest heads of Isis that I have seen, diff'er evidently from the European and Asiatic character and cast of features, and seem to intimate the idea as of African or Ethiopian original ; whether this idea was taken from their neighbours the Macrobian Ethiopians, or from those in the Eastern or AVestern extremities of Africa — AVhoever these famed Ethiopians were who left such a venerated impression on their Egyptian disciples ^-disciples who were themselves so deservedly celebrated for their own wisdom and ingenuity — who or whatever these Ethiopians were, whether white or black, they must have been identically of the same exterior figure with the negroes of this day, as those heads of Isis might very well pass for a good artist-like representation of that degraded people.. However shocking, it is useful for us to, know, to what a calamitous state nations may be reduced by an estrangement from a just sense of their dependence on God ; to, which is owing whatever is dignified and valuable in human nature : and how by a long course of idolatrous and progressive degradation, men descend at last to the condition of mere beasts, not able to raise their ideas above what is called the Dii Fetiches, reptile gods ; as is , the case of so great a part of those poor Africans, whom perhaps we must acknowledge to be the descendants of those blameless Ethiopians bordering on the ocean, according to Strabo, the Southern Ocean, and \?hom, according to Homer, the gods annually visited for twelve days.. 3 50 demy which was moulded from the Egyptian obelisk in the Cam pus Martins at Rome. It Is worth ; observing, that the body, thighs, and legs of this sphinx, and Indeed all their representa tions of Insects and animals, are much more accurately and scientifically executed than their human figures. Although it be difficult, yet we must on certain occasions restrain our feeUngs from carrying us too far into digressions from the immediate object of our inquiries, namely, the mere matter of the antiquity and the state of the arts, as far as we find authorities either from ancient records or existing monuments ; and' so far we are warranted to identify the negro race with the very ancient Ethiopian models of the Egyptian Isis, &c. Time and its attendant vicissitudes effect strange things. But however it be, according to Herodotus and Diodorus Siculus, these ancient Ethiopians who acted so important a part in the history of early arts and knowledge, inhabited that part of Lybia; which lies upon the Southern Sea, that is to say, south of the Mediterranean, or on the south side of Africa, and were, according to the testimony of these writers, so practised in the arts, as to make hollow statues, resembling their dead relations ; whose bodies were contained within those statues which were of gold, silver, or terra cotta, burnt earth, according to the opulence of the possessor; and enclosed the whole in chrystal or glass cases. It is not mentioiied in Diodorus whether these statues in gold and silver were cast from moulds formed on clay models, or whether they were hammered out and diased fix)m thin metalUc plating, as was the fact in some of the early Greek statues: but whichever way we consider it, even the terra cottas, with the power of representing the peculiar difference by which each individual was discriminated from the others, argues a high degree of cultivation ; and the more, if we add from Herodotus, that when these Ethiopians had dried the dead body after the Egyptian fashion, or some other way, they laid on a covering of white plaster, which they painted with colours, as near as possible to the likeness of the person deceased. This process, both as to the material of white plaster, and the colours afterwards em ployed, is actually the same with the process adopted on the painted case, which contains the Egyptian Mummy at Dr. Hunter's Museum, and those at the British Museum. But as Herodotus does not mention any covering of linen over the Ethiopian dried bodies, it would seem as if the coating of plaster on which they painted was laid immediately on the dead body. Here appears some mistake, or at least some difficulty: 351 A further confirmation of their ignorance of the true principles of drawing may be seen in the kneeling figure of the large Egyp tian fragment preserved in the hall of the British Museum, where amongst other errors Is this of the profile eye. On the whole, the Egyptian figures in the round are the least but however it might have been, it manifests such high pretensions to knowledge, as would comport well with what these Ethiopians affirmed of themselves, namely, that they were the first institutors of religious rites (perhaps idolatrous rites) and that the gods, in reward for their piety, never permitted them to fall under the yoke of. any foreign prince. In effect, says Diodorus, they have always preserved their liberty by the great union which has always subsisted amongst them, and many most powerful princes, who had attempted to subjugate them, have failed in the enterprise, Cambyses, after his conquest of Egypt, coming to attack them with numerous troops, his army perished^ and his own life was saved with great risk, Semiramis, that queen whose ability and exploits have rendered her so famous, had scarcely entered Ethiopia, when she found that her design could not be carried into effect. Bacchus and Hercules, who had tra versed the entire earth, abstained from warring only with the Ethiopians, whether from the fear of their power, or from the veneration which they had for their piety. The Ethiopians (continues Diodorus) say, that the Egyptians are one of their colonies, which was led by Osiris into Egypt, They even pretend that the country was in the beginning only a sea, but that the mud brought down by the Nile from Ethiopia had settled, and made it a part of the continent, and that all Egypt was the work of that river ; and they add, that the Egyptians derived from them, as their authors and ancestors, the greatest part of their laws, and (which I wish you particularly to note, as we shall advert to it shortly) that it was from them they learned to honour their kings as gods, and to bury their dead with so much pomp ; and that sculpture and writing, as well in the hieroglyphic as the common characters, had their birth among the Ethiopians. So far Diodorus Siculus respecting this ancient people, who thus appear to have been the great originals, and disseminators of whatever knowledge was in Egypt. As in this place we are not any further concerned with the matters of antiquity than just to follow up in a cursory manner whatever memorable traces may be yet remaining 3 52 defective of their performances, as the common mensuration of the parts was here sufficient to prevent them from straying into gross errors ; but for their figures in profile, three quarters, and in all situations which require skill In drawing and a knowledge of the true principles of the art, they are almost in the same rude and defective state as the first Grecian, British, of the most ancient arts and knowledge, it will be sufficient to observe, that even these Ethiopian predecessors of the Egyptians seem themselves to have derived their know ledge from a still more ancient people — from the Atlantides, those Titanic descendants of Ouranus, M'hose celebrity is unfortunately but too conspicuous in the ancient poets and historians ; and who left their names so inscribed or identified with the sun, planets, and the other constellations of our hemisphere, as to give an additional turpitude and malignity to Sabaism or idolatrous stellar worship, which was already so reprobated in the book of Job, and the other prophetical writings, under the odious appellation of the host of heaven. Diodorus informs us, that " the first Egyptians regarded the sun and the moon as the two principal and eternal divinities ; that these were the gods who governed the world, and occasioned the vicissitudes of the seasons, and contributed to the genera tion of the subaltern beings and elementary substances. Besides these heavenlv and immortal gods, there were also, according to them, terrestrial gods, born mortal, who from their own vvisdom, and from the benefits they had conferred on mankind, , obtained immortality. Some of these were kings in Egypt ; and of these kings, some of them had names in common with certain gods : as Helius or the Sun, Saturn, Rhea, Jupiter, which some call Ammon, Juno, Vulcan, Vesta, and Mercury. These royal, deified personages, so im portant in the history of Egypt, and which appear to have given a beginning to that history, were not of Egyptian but of Titanic origin, and were part of the wrecks of that Atlantic people, whose country (according to the Egyptian account mentioned in Plato) was submerged by an inundation of that ocean, which probably from the circumstance, was called the Atlantic. For sometime past the attention of the literati has been much employed in endeavour ing to recover whatever might be known on this subject, particularly the learned aud very accomplished M. Baillie, who in discussing some ill founded conjectures of Voltaire, (in his lettres sur I'Atlantide, and also in his history of astronomy,) has brought forward a S51 and other coins, the intaglio or engrailed figures on our Gothic tombs, and tbe uncultivated drawings of boys at school, Avhich are faulty in the same particulars. Reasons have been given, why the Egyptians were never able to advance beyond this unformed, gross, and limited style of great deal of curious and important matter : but whether from his not designing to follow the more obvious route, or from his desire of aiding the system of his ingenious friend Buffon, he appears to have unluckily gone out of his way : however, the facts which he discovered and united, have completely enabled his successor on the subject, Count Carli, to dissipate the literary mist which obscured and prevented our discovering that the real situation of the country of these Atlantic or Titanic people was really that pointed out in the relation of the Egyptian jH'iests, and in the concurrent general traditions. It is this very identical situation, which only could have enabled them^to have left those Astronomi- - cal and other usages in South America, which the ingenious and learned Count Carli has so well identified with what they disseminated on the continents of our hemisphere. By what we may gather from Diodorus Siculus, this people came from the ocean into the westem parts of Africa, were a maritime, knowing, most civilized people, compared with the other inhabitants ; and he quotes Homer, and might have quoted Hesiod, San- choniathon, and others, to shew that the gods were descended from them ; and that their first king, Coelum, governed the greatest part of the world, especially towards the west and north ; and that the planets, and many of the constellations, have been named aft6r some of his descendants. What ideas were anciently entertained of their mightiness and power, may be inferred even from the triumphal ejaculations of Judith, ch. xvi. where she exultingly sings, that Hblophernes was not smote by the sons of the Titans, nor by high giants, but by Judith, the daughter of Merari. The deification of Ouranus, Saturn, Jupiter, and the other mortals, by the transfer and identifying of them with the heavens, the sun, and planets, was propably posterior to the catastrophe of the inundation, which cut off the communication with America • and this planetary nomenclature became therefore unknown to the Americans, and was only coextended with the influence of these Titans, in the countries not very re mote from Africa and the Mediterranean, which enabled this wandering, Pelasgian, maritime people, to extend themselves in Tuscany, Tyrrhenia, Lydia, Phrygia, and VOL. 1. 2 Z 3 54 early art, as other nations had done. It has been said that the nature of their, country was unfit to furnish ideas of perfection or beauty ; that their religion did not allow the artists to depart from the established form of their Idols, and that the profession of arts (not being sufficiently honoured by the state) was practised only by those who were themselves too ignorant and uncultivated the countries of Greece, and Samothracia; to institute the oracle of Pelasgian, Dodo- nean Jove in Thessaly, and that of Ammonian Jupiter in the Oasis of the sandy deserts of Lybia. In the Arcadics of Pausanias, Cecrops is said to have been the first who deified Jupiter, although he prohibited any living thing to be sacrificed on the occasion, contenting himself with the offering those horned cakes of bread, called Bou? : whilst Lycaon, with bloody and inhuman hands,, immolated a child to Jupiter Lyceus, and in the midst of the sacrifice was said to have been turned into a wolf as a punishment : and that the God and his suppliant were cotemporaries, appears by Jupiter's amour with Calista, the daughter of this Lycaon. It should seem also by Jupiter's conduct in this story, as told both by Ovid and Pau sanias, as well as by the offerings occurring in the hymns ascribed to Orpheus, that Jupiter, as far as his power reached, was humanely instrumental in suppressing tiiat horrid and widely extended custom of immolating human victims, and was con tented that idolatry should not be extended further than to the worship of the regal fa mily, and the example that he himself set by the altar and offerings to his grandfather Ouranus. (See the fragment of Diodorus preserved in Eusebius.) The Ethiopians, to prevent the abuses of so much regal power, wisely provided that their kings should be elected out of the best of the sacerdotal or learned order, and under the controul of its laws ; and the usages of their Egyptian descendents, being much under the direction of the same literate and very numerous body, which formed an aristocracy in the true sense of the word, it being composed of those who were best educated ; it consequently followed, that the public energies, seldom belligerous, were generally directed to objects of public utility, and pacific, graceful enjoyment; the very vestiges of which are the admiration of aU enlightened travellers even at this day. But in all countries and times, where this wise check was wanting, and every thing was exposed to the outrages of inflated, deified cupidity, and its execrable in- 355 to produce any thing which was not gross and ordinary. The first of those reasons, respecting the mere form of the Egyptians, has, I am convinced, no foundation In fact : the others must be partly admitted. But it appears to me that the great and insur mountable obstruction to their advancement in art arose out of the character and materials of their religion, wrapt up as it was. struments ; such is the nature of man, so prone to corruption, that it was to be expected that this cursed Titanic example of deifying regal families would be imitated by others, in the excesses of their pride and power : and we may judge of the horrid extent to which it was carried by the mandate of the Assyrian king, Nebuchodonozar " to avenge himself on all the earth, to destroy all flesh, that did not obey the commandment of his mouth, to cast down their fi-ontiers, and cut down their groves, for he had decreed to destroy all the gods of the land ; that all nations should worship Nebuchodonozor o ily, and that all tongues and tribes should call upon him as God." (Judith, ch. 1 . 2.) " and who is god but Nebuchodonozor," (6. 2.) When we reflect upon this horrid state of things, resulting from the gradual and accumulating corruptions of sabaism or stellar worship, identified with these dead and living mortals, which had been thus superin duced on the primitive, traditional, pure theology, it affords a most dreadful exemplary spectacle of degraded (and perhaps in these matters impotent) human reason ; and of the deep indelible stain it has imprinted on so many nations of the ancient world, who in other respects were so much celebrated for their genius and skill. The world was happily and mercifully delivered from all this servile, idolatrous worship of deified men, and the material agents of nature, by the glorious mission of Moses, whose truly siiblime doctrine, and admirable polity were so happily calculated to exalt human nature to its destined real dignity, by a just emancipation from all other dependence than that on its Divine Creator, and the just and equal laws. He had pre scribed for their good government, and for perfectionating human nature. All these matters duly considered, we ought not to be surprized, if this grand exemplary code, which stood like a cheering light, a great beacon in the ancient world, discovering the extreme turpitude of its degrading idolatries, was regarded as an object of terror and hatred, by Nebuchodonozor, Antiochus, Claudius, and other such impious tyrants, nursed up and fed with base adulation ; and who, as inheritors and claimants of the .same terrestrial and celestial domination, were necessarily determined to uphold all this 2 z 2 JS6 in k continued ^kgory (and of the msost unfavourable kind) where nothing was shewn for itself, but as the symbol and type of some other thing ; a practice that must soon be in opposition, and even in direct tcotitradiction to the very essence and destina tion of art. idol business, to immolate its opposers, and to trample under the feet of their merce nary, pretorian, janissary instruments, every right of equal, common humanity, mental {Hid «ci64poreal. The removing and fulmiwating this d^Tadiwg and mischievous mass of slavish idbla- try, 'vt4iich had been so impiously placed between human nature, and its Almighty ¦Grea*0i> Conservator, srad Judge, was a grand object, which in the l^islatito of Moses is Tfever out of view ; and it is peculiarly interesting to us, as Painters aad Sculptor* in tfeis Aicaidemy, to observe, tJiat it was this grand circumstance in the Mo-- ¦saical code, which affords the natural and only true expUcation of the second command ment in the Decalogue, whidh has been (in these countries more especially) so icono- clastiicatly exiplained, as to be ruinous and subversive of the higher departments of art, both in painting and sculpture. Idois, idols in the likeness of any thing celestial, ^terrestrial. Or aquatic, the making of these idols, and placing them in lieu of Almighty God, as divine objects for ado ration ; this, and this only, is what the commandment prohibits and fulminates with such tremendous consequences. If the word idol, in this sense, had been put instead <)( 4\e word image, in the translations of our Bibles, we might 'have rested perfect ly feaiasfied, that neither Almighty God, nor his servant Moses, had any intention of iprobibitaag the true reUgion, from the use and exercise of this most universal of all languages— the language of forms, read instantly by the «ye, in all those energies of painting and sculpture, which no words can communicate; and accordingly we find, in their best and most pious times, the Jews practised the art as far as they were able, and availed themselves of the use of it in the service of reli gion. Under the eye of Moses himself, Bezaleel and Aholiah made the two che rubims spreading their wings over the ark of the covenant on the mercy seat, where God resided in the sanctum sanctorum ; ahd the sacred veil and the curtains, which surrounded the holy Of holies, were also ornamented with tapestry, or embroid^ «red paintings of the same figures of chCTubims, which were sculptured on the ends of 35^ Many of the Egyptian figwres, partly human, and partly brutal, were perhaps appositely enough contrived, as a kind of symboli cal writing for the pointing out some necessary rural, donaestic, or other observances. These figures being more durable than the notions and mode of conabinlng ideas, which gave rise to them, it Is not difficult to conceive how in the course of mun dane revolutions, these symbols were no longer considered as such, but as the images and representations of supernatnral beings. But by whatever means these figures obtained places in the Egyptian ritual, nothing could be more subversive of all advancement and of truly elevated art, than fabricating ideal works with allegoric and emblematic materials. To express any Divine power, to clothe, to personify the ideas of majesty, of terror, of beneficence, is not to be done either the mercy-seat ; thus surrounding, as it were, the invisible God with a visible heavenly choir, both in painting and sculpture. And afterwards, when the temple came to be built, the Cherubims which were placed all round it, and the brass figures of the lions, and the -twelve oxen cast in the clayey soil near Jordan, demonstrate incontrovertibly the compatibility of the second commandment with the making pf mere images and repre sentations of any thing either spiritual or terrestrial ; and that the crime committed by Aaron and the other Israelites in the desart, was not in making a molten calf, but in making and worshiping the idol, Apis, (probably the Jupiter Ammon or Sefapis of the Atlantides) as the God who had brought them out of the bondage of Egypt. As the necessary reconciling the command respecting the prohibition of idols with that respecting the setting up of those images both painted and carved, and in the most holy places, is easy, obvious, and will sufficiently remove out of our way all absurd iconoclastic, and fanatical prejudices to the makhig of these or any other mere images, I shall close this part, respecting those more early nations, by observing, that although nothing can be affirmed as to the merit of those works of painting or sculpture of the Chaldeans, Ethio pians, and Hebrew people, yet it is evident, that at least the mechanical knowledge and practice of the arts were then much exercised, particularly in Chaldea and Ethiopia. 358 by a mixture of forms, or by a multiplication of parts. The lion's, the ox's, dog's, or elephant's head, raised upon the human shoulders, would appear no less retrograde, and shocking to the principles of true taste, than the hundred hands or heads issuing from the single body of Briareus, or any other monster. All that could be reached by such a procedure- was the merely indicating a conceit with Its detailed circumstances. But the perfection of form, the pursuit of sublimity, beauty, grace, or any other of those valuable qualities which perfect art by calling forth the great exertions and ultimate vigour of the artist, had nothing to do In this mode of procedure, any more than In alphabetic writing, where a very extraordinary perfec tion of the characters is needless, as It would add nothing to the sense. It is then not to be wondered at, that the arts remained so long in a stagnant and torpid state ; and that after ages of dull labour, Plato, when he was In Egypt, could discover no difference either for better or worse, between their earlier and their later works. Thus the arts in Egypt early turned out of their natural chan nel, were deprived of every Invigorating and expansive principle, and forced into such a pursuit of conceits, and uninteresting allegory, as utterly blighted all their future prospects. As the Assyrians, Egyptians, Phenicians, Persians, and the other oriental nations, had cultivated the arts long before the Greeks, we cannot suppose the latter to have been utter stran gers to this previous cultivation of their history : the A'arlous knoAvledges they occasionally received and Imported, prove the 3 59 contrary, Orpheus, Homer, Thales, Pythagoras, Solon, and all their earlier travellers, had time for observation and reflection, as they did not go post through the countries they visited, Athens was founded by an Egyptian ; consequently, when the Greeks commenced painters and sculptors, at least all the rudiments of the art, the knowledge of the materials, and the methods of using them In painting, modelling, carving, and foundery. Were already discovered and provided to their hands, by their more ancient neighbours. We must then reject as fabulous, and as a piece of national vanity a great part of the early accounts of the progressional discovery of the art in Greece ; the finding out the method of drawing the profile by tracing its shadow, the adding a colour to It In the next generation, and a number of other successlonal par ticulars, by which this people would arrogate the original disco very of the whole art to themselves. No such beginnings are traceable, (however plausible) either amongst the Greeks, or even amongst their before-mentioned pre decessors. So far from finding indications of a beginning in any of those countries, we are (even in the most early periods) struck with an appearance quite the reverse. Very complex usages of art appear to have been then reduced to certain rules of mecha nical general practice ; whilst all knowledge and memory of the first principles and more simple methods, which must unques tionably have preceded, and served as the basis of these more refined and complex usages, seem to have been utterly obliterated and lost. Can any one doubt but that the idea of vitrifying coloured objects upon the face of brick walls, so as to prevent their being obliterated by the weather, and other accidents, must 360 be (Subsequent to the more perishable, though less complex me thod of delineating those objects with simple colours ? and will not this reasoning hold equally true with respect to the sculptures or paintings, or both, which were embossed. Inlaid, or enamelled in differently coloured metals ; as in the famous tablature of Isis, which is yet remaining, and examples of which Homer must have seen, to have furnished him with the materials of his idea for the ornaments of the shield of Achilles ? Also the historical and other tapestry works of the Sidonian and Grecian women could never have originated but in the idea of imitating paintings in the more simple way, effected with pencil and colours. It is very remarkable that Homer, who speaks of these an nealed and tapestry works, and who was so jealous to let no curious knowledge escape, that might enrich and give an addi tional interest to his poems, has, notwithstanding, not the least allusion to any work of that antecedent, more perfect, and more simple art, which must have furnished original exemplars to the first people, who undertook those tapestries, and enamelled, or inlaid works. Although our tapestry workers at present do nothing excellent without a painted exemplar, yet it Is easy to conceive that the idea of imitation, and the method of working In this way, being once established, mere mechanical practice may perpetuate, and convey rude and less perfect essays of this mode of imitation to aftertimes ; when the original principles of art, and the Idea of antecedent exemplars may have been lost and blotted out of the memory of men. Some thing similar to this appears to be the actual fact with 361 fespect even to the paintings of the Egyptians, Gentoos, and Chinese, copying nature in our sense of the phrase, seems to be no part of the Intention of their artists. The J)rlnclples on which they worked could never have led them to what they have done. Their art, (sufficient indeed for the purpose intend ed) was but a loose mechanical abridgement and succedaneum of the other more entire, principled, and perfect art, from whence only It could have arisen. Actuated by mere blind practice alone, they appear to have worked after traditionary recipes, which were transmitted from one generation to another* without any solicitude after other improvement or perfection, than perhaps in the purity or beauty of the mere materials. But as the truth of this observation will be still further elucidated by what we shall hereafter have occasion to observe In speaking of the component parts of the art, I shall close this Inquiry into the antiquity of art by remarking, that when the time, the establish ments, the knowledges, original beginnings, and progressional practice which must necessarily have preceded the state In which we have found the art in Egypt, Chaldea, and the other oriental nations, be fully considered, it Avill be difficult to reconcile this aggregate of things with the duration and circumstances of any known people, existing in that period of time between Abraham and Noah. To me these broken, unconnected knowledges seem to carry evident marks of being really the wrecks and vestiges which might have been preserved after such a general catastrophe as the deluge, or rather a deluge sufficiently universal to have destroyed those countries which could have furnished us with the clue.* * There is no need to lay any great stress upon the received computations of those early periods of time, the precise time when the deluge took place; whether it was VOL. I. 3 A 362 HoAvever it fared with other classes of men in the East, we are told that the Bramins, Mandarines, and priests, enjoyed a state of freedom above all tyrannical controul, and were in pos session of whatever education and knowledge then existed. If the practice of the arts had been carried on by these men in their several countries, something might have been expected — some universal at the same time, and Other particulars of the Jewish history and chronology before the calUng of Abraham, and the difficulty of reconciling these with the known state of arts and nations. It will not be from our purpose to read here a few passages from Pere Simon's very valuable critical history of the Old Testament, which go to shew that Revelation is not concerned in those difficulties. In page 54 he observes, " we may likewise apply to the books of Genesis what we have already said touching the manner of the- registering the pubUc acts in the time of Moses. These books contain the crea tion of the world, and many things which happened many ages before him ; and in all Genesis there is no observation of God's dictating to Moses what is there related. It is not likewise said that he Writ by the spirit of prophecy. But all these histories and genealogies are simply related, as if Moses had taken them from some authentic books, or else had had a constant tradition." Page 116, speaking of the use Josephus made of the Old Testament, the good Father says, " It is true that the books of the Bible are only abbreviated collections from ancient records, which were more large ; but particular persons are not, for all that, per mitted to add, upon their own authority, or change never so little" — and book ii. p. 28. refuting an objection of Vos^ius to the Hebrew text, he says, " It is true, and we have already proved it, that we cannot wholly rely upon the present Hebrew text in the mak ing an exact chronology ; but we have shewn at the same time, that neither the Greek Septuagint translation, nor the Hebrew Samaritan text, nor Josephus, nor in a word, aU the chronology we have of the Bible, is sufficient to give us an exact account of the ages which have passed since the creation of the world. There are many vacant spaces, as I have already observed in the chronology of the Scripture, which usually abridge things, to treat only of those which relate to the matter in hand. We shall not therefore accuse the Jews for having corrupted their chronology out of design ; but we may say, that in many places the Scripture is only a bare abridgement," and a little after he adds, " Nevertheless I agree with Vossius, that it is impossible to make an exact chronology 363 vigour of mind, pursuit of principles, and moral pertinence would sooner or later have found their way into their works. But as the direct contrary was the fact, no extraordinary exer tions could be hoped for from the debased and enslaved orders or casts of men, who possessed no feeling of human dignity, or sense of natural equality. Artists in such a wretched state, thus robbed of their mental faculties, may be able however to practise mechanically, and to transmit, as these have done, a deposit of usages and methods of pratlce from one generation to another, but it would be vain to expect any thing farther. from the books of Holy Scripture as it is at present, and that we are necessarily to have recourse for that to the profane authors, because the holy writers relate only what is ne cessary for thejr design," So much is inserted here from this reverend, and very learned Father, as I could not profess to lay aside the vulgar, and commonly received chronology preceding the time of Uie calling of Abraham, and the foundation of the Empire of Nineveh and Babylon, and to insinuate, as I have done, the necessity of a greater space of time, in order to correspond with the circumstances recorded, with the conquests made, the yoke long imposed, and first thrown off in the outset of the Assyrian empire, and above all, with the state of the arts in those early periods. I could not allow myself to advert to these, without at the same time satisfying my hearers, that such allowance did not militate with what was con tended for by the sincerest and soundest of advocates for revealed religion. Far be it from me to insinuate any thing tending to lessen the influence of that religion ; persuaded as I am, that fairly and rightly used, it indubitably affords the best and most generally practicable means of combating those formidable terrors, and allurements, which so often obstruct human nature in its progress to destined perfection ; and which even in the very arts that imitate this nature, are ever found proportionably debased and worthless, according as their author is held in vassalage by those degrading, contaminating motives, which unhappily induce but too many to sacrifice the dignity and glory of art to the paltry convenience or emolument of the artist ; and worst of all, those who may want either capacity or in clination to make the choice of Hercules (that is, to prefer glorious duty to servile interest) will by getting rid of conscience, have nothing to hinder them from becoming ductile and manageable instruments in the service of wrong, 2 A 2 364 ' From this torpid and worthless state, the arts were happily re lieved on being transplanted into the Grecian Republics, where allthose baneful obstructions to their growth and perfection had no influence. Here were no degrading and vile distinctions of tyrants and slaves, which are ever Infallibly sure to render both abominable and useless. Amongst the Greeks the best man and the most highly ho noured by the public was he, who could manifest the greatest personal worth and the most superior ability. All were invited to a competition, where whatever was. truly excellent in naturej. in conduct, and in arts ; whatever was great, admirable, graceful, and becoming ; whatever could tend to give the utmost degree of finish, and compleatness to the human character, was the ob^ ject of general admiration. To this end all the abilities a,nd faculties of man were, Avith the most Indefatigable industry em ployed in all the various pursuits of knowledge. The philo sopher, the poet, the sculptor, and the painter, vvent hand in hand, mutually enlightening and perfecting each other; and the collision of all these noble emulations could not fail of producing with the public at large the most highly cultivated and expan sive mode of thinking. The artist then, whether painter, poet, or philosopher, had every thing to stimulate and to help him forward ; and he, whose superior abilities could attract the attention and admiration of such fellow citizens, must indeed be highly deserving the re wards, the statues, and the honourable' decrees which he ob tained. The manly philosophy of Socrates, which infused so much pub- 365 lie spirit, and such a love of virtue and liberty; which produced so many heroes, patriots, brave arid' worthy men, afforded also the noblest and best adopted foundation for authbrs and artists of a sublime arid daring genius. Laborious and self-denying, it look ed with a becoming contempt on mere riches, .dignities, and all those shewy, pompous exteriors, Avhich are calculated to en cumber, to divert the attention from matters of real value, and only to dazzle those vulgar eyes, which have not strength and penetration enough to discover their comparative wretchedness and little worth. To arrive at the utmost extent of the human capacity was the generous, the prime object of Grecian attention; and accordingly, the illustrious works which this people have produced, are universally acknowledged to be not only the standard and ultimatum in their several kinds, but also to be in a great measure the prime cause of all approximations to perfec tion ever since. When the religion of Egypt was imported into Greece by Orpheus, Homer, and others, a great deal of the allegorical part of it ; all those mixtures and incongruities of form in their deities were thrbwn aside as cumbrous, uninterestirig, and disgusting ; and although they erroneously converted the attentions and attributes of the Deity into so many distinct beings ; yet, as by a stretch of the most admirable and refiried fancy, the characters and forms of their several deities were copied after the abstract ideas of whatever was found to be most majestic, most beautiful, graceful, or interesting In human nature. Their artists had a fair opporturiity of Introducing as much aptness and perfection, as such a system of Polytheism was capable of receiving. To ob tain this, they were necessarily led Into the most Mteritive investigation of general nature, for the culling out all those seve- 366 ral perfections, male and female, that were particularly adapted to each walk of character. This is the ideal of art, the fair, legi timate offspring of that perfect In nature; the sense of which is more or less congenial to all minds, according to the attention bestowed on It. To the pursuit of this Ideal, the Grecian arts owe all that perfection which the Avorld has so much admired In them ; and if the poets appear to have led the way Into It before the painters and sculptors. It was only because the energies of language were easier, more at command, and as the more imme diate offtract of thought, naturally antecedent to the energies of art. From the time of Pericles to the end of the age of Alexander, which comprehends a space of about two hundred years, the arts in Greece have been generally considered as at their highest point of excellence. Under Pericles ; Phidias, and his contem porary Parrhasius, with others, were the introducers of the extraordinary style, where the art was raised to the contempla tion and imitation of aggregate. Instead of individual, nature. Their peculiar excellence appears to have been sublimity, ma jesty, and characteristic propriety. About the time of Alexander art seems to have been more remarkable for beauty, grace, and a certain felicity and taste of composition and execution. Though nothing remains of Phidias or his contemporaries, except the basso relievos on the frieze of the temple of Minerva at Athens, and perhaps a few other such subordinate fragments, (all jLhe greater works both in painting and sculpture having been long since miserably destroyed) yet no Intelligent man will ever be inclined to question the extraordinary excellence which has been ascribed to them. Every doubt will be removed when we con sider the particulars specified, the universal consent, and the 367 decided judgement of many of those who have given this testi mony ; and above all, when we consider the very great excellence of the works which we have remaining, executed by the disciples and successors of those greater artists. In times when the art is said to have been gradually declining and losing its most valu able qualities. The Athenian coins, either of this or of any other period, afford us no accurate and satisfactory information respecting the com parative state and peculiar perfections of the arts at Athens. Their coins are far from being remarkable for any superior excel lence over the other Grecian, or even over the more modern coins. The object generally attended to In a medal or coin, being of too limited and Inferior a nature to allow of entering very deeply into the great qualities of art ; and in little things, the difference between superior and inferior artists is not very discoverable, The gems and coins of the Roman times, which are not wanting in comparative merit, and that, I had almost said, unequalled head of Lucius Verus, even larger than life, which is at the villa Borghese, are incontrovertible proofs that people may possess excellence in the Inferior and limited matters of art, who are but ill qualified for the greater excellencies. However, it is adviseable not (or at least I am not myself in clined) to believe what Is said of this decay of art after the age of Alexander, without many limitations, as to Its degree and extent. A people who had enjoyed such a government and such an education as the Greeks, where reason and liberty were so exercised, will take a long time before they can be totally cor rupted. Whatever new folly and principle of corruption may be In fashion, many will be found who adhere to the old and 368 good maxims, if not from the reasonableness of the thing, yet at least for oppositlQri's sake.'ii ' -i , .. , ii ,, i.i The books writteri by the artists of antiquity (of which there were many, and by some of the best artists) are all perished, and other authors who were not so practically skilled in the art as to en^ able them to enter accurately into the discussion of particulars, are neve/ satisfactory ; because they are always too vagtie and too fond of deciding* in the lump, as It enables them: to conceal their A^^nt of skill in discriminating. When the different walks of art have been successfully filled by great men whose reputations have been chronicled and established by time ; succeeding artists, though of equal merit, will in the same country be Avlth:difficulty allowed the full praise they deserve, especially by the second-hand critics who generally draw a line of separation between the old occupiers of reputation and the new comers ; since it is much easier to repeat the character that is recorded of Phidias, Praxiteles, or Lysippus, than to Investigate the merits of an Apollonius or an Agasias. When one examines that unparalleled piece of excellence!, the famous Torso of the Belvedere (of which we have two casts in the academy) it is really astonishing to find that the name of Ap* pollonius, the Athenian, who executed it, Is not even once men*- tioned by any author of antiquity. But I shall In another place advert more particularly to the merits ofthis and some other ad mirable Grecian remains, as affording the best examples ^of the method of employing the study of natui^ In a work of irhagination. As to what some affect to observe about a Roman style of sculpture, and the difference between it and the Grecian, I never could discover any solid ground for such a distinction. It ap- giears that under the kings, and In the early times of the republic, 369 ithe Romans were but little skilled In the arts, as they for the most part availed themselves of the Ingenuity of their neighbours, the Hetruscans, for whatever statues and public works they want ed to have executed. After the taking and pillage of Syracuse, Coririth, and the other Grecian cities ; when the Romans became more familiarly acquainted with the excellent productions of art, such works of painting and sculpture as were occasionally executed at Rome, were no otherwise Roman than from that cir cumstance, as they were wrought by Grecian artists, and a few Romans, their disciples and Imitators. Better and worse may be found In what they have done, but that is all ; the style is the same, and there is less reason for considering the dying gladiator as one of the best executed monuments of Roman art,- than for believing It to be the performance of some Indifferent Grecian artist. The works of the Hetruscans, and of the Greek colonies settled in Campania, would be hardly worth mention here, were it not for their painted vases, which are so far curious, as they may afford some, though a very faint idea of the Grecian paint ing. The figures on some of those vases are spiritedly and not unskilfully drawn, when we allow for the unavoidably loose in accurate process of such works ; and the taste of design and composition is often exceedingly elegant ; but for what I have seen of them, theyare all, to the best of my recollection, flat, like the Egyptian pictures, without any relievo of light and shadow. Though different colours are frequently employed in these paint ings, yet as there is nothing of that gradation of colour, which is effected by light and shadoAV, or the different degrees of strength and weakness, each object is of one colour. Whether this be an imitation of the old method of those they called Monochromatists, VOL. 1. 3 B 3 70 or whether these vases were executed before any more Improved method of painting was known, I shall leave others to determine. But these Hetruscans and Campanians being early swallowed up by the Roman government, their progress in the arts was inter rupted, and they were afterwards too much engaged in assisting to extend and sustain thexonquests of this military people, ever to think about resuming the subject of arts ; until this enormous mass of useless destructive poAver was happily beaten to pieces by the barbarous nations. It is curious to reflect that the exertions of art seem to arise from the disappointment of the human mind, sated, disgusted, and tired with the monotony of real persons and things which this world affords, so full of imperfection, and accompanied with so much misery, strife, and injustice. In proportion to the sere nity and goodness of the mind, it naturally turns away from such a state of things. In search of some other more grateful and con soling ; and it has a natural horror of those atheistical cavils, which would malignantly deprive It of all other resourse, by mer cilessly chaining it down to the scene before it. Hence it arises, that the minds of men in all ages and places where they were at leisure, and happily relieved from the apprehensions of war, ty rannies, and all their horrid train of consequent miseries, have naturally dilated, and found consolation in the objects of religion, Avhich they would anticipate and realize by their endeavours to cut and carve them in blocks of Avood or stone; whether detached from, their parent rocks, and set up In high and honour ed places of frequent resort, or, as was probably the more ancient Avay, cut into and making part of Immense excavations, as is seen In the mountains of India, Whether this subject matter of religion be well or III reasoned upon In these detailed efforts, 371 whether it be taken from the various Incarnations of the Indian VIstnou, the more elegant forms and ideas of the Greek mytholo gy, or from the more consoling and happily adapted matter which result from the more rational hopes and fears inculcated by the Christian religion ; yet the whole together forms an asto- ^nishlng chain of the most Indubitable proof of the thirst of the mind for a more satisfactory state of things, and of Its natural recurrence to the arts of design, as the first, the universal and natural written language, which In furnishing the means of ex pressing this universal testimony, affords an opportunity of tracing human nature through an immense tract of ages ; through India, Egypt, Greece, and Italy : and although whatever was not connected with the religion of those people, was not thought of as worth commemorating, yet many other matters and usages are luckily preserved by their incidental connexion with the supe rior matter which otherAvise would now be utterly lost to us ; and every thing fully considered, what should we have known of the ancient nations, their arts and knowledges, were it not for the stimulus which religion afforded to the human exertions ? what other motives ever did or could supply its place ? The deplorable calamities of wars, rapine, and every misery, which for so many centuries deluged Italy during the ambitious contests of rival emperors, elected by the different bands and legions of soldiery ; the incursions of the northern barbarians, who destroyed them, and divided the spoil, and the struggles of these, with the succeeding inundations of other northern hordes, equally savage; their long contests in the aggregate masses, and afterwards In the no less mischievous fragments into which they were frittered, left the mind no leisure, but wholly occupied it In contriving for the necessary security of mere bodily existence. 3 B S 372 However, though late, this fermentation did at last more or less subside into settled governments ; and the embers of the arts of design, and indeed all other arts and knowledge which had been providentially kept alive by the monks of the Greek and Latin churches, were again kindled Into a flame by people who now felt themselves at ease, and in a condition to cultivate Intel lectual enjoyments. In the thirteenth century John Cimabue, the disciple of a Greek mosaic painter at Florence, was the glorious instrument of the resurrection of the arts of design in Italy ; which a happy combination of moral causes had greatly contributed to advance and to perfect. The Christian religion, AvhiCh Avas then universally established, opened a new and large field ^fbr the exercise of the arts, in order to provide pictures and sta tues for their churches, as necessary helps and furtherances to piety, serving at once for books intelligible to the unlettered, and for memorials to assist the recollection, and give fervour to the hearts of those who were better informed : and whenever the works of art have not answered these purposes, it Is an abtise to which e\^ery, even the best things, are liable, as the fault lies not in the art, but in the artist, or in the employer who suffers the abuse, From what has been observed respecting the Egyptians, It is very apparent that nothing can be a greater bar and impediment to the advancement and dignified exertion of art j than a mean, grovelling, and contracted disposition in the artist ; Avhether it arises from the political debasement of the rank he fills in society, or from his own sordid and contemptible election in preferring pelf to glory ; as under either of these states, men cannot avail themselves of the necessary advantages of education, and give a 373 loose to that noble, heroic spirit, which Is the true foundation of original and expansive ability and personal worth. But under the Christian dispensation the successors of Cimabue were fortu nately under no influences obstructive to their advancement, Christianity had so elucidated that question about the natural rights and legal equality of mankind, as to make the sullen spirit of absolute tyranny utterly inconsistent with all Its governments, of whatever form ; even the philosophy of Socrates, so creative of exalted worth and.ability amongst the Grecians, was not farther removed from narrow, unproductive selfishness, than the rigid self-denial, philanthropy, beneficence, and unceasing intellectual culture whieh Christianity so pressingly recommends. Christi anity is indeed the perfection of the Socratic doctrine, with elucidations and motives for the performance of, them, of which poor Socrates appears to have had no knowledge. These are the great and only sources of all admirable and sublime exertions ; and therefore if the Italians have not carried some parts of the art to as high a pitch of perfection as the Grecians, other causes, sufficiently obvious, willfully account for it without our foolishly supposing their religion prevented it ; and notwith standing what Shaftesbury, Webb, and other late writers have unAvisely and peevishly insinuated to the contrary, yet assuredly Christianity is far from being hostile to genius. There have been too many noble monuments of Christian art executed vy^ithin the last three centuries, for us to entertain the least doubt of the compatibility of our religion Avith the highest flights of the imagination ; if we be but sufficiently grounded In other matters, in science and general education, the materials of Christianity are capable of any thing. Phidias, Parrhasius, and Apelles knew nothing, which in our situation they might not have employed with success. 374 In the little republic of Florence, Ayhlch gaVe birth to so many restorers of science, letters, and arts ; painting, sculpture, and architecture were advanced and perfected by the consecutive labours of well-employed artists during the course of almost three hundred years, from Cimabue to Da Vinci, Fra: Barto lomeo, and Michael Angelo; and It Is but justice to observe, that the people of this republic deserve praise for more than they have actually done ; for though they filled the churches and great houses of Florence with this jprogresslonal art, and consequently had but little space remaining for any monuments of art when it was perfected, the advantage of this more perfect art fell upon easy terms Into the hands of the neighbouring states ; some part of It, as will be observed, made the foundation for the beautiful superstructure the Venetian school raised ; and all the remain der was carried to Rome by Raffael and Michael Angelo, and received no small increase and Improvement from the intellectual vigour of the sublime and graceful mediums, through Avhich they passed. Every part of Italy became distinguished for some admirable excellence, which their great artists about this time peculiarly cultivated, and which have since become In some measure the appropriate characteristic of their several schools. It is certain that Raffael was the greatest painter Italy ever produced, as his great excellence and superiority over the others lay in the sublimer and more admirable parts of the art; notwith standing that he is inferior to the Greek sculptors In those very particulars : and though the two great leaders of the Venetian and Lombard schools, Titian and Coreggio, carried the practice and conduct of colours, chiaroscuro, and the mere imitation of 375 nature to a much greater degree of perfection, yet the pre-emi nence of Raffael Is not to be disputed. The vigour which Raffael disseminated In the Roman school, was very transitory, an4 would have perished with his immedi ate disciples, but' for Carrache and his scholars, who for some time kept up the credit of sound design, against the meretricious practices of mere base, low imitation, and trite, flimsy, and vague invention, with which the followers of Caravaggio and D' Arpino contended for the vogue. The state of Parma was too small and too poor to afford the necessary exercise for any native painter after Coreggio; how ever, Parmegiano had In him a good model in the articles of grace and spirituality, and his other countryman Lanfranco was much indebted to him for his picturesque composition. The three Carraches at Bologna had borrowed much from Coreggio, and endeavoured to unite his merits with those of the Roman and Venetian schools ; and in some of their works, as well as In the works of some of their disciples, this union is effected in a great and respectable degree. As the merits of the Venetian school consisted mostly in the mechanical conduct of the art, there has been proportionally less decay in its vigour than In the other schools of Italy. When the arts were in their highest vigour In Italy, they were imported into France by that lover of Ingenuity, Francis I. Avho laid the foundation of all that glory to which the French nation has so fair and just a claim for what they had done under Louis XIV. 376 The merits of the Flemish and Dutch schools ought not to be overlooked In this retrospective view of art. The Dutch, it must be confessed, have deviated widely from all the sources of elegance, pathos, and sublimity; induced not only by that sordid disposition, which will ever be epidemic In a country so ge nerally devoted to gain: but still further, from the differences of religion they had accustomed themselves to look with ridicule and buffoonery on those great subjects, which the Italians execut ed with the utmost possible sobriety and unction. Although the Hollanders in this procedure ultimately disqualified them selves for serious pursuits in the arts, yet as the human capacity is seldom disappointed, when it will perseveringly apply, I shall, under the divisions of my subject in the subsequent discourses, have occasion to advert to many excellencies, Avhich might be -Studied with great profit in the works of some distinguished cha racters in the Dutch school. As to the pursuits in art of our own people, they have been pretty extensively considered in an enquiry, which I published •1775, and in a subsequent account, which was intended as a sup plement. I have little to say In addition to what has been there urged. Our religious distractions in the reigns of Charles I. and the succeeding Stuarts, and the (perhaps necessary) party enterprises since, have either for their own furtherance or op position to their rivals, almost Avholly absorbed the public atten tion, and have been such an occupation to all our leading men and great families, as left the arts but little to expect either from their taste or their munificence. - Patronage and encouragement had on the contrary been shamefully wasted in defacing every species of national Avorth. In the last reign, to use the words of one of the greatest orna- 377 ments this country has to boast. " It appears from the report of the secret committee for enquiring Into the conduct of Robert Earl of Orford, that no less than fifty thousand, seventy seven pounds, eighteen shillings, were paid to authors and prin ters of newspapers, such as Free Britons, Daily Courants, Corn- cutters Journals, Gazetteers, and other political papers between Feb. 10, 1731, and Feb. 10, 1741; which shews the benevolence of one great minister to have expended for the current dulness of ten years, double the sum which gained Louis XIV. so much hionour, during a reign of seventy. In annual pensions to learned men all over Europe." In such a state of things, it is no wonder that but little can be Said of our native predecessors In the art. The le Bruns, Pugets, Audrans, Edelinks, and all the rest of the glorious constellation of great characters, that at so small an expense diffused a lustre over France, equal to any the world had ever known, might, had it been their fortune to haye been born in our Islands, have withered away without honour, without pension, and without notice. Under the reign of his present Majesty, our most Gracious Patron, the arts were in some measure raised out of that dis graceful obscurity, in which they had been so long buried ; and a Royal Academy Avas instituted under the King's immediate protection, for the purpose of bringing forward that great line of historical, superior art ; , from the successful prosecution of which only, the King and the public can expect to see its repu tation, worthy their attention. Now whether these gracious intentions of his Majesty, the VOL. 1 3 G 378 Avishes of the AcademielMis, and the expectations of the public, may be disappointed or not- — must entirely result from the ge nerous ardor and unremitting labours of the students themselves. Inability and indolence may find opportunities of sheltering them selves in other employments, where mediocrity is sufferable ; and there are many such. The work of a bungling tailor, shoe maker, or such mechanics, may not be wholly without use, pro vided there be no fault in the stuff; but In the polite arts, the stuff is of little account, the wisdom and skill of the workman is all and every thing. It may therefore be prudent to consider in tinie, that the mere reputation of having frequented the schools of the Academy can be but a poor reliance for the man Avho shall neglect to have made a laborious and good use of them : and what is much worse, experience has long shcAvn, how much it is to be feared, that the interest, which must necessarily be taken by those, who have nothing to traffick with but bad or contracted abilities in art, will unavoidably draw after it the necessity of their becoming disingenuous and bad men. Q^uack- erles, and every species of dishonest, unmanly artifice must be continually recurred to, to recommend themselves, to acquire and to support a temporary reputation, and to pull down and prevent that of their rivals and more able competitors from taking its due course, and answering any national or useful purposes. Such manoeuvres may for a time dupe others, but in the end they must recoil back upon their authors, who will eventually find themselves the greatest dupes of all : for be it ahvays remembered, that nothing but truth and real worth can be lasting. These only can be interesting to the world at large ; and the things, the actual works, must sooner or later speak for themselves. Independently of all other support. But you, young gentlemen, who possess a noble ambition, 379 and feel yourselves heartily actuated by a love for perfection, you, I hope, will look with a becoming contempt and scorn, on the lazy wretchedness of those, Avho unfaithful to their art, descend to the mean subterfuges of endeavouring to appear what they are not : you will proceed after quite a different manner, and generously relinquish whatever would obstruct the con tinued and necessary prosecution of your studies to the end. Your studies in the day, whilst you are at home, will be of the same nature with what you are employed about in the schools of the Academy, as your success will depend upon what is done at home under the eye of a skilful master, who will point out to you the proper method of applying what you may learn here, to the purposes of your own original com position. By thus devoting your whole lives to one uninterrupted pur suit after improvement, both in the theory and practice of your art, you will In the end do honour to yourselves, by acquiring for your country, that superior reputation in the arts also, which it has long since possessed in every thing else. In the next lecture (God willing) I shall offer to your consi deration some remarks on Design. 3 c 2 LECTURE II. ON DESIGN. Gentlemen,: In the preceding discourse I laid before you a view of the growth and progress of the arts. In the different ages and nations ; and It has evidently appeared through the whole course, and In every stage of this progress, that the same causes by which art was advanced or retarded, invigorated or corrupted, were equally operative in advancing or retard ing, invigorating or corrupting the mental faculties^ in every thing else, that was truly valuable, and worthy our esteem and praise. It Is a vulgar error, that your art can ever derive any peculiar advantage from corruption and depravity ; — quite the reverse ; those almost divine faculties of the mind, formed for the pursuit of the amiable, the admirable, and the perfect,.which put forth and flourished In the free and Intelligent nations, have, under meanness, ignorance, and oppressive tyranny, lain either totally dormant, or were reduced to a mere caput mortuum, divested of every thing spiritual, sublime, and interesting. We shall now direct our attention towards the component parts of the art, beginning with Design, as the foundation and chief 381 It may be necessary previously to observe, that although in the executive part of the art, very little, if any thing, remains to be wished for in addition to Avhat has been done by the In genious men of the two last centuries:, yet it is universally ac knowledged, by all Intelligent people, that there is in the great monuments of Grecian art, a strain of perfection, beauty, and sublimity, far beyond any thing the moderns have produced. Endeavouring to account for this Indubitable fact, some ingeni ous writers of less knowledge than fancy, have enthusiastically supposed, that either the Grecian artists possessed intellects, transcending the ordinary measure of modern capacity ; or that they formed their works after living originals, of a perfection superior to any thing now to be found. The futility of these suppositions, I have endeavoured, to shew in a work* published some years since ; where It appears sufficiently evident, that all this observable superiority of the ancient Greeks over the moderns, arose entirely from moral causes, and principally from the advantages of their education^ — That the arts at their resur rection in Italy were for the most part confined to the practice of mechanical,, uneducated people,, whose objects of pursuit were ordinary and unelevated : but that on the contrary, the Grecian artists were highly cultivated! in their mental faculties, familiar ized to the most subtle and refined philosophy, and appear to have considered theVhole of created nature, with all its scattered perfections, but as. a mere chaos and rude mass of incoherent materials, thrown together by the Great Creator, for the exercise of those intellectual faculties he had bestowed upon man, whom * An Enquiry into the Real and Imaginary Obstructions to the acquisition of the Arts in England. — By James Barry, Royal Academician, and ' member of the Clementine Academy of Bologna, — Becket, 1775.. 3S2 he had Impressed Avith ideas of perfection, and a capacity for combining them to a degree, to which individual nature might make some distant approaches, but at which It would never arrive. Hence have been derived all those masterly works of Poetry, Painting, and Sculpture, which have filled the mind with astonishment, instruction, and pleasure; and which will ever remain unequalled by those Avho do not draw their materials from the same source. These remains of Grecian perfection are collected in academies and places of study ; yet from the mere imitation of them but little can be expected. • We must be able to investigate the prin ciples upon which those statues were constructed, and adopt the same mode of study in our own pursuit, and imitation of nature, or we labour to no purpose. But as the doing of this comprehends the very essence of De sign, Avhich is the subject of our enquiry this night, I shall en deavour to trace out the essential principles of Design in that common nature, where, though they have been overlooked, they have always existed; and where our own country will furnish us with materials, equal to any enjoyed by the Greeks, or by peo ple better than the Greeks, if any such ever were. But as this important matter of design embraces almost all that is intel lectual in the, art, is intimately associated with, and indeed arises from the most secret sources of the human mind, and heart. It will be impossible for us to search it too deeply. By the word Design, taken in its most comprehensive sense, is understood the Idea, Scheme, or Conception, which a work man or artist endeavours to express. 383 This great genus comprehends all arts whatever. But in the family of the imitative arts, the idea, conception, or scheme of the artist can be no otherwise expressed than by an imitation of visi ble objects, and of the story, action, circumstance, or occasion which unites them together. Design then in these arts is that conception which is expressed by the artificial arrangement and imitation of such natural objects as either do, or might possibly exist. It is, effected in the painter's art by imitating the forms, colours, and proportional arrangement of natural objects. In sculpture by the imitation of proportion and form only. Archi tecture, as it copies no natural archetype, cannot be considered as an imitative art in its necessary and essential parts, but in the mere embellishment and ornaments only, where it is obliged to have recourse to the painter's or the sculptor's art. Imitations (to use the words of one of the most profound and wisest of men) differ from each other in three things ; either be cause in general they imitate with different means ; or different objects ; or differently, and not in the same manner. Since they who imitate, copy living characters, there is a necessity to exhi bit us, either better; as Ave are; orAvorse. The painter Polignotus made his pictures handsomer ; and Pauson more deformed ; but Dionysius copied nature as he found it. Homer made men bet ter ; Cleophon like ; whereas, Egemon and NIchocaris made them Avorse," It may be here worth observing, that in the mere imi tation of individual ordinary nature, nothing is required but the skill and accuracy of the eye and, hand only ; Avhereas in the imitation AvIth that selection which endeavours to make things better, the exertions of the imagination and judgement (the two highest powers of the mind) are absolutely necessary In order to obtain that consistent, perfect, and extraordinary totality Avhich 384 constitutes the perfection of the art, and upon which only, the artist can ground his title to genius, and be considered as the maker, inventor, or crea/or of his works; for, as Aristotle observes, some pages after the passage above quoted ; " It appears plainly that the poet's business is not to speak the things that have hap pened ; but such as might have been, and are possible, according to likelihood and necessity. For the historian and poet differ not because they write in verse or in prose ; but they differ in this, that the former in reality speaks the things that have been ; the latter, those which might be. Poetry therefore doubtless affords greater scope than history, for sublimity and the display of wisdom." This selection is as indispenslbly the business of the painter and sculptor, as of the poet. Their several imitations, which are equally intended to display beauty, sublimity, and wisdom, ought to have nothing to do with imperfection and unfitness, either in the choice of the objects themselves, of their several component parts, or in the fable, story, or action in which they are employed. These admirable qualities of beauty, sublimity, and wisdom, so essentially requisite In the design of a great artist, can only be found in abstract or general nature ; and Avhen found and united by the skill of the artist, they are easily and Avith pleasure recog nised by all men : for our ideas of the several species of sensible objects, and the generally relative proportion of their component parts with each other, and with the whole together, must neces sarily be much more perfect than our own particular Ideas can be^ respecting those relatives in fleeting and transitory individuals ; in other words, Ave are much better acquainted Avith man or 385 horse in its general structure, than we can possibly be with re spect to the particular or peculiar fabrication of this or that individual man or horse. When, for instance, we judge of that noble animal the horse, who Is not struck with the large, clear, and brisk eye, full of fire, the lean head, large open nostrils, the arched neck, the chest and shoulders well divided and square, the flank and thighs fleshy and thick, large ham, and the shanks sharp, sinewy, and detached ? How readily, and how generally do we recognise the contrary qualities as faults, the dull, muddy, Inanimate eye ; the heavy head ; drooping, holloAv neck, thin flanks ; and gummy legs ! The excesses and deficiencies In the human form do not escape even the most vulgar observation ; their disapprobation, how ever coarsely, yet is strongly and accurately expressed by the homely phrases of squabbish and short, slim and tall, the hatchet or the pudding face, rabbet shoulders, pot belly, spindle shanks, knocked or baker knees, club-feet, porter-like, tailor-like, and so forth. These epithets Indicate sensations exceedingly complex ; and It is well known that In ages less civilized, men were gene rally nick-named from excesses and deficiencies much less obvious. In short, general ideas are the first Ideas Ave acquire; we know the species before we know the Individual; and children, as Aristotle observes, will call every woman mother for some time. In all individuals of every species, there Is necessarily a visible tendency to a certain point or form. In this point or form the standard of each species rests. The deviations from this, either by excess or deficiency, are of two kinds : first, deviations indi cating a more peculiar adaptation to certain characters of advan tage and utility, such as strength, agility, and so forth ; even VOL. I. 3d 386 mental as well as corporeal, since they sometimes result from habit and education, as well as from original conformation. In these deviations are to be found those Ingredients which in their composition and union exhibit the abstract or ideal perfection in the several classes or species of character. The second kind of deviation is that which, having no reference to any thing useful or advantageous, but rather visibly indicating the contrary, as being useless, cumbersome, or deficient, Is considered as deformity; and this deformity will be always found different in the several individuals, by either not being in the same part. In the same manner, or in the same degree. The points of agreement which indicate the species, are therefore many ; of difference Avhich In dicate the deformity few. Hence it is, that this common ten dency to the general form, those characteristic and specific deviations, and those deviations of inutility and deformity are sooner seen, and more extensively observed upon, than has been generally Imagined ; for it Is one thing in children and unedu cated people, to feel those sensations, and another to speak accurately about Avhat they feel. The mere animal powers of man are in themselves capable of calculating with great subtilty, and must necessarily chain toge ther a vast number of experiences to perform even the ordinary actions of life. The preserving an equilibrium in an erect pos ture, the Avalking and running, stooping and raising, kc. are all progressional in the acquirement, and result from an Infinitude of experiences which it is impossible to retrace. In vain should the equilibrist, the tumbler, or the fencer, attempt to lay before you these unobserved, though certain calculations, by which the peculiar muscles were governed, which so accurately concurred in the performance of their several feats. When we reflect on 387 the complication of these and all the other unobserved calcula tions in human exertions, where the directions and degrees of force, the qualities of the material, and the expected powers and directions of resistence are so accurately and instantaneotijsly combined, it ought to teach us a proper caution not to be too ready to fix limits to what we may call rude, unlettered, sensa tion, especially in matters equally present and interesting to the most vulgar, as well as to the most refined. Of this kind is the matter now before us, respecting the stan-: dard or perfect form of our species. Self-love, of which every one participates more or less, must Inevitably give a more than ordinary ardour to our critical and discriminating spirit in this matter. We are equally averse from overlooking our own ex cellence, or advantages, or the want of them in others : hence, the comparative Ideas of bad, worse, and worst. Good, better, and best, are bandied about through all ranks of society, and nothing can be more evident than that every particle of this, even in the most illiterate minds, must unquestionably be refer red to a standard. This standard is no otherAvise different in the learned and the illiterate, but In the degree : they travel together the same road, but the one perhaps may go farther than the other, according to their faculties and application. This is the true state of all genuine judgement, freed from that impertinence which is called affectation. In complex objects these judgements appear frequently to differ, but upon a close examination, this difference will be found to have existed in appearance only, and not in reality; for they mean either not the same things, or the same qualities, or the same degree, or the same manner of the things : for example, a 3 D 2 388 picture of Michael Angelo shall be admired and condemned by different spectators ; but there Is no difference of judgement; the attention of the one Is employed upon what the picture possesses, of the other spectator upon what it wants. There is a strange passage in one of Lord Bacon's essays, respecting this principle of selection from aggregate nature, which is very unworthy his fine and penetrating genius : the passage is as follows : " In beauty, that of favour Is more than that of colour, and that of decent and gracious, more than that of favour. That is the best part of beauty, which a picture cannot express ; no, nor the first sight of the life. There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness In the proportion. A man cannot tell whether Apelles or Albert Durer were the more trifler ; whereof the one would make a personage by geometrical proportions, the other by taking the best parts' out of divers faces, to make one excellent. Such personages, I think, would please nobody 'but the painter that made them. Not but I think a painter may make a better face than ever was, but he must do It by a kind of felicity, as a musician that maketh an excellent air In music, and not by rule. A man shall see faces, that if you examine them part by part, you shall never find a good ; and yet altogether do Avell," On this passage I shall just observe, that though It be true that this excellent beauty may (as he observes) have some strangeness ( in the proportion ; yet It does not follow but that this dispro portion or strangeness might be happily avoided by a judicious artist, whilst that which is beautiful was alone imitated. As to the faces good only in the whole result, and not in the parts. It is the proportionate arrangement only that pleases, and not the 389 disagreeable particulars. Nature Is here, as the Italians feelingly express it, but ben sbozzata, well sketched out : adequate finish ing is wanting. The business of art is harmoniously to unite the beautiful parts of the former with this beautiful proportionate arrangement of the latter ; and if Lord Bacon had understood the subject better, he would have found that it was by this conduct only (which he had unwarily condemned In Apelles) that any true beatity could be produced, which should be no less admir able in Its several component parts, than In the proportionate, and harmonious arrangement of the whole together. As to the possibility oT producing any excellence by those happy dashes which resemble the musical felicity, they may perhaps accord ing to the old story of the painted horse, be allowed to effect something In the Imitation of froth and bubble, but that is all. However the ignorance of our admirable Bacon in matters of this kind was very excusable at a time when, from the mistaken notions of religion, all elevated and artist-like exertions were proscribed in his country, where the wretched business of face painting bounded the national prospect. Painting being an art which. In Its executive part, requires such a long and laborious process, it has unavoidably been of tener exercised by the mere sordid mechanic, divested of Intel lectual capacity, than by the philosopher and man of a genius for ethical and refined views. The union of these qualities of intellectual vigour and mecha nical laborious assiduity, which It is easy to see can but rarely happen, is however absolutely necessary for producing such works as can enable us to make a just estimation of the powers of the art. Lord Bacon then, whose active and contemplative 390 pursuits could afford him but little occasion for any knoAvledge ofthis art, and whose Ideas of it could only be drawn from the portraits of Holbein, and such like miserable exemplars, Avas likely enough to fall Into the above mistake. He was entirely out of the way of every thing Which could have undeceived him : the Gartoons of Raffael, his Camera della Senatura, his Transfigu ration, and the other works of the great Italians, he was an utter stranger to ; and above all, the Grecian statues, which would have flashed Immediate evidence in his face, it was his fortune never to have seen. Had this truly Illustrious man possessed those advantages, his great sagacity AAould have made a salutary application of the admirable general principles Avhich he has himself laid down respecting one of those Imitative arts ; speak ing of poetry, he remarks most admirably and justly. " The use of this fained historic hath been to give some shadow of satis faction to the mind of man In those points, wherein the nature of things doth denie it, the world being in proportion inferior to the soule : by reason whereof there is agreeable to the spirit of man, a more ample greatnesse, a more exact goodnesse, and a more absolute variety than can be found in the nature of things. Therefore, because the acts or events of true historic have not that magnitude which satisfieth the mind of man, poesy faineth acts and events greater and more heroical ; because true historic propoundeth the successes and issues of actions, not so agreeable to the merits of virtue and vice, therefore poesie fains them more just In retribution, and more according to revealed providence. Because true historic representeth actions more ordinarie and less interchanged ; there poesie endueth them with more rare- nesse and more unexpected and alternative variations. So as it appeareth that poesy serveth and conferreth to magnanimitie, moralitie, and to delectation. And therefore it Avas ever thought 391 to have some participation of divlnenesse, because it doth raise and erect the mind, by submitting the shew of things to the desires of the mind, whereas reason doth buckle and bow the mind to the nature of things. And we see that by these insinua tions and congruities with man's nature and pleasure. It hath had access and estimation in rude times and barbarous regions, where other learning stood excluded." In this admirable manner Lord Bacon reasons about an art AvhIch he understood ; and (but that reading can be of little use where exemplars do not exist) he might have known, that a no less pertinent application of the same reasoning had been long since made to painting and sculpture by the people, who of all others best understood these arts In their full and comprehensive extent. Zenophon says, that when Socrates had occasion to discourse with artists, his conversation was of great advantage to them. For example, happening to go to Parrhasius the painter, he discoursed with him of his art to this purpose; Whatis painting Parrhasius ? is it not an imitation of visible objects, for do you not express or represent by colours the concave and the eminent, the obscure and the enlightened, the hard and soft, the rough and smooth, the new and old, and in fine all sorts of objects, and all the various appearances of nature? But when you propose to imitate beautiful forms, since for instance it is not easy to find any one person, all Avhose members are absolutely faultless, do you not select from many human bodies those parts Avhich are best proportioned and most beautiful in each ; and by com bining them make whole figures that are beautiful throughout? Do you not represent likewise what is most engaging, most 392 lovely, and most desirable in the person, I mean, the disposition of the soul— for do not the very looks confess either malice or good will? in the prosperity of our friends, our looks are gay and full of joy, but in their adversity we look cloudy and dejected. Be sides, doth not a noble and liberal spirit, or a mean and ignoble one, a prudent and well governed mind, or a petulant and dis solute one, discover Itself in the countenance, air and gesture of men, and all these differences can be expressed by imitation ? They can, replies Parrhasius. Which then, do you think, says Socrates, do men behold with greatest pleasure and satisfaction, the representations by which good, beautiful, and lovely man ners are expressed, or those which exhibit the base, deformed, corrupt, and hateful ? There Is no comparison between them, said the artist. Three things are observable in those remarks of Socrates : first, that painting Is capable of giving a true Image or likeness of every visible object; Sndly, that in the imitation of visible ob jects, a wise selection from general nature be used which has a reference to what is admirable, fit, and proper only ; and lastly, this divine man, according to his usual custom, does not forget to intimate, that the true dignity of art consists in being advanta geous to morality and the interests of mankind, by exhibiting the deformity of vice, and the beauties of virtue. I have been the longer on this article of the absolute necessity of making a judicious selection in the objects of your imitation, and of directing your attention to the species in each walk of cha racter, rather than to the individual, because in this consists the very essence of design. To carry it on with success will Indeed require your utmost attention, added to a considerable expanse 393 of previous education : but it will.be worth your pains, as it Is from hence only, that you can be enabled to give a loose to the fervour of your disposition, to be original with dignity and with safety, to avoid being a mere vulgar and uninteresting Dutch copyist on the one hand, or what Is worse, a plunderer, plagiar ist and second-hand imitator on the other. How many admir able things do we find in the antique, in Raffael, and in PoUssin, which are regarded with a just contempt, when i)y plagiarism and second-hand imitation they are transplanted from their na tural soil, and separated from the action, circumstance, or occa sion, which gave them vigour and value. Having considered the kind and manner of Imitation proper to design, we shall now attend more particularly to the things imitated, and first to beauty. Whether our standard or abstract ideas of beauty, order, and goodness, result solely and immediately (by a kind of arithmeti cal calculation) from the mere exercise of our contemplative powers on external objects : or whether the result of our con templation of those external objects goes any further than to furnish us with the necessary media for the recognition of a former and more perfect knowledge of those Interesting qualities which the soul might have enjoyed in a prior and more perfect state, are questions of difficult determination. But in what ever manner our Beneficent Creator has impressed us with those superior ideas, there can be no doubt of the reality of their existence In our minds. We are so evidently formed to distin guish the true, and to love the good, that it is utterly impossible for us not to assent (internally at least) to the objects both of the one and the other, when they are fairly proposed, to us; and VOL. I. 3 E 394 notwithstanding that just and candid men only speak and act in an entire conformity with this evidence; yet even In others who seem to contradict it, they are only seeming and appear ances, by which they would deceive us; for even the most envious and selfish are ready enough to acknowledge this true, beautiful, and amiable in all matters, where their self-love, per sonal Interests, passions, and vanities, are not concerned ; as in the virtues and excellence of the great characters of past ages, or distant countries ; or even nearer home, when those virtues are out of the sphere of their own collisions. Thus the recognition of these Interesting qualities is natural and common to all. In proportion to the attention employed upon them ; and it is no argument to the contrary, that the con sequences which result from this recognition in different minds, do but too often afford us a spectacle of melancholy and shock ing contrariety ; since that which serves as a foundation for ad miration an,d affection to a good and generous heart, will, from the selfish and the envious, excite nothing but hatred, malignity, and a disposition to persecute. The recognition of these qualities is however the same in both cases, and the difference of the reception it meets with, seems to arise from the generosity or selfishness, the goodness or the malig nity of the heart only. The disposition and capacity to distinguish and Interest our selves in the true, the beautiful, the good, and the great, were given us as a rule and law, continually to point out that election and conduct, which Is most becoming and most conformable to our nature as moral agents ; and nothing can be more certain, than 395 that the Interest we take in all the objects which surround us, is, (coeteris paribus) in an exact proportion to the number and degree of those qualities, whether considered singly or combined, As to beauty, prudence may and often does incline us to hesi tate in our election of the greater or lesser degree of It, in pro portion to the association of those degrees of beauty with other valuable or worthless qualities. These ideas of beauty, order, and goodness, have an intimate and almost immediate reference to each other in the mind; as absolute and complete satisfaction can only result from the perfect union of all these qualities in their highest degree. Therefore it is, that the pleasure which we receive In the contemplation of human nature, (where beauty may be in a high degree united with those other qualities) is much greater than that which results from the contemplation of beauty in all the species of animal, vegetable, or other objects, where moral agency does not exist : and yet, such is the innate force or power of mere beauty, even In the lowest order of beings, that the particular perfections discoverable amongst quadrupeds, birds, fishes, trees, and flowers, are sure to excite Iri us agreeable sensa tions, and Incline us to a predilection and choice, of which those irrational beings appear utterly unconscious and insensible. There is then a beautiful which is positive, essential, and in dependent of national or temporary institutions or opinions. This Immutable, and (if I may be allowed the expression) eternal beauty, is widely different from those arbitrary, local, temporary notions of beauty which have a kind of occasional currency under the terms ton, fashion, or mode ; and like particular languages, are ever fluctuating, and unstable, always different amongst the different nations, and In the different ages of the same nation. 3 E 5 396 Tills false beauty, which roots Itself In affectation, has no thing to do with genuine, legitimate art, and is no otherwise worth mention here, than to point it out as a quick-sand, where many Ingenious artists have been sunk for ever. It cannot there fore be too studiously avoided, for though a conformity with those temporary modes may gratify our employers, and the circle around them, and consequently be advantageous to what we may call our Interest ; yet it must lose us the admiration of men of sound judgement in all times ; and all the future frivolities will have fashionable affectations and beauties of their own, quite dif ferent from those upon which our attention had been wasted. Another source of confusion, though less general In its influ ence, arises from the sensuality which some people mix with their ideas of beauty. A high degree of thelusclotis, the languid ; a simper, or leer, though associated with ordinary qualities, will, with them outweigh all other perfections of body or mind. However, the judgement of those voluptuaries has but little weight with the bulk of mankind : like misers absorbed in one particular passion, they are regarded as blind and dead to every thing else. But the beautiful, which makes so essential a part in the design of a great artist, Is, and must be, founded on the un alterable nature of things, and independent of all particular dispositions. Men have differed more in their definition and manner of ex plaining beauty, than in their Ideas of it. According to the definitions generally given, beauty consists of unity and gradual variety; or unity, variety, and harmony. This may be ad mitted as true, at least as far as it goes : but it Is neither full nor satisfactory; for though it be certain that unity and variety are 39 7 ^ found In beautiful objects of all kinds. In flowers, fruits. In the several species of animals as well as in human nature ; yet it is equally certain that they are compounded differently, and that though in any one of these species, we may further increase the variety, or simplify the unity, yet we should riot proportionably add to the beauty, but the contrary. Man, as a totality, comprehends a greater variety of visible parts than the female, and yet surely, he is not more beautiful. We should not encrease the beauty of the female bosom, by the addition of another protuberance ; and the exquisite undulating transitions from the convex to the concave tendencies, could not be multiplied with any success. In fine, our rule forjudging of the mode and degree of this combination of variety and unity, seems to be no other than that of Its fitness, and conformity to the designation of each species. What we admire in the one, would shock us, if it were trans ferred to the other. The variety, and union of parts, which we call beautiful in a greyhound, are pleasing In consequence of the Idea of agility Avhich they convey. In other animals, less agility is united with more strength ; and indeed all the different arrangements please, because they indicate either different qua lities, different degrees of qualities, or the different combina tions of them. In all the beauties of colour, diffused so bountifully over the objects which surround us, if they have no other designation, there Is at least this which respects the governing animal : those colours delight man by their sprightliness and vivacity, when 398 "ptire and in a strong degree ; and with their tenderness, softness, and delicacy, when mixt and compounded, or even when single, in a degree less forcible. These properties of colour simply considered, may be thought to differ from the other kinds of beauty, as being more an object of sense, than of the intellect : but it is remarkable, that even in colour there Is a choice and selection ; for colours are either clear and beautiful, or muddy, adulterate, or disa greeable ; besides colours, whether simple or compounded, are either of a deep, strong tint, or hue, or they are weak and feeble. They are also seen either in a stronger or a fainter light, and they are ever the inseparable adjuncts of those beings and forms', where the Intellectual estimates are more Immediately concerned. From the whole of what has been urged, it Is very evident, that Beauty and Perfection, are but different names for the same thing, and consequently, the most beautiful form of body must be that, which In all its qualities most perfectly corres ponds with the idea we have of Its species, of whatever kind, sex, or age. Pure simple beauty or perfection, being equally adapted to all the several animal destinations proper to its species, is therefore equally removed from the several classes of character, which so evidently define and manifest their peculiar powers. Mere Beauty then, (though always Interesting) is notwithstanding vague and Indeterminate ; as it indicates no particular expression either of body or mind. But it becomes Infinitely more power- 39'9 ful and fascinating, when It Is in action, and associated .with the Graces, its natural attendants ; which without altering any of the constituent beautiful parts, make the soul and sensations of the heart, visible in the external figure ; and by their affect ing sensibilities and happy transitions, produce In the whole together an air and aspect the most amiable, most tender, and the most endearing. Mere beauty being by a kind of natural ac cord peculiarly fitted for the reception of grace, as the true and animating principle of' such a body, which, as It indicates no particular designation of power or character, seems reserved fo*" the exercise of those graces, elegances, and tenderness of the heart solely ; it is no wonder that the ancient Greeks (ever wise and ever admirable) made such an inseparable connexion be tween Venus and the Graces, Aglala, Euphrosyne, and Thalia, Splendour, Sweetness, and Joy, (so I think those names have been translated) locked hand in hand, harmoniously dancing round the goddess of beauty. Although the graceful is so eminently distinguishable, and carries with it such peculiar power in female action, yet it is by no means to be understood as confined to female action merely : for as grace is produced from that union and entire conformity between the tender sentiments of the heart and the correspond ing mild and easy actions of the body, every action or move ment of a perfect or beautiful body of either sex, or even of almost any species, where this union is visible, must be graceful. But grace is more eminently observable in the female, because, as Avas hinted before, their sensibility and tenderness are greater than that of the male, and the superior softness and delicacy of their bodily frame is more in unison with those tender sensations. 400 A high degree of particular character cannot be superinduced upon pure or simple beauty without altering its constituent parts ; this Is peculiar to grace only ; for particular characters consist, as has been observed before. In those deviations from the general standard for the better purpose of effecting utility and power, and become so many species of a higher order ; where nature is elevated into grandeur, majesty, and sublimity. There is however a general character distinguishable in the sexes, as contrasted with each other. The whole and every part of the male form, generally taken. Indicates an aptness and pro pensity to action vigorous exertion, and power, In the female form the appearance Is very different, It gives the Idea of some thing rather passive than active, and seems created not so much fbr the purposes of laborious utility, as for the exercise of all the softer, milder, qualities. How admirably does this gentleness of frame correspond with the mild and tender pursuits for which female nature was intended in those numberless little affectionate attentions, maternal weaknesses, and condescensions, so necessary for the fostering and rearing lip of the infant offspring; and secondly, as a grateful haven of repose and serenity to the male, after those laborious and often vexatious exertions which the un avoidable collision of his vigorous faculties and situation In society indispenslbly requires of him. Hence it appears that this supe rior tenderness and soft affecting sensibility, which are the source and true origin of all those easy, delicate, elegant transitions we distinguish by the epithet, graceful, and which seat beauty, as it were, on its proper throne in female nature, are only the legible, agreeable exteriors of necessary utility. This general characte ristic discrimination is touched in a masterly manner by our great poet. 401 " For contemplation He, and valour formed, For softness She, and sweet attractive grace ; More fair, more winning soft, more amiably mild." Thus, this wise and orderly arrangement of proportionate ends and means, which constitute the beautiful In all created objects, and the grateful sense of which is intellectual and peculiar to man — thus, this admirable arrangement Is found to combine more and to increase In its value, as It rises through all. the grada tions, from the mere Inanimate to the vegetative, to the animal, and to the highest degree of rational nature ; where It becomes exquisite, and receives its ultimate completion from the visible indications of its union with the still higher qualities of the soul. The human frame being of all others calculated for the greatest variety of ends, the beautiful is there necessarily at Its highest point ; and yet such Is our innate sense of the superior nature of moral excellence, and our absolute interest In Its being the governing principle of rational agents, that we are as It Avere compelled to regard all this beauty not only as tasteless and insipid, but still further, as lying and contradictory, when it is not united with those exquisite sensations of a gratefuL sensi bility, as it ought to be in the female ; and improved knd heightened by vigorous exertion into some admirable, gene rous, venerable, character In the other sex. We shall here stop our pursuit of beauty, as the next step would lead us into very awful considerations, to which our Ideas of all the mundane arrangements of beauty, order, wisdom, and good ness, appear but as so many preparatory initiations. That matter I shall leave for those who can do it more justice, and content VOL. I. 3 F 402 myself with observing, that we are evidently disappointed, when the external forrn and interior disposition do not correspond, even in the regions of visionary beings. We hate Mezentius in the JEneid, though he has great bravery, many commanding, kingly qualities, and even great tenderness and affection for his son. But his tyranny, injustice, and cruelty, sully all, and make the reader delight In his destruction. Polyphemus might be able to perform as many feats of strength as Hercules, but we detest his brutal, savage, disposition, and reserve our love and. admiration for the hero whose actions Avere directed by a humane and gene^ rous philanthropy. It is this Innate relish for fitness and justicCj that constitutes the charm which attaches young and unadulte„ rated minds so strongly to romances. It Is In vain that we ob serve upon the absurdities, the false geography, and the utter ignorance of times, usages, and all civil institutions, which have been jumbled together In these performances. These accessories detract nothing from our admiration. The wildest fictions pass ; the soul recognizes Its true home arid darling objects ; when ge nerosity, honour, fidelity, and the other amiable virtues are exhibited in all their Paradisaical perfection : and notwithstand ing our subsequent experience of the real facts of life presents us with a constitution of things exceedingly different and much Avorse ; yet as this does riot destroy the reality and congeniality of our feelings regarding this better state, and as they evidently both exist together, they equally co-operate to establish that incontrovertible truth of the exalted and debased nature of man, which philosophy has seen,, but which the Christian religion only has explained. Nothing can be more uniform than the voice of mankind in- all ages with respect to the constituent parts of amiable or hate- 403 ful character ; and upon this foundation, as upon a rock, the artist, whether painter or poet, will. If he Is wise, construct the edifice of his future fame. From the whole of what has been observed. It appears that utility or happiness Is our aim In the predilection for beauty ; that all exterior corporeal qualities have but little value, except from what they receive by their assimilation with the interior disposition ; that from the natural constitution of things, we are induced to pursue and covet the one from an expectation and persuasion of finding the other, and consequently that the real source of our enjoyment is spiritual, and ultimately rested upon the elevation and magnanimity of the soul, or the mild and endearing qualities of the heart. The one is the only source of all action, motion, and gesture, that is distinguished by the term graceful. The other of all true great ness, sublimity, and majesty of character and expression. The young student cannot bestow too much attention on these important truths ; for he may rest assured, that when the motion, gesture, action, or expression of his figures does not correspond with their interior feelings and disposition (as must inevitably happen in all plagiarisms and transplanting of character) what ever else he can do will be foreign to the purpose, and must appear grimace, affectation, and false art. 'Taste being generally considered as a necessary Ingredient not only in the design of a great artist, but also in the judgement of an Intelligent obserA'^er, it will not be foreign to our purpose to take some notice of its leading qualities. The word taste, as applied to objects of vision, is a metaphor taken from our corporeal sense of tasting, and means in this me- 3 V 2 404 taphorical application, that quick discerning faculty or power of the mind, by which we accurately distlrtgulsh the good, bad, or Indifferent— the beauty or deformity either In nature, or In the arts which Imitate nature. As good taste then comprehends our relish for the true, the good, the beautiful, and the sublime, and our disapprobation of whatever does not participate of these estimable qualities, in a becomirig and just degree; and as thg matter which must invigorate and perfect this intellectual sense, can only be supplied by knowledge and judgement, it will neces sarily be more or less perfect and exquisite, as our knowledge of the essential qualities Is more or less accurate and extensive, and our judgement in the application of this knowledge more or less sound. ; The observations AvhIch have occurred In treating the preceding articles of abstract or general nature. Imitation by selection, beauty, character, and grace, applying so directly to the purposes of taste, and indeed forming the only sure rule by which its just estimates and appreciations can be governed, will make it unne. cessary to dwell much longer on this matter. It has appeared clear and evident that this Intellectual sense of taste Is not a factitious quality, as some giddy sceptics have foolishly imagined. The vanity of low artists, and the presumption of superficial judges, Avill no doubt find an Interest In readily coinciding with an opinion which levels all distinction between themselves and their betters. But though the clatter of ignorance, misinforma tion, and vanity, cannot be silenced, yet it must and will be despised, for assuredly taste Is as much an essential part of the mind of man, as the eyes and hands are of his body, and like these, is capable of a very high degree of accuracy and Improve ment. It is also evident, that nature being all that really exists, 405 or might possibly exist, and that taste having noi legitimate object but this actual and possible nature, or that AvhIch by art is made to resemble it — it necessarily follows, that a bad taste in the ob jects of art can only arise from a bad taste in the objects of nature : prejudice, affectation, and ignorance, must operate equally in the production of both. This taste for the good, the beautiful, and the sublime of nature and art, as It Is the same in both, and as it comprehends whatever is Interesting to us in the moral as well as physical properties of things, affords an infinite variety of pursuit, admir ably accommodated to all the different genius and dispositions of men ; one class of artists and admirers of art pursuing the simple, others the serious, the pathetic, the great, the majes tic, or the sublime, selecting some with more force. Others with more grace, enforcing or combining each, according to Its own proper sentiment. There Is rio department of art which might not become interesting in the hands of a man Of sensibility. Who does not feel this In the landscapes of N. Poussin, sometimes verging to sublimity, and always engaging from their character istic unity, graceful simplicity, or ethical associations. Allowing for a little unnecessary rags and vulgarity ; who Is not also de lighted with the serenity and Innocent simplicity of many of the scenes of Berghem, Both, Claude, Swanefeld, and Wilson? the simple, laborious, honest, hinds; the lowing herds, smooth lakes, and cool extended shades ; the snug, warm cot, sufficient and independent, the distant hamlet ; and the free, unconfined association between all the parts of nature, must ever afford a grateful prospect to the mind. No doubt much of our satisfac tion results from contrasting this state of things Avith the dark, insidious, hypocritical disguises ; the hateful enormities, vani- 406 ties, affectations, and senseless pageantries, so frequently found In the courts of the great, and In large cities : and it is remarkable . that even the elegant Virgil, with all his happy taste of rural beauty, had this contrast uppermost in his mind, wheri he burst out into that beautiful eulogium upon rural life, in his second Georgic : " O Fortunajtos nimium, sua si bona norint, Agricolas !" But as there will be more room to particularize In my future discourses, I shall resume my general reasoning, and observe, that all the varieties of excellence are but different portions of the same taste for the beautiful, the good, and the perfect. If these essential foundations of taste have been dressed up differ ently, according to the various usages of different ages and nations ; these differences are only in the accessories, but never in the foundation and essential properties of things, which must be ever and equally the same both in nature and art. The monuments of this taste have ever been a source of the most grateful, permanent, satisfaction ; and whilst empires, nations, and all the great nothings of the world, moulder and pass away ; experience shews that we feel our hearts no otherwise interested or concerned about them, than to save out of this general wreck, whatever wears the impression of this taste for the beautiful, the good, and the perfect. There is in this matter something singu larly congenial with our nature : the sentiments and feelings by which men in all ages have been uniformly governed in their taste and relish for the good and the perfect, are sure, expiditious, and accompanied with a plenitude of evidence and satisfactory elucidation, Avhich the mind seeks for in vain from all other ob- 407 jects of inquiry. We may still wander about, as we have done for three thousand years past, in fruitless speculations, concern ing the primary elements, whether they be many and distinct, or one and changeable ; whether the substratum that upholds sensible qualities called matter, can be said to have any real ex istence, independent of mind or intellect, since It neither is, nor can be an object of our bodily sensations. The decision of these and other such questions of difficult and uncertain determination. Is happily not necessary for our well being here : It is sufficient for us that we haA^e no difficulty or embarrassment respecting those matters which regard the real end of our designation and happiness: Ave are at no loss to distinguish between right and wrong, good and bad ; and we are peculiarly blessed with this taste,, sentiment, or passion, for all the kinds of excellence com municated to man alone, as a principle for moral agency and divine approximation, by Avhich he is distinguished from all the species of brute, irrational animals. Thus much for our intellectual faculty called taste, which is one and the same in nature and the arts. A highly Improved and cultivated taste, or one gross and corrupt, being equally ope rative in influencing our approbation or disapprobation of the imitated or the natural objects. The best and surest method which can be recommended to the student for acquiring the theory and practice of this good taste in the arts. Is heartily to dissociate and estrange himself from all meanness and servihty of pursuit ; as this will best enable him to enter wholly and con amore into the investigation of the grand. Interesting,. and perfect of nature, as well moral as physi cal ; since his art is equally concerned in both. Such an arfe. 408 therefore, which has for its true object to advance the Interests of mankind by placing the cause of virtue and real heroism in the most forcible, efficacious, and amiable light— such an art does Indeed require all the elevation and dignity of soul and disposi tion the student can possibly bring to it. To produce great and noble sensations In others, to exalt their minds and excite them to the pursuit of the honestum, theft, the becoming, the heroic, and truly laudable part, whatever struggles and labour it may cost them, and however powerfully opposed and surrounded by dan gers and present obloquy ; — successfully to excite men to this, the students must begin with themselves, and cultivate the man, as well as the artist : for be it ever remembered, that though the head may conceive and the hand execute, yet it is the heart only which can Infuse unction, energy, and vigour Into your work— • the generous ardour that you will communicate to others will be always proportionate to the noble flame which exists in your own bosoms. I have omitted to speak of invention because it can hardly be considered as an acquirable quality ; since the vigour, spirit, and felicity of invention, are the peculiar emanations of that genius Avhich shall be in vain sought for, where heaven has not bestow ed it. But although invention must derive Its existence from genius, yet if there be no other qualities to nourish and support it than mere genius, it must infallibly run to weeds, and will be productive rather of extravagance and capricious folly, than of any thing sound and excellent : for the daring inventive faculties of a vivid aspiring genius, indispenslbly require more than any thing else, to be powerfully sustained by that proA'-Ident Avisdom and solid judgement which can only arise from an extensive knowledge of the nature, properties, and relations of things. 409 How admirably is the capacious and sublime invention of Homer sustained by his vast, comprehensive knowledge, and his sound, judicious application of this knowledge in the formation of all those creatures of his fancy, which have been ever regard ed with so much delight and utility ; and were imitated as so many models of perfection, by the legislators, heroes, and all the great characters of antiquity. This foundation of extensive knowledge and judgement, so indispenslbly necessary to support poetic invention, is not only equally necessary In your art, but still further, there Is absolutely required from you an accuracy of investigation and a laborious prosecution, not at all wanting in poetry. As this matter is curious in its nature, and relates to the essence of our subject, it will be no digression to observe, that poetry when compared with painting, appears to be attended with but few difficulties of execution, and requires but little accurate knowledge of the ex terior forms, except In a few of the leading characteristic features : as all the detailed particulars are left to be supplied by the reader how he can. When the conception of the subject and all Its parts are secured, what remains is only language, always at command, and continually exercised by the poet and his readers through the whole of life. On the contrary, when the painter, in common with the poet, has compleated the conception of his subject, the difficulties of execution, which must embody and substantiate this conception, present a scene altogether foreign to ordinary pursuit. Here he has occasion for all the several cir cumstantial knowledges of the forms and properties of his objects, the things which necessarily accompany them, together with the infinite variety of their aspects, positions, degrees of Illumination, VOL. I, 3 G 410 and distance ; a great part of which can only be known from an intimate acquaintance with the various arts and sciences. In fact, the labour g.nd accumulated observation necessary to exe cute an extensive conception in paintirig, is so immense, so various, and so foreign to the ordinary pursuits of life, that it is no wonder if the few examples of perfection which have appeared in this way, were ever regarded by the intelligent as the highest reaches of the human capacity ; whilst the more Ignorant Avere but too ready to believe them of still higher origin. The pleasure which we receive from poetry Is, as has been observed, limited by the language of each country ; it is also still further limited in the degree even In the same country ; be cause the words of the poet do not communicate the same ideas to men differently cultivated. " The heavenly eye, graceful step, and gestures of dignity and love," of Milton's Eve, do not exhibit the same image and configuration of parts at St. James's, in the Royal Academy, and at Wapping. The perfections of form In the painter's figures do not, like those of poetry, de^ pend upon the narrow compass of the spectator's mind; the figure In painting and sculpture is actually produced, and in its highest and most cultivated degree of conception, and compleat ed In all its parts. The natural inference which follows from this 'consideration of compleatness and actual existence (and which Is wonderful, should have escaped the discernment of so many ingenious writers) authorizes me to affirm, that painting Is not, as has been said, a silent poem, and poetry a speaking pic ture; but much more truly, that painting is poetry realized ; and that full, complete, and perfect poetry, is indeed nothing more than an animated account or relation of the mere conception of a 411 picture. What were the few touches about the brows and hair of Homer's Jove, when compared with that wonder of the world, the statue of Phidias at Ollmpia? what ideas must have been entertained of this statue, when the inquiry was, whether Jove came down to shew himself to Phidias, or whether Phidias had been carried up to see Jove? The tAvangIng Of Apollo's bow strings when inflicting plagues on the Greeks, what ideas can this passage communicate to the bulk of readers, equal to what Is pro duced by a single glance at the Apollo in the Belvedere? The Laocoon, though in the hands of the judicious and admirable Virgil — ^yetwhat has he or could he produce, which may be compared with the stupendous group In the Belvedere? All those astonishing beauties which the eye feeds upon with such ecstacy in the famous Torso of the Belvedere, would unavoid ably have been quite overlooked by a poet. The Medicean Venus, the Farnese Hercules, and the fighting GladiatOr also, what Is there in poetry that could supply the loss of them? Even to descend to lower matters, what peculiar capacity and skill are required In a poet's representation of an enraged lion, or a piece of beautiful well-arranged architecture, compared with what we find in the lions of Rubens and Snyders, or in the ar chitectonic back-ground of a picture of Raffael or Poussin.-:^ For * It has been very truly, as well as elegantly said by Ovid, that Venus would have for ever remained buried under the waters, if she had not been happily drawn out by the pencil of the ingenious Apelles : and indeed every thing considered, it would be very difficult to divine in what state, and to what degree, the whole or any part of the sublime imagery of the Greek and Latin poets could be communicated to their readers, if these matters had not been thus reaHzed to our eyes in the works of art which for tunately remain, 3 G 2 412 the same reason then, that the dramatic in epic or other poetry is more perfect than the narrative part, and that the dra matic in representation is more perfect than In the perusal ; for the same reason painting is (as far as vision goes) the most full, compleat, and perfect drama, because It is a drama composed from general nature, where every Individual imperfection is Words after all are but words, and there is no peculiar art in poetry, which can make them any thing more. They are but symbols formed for the eye, out of 24 arbitrary scratches, called letters, and certain vibrations of the air, occasioning certain irritations in our organ of hearing, which by national compacts are made tb suggest the idea of existing things, with their several modes and degrees of relation: and though the com munication of all this matter of compact is more or less perfect according to the degrees of our education in it ; yet, how very imperfect it is even at the best, will soon appear, on attempting to describe in mere words any individual complex forms, as the portrait or likeness of any man's face, and numberless other matters, which need not be mentioned. However, what language wants in precision, is abundantly compensated, in the facility and extent of what it does communicate in the whole range of characters, manners, passions, sentiments, and intercourse of society. But this facility, extent, and use of language, applied as it is to all arts, sciences, trades, and other objects of human concern and knowledge, is common, and more or less every man's inheritance : and Malbranche, in his enquiry, and Nicole, in his Essais de Morale, Swift, Cervantes, Sterne, and many other prose writers, have at least as deeply and extensively applied this language, as any of the writers in Verse, whether of the comic, tragic, or epic kind. It should seem then, that the advocates for the superiority of poetry over painting have been contending for advantages, which are by no means peculiar to poetry: and a stickler for Cocker's arithmetic might as well contend for 'the superiority of his own art, since there are many numerical combinations, about which the art of painting would be employed to little purpose. Xet us suppose for a moment, that a great artist, a Michael Angelo, a Raffael, Poussin, or Rubens, was deprived of his sight : his art would then be utterly lost to the world. He would no longer have it in his power to hold out that mirror of ingenuity, where the whole visible creation is magically pourtrayed with so many accumulated ad- 413 omitted, and where jn all the various parts of this complex whole, every thing is selected with corresponding and just fit ness. It appears then, that, if all the great requisites of sensibility, knowledge, and judgement, are so indispenslbly necessary to sus tain poetic invention. It must surely be allowed, that if not a greater, yet at least an equal degree of those essential qualities Is absolutely required t;o give vigour and value to the Invention of the painter. Though the mediums of sense, through which the works of the painter and poet operate, are different; yet their intentions are the same, and they are both equally address ed to the same qualities of the heart and intellect In the specta tors and hearers. As for any rules that may be prescribed to assist Invention, they can be but vague at best, particularly for the man who has occasion for them. Those most generally laid down, are, that unity of idea be pursued through all the parts, principal and accessory, and that all necessary conformity with the circum stances of times, places, usages, characters, and manners, be con- vantE^es, where all its beauties are united and all its deficiencies, imperfections, and in congruities taken away : Yet notwithstanding all this, if you will allow him the use of language, he has it still in his power to talk of all these things, and whether this talk be delivered in prose or verse, whether it be sung or said, with more or less energy, you have still remaining all that poetry can give, which, as was observed before, is only an ani mated account of certain productions of this master art, this improving mirror of nature which his blindness debars him from calling into actual existence. Hence then we are warranted to conclude, that our art may, to use a French phrase, be justly termed Vart par excellence. 414 tinually kept In view. But the sricqeasful application of these, and all such necessary observances, must entirely depend on the stock of liberal general education, which Is previously treasured up In the mind of the artist. Without this adequate education, the hands of the painter or sculptor are inevitably tied< up from all great undertakings, whatever his: natural genius may be ; for rj^otfilng. can be more true than the old. adage "that the painter paints, himself, or that the work is always a representation of the ^iltbprs" This Is not to be understooil as some have Imagined, thstt either the representation of the artist's face, or the peculiar cjq»r|formatipn of his bodily structure is traceable In, his works : no, it is the mind of the artiste which Is visible in, what he does: the one must neees^a^ily be an offtract of the other^ they are equally wise or foolish, contracted or expanded^ made up, of common-place and gross ordinary materials, or the contrary. From a rude, trifling or Ilbfornied mindj nothing good, instruct ing, great, sjjblime, amiable, or interesting, can. be expected. Such an artist may Indeed attempt to employ his memory, and Imitate the celebrMed works of othprs coldly and < at. a distance; but. he cannot, hp original without shewing himself Thus, young gentlemen, I have to the best of my power, endea voured to direct your attention to the Important essentials of that comprehensive design, upon which the becoming dignity of your art does absolutely depend. It Is In the Design, and in that only, that men can recognise those operations of Imagination and judgement, which constitute the i'effa^ of art, and shew its high lineage, as the offspring of philosophy, and the sister of poetry. This Ideal of design has for Its object general and perfect, and not individual Imperfect nature. It Is extended to all the parts of 415 the art, to ideal forms respecting beauty and propriety of charac ter, to the Ideal In the composition of the story, fable, or subject, purged of all dead uninteresting, impertinent circumstances, to the ideal in colouring and the conduct of light and shade, re specting the happy choice and adaptation of peculiar tones or tints, the degrees of strength, tenderness, union, or variety, seizing upon and uniting all those transitory though happy ac cidental effects and graces, which may be extended to the most unimportant things, even to the folds of a drapery. Divested of design art becomes a mere toy, a mechanical bauble, unconnected with either the head or the heart. Uninter esting to the wise and good, unprofitable to all, and amusing Orily to the weak and idle. Drawing, composition, chiaro-scuro, and Colouring, are but the constituent parts of design taken iri this general sense. I shall (God willing) in my next lecture, consider Design in the more limited, practical sense, to which this term has been applied in treating of the Contour and other relative parts of objects, when Ave shall have an opportunity of making some occasional remarks on the different merits, style, and manner, of some of the chief of our great predecessors in the art. END OF THE SECOND LECTURE. 416 LECTURE III. ON DESIGN, CONTINUED. Gentlemen, Having in my last discourse considered Design in its comprehensive sense, as it is understood to mean the whole conception or idea which a painter or sculptor expresses by the imitation of natural objects ; I shall now consider Design in that more limited sense in which this term Is applied, in treating of the terminations, contours, or boundaries of objects, in the whole, and in their parts. In Sculpture it Is generally understood to extend no further than the geometrical arrangement of those ter minations, according to their real figure and proportion : but in Painting there Is superadded to this, the consideration of the per spective appearance of this proportionate arrangement of figure* as viewed from one point only. This Is called drawing, by way of excellence, to distinguish it from all mere geometrical, re gular delineations, and is undoubtedly the highest and most comprehensive mechanic excellence of the art. As all the con siderations of Sculpture are therefore necessarily included in drawing, and Indeed make but a part of It, I shall In tfie fol lowing observations endeavour to call your attention to those sound principles. In which the chief excellence of drawing has been observed to consist. 417 Drawing has been always considered as the necessary founda tion of paintirig, without which It is but a mere confused daubing of colours ; without drawing it Is impossible to obtain the true images of things, or actions, their just proportions, variety of figure, energies,'"expressions, animation, or sentiment. Drawing only can give a faithful representation of all those visible fluc tuations of figure which result from the wonderful combinations of muscles, tendons, and bones, by which the animal functions are performed, exhibiting in the several limbs and parts, the exact degree of effort, proportioned to the actiori and occasion, and by which the inclinations and emotions of the soul are visibly Imprinted in the countenance and gesture. The designer or draftsman must necessarily be conversant with those laws of gravity, by which only all bodies can be sustained in whatever action and motion by the necessary regulation of an equilibrium in their parts; in fine, he must perspectlvely dispose and arrange all his objects In their proper situations, relative magnitudes, distinguishing the several qualities of surface, of trees, of land scape, buildings, or draperies, by the several folds, leafage, and economy of parts peculiar to each. As the study of the human figure combines a greater variety of Important considerations than that of any other animal body, all the great designers or draftsmen have attached themselves tO it with such a peculiar predilection, that by the phrases ability in drawing, great designer, or skilful draftsman, we are always understood to mean (by a kind of excellence) the skilful delinea tion or drawing of the human body. It is perhaps unnecessary to mention, that I mean the naked body, sirice all this variety of elevated knowledge and accurate skill cannot be otherwise shewn ; and it is well known, that for the same reason, the Grecian sculp- VOL. I, 3 H 418 tors are by all men considered as the greatest designers. The Dutch artists who, however Ingenious they may have been iri other respects, yet as they had never attached themselves to the delineation of the human body, (but rather to the rags and furs with Avhich It was enveloped) have never been considered as de signers or draftsmen at all. The Grecian artists, and all the great moderns, who have judiciously followed their heroic example, instead of idly, and meanly wasting their attention upon Imitat ing the work of the taylor or mantua-maker, employed their whole care and solicitude upon those beauties of proportion, character, muscular exertion, and graces of expression or senti ment, which always discover themselves in the natural actions and gestures of the naked figure ; and for the most part, when ever they made use of drapery, it was but as an agreeable adjunct to assist the composition and to cover some inessential part, but never or rarely as a principal worth imitating for itself As in all other things, so in draAAing, that which is principal and characteristic claims our first and greatest attention. From the general construction of the human body, its great and essential divisions of the trunk and Its extremities, the joints and centres of motion, as Avell In the sub-division of those extremities, as ?vhere they are articulated with the trunk ; from the happy dis crimination of these parts and their necessary adjustment to each other, the head to the neck and shoulders, the trunk to the haunches, amis, legs, and feet ; from their peculiar forms in repose, and In the different degrees of agility and muscular exertion, as in all the possible motions and exertions of those parts, the figure is Infinitely diversified by the contraction and relaxation of the several moving powers, or muscles, by AvhIch those actions are produced. The faithful spirited delineation of these character- 419 istic essentials which requires an intimate acquaintance with the anatomical construction, has been almost always overlooked when this anatomical skill was wanting; without It an artist cannot even see what Is before him, and he avIU unavoidably trifle away his assiduity upon the minute corrugations of the mere external surface, upon the small veins, multiplied wrinkles, and trifling peculiarities of the skin, which are rendered with such laborious, Ignorant diligence by Rembrandt, Du Sart, and others- Besides the absence of all becoming excellence, this wretched trifling attention can manifest nothing but mere deformity; as for example, the plies and wrinkles In the body of the Christ in Rembrandt's famous Descent from the Cross, shew the body to have been disordered and decayed, as the skin Is loose, almost de tached, and too large for Its contents. The essential parts of the anatomical construction, the articulation of the bones. Insertion and enunciation of the muscles, and the case or skin In which this machinery is enveloped, and the asperities of its transitions, more or less softened according to the nature of the different ex ertions and different characters, age, sex, and condition ; these important attentions are not to be dispensed with, and the rela tive proportion or conformity of these parts to each other, and to the whole together, ought also to be a consideration of the first importance. The proportions or relative magnitude of the parts of a human body depend upon the nature of its character; and as the character may be infinitely diversified, the proportions will, of course, be infinitely various ; for the tall and short, the fat and lean, strong and Aveak, the several degrees of these and all their possible combinations, have each of them a conformity of parts and proportionate arrangement of relative magnitudes peculiar 3 H ^ 450 to Itself The best, and indeed only precept that can be recom- riaended for acquiring^this knowledge of proportion, is the accu rate investigation of general nature in its approaches to the ab stract of each character. The more we are extensively knowing and practised in this study, the better we shall be enabled to appropriate to each character, and degree of character, the pecu liar proportions that appertain, and as I may say, constitute it. In this manner It was that the ancient Greeks proceeded in collecting the materials for their admirable works ; they had no general receipt of proportions, communicable to different cha racters, or degrees of character ; and the famous Doryphorus of Polycletus could only have been studied as a happy example of the rule or law of nature, respecting that particular character, and not as applying generally. The antique statues now remain ing are, some of them, excellent examples of the true mode of study to be pursued, in adapting proportion to character, by the happy conformity of each to the other ; and though they apply but to a few characters, as but a few of them remain entire, and the best of them but mere fragments, yet the track of study Is sufficiently Indicated : this is the only true, artist-like, and manly use that can be made of those vestiges of the anci ents, and they are, and often have been, extremely misapplied, when the proportions on which they were constructed, are, as so many general standards, extended beyond the Individual occasion, where only they could appear pertinent and natural. This misuse and too general application of the proportions of these excellent statues have not only been the occasion of great limita tion of character, but have for near two hundred years past almost precluded the proper study of It, at least AvIth the general run of artists. Lanfranco, Cortona, CignanI, Le Molne, and others, haVe indulged this fondness for some particular proportions to 421 such a degree, that their figures appear, to use the law phrase, to be all of the same venter ; brothers and sisters, Avith no other difference but what arises from their action, position, or age. Many absurdities of the first magnitude must Inevitably follow, when the proportions are not peculiarly adapted to the character of the figure : the form of the muscles depend upon the nature of the character; and the degree of muscular exertion will be according to the occasion of calling It forth. In all these respects the Her cules tying a bow-knot by Roubiliac Is very faulty ; the pro portions of this figure are nothing more than those of any ordi nary, active man, and the great degree of muscular exertion and action manifested on so trifling an occasion, does not make the figure more Herculean, but rather heightens the absurdity : here Is nothing of Hercules but the lion's skin and the club. These blemishes are much to be regretted, for in all other respects, this is amongst the best, most natural, and happily executed figures in Westminster Abbey. In the early times of art, after Cimabue and Giotto, all the parts of the body were very much confounded together, and though dry and meagre, they were (particularly in their flexures) as inartificially drawn as If copied from the bendings of a sand-bag. According to the notes I made upon looking over the old works at Florence, this dryness and Gothic Imperfection was happily doqe away about the year 1400, in the time of BruneleschI and Ghiberti. The crucifixion (large as life) by BruneleschI in S. Maria Novella, is very well understood, as to the anatomy, which in the principal parts and articulations Is very visible, as the figure inclines somewhat to the meagre character, though not near so much so, as the general run of the works of that time. The attitude is good, and not too stiff, with an agreeable sway of the 422 body, and a good character in the head : there Is great truth in the whole and parts of this figure, particularly in the thighs knees, legs, and feet; although It Is not executed in so bold, noble, and masterly a style as Ghiberti's Evangelist at Or San Michele. There is In this figure of Ghiberti a very great bold ness and spirit in all the parts, a fierceness and majesty in the turn and character of the head, a loose play of the limbs, the bend-) ings and articulations of the joints decided and well marked ; even the centre joint of the fingers bends back, and so much in Mlchaef Angelo's manner, that there can be but little doubt but that Angelo's early studies had been much formed upon this figure. Although the ingenious Masaccio participated largely in this improved style of his two cotemporaries and friends, yet beyond the mere contour, it cannot be so apparent ,in his works, for the obvious reason of the greater complexity of painting. That relievo of light and shadow, which was so necessary to give the appearance of truth and reality to the painter's drawings, was a matter of great additional investigation and labour, not yet fully known in the art, and with which the sculptor had no concern, as in his art it followed of course, and in its highest perfection, as the^ natural accompaniment of the figure in relievo. This true style of drawing which is attached to all the superior considerations of essential form, proportionate, characteristic discrimination, and expressive propriety, which was begun by Masaccio and his cotemporaries, completed by Michael Angelo, Da Vinci, and Raffael, and continued by the Carraches, Domi nichino, and other excellent artists of the good school, as Avell Frenchmen, as Italians ; the inherent dignity of this style of drawing, and the great celebrity of those who excelled in It, Avill sufficiently Induce you to make the same election, and 423 'to. pay but little regard to the cavils of the Ignorant or the natu ralists, as they chuse to call themselves. If any such cavillers do yet remain amongst us. In this masterly style are many of the figures of Michael Angelo, and though he Is not always cor rect in his adaptation of the character to the subject, yet for the characters he has chosen, they are, as to the drawing, executed with more truth, spirit, and science, than any thing that has appeared since the resurrection of the arts. His sublime Jonas, his Haman, and some figures in the Last Judgement, are above all comparison, for sound. Intelligent drawing. His figure of God creating the sun and moon, is, as to the Idea of the action, and the grace and spirit with which it is rendered, far beyond any of those of Raffael, not alone those in the Loggia, which are said to have been executed after Raffael's designs, by his scholars or workmen, but even that in the Dispute of the Sacrament; and that other, taken from the vision in Ezekiel, which is Raffael's best, has much of the Jove In it, and yet is far short of the divine energy, majesty, and grace, of Angelo's figure. The cha racter of Michael Angelo as a designer, has always been prized in proportion as design itself was understood and cultivated: Raffael had reason to bless God, as he did, that he was born In the time of this great man ; and if Angelo's reputation has dimi nished In latter times. It Is because this essential part of the art has been less attended to than those that are more shewy and superficial. No man has delineated with more skill all those actions, which require spirit and energy ; and in general the members and parts of his figures seem to have all their true magnitude and contents, however foreshortened by their per spective position. Although foreshortening, when too often affect ed, or in too violent a degree, is not less displeasing than it is vicious, yet a small degree of it, as In the body and thighs of 454 Michael Angelo's Jonas, gives a happy taste and beauty to the drawing even of a single figure, where it is thought to be least admissible. The avoiding of foreshortening entirely Is very faulty, and destroys that air of truth and nature so essential to art : since a painter does not draw geometrically, but perspec tlvely, and there can be but few actions of figures seen from a point, which have not more or less foreshortening In some part: the excess and affectation of It Is only blameable, the thing itself is a principal ingredient in the taste of drawing. There is an idle opinion which has been handed down from one writer to another, which is, that the style of design of Mi chael Angelo is altogether confined to one character of a robust and muscular kind, cOpied always from the same model, who, as Freart ridiculously says, Avas the porter of his academy. If this opinion is not altogether false and groundless, yet at least it Is shamefully over-charged, and I would not have mentioned it, but to put you so far on your guard, that it may not prevent you from allowing yourselves all those advantages- In the study of drawing with which the works of this great restorer of art will best supply you. This exaggerated censure had been originally ushered Into the world with much more moderation and justlcci and under the sanction of a most respectable name : for a writer of Angelo's own time, on mentioning the Last Judgement, says, that when he was at Milan, a scholar of Da Vinci Informed him that his master spoke of It to this effect : " That the only thing which displeased him in this work was, that in so many various aspects, there were so few figures, from which cause the muscles were as apparent in the youthful as in the aged, and that the outlines were of the same character." The remark is In some measure just, as applied to the Last Judgement, but It is worth 455 observing that it never could have been made by Da Vinci, as he left Rome to go to France In the Pontificate of Leo X. and the Last Judgement of Michael Angelo was not executed till near twenty years afterwards, under Paul III. No doubt, a considerable monotony of character prevails In the Last Judgement, where also his want of general management In the distribution of his objects as a painter (which, by-the-by, he never professed himself to be) Is sufficiently evident. But this does not appear in his less ex tensive compositions in the ceiling, which were painted some years before, when he was In the vigour of life. He was fond of introducing the expressive, or, as the Italians more happily call it, the risentito, and in all its possible varieties of action and position. This he knew was his own chief excellence, and was most wanting in his cotemporaries, and he has sometimes (as In a few of the prophets, and other figures) run into an exaggera tion of this, as well In the proportion of the parts as in the exhi bition of the muscles, exceeding the just bounds of discretion and nature : but this abuse is only found in a few instances, and he is by no means confined even to this character, noble as It Is ; as his statue of Bacchus, his Pieta at St. Peter's, his Adam asleep, some of his figures over the cornice, and mariy other examples in the Sistine Chapel abundantly testify. The character of this figure of the Bacchus is misapplied, as is also that of his Christ at the Minerva, and perhaps that of his so justly celebrated Moses ; but overlooking this, and regarding them as certain grand and majestic characters of nature, there is surely nothing modern of equal merit for elevation, for unity of Idea, and the most consummate knowledge of the figure, particularly the Christ and the Moses. Although the profound researches of L. da Vinci were gene- VOL. I. 3 I 456 rally extended to all the parts of pairiting, yet his sagacity was so effectual in each, that it may be truly said that the chief part of the excellence In some of the greatest of his successors was owing to the discoveries of this, great and philosophical artist. From his works, Giorgione and : Fra Bartolomeo formed their beautiful style of colouring and relievo, and Raffael his taste for the expressive and for diversity of character. The back ground of Da yiricl's Holy Family, and St. Michael, at Paris, Is petite, and savours of the Gothic; but the Madonna and St. Michael have a most uncommon air of truth, beauty, and sweetness- Whether the picture which Is shewn at S. Celso as his so much celebrated St. Anna, be a copy by Lovino or Salaio, or whether Da Vinci did any thing more than a cartoon of thiis admirable design, "matters not;i but the sensibility, pleasing sweetness, pro priety, and felicity of character of the Madonna, S. Anna, and other parts of this picture, cannot be overrated. In the stronger expressions also, he seems to have gone greater lengths than any contemporary or succeeding artist in marking the emotions of the soul in thei countenance and action. His enthusiasm, though great, is alAvays equalled by the coolness and solidity of his judgement ; truth and energy go hand In hand in whatever I have seen that was really his. There could not be a more happy example of this union than In his famous picture of the I^ast Supper at Milari. There is a print of this picture done from a drawing of Rubens's. The deformities, and slovenly, and precipitate incor rectness of Rubens's style of drawing are visible throughout; It gives but a lame idea of Da Vinci's work. The small copy at S. Germain I'Auxerrois, is much better, though greatly AA-antlng in the spirit and decision of the original ; all that happy diversity of character, expressive agitation, and tender sentiment, appear to have been but little felt, and are ill rendered by the cold, timid hand of the copyist. 457 This glorious work of Leonardo is now no more. — I saw the last of it at Milan ; for In passing through that city, on my return home, I saw a scaffold erected. In the Refettorio, and one half of the picture painted over by one Pietro Mazzi ; no one was at work. It being Sunday, but there were two men on the scaffold, one of whom Avas speaking to the other AvIth much ear- nestrjess about that part of the picture which had been re-paint ed. I was much agitated, and having no idea of his being an artist, much less the identical person who was destroying so beautifuland venerable a ruin, I objected with some warmth to the shocking ignorant manner in- which this was ca,rried on, pointing dut at the same time, the immense difference between the part that was untouched and what had been re-painted. He answered, that the ncAv work was but a dead colour, and that the painter meant to go over it all again; worse and worse, said I, if he has thus lost his way when he was Immediately going oyer the lines and features of Leonardo's figures, what will become of him when they are all thus blotted out, and when without any guide In repassing over the work, he shall be utterly abandoned to his own ignorance. On my remonstrating afterwards with some of the friars, and entreating them to take doAvn the scaffold and, save the half of the picture which was yet remaining, they told me that the convent had no authority in this matter, and that it was by the order of the Count de Firmlan, the Imperial Secretary of State. Thus perished one of the most justly celebrated monu ments of modern art, particularly for that part of design which regards the skilful delineation of the various sentiments of the soul, in allthe diversities of character, expression of countenance, and of action. As to Leonardo's ability In drawing the naked, we may safely 3 I 2 458 conclude from what appears in the battle for the standard, that nothing but the scarcity of his works could have prevented his obtaining the highest degree of reputation in this part of his art also. His treatise on painting discovers the utmost sagacity,' depth, and familiarity of knowledge respecting the human figure in all its diversities of character, actions, and motions. His occa sional observations upon the anatomy of the human body, the articulations of the bones, the figure and offices of the muscles, the equlponderatlon of It^ parts, with and Avithout adventitious weights, and its curious and necessary mechanism to obtain the power of vigorous exertion ; these masterly observations have long since made all intelligent people regret that the treatise he had expressly written on the subject of anatomy, and to which he so often refers, should remain unpublished, when it might be of use and entertainment to the artists of this or other academies, or to the world In general. What might not be expected from such an author on such a subject ; besides, it might illustrate the history of anatomy, as this book is perhaps the earliest treatise on the subject of osteology and myology ; it must have been near fifty years prior to the publication of Vesalius ; and the short work of Mundinus, written about the year 1478, treats of very little besides the viscera, Raffael's great excellence In design lies more In a happy union of all its essential parts, than in the energy of any of those parts directly considered ; he possessed all those parts In a high and respectable degree, particularly the expressive, which was his most characteristic, predominating quality ; although it is certain that his expression is sometimes not so accurately and happily defined as it might be, or would have been in the hands of Da Vinci or Dominichino ; it has often more of vague, general agi- 459 tation, than that which is specific, precise, and peculiar to the passion, and to its degree. This is to be understood of the ex pression or passion In the countenance merely, for the action and gesture of his figures are always accurately defined and well adapted to the occasion. The timidity and coldness of Raffael's early works shew no indications of his subsequent prevailing character. Prognostications founded upon them would differ very widely from what eventually happened in the course of his progress. This taste for the expressive he seems to have adopted from Da Vinci, as well respecting the character of his figures, as their energies of action and passion. The mind and intention of the figure is expressed In every part of the action, and all the parts of the body have a happier conformity with the idea or general character, whether it be tall or short, fat or lean, strong or weak, joyous or melancholy ; and they are always happily adapted to the occasions and situations In which they are placed. The figures of Raffael are remarkably well proportioned in their different kinds, and have much of the verity and unaffected air of particular characters in nature ; although upon a close inspec tion, it is sufficiently evident that they were copied from nature with considerable license, that much of what was inessential, was judiciously neglected, and that his solicitude was only em ployed in seizing what was necessary and proper for his expression and character ; and though his success seems, generally speaking, to have been much confined to the old and middle aged, and seldom passes beyond the comely or handsome ; yet his fertile imagination and excellent judgement have produced the most extensive and unexampled variety even within those limits. In Raffael's figures the energy of action and expression (as Avas before observed) always arises out of the occasion, and are happily 430 and justly proportioned to It. This discretion appears often wanting in Michael Angelo. The energy and expression of his figures cannot always be accounted for from the character and occasion, and even when they can, some of them appear to have more than the occasion calls for. Besides this admirable discre tion and judgement in which Raffael appears almost unique [zs Da Vinci has unavoidably done sO little) there Is a general air of urbanity diffused over Raffael's figures, which seems to have been derived from his general observations on the antique statues and basso relievos ; I say general obserA^ations, for Indeed they ap pear nothing more, and he seems never to have paid much attention to an ex;quisite degree either of beauty or of elevated character. Many of his subjects, such as the School of Athens, and the lower part of the Sacrament, do not perhaps absolutely require either of these, but in those that do, he is much wanting. This is . generally apparent whenever he has to do with ideal combinations in the classes of the elevated characters and possible forms of nature, as In the Cupi4 and Psyche at the Farnesina, where he has generally run into an unskilful, exaggerated imi tation of Michael Angelo, or in most of his other works where he remains In the mediocrity of ordinary nature, freed from Indeed grosser Individual blemishes, but far short of the perfection that might and ought to have been collected from aggregate nature. His Christ In the Transfiguration has neither that superior beauty or majesty that might have been expected from the sublime and happy way In which the more subordinate characters and ex pressions are treated; and his Christ in the Dispute of the Sacrament, is even still less beautiful, perfect, majestic, or extraordinary. His naked Apollo In the Parnassus Is, (inde pendent of the absurdity of playing on the fiddk) In a poor style of draAving, and 111 conceived as to proportion and character. 431 The Muses, and most of the other female figures, have nothing very extraordinary either as to beauty or character. His women in general are either charged and heavy, with some comeliness, or dry and petite, without any thing very exquisite as to gracCj character, or beauty. His woman carrying Avater in the Incendio del Borgo, though of this charged and heavy make, is yet truly sublime, by the expressive energy of her action. The angels also in the Heliodorus, are' fine instances of energy and expression, though they are not sufficiently discriminated from his mortals by either superior beauty or sublimity of character. It has been often and justly observed, that in the great variety of characters which occur In Raffael's works, although no offen sive deficlence is ever found, yet he appears to have better understood the middle walk, that of apostles, philosophers, and such like, than any other. His Transfiguration Is a very admi rable specimen of excellent drawing, taste, and conduct in this way ; the drawing of the heads, hands, and feet, is excellently diversified, as well in their character as aspects. His St. Paul, and some of the other characters In the S. Cecilia at Bologna, are even still more spiritual and beautifully elevated. The prO' portions of the Cecilia and Magdalen are select, faultless, and nothing heavy or over-charged, but they are not comparatively of equal perfection in their way, with the male figures. The best drawn naked figure that I know in all Raffael's works. Is the young man hanging from the wall, in the Incendio del Borgo. Though the character is not very elevated, yet nature is well chosen, and it is preserved throughout with an admirable unifor mity and purity, and the anatomy is not less bold and decisive than it is faithful and correct. The triton and nymph In the back-ground of the Galatea, are also remarkable for purity and 435 a good taste of the naked, as is also the back leg and thigh of the Diogenes In the school of Athens. His Prudence in the picture of Jurisprudence Is on the whole one of the most elegant, beauti ful, and correctly drawn of his female figures. Besides the other great merits of the Madonna della Sedia at Florence, the face Is very beautiful, of the delicate kind, like the Venus de Medicis ; the hands lie excessively well in perspective, but are a little mannered and squadrate, like Baroccio and del Sarto, so as not perfectly to correspond with the character of the head ; the head of the little Jesus is even more beautiful, true, and natural, than any thing of Titian's, who In general is above all men in the infantine characters, and yet the arm Is a little tOo square and Michelangelesque. The characters of the Madonna and Child are much more elevated and ideal In the holy family at Versailles, but they are not so happily and naturally rendered. Raffael's washed drawing of the calumny Of Apelles at Modena, is the most perfect in its kind of any thing I have yet seen : truth of form, just proportion, character, and expression, are the sole objects sought after in this drawing : riothing is unskilfully charged for the purpose of obtaining grandeur, no affected artifi cial sway to produce grace, nothing of that false spirit and mis taken freedom or scratching of the pen which connoisseurs regard with such absurd, and, I fear, affected ecstacy. To such judges this drawing would appear cold and tame, as It is every where conducted with care and attention ; the contour is In the highest degree precise and correct, and shadowed with a wash of bistre. The happy precision of this and other undoubted draAvIngs of Raffael, their perfect similarity of style with what he has done in the chambers of the Vatican, with the S. Cecilia, and the Trans figuration, would incline one to believe that there are fewer 433 pictures of Raffael's own execution than is generally imagined, and that much of what is ascribed to him in the heavy, charged style at the Farnesina and other places, may, with more justice, be placed to the account of Giulio Romano, Gio. Francesco, (Penni), and his other disciples, who probably, by working after the small drawings of their master, unavoidably introduced much of their manner and want of skill in the enlarging of them. This was evidently the case in the battle of Constantine ; the style of Raf fael's drawing for this subject which is at the Palace Borghese, is much more chaste, pure, and correct, than that of the large pic ture which was after his death executed from It by Giulio. With respect to the mere drawing, our famous Cartoons arc very unequal ; the comparative feebleness and inferiority of many parts of them verify what Vasari relates, that Raffael's scholar, Gio. Francesco, was much employed In the execution of this work ; although in another place Vasari Intimates that they were all of Raffael's own hand : however, this must be understood as to the formation of the design, in which unquestionably they are amongst the most vigorous and exemplary productions of art. The style of drawing and character of the execution of these Cartoons Is nearly the same with that of the port of Ostea and Incendio del Borgo, and differs from that of the School of Athens, Sacrament, and the others. In that it is less detailed, and of a more enlarged and robust kind. This change in Raffael's style of design, and his desire of making a nearer approach to M. Angelo's manner, is very confidently asserted by Vasari and others ; however, those who may be inclined to doubt whether any such change took place, may with truth affirm, that there are no drawings or studies of Raffael to be found which authorise the notice of this change ; that all his drawings, as well those found VOL, I. 3 k 434 in Crozat'is collection, as those niade use of by Mark Aritonio and Ugo da Carpi, in which are the murder of the Irinocents, and others for those very Cartoons, are all In the same manrier, and correspond exactly with the style of those fresco pictures, the S. Cecilia, and those parts of the Transfiguration which arc undoubtedly of his own execution. It is highly probable, from the different degrees of ability employed in those Cartoons, that Gio. da Udine and other disciples of Raffael, were concerned in them, as well as Penni. It is easy to conceive that the altera tion and enlargement of the manner took place when those disci ples copied the. small drawings In large, and that Raffael, when he worked upon several parts of the Cartoons, contented himself with retouching, and would not be at the pains of altering the outlines already made, more especially as the Avork was upon so perishable a material, and intended for nothing more than the exemplar of another work. Even this was more solicitude than he appears to have bestowed upon the Farnesina and some of his other frescoes. The Paul Preaching at Athens has but few faults In the draw ing and execution. The group of hearers in the second plan are particularly well executed, without any feebleness, and though nothing exquisite, might very well pass for a negligent production of Raffael's own hand, except In some parts of the marking of the back and least consequential heads. The characters and propor tions are well, neither charged nor wanting in elevation. There is little worth particularizing , either for excellence or deficiency in the drawing and execution of the Charge to Peter. The figure of Ananias Is a happy Instance of drawing as a whole ; the parts lie very well together, and the general forms, particularly in the head, back, and other extremities (except the right foot) 43 5 are admirably well felt and understood. The opposite heads of the astonished man and woman are exceedingly well defined as to pas sion and character, as is also the apostle distributing the money. The execution of this last figure is remarkably mellow and well. The centre group of the apostles Is feeble and bad In a very great degree, particularly the apostle pointing up to heaven, which for drawing and execution can hardly be worse. There is nothing feeble or defective in the Cartoon of the Elymas, except perhaps in the figure advancing to look at him; the marble back-ground has great verity and gusto ; the Lictor's head in the light, and the profile head, pointing to Elymas, are excellently well rendered as to execution, verity of effect, and even hue of colour. In the proportions and mere forms, the figures in the Draught of Fishes, are sufficiently accurate and well ; in all other respects they are ordinary, very ill managed, dense, earthy, and hard ; the fishes, and even the fowls, are much better executed, and from the soft reflex lights interspersed In their chiaro-scuro, have an air of verity that is much wantlng^in the other parts. The Apostles at Lystra Is of a much more exalted taste of forms and drawing. There is nothing very faulty, and even feeble In the execution. The arm of the man holding the ox, though somewhat charged and heavy, is notwithstanding of a good taste as to form, which Is the case throughout the picture, even in those parts where the proportions are most exaggerated. The Peter and John Healing the Cripple, Is in all the parts of its execution by much a more perfect work than any of the others ; 3 K 2 456 the zest of character and forms is very exquisite ; the shaded parts are broad, tender, and well conducted, being happily softened by the reflex lights on their extreme edges, which give them a fine taste of relievo and convexity, that Is wanting in all the other Cartoons, where, generally speaking, the shadows appear rather to resemble dirty, discoloured parts, than to be the por tions of a surface In shade. The very noble and urbane air of all the other heads Is admirably set off by the heads of the two cripples, which, though of a more gross and less sentimental phy siognomy, have yet nothing mean In them, but, on the contrary, are large, grand, and important, though composed of parts more material than spiritual. Peter's foot is admirable for its Tltla- nesque hue of cOlour, as well as for its form. The cripple's hand and wrist are also of an exquisite taste of drawing, and even the ornaments on the twisted columns of a masterly and beautiful execution. Where there is so much and such great excellence, one cannot bestow attention on the faults in the child behind the column, and a few other trifling particulars. But as in our next discourse on composition, we shall have occasion to enter upon the consideration of that excellence which more properly characterizes those Cartoons, we shall leave them for the present and proceed to remark, that, Titian's style of drawing Is not remarkable for any excellence. In this part of his art he had but little selection, and was closely attached to whatever he saAV that was not grossly faulty in the nature that fell in his way. His forms therefore, though well enough rendered, are generally imperfect. Titian was ideal and scientific only In his colouring. On the contrary, Corregio's taste of drawing is very ideal, but as his ideas were not always well and solidly founded, his truth of draw ing is frequently incorrect and affected, from over-much de- 437 licacy, grace, and sentiment; or swelling and overcharged, from an unskilful pursuit of dignity and superior character. These excesses are more apparent in his large compositions in the Dome, and at St. John's at Parma, than In his oil pictures. In those large works, his views seem to have been concentered in producing one general, grand effect, and he has succeeded to admiration. The particular figures, characters, and expressions, are better attended to in his oil pictures, where his too great spirit and impetuosity is much mode rated byhis more frequent opportunities of revising and correcting. In his Madonna della Scudella, the drawing is bad in many places, and Is even wanting in the common general proportion. If this picture was not so admirably and powerfully conducted in all the other parts, I should, from the feebleness of the drawing, have con cluded it to have been a juvenile work of Correggio's, because his other famous oil picture at Parma, of the S. Jerom, affords convinc ing proof that he was an excellent draftsman, intelligent in pro portions, and even singularly skilful in the proper and variegated application of them. The Madonna and the Magdalen, are both exceedingly beautiful, are both remarkable for elegance and deli cacy, and are, notwithstanding, essentially different, and the characters are accurately discriminated from each other through out both the forms. The beauty, grace, and interesting sensi bility of these and other female figures of Correggio, strongly shew how short Raffael was of perfection in this class of figures. The taste of drawing in the head, body, and arm of the S, Jerom,^ is very correct, the anatomy perfectly well understood, and great address is shewn in that beautiful variety of contour produced by the elegant diversity of position in those parts : the leg is some what too plump and round, and does not correspond happily with the knotty, dry, and marked character of the other parts. Per haps the foot of the Magdalen also does not perfectly correspond with the character of the hands, yet so great is the excellence of 438 these two figures, that I have but little scruple in ranking them with any thing that has appeared since the revlA'al of the arts. As every excellence borders upon some deformity, the simple upon the cold and inanimate ; the spirited, bold, and expressive, upon the blustering and overcharged; and the graceful upon the precieuse and affected : and as the transitions from the one to the other consist in the imprudent and indiscreet application of the poco piu, o poco meno, the little more or little less : so it could not well be otherwise, but that the beginnings of that ex aggeration called manner will be found nearly co-eval with every kind of excellence which depends upon selection and sentiment ; and sometimes even occasionally existing in the same person. Lorenzo Ghiberti appears to have been the first in whom there is any Indication of exaggeration of manner : from a desire of avoiding the dryness and inanimation of his predecessors^ it is no worider that he shews a small degree of over-atten-? tion in displaying the bendings at the elboAvs, wrist, fingers, and other articulations, and in the projection of the brows, the frontal, and other muscles. This is even still more visible In some of the prophets, and a few other figures of Michael An gelo, and they both adopted It to give the figure more motion, life, spirit, sentiment, or grandeur, Zucchero, and others of his time, spoiled and overcharged such parts of Angelo's manner as they were able to adopt, and Sprangher, Goltzius, and other mad men, have finally rendered it monstrous and ridiculous, Parmegglano's taste of design Is often an Improvement both on Michael Angelo and Correggio, He frequently possesses the intelligence and spirit of the one, and the sentiment, grace, and sweetriess of the other. The heads of Angelo's figures are seldom remarkable for beauty; they are but poorly furnished with hair, which gives them a poverty and meanness. They are often 439 squatted down on the trunk by the foreshortening of the neck, which is apt to give a heaviness to the whole, and his drapery, Avhen he has drapery, is inartificial, heavy, and badly cast. In all these particulars Parmeggiano is often highly excellent. In general his figures have much spirit and energy of action. They are often singularly beautiful, and almost always graceful. The articulations of the joints shew great agility and ease ; the trunk is athletic, yet light, as there is a fine discrimination be tween the strength of the essential parts of the thorax, and the lightness of those of the abdomen, which are divested of all use less corpulency. His limbs are of a beautiful length and light ness ; his length of neck Is often of great advantage, as It raises the head nobly above the trunk, and his plenitude of hair is elegantly dishevelled. Though these beauties are generally found in the figures of Parmeggiano, yet it must be confessed that they are sometimes carried to the extreme, and carlcatura, particularly In his extremities, in the movements and grace of action, which (although the seat of his predominating excellence) are yet frequently overpowered by too much spirit. His famous Madonna at the Palace Pitti Avould stand unrivalled for a mas terly precision of draAving, divine beauty, character, sentiment, elegance, and graceful action, were it not that some of those per fections are a little overcharged, to the prejudice of the simplicity of nature and truth. However, Its excellence is so great that my heart smites me when I pass this censure on those particular exu berances, for they cannot be considered as affectations, which would imply assumed qualities, not really felt. In the church of the Steccata at Parma, is the last work of Parmeggiano ; it is not only his best work, but the only one in Avhich he might have had an opportunity of fairly throwing out his whole strength in a manly competition with his predecessors ; and from the castigated style, vast ability and perfection of his outset. 440 which now remains, there is every reason to believe that Italian art would have acquired a considerable accession of character, and of the highest kind, had this work been completely executed. After the loss of his intelligent patrons and happy situation, by the sacking of Rome, the patience of this great man must have been much exercised, in being perhaps obliged (and In the vigour of life) to quit the work he had just begun at Parma, in order to seek for a subsistence fi-om alchymy. However, the Adam, the Moses, and the female figures which surround the band, were all he executed, and can never be too much admired. The action of the Moses is highly animated, even to enthusiasm ; the Torso is perhaps a little too light in the upper part, the head and arms are well understood as to character, and admirably drawn : there Is a union of the majesty, and even terrible dignity of Michael Angelo, with the discretion of Raffael when in his best manner, and what Is more than all, there is a feeling of the venustas of the antique, which is traceable throughout this figure, as well as those of the females, and theyare executed with an ease, spirit, and masterly finish, that is only to be found in Parmeggiano. The drapery of those female figures is light, proper, and executed with a felicity superior to any thirig of the kind, even in Raffael, who is in general beyond all men, in this respect. Another style of Design different from all these, appears to have had its rise In Ludovico Carrache. He has nothing Of the swelling contour and spreading toes of Michael Angelo. He seems rather to folloAv individual nature closely, and to give but little into the ideal. His figures are meagre, dry, and bony, and their toes are even pressed close together and ride, as is seen in the feet of those that have been accustomed to wear tight shoes. His S. Jerom in the church of S. Martino Maggiore, 441 IS an exception. This admirable figure Is In a large, noble style ; the naked body of the saint Is very like that of the Laocoon, and exceedingly well made out. This and some other of his works shew that he was well able to avoid monotony of character, but in by far the greater part of what he has done, he Is generally too fond of the dry, lean (and if such a term be allowable) squarish character and outline. However, his objects being for their kind, always rendered with so much Intelligence, truth^ and nature, they are always pleasing, though not in so high a degree as they would have been, had the nature he followed, been of a more noble choice. He was probably led Into this choice of nature from an Idea of Its being more proper and cor respondent to the recluse, castigated, sanctified character, and it is likely, that for the same reason, his manner has in this, been so very generally followed ; but still he might have preserved the leanness, though he raised the character and variegated if more. Design was but one of the many desiderata Lodovico had in view. He and his two relations, Agostino and Annibal, had judiciously adopted the idea of uniting all the excellencies of the art Avhich were scattered in their predecessors, who had separately cultivated the perfection of each : the time was now ripe for It, after colouring and chiaro-scuro had been completed by the successful labours of Titian and Correggio. Of this main view of the Carraches and their disciples, in happily uniting all the parts of painting, Ave shall hereafter have occasion to take more particular notice: but to proceed with our present subject ; Agostino's style of design is better selected from nature, more large and noble than that of Lodovico, and, not to be too par ticular, the great perfections of many parts of his Communion of S. Jerom, and Assumption of the Virgin, must make every man regret that he should throw himself away from that for which he VOL, I. 3 L 442 was so admirably fitted, in order to cultivate engraving, which suited better with those interruptions and little Intervals of lei sure, in which his useless associations with what is called high company, had ridiculously enveloped him. As to Annlbal, his style of design, like that of Agostino, is of a noble and enlarged kind, and savours but little of the poverty of defective Individual nature. When he came to Rome he had am ple opportunity of giving the last hand to those studies he had so happily advanced by all he had seen in Lombardy. His style of drawing, which was before great and animated, received a new oc casion of perfection from Michael Angelo, from Raffael, and above all from the aritique, which opened new sources of Ideal beauty, of which he had before but faint glimmerings. An advantageous change of style took place accordinglyi and although In the noble work which he then executed at the Farneslan Gallery, his im proved abilities appear in great splendour; yet there is just reason to believe, that in his subsequent works, he would have improved the admirable style he had just adopted into still higher perfec tion, had not his death been brought on prematurely by the mean-spirited, brutal conduct of the nobleman, upon whom his attention and labour had been so vexatiously wasted.* * The academicians and associates having been lately indulged with the opporttinity of inspecting the Italian part of the Orleans' Collection, I had no small satisfaction, on this interview with my old acquaintance and benefactors, in indulging the hope, that what had so long been the object of my ardent wishes, would now probably be soon obtained, nay, would certainly be obtained, if rightly managed with a becoming skill and dignity on the part of the Academy. Who can question it, that has a proper conception of the high, generously cultivated spirit of those out of the academy who might co-operate in a transaction so essentially necessary for the advancement of the arts, for their dependent 443 These important principles of desigri or drawing, which either separately or more united, have been pursued with such various degrees of success, by the great Restorers of modern art are (as I have had frequent Occasion to observe) to be fourid in a still higher degree, and Avith a much more perfect union, in some of the admirable remains of Grecian Sculpture. When we reflect on the various degrees and arrangements of bulk and heaviness that indicate an unfitness fOr action and agility, and the degrees of levity, incompatible AA^ith strength ; the Torso of the Belvedere will appear the most complete, perfect system, or arrangement of parts, that can possibly be imagined, for the Idea of corporeal manufactures, for the public entertainment and glory, and for the fair-dealing, and the justice that is due to you young gentlemen, who receive your education in this Institu-< tion of a Royal Academy. Although many, and some of the best of those pictures, are already- disposed of by private contract, yet I should not despair, if this matter be properly managed. O ! how necessary and salutary is true greatness of mind in all leading departments, and how universally will every thing wither and decay without it : nothing, no artificial dexterity or man^ement can supply its place. Poor Sir Joshusi Reynolds, God be with him, were he living, he could still find a remedy, and I must, and will say, that the occasion ought not to be lost, and surely will not, cannot, and therefore I think I may indulge myseff with the satisfaction of reflecting, that you young gentlemen will receive substantial rand extensive benefit and advantage, from an atten tive consideration of many of -the masterly, truly noble performances in this collection. In the very article on which I had been speaking, the castigated, admirable style of de sign of Lodovico Carrache, there is in the dead figure of the Christ, No. 33, a speci men in that way, the happiest that can be imagined, and assuredly equal to any thing of his at Bologna. I hope some time hence to have a little leisure for some general re- marks-^- on a few of those specimens of the old masters which enrich this collection. f Among Mr. Bairy's manuscripts were found those valuable remarks which are published in this work. ' 3 h 2 444 force, which It was Intended to represent. The character of all the parts most perfectly correspond with each other, and with the general idea ; and if the length, and taper form of the thighs are calculated to obtain the victory In the foot race, which Hercules won at Olympia, yet their agility appears more the consequence of force than lightness, and they are in perfect unison with the loins, abdomen, chest, and back, which exhibit a power that might well crush Antaeus. In a comparison with this sublime ves tige, the Hercules Farnese does not appear a stronger, though a much heavier figure. It seems rather an idea of strength than of force, of mere stationary strength, than of active force, and has per haps more of the Atlas, than of the Hercules, particularly from the loins down ; but it Is possible, that a great part of what I least admire in the general appearance of this Farneslan Hercules, may be owing to the legs, which are modern, and by La Porta, an artist of but little skill, as appears abundantly from his large figure below stairs in the living academy. Some ingenious artists have endeavoured to account mechani cally for the superior perfections of' the celebrated Greek statues, by the characteristic nature of lines and angles, uniformity and variety; and they have reasoned after the following curious manner. " That perfection consists in the variegated composi tion of strait, convex, and concave lines and angles ; that the strait gives simplicity ; the convex greatness ; and the concave elegance and lightness ; that the waving line gives beauty, and the serpentine or twisted grace. That the Apollo Belvedere is composed entirely of very gentle convex lines, of very small obtuse angles, and of planes or level parts ; but the soft convex predomi nates. It being necessary that the character of this divine figure should express force, grandeur, and deUcacy, its author has de- 445. monstrated the first by the convex contours, the second by their uniformity, and the third by the waving lines. The obtuse angles, and light Inflexions, form the waving line, and by their union is shewn sufficient force and dignity. In the Laocoon the convex lines predominate, and the forms are angular as well where they Indent or fall in, as where they swell out, by which means the agitation of the expression is manifested : because in this way the nerves and tendons of the figure, which are much strained, are rendered more visible. The strait lines being opposed to the convex and concave, by which Is shewn that the figure is agitated. The sculptor of the Hercules has found out a taste altogether different ; he has made the forms of the muscles convex and round, to shew that they were real flesh, but the line of indenting or entry is strait, to signify, that those parts were nervous and meagre, and by this is expressed the character of force and strength. In the Gladiator there Is a mixture of the forms of the Hercules and the Laocoon, because the muscles In action, are agitated, and those In repose, are short and round, like those of the Hercules. In the Torso of the Belvedere, a work merely Ideal, all the beauties of the other statues are united, because It has a variety so perfect, that It is almost Imperceptible ; its plane or flat parts are not to be discerned but by comparing them with the rounds and these with the other, the angles are less than the flat or the round, and could not be distinguished, were it not for the little beds of which they are composed." Thus much, I thought It proper to lay before you, as a specimen of the mechanical rules which one of these writers has laid doAvn, for the conduct of design. Perhaps these rules may be of some use in the arbitrary conjunctions of composition ; but they appear to me to be very in conclusive, and much out of their place, when thus applied to prescribed forms, which can result solely from their propriety 446 and fitness to the character, and from actloris corresponding with the sentiment and occasion. Besides their utter inappllcation, these multiplied little rules seem likely to generate manner, to substitute the artificial in the place of the natural, and to distract, or occupy too much of that attention which ought to be bestowed on matters of more importance, arid still farther, they appear altogether unnecessary ; for when these higher matters of the character and action are properly attended to, they produce all that can be sought after by any rules, without the incumbrance of their application ; for instance, the character of a beautiful fe male, or of an athletic male body, and all the circumstances of its action, as sitting or dancing, being judiciously determined, the form of all the parts, their relative swellings, cavities, angles, or planes, must follow necessarily, and in their precise and exact degree ; their conformity Avith the character and action is the only arbiter that can be admitted, and nothing is left to the choice of the artist. The contour of a stretched out arm, must depend upon the character of the arm, whether it be that of an Apollo or a Hercules : and upon the business about which it is employed, whether pushing or pulling, or merely stretched out--for in all these cases the contour will be essentially dif ferent ; the same must inevitably hold of all other characters and actions. Sameness or repetition, being always disgusting, the pursuit of variety enters necessarily into all the concerns of art ; and this variety is sufficiently and fully effected by diversifying the characters, actions, or positions of figures, which may be done ad Infinitum. Every thing in quality and circumstances has its own peculiarity. The aged, or the inactive, admit of less va riety of flexion and motion, than the young and vigorous, and 447 in a subject so complex as the human body, where motion, or transition from one action to another, must be progressive and successlonal, variety in the position and aspect of those parts, follow as the necessary consequence. In turning about, for in stance, the mind, eyes, and head go foremost, and the body and lower extremities follow, hence the aspect of the central or transverse diameters of the head, shoulders, and haunches, will be variegated from each other in the degree adequate to the occa sion, and produce those curves or spiral lines of variety, (or of beauty and grace, as they have been called) which run along the spine, or Unea alba, from the pubis, to the point betAveen the clavicles, as is seen In the Laocoon, and more delicately, in the gentler transitions of the body of Michael Angelo's Christ at the Minerva, or the Torso at the Belvedere. When I speak of the superior Intelligence of design in the an tique statues, I would be understood to mean a few only. The Torso of the Belvedere, Is as to perfection really unique. There is nothing that can be put Into the same class with it. The Laocoon the Apollo, the Venus, the fighting Gladiator, the Farnese Her cules, and a few others, come next, and can hardly be overrated, and there is a general purity of conception observable in most of the others, even to the lowest class ; but notwithstanding it is equally true, that whether from laziness, the Inability to distin guish the good from the bad, or from whatever cause, but there Is a very general propensity to vague indiscriminate admiration of them, which Is likely to be exceedingly mischievous, and has al ready been productive of very bad consequences ; and it is very observable, that this has gradually increased in proportion as the sound principles of design fell into disuse. It will become you to beware of this abuse. As the perfection of art is your only 448 object, you ought to examine every thing with equal weights and measures, ancient or modern should be equally admirable or In different to you, as they are more or less conformable to the truth and perfection of things. You will then in the spirit of just dis crimination, restore some figures of Michael Angelo, of Puget, Girardon, and others, to their just and proper rank after the Apollo, the Laocoon, Gladiator, and other antiques of the se cond class, and far beyond the others of the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth. It is hardly necessary to apprise you, that although great part of the remains of ancient art may be feebly executed, and of little consequence with" respect to the design, yet many of those vestiges are really invaluable, and worthy our mo?t serious attention and study on other accounts, as they convey perhaps the only certain information relative to the usages, ceremonies, and mystical doctrines of those remote and heroic ages. The important discoveries which have been recently made in this track of study, ought to induce Us to hope every thing from the farther prosecution of it. But as the object of our attention at present is to discriminate between the examples of more or less perfect design, it will be for our purpose to observe, that although the statue of Meleager with the boar's head, is a happy speci men of the ancient manner of representing their heroes naked, with no adventitious circumstances of embellishment, but such as Avere necessary to manifest their ideritity, or their celebrated actions ; in other respects this is a figure of great mediocrity, and probably an ancient copy ; in some parts of the profile view, it is too lathy and slender, perhaps from being made fbr a nitch, and the legs not only want beauty, but are even gummy and ill-formed. That in the Antinous at the capitol ; though the head is beautiful, round, and tender, the body is of a dif ferent character, hard, and tending to the dry and strait. That 449 even in the Apollo Belvedere, sublime and beautiful as it un doubtedly Is ; yet perhaps the right clavicle and shoulder, want magnitude to correspond with the other parts, and whether owing to. the legs having been broken, off above the ancle, but the ends of the tibia and fibula which form the Inner and outer ancle do not seem to be In their proper places, as they are in the Venus of Medicis, the Borghese FaUnus, &:c. The end of the tibia or Inner ancle is in nature higher and more forward upon the foot, that of the fibula or outward ancle lower and nearer the heel. Thus superior to vulgar prejudices, you will be swayed only by liberal and enlarged motives. The love of that excellence you are pursuing in your own studies, will in cline you to admire and to venerate the abilities of your prede cessors whether ancient or modern, and of whatever country, and could It be also extended to your contemporaries and rivals, it would be still more honourable to yourselves. Before I conclude It may not be foreign to our purpose to ob serve still further, that drawing must not be considered as an end, but as a means only by which the painter can be securely con ducted to the end proposed. Though It be the principal and most essential part of his art, yet It is but a part, and not the whole. For although the chiaro-scuro, which accompanies what is called a finished drawing, produces a totality in itself, yet this totality Is nothing more than an Imperfect substitute for the to tality of painting, which comprehends the whole natural appear ance, as well in the colours of objects, as in their forms and, degradation of effects. These Imperfect substitutes of painting which are called finished drawings, and which comprehend the whole of what is proposed by the Engraver's art, are to be con sidered as consisting of three parts. VOL, I. 3 m 4 50 The first and most important is that which regards the essen tial forms, the characters, the expressions, spirit, and vivacity: the second that which regards the relievo and truth of the effects in the light and shade and degradation of objects: and the third, that which regards the handling or mechanical treatment, which, though it be of infinitely inferior Consideration, yet it ought to be conducted In a workmanlike and becoming manner, whatever mode of execution be adopted, whether lines or washed tints on paper or on copper. The works of Audran, Edelink, Frey, Pontius, Vosterman, Cars, and all the masterly Engravers, afford examples of the soundest practice in this way; every thing of importance is rendered con amore with the highest skill and assiduity, and their conduct in the more mechanical part, the treatment of lines, appears with a noble skilful simplicity only to folloAv as the consequence of a practised and well exer cised hand. Every part has Its own peculiar treatment, whether fleshy, muscular. Or nervous. Whether you consider the cattle of Berghem and Vischer, or the docks, foreground, trees, and landscape of Lawrence, Vivares, and Chatelin, it Is all drawing, and no other taste of lines is adopted than what springs altogether from the essential form and material of the several objects. This admirable detail of execution attached only to the truth and cha racteristic nature of objects, was still improveable into any force of effect and depth of tone ; but the experience of all ages shews how difficult it has been in the improvement of arts to stop in the right place. Folly and ostentation will go further: unskilful men, blind to the real intrinsic beauties of their art, Avhich they have but ill studied, are very liable tp mistake the means for the end, and so employ their whole solicitude in the pursuit of lines, as a principal sought for on its own account, where, without any higher reference, they may have an oppOr- 451 tunity of exhibiting the unnecessary difficulties and curious niceties of stroke and execution, which, like the graces often met with ariiongst fidlers, only serve to perplex and destroy the ground work of expression, character, and sentiment, Avhich they so absurdly attempt to illustrate. To mention one out of many instances that might be given, the S. Genevieve of Balechou (which has unhappily been often Imitated by young Engravers) has neither truth of form, relievo of light and shadow, or any thing that one might expect in an engraving from so able a draftsman as Vanloo. Besides a great deficiency In all the parts of drawing, this print Is remarkable for nothing but a curious, difficult, and idle manner of cutting copper. As neither the form nor relievo of natural or painted objects can afford any thing to warrant this ridiculous carved work, and engrailing; and as nothing of it Is to be found In the works of those eminent living Engravers, whom the public have long knoAvn and justly admired ; one might be at a loss to account for the Introduction of this absurd affectation, were it not for the natural propensity of weak minds to distinguish themselves in manoeuvring with the point or graver, who are incapable of making a better and more manly use of them. Thus much may (for the present) be observed upon Design, a term which in its general acceptation comprehends the whole conception or idea expressed in painting and sculpture by the Imitation of real or possible objects, and in Its more confined sense, as applied to the contours, terminations, or lines, by which the whole and parts of objects are bounded, in modelling or drawing. It comprizes all the necessary knowledge of the anatomical construction, the beauties, sublimities, and peculia rities of form in all the possible and actual discriminations of 3 M 5 455 character; the proportions that appertain to each, and the degree of sensibility, passion, and emotions of the soul, which govern and display themselves in the bodily exertions. I should most heartily rejoice to see these principles of sound design pursued upon an extenisive, liberal plan; persuaded, as I am, that any man properly qualified by nature and education who would generously employ his whole undivided attention to it, might derive advantages from the information of the eigh teenth century, that would infallibly enable him to carry this ideal and most essential part of the art far beyond the point at which our predecessors had left it two hundred years ago. Though truth obliges me to insist upon the practicability of this, yet charity and humanity withhold me from wishing that many of you should devout yourselves to make the experiment, as mere capacity when you had attained to It, would and could avail nothing without the necessary opportunities for exerting yourselves ; and our country affords so blank a prospect in those opportunities, that they do not appear to be sufficient for the continued necessary exercise of even one man's talents, much less for so miany as this academy Is likely to produce. Hogarth's prophecy Is amply fulfilled, and however light this matter may appear to others, yet like the frogs in the fable, you will, I fear one day find it of serious consequence to you. If unhappily opportunities of elevated exertion should be wanting to you on the one hand ; on the other, you may rest assured that neither yourselves nor country can gain any great reputation in the eigh teenth century by the employing your talents on subordinate, mechanical things: this could be expected only in the early times, before the mechanic was completed, and when art was a mere novelty. Disagreeable as It Is, yet duty requires me to lay 453 your situation thus fairly before you in the outset, whilst there may be time to make a prudent retreat without dishonour ; for, as much must be done by every man before he can possibly do well. If there be little or no likelihood of obtaining this necessary exercise, he must be a bad man indeed who could wish to see your capabilities and talents mouldering, from disuse and want of employment ; and It is very' certain, that if artists do but little in their profession ; the folly, laziness, and malevolence of a great part of mankind will never examine whether these artists were wanting to their country, or their country to them; it is ge nerally determined in the easiest and most expeditious way, by supposing the artist to have but little genius. However we owe a love to the art Itself, and It will become us to rejoice in its advancement whether we shall be allowed the> honour of being instrumental to it, or not; as ^perhaps the glory of obtaining this palm Is reserved for some other new people, where the shoot of vigour and virtue may have ample room to expand themselves ; where that grandeur and elevation of soul which can best qualify the artist for the sublimities of his profession, will not disqualify him with the great and opulent, who only can employ him,' and where art may be blessed with a long career before it is blighted by those baneful dissipations, want of magnanimity and hatred of virtue, Avhich ever did, audit is to be feared, ever avIII characterize a corrupt and declining people. In my next Discourse I shall endeavour to call your attention to Composition or Arrangement. end of the THIRD LECTURE. 454 LECTURE IV. ON COMPOSITION. Gentlemen, The composition of a picture, whether It regards the circumstances of an action, carried on by many figures, or whe ther it only comprehends the detailed members and adjuncts of a single figure, or any other conjunction of parts, forming an integral or whole, whatever be Its nature, it is Indispenslbly required, that it should be reducible to one subject or action, and to one individual Instant of time in this action. As every action has many points of time, some of which are better shewn by words, and consequently fall more within the province of poetry ; the painter's business is to avoid these, and to employ his ingenuity upon such moments only as may sustain themselves, Independent of words, arid carry all their elucidation and energy In their exterior appearance, with a force and preci sion that is In vain attempted by any language of mere words. This Is the strong hold of our art, and here poetry would be as tame and defective as Avere those old painters who employed different points of time in the same view, and made their figures carry on 45 5 successive conversations by putting labels in their mouths. The painter's choice of this advantageous moment Is of the most essen tial consideration, and must depend upon that thorough feeling of the whole of this subject, which Is the ultimate result of what ever physical, ethical, poetical, or other knowledge he may happen to possess. Of the numberless possible ways which may be employed in the collocation and arrangement of the several objects of a pic ture ; that must undoubtedly be the best, which most immedi ately arises out of the very nature of the subject itself, compre hends Its greatest scope and energy, is best adapted to give the just value and importance to the principal, and most interesting circumstances, and is least encumbered with foreign, useless, impertinent, dead matter, which every thing must be that does not contribute In Its general and necessary co-operation. The composition should appear the true efflux of a mind so heated and full of the subject, as to lose all regard and attention to every thing foreign. Enthusiasm, genius, taste, all the facul ties should here concentrate : for if ever they be available in any part of a picture. It Is in the happy arrangement and apposite collocation of those principal and interesting materials and cir cumstances, upon which the becoming beauty, pathos, or dignity of the subject depends ; since the particular expressions, pas sions, actions, or gestures of the several personages of the painter's drama, can have no value, but what is derived from their particular adaptation to the propriety of each character, and to the becoming part of greater or lesser Interest, which ought to connect It with the scene. In a word, nothing is ad missible which does not co-operate. Every co-operating object, 456 action, or circumstance,, must appear in its own proper and most available situation, and in no other. Intention must govern throughout, and nothing be left to chance, It appears then, young gentlemen, that in the necessary exercise of your profession, you will have frequent occasion to recur to your education at large : therefore look to it in time. A shallow, contracted apprehension is Incapable of conceiving the just latitude and extent of his subject, and not likely to see beyond the mere trite, superficial^ and ordinary matters of vul gar observation. While the artist of mere imagination also, will without the necessary judgement and sound information, be like a hound of a bad nose, liable to be diverted: from the true pur suit, and to waste his vigour in hunting down every trifle that starts in his way ; and' in either case your mechanical abilities can be but ill employed. Thus then, the desideratum (at least in all matters of elevated compositions) Is, that the artist should possess a great and noble mind, of ability to penetrate the depth, entire compass, and capability of his subject ; to discern in one view all its possible circumstances, to select and unite Avhatever Is most essential, most Interesting, and of the greatest consequence to its energetic and happy elucidation, and to be able at the same time judici ously and severely to reject and suppress whatever useless exuberances may have arisen from the heat and fertility of his imagination. In the discourse upon design, much has been argued respect ing the necessity of interesting the spectator by the selection of beautiful, sublime, or other extraordinary characters. These 457 are certainly valuable Iri themselves, independent of: all Othee considerations : but this value Is much Increased , when, to the native persuasion of such characters, there Is added all those expressive incidents, coinciding associated energies, and conca^ tenated graces of an ingenious and eloquent composition. ' This eloquence of the painter's composition, which, like almost all the other parts of modern art, seems to have received so much efficacy and value from the deep researches of Leonardo da Vinci, is susceptible of the utmost conceivable force, extent^ and variety ; as is abundantly evident In the works of many of his successors, who pursued the same principles. Nothing of verbal language can be more copious, beautifully diffusive, arid magnificent, than the eloquence of Raffael's dispute of the Sacra ment — nothing can be more condensed and vehement in its address than his Elymas, and Death of Ananias ; than the Plague and Deluge of Poussin ; the dead Christ of Carrache, in the Palais^ Royale ; the Possessed Boy, by Domenichino ; and above, all, the group of the Laocoon, In the Belvedere. There is nothing can be attended Avith more substantial benefit to the young student, than to familiarize himself with those mo dels of eloquent composition, which his profession affords, by endeavouring to investigate and to possess himself of all the reasons upon winch those compositions were constructed, and) why such and such Identical actions, characters, circumstances; modes, degrees, and arrangements, were Introduced In preference to every other. By such studies the mind of the student tvlll insensibly acquire an habitual greatness and expansion, and when it comes to think for itself, and to search out materials for its own works, vigour, propriety, and dignity, will be the natural con. VOL, J. * 3 N 458 comitants of Avhatever flows from it! This is the orily use that can, or ought to be made of the compositions of those greait men who have gone before us ; and in this sense you cannot bestow too much attention upon such compositions, as the Paul preach ing at Athens, the Last Supper by Da Vinci, the Sick Alexander by Le Sueur, Le Brun's Tent of Darius, and passage of the Granlcus ; the Gathering of Manna; the Moses striking Water from the Rock ; the Confirmation ; and a great many other works of Poussin, whose versatile genius, well grounded judgement, and deep, as well as extensive elegant Information, have carried him with equal success through all the genera of composition. Whatever be the main scope of the subject, and whatever materials it may with propriety afford, whether of the simple, pathetic, or heroic and sublime kind ; the first and chief atten tion of the composition should be to dispose such materials in the manner best calculated to enforce and ennoble this main scope or end, which the subject proposes, and to reject or carry Into the parts of least consequence, whatever does not contribute to this end : for example. In the subject of Laocoon, the principal aim of the artist should be (as it has been) to Impress upon the mind of the spectator those emotions of terror and pity which must arise from that climax of distress exhibited in the unavail ing efforts of an agonizing father and his children, the children calling upon the father for assistance, and he upon heaven that has abandoned him to his fate, A second consideration of interest, and which greatly enforces the first, is, the graceful, beautiful forms of the children, and the noble, vigorous, athletic figure of the father, which Is admirably calculated to exhibit those convulsed gripings which agitate 459 every part. If agreeable to the absurd wishes of some shalloAV* critics, these sons of Laocoon had been of the same soft, pulpy texture, as the children of Flamingo ; besides being fitter for the nursery than as attendants upon the altar, their little bladder- like forms would have been incapable of discovering any interior agitation. It may be further observed, that were these figures encumbered with drapery, it could have no relation to the main end ; it aa'ouM then be occupying space to no purpose, or what is worse, to a bad purpose, as it must divert or divide the atten tion to Inanimate things, foreign to the main end, and interrupt the unity of this expression of agony and distress, which should be pursued throughout. Besides the variety: arising from the different ages and characters of these figures ; their actions and positions are so diversified, tha,t in every view of this admirable group, the eye is presented with a combination of circumstances and aspects, so beautifully varied from each other, that it is diffi cult to say which is most to be admired, the vehement, direct j and uniform address of the subject, or the graceful and skilfully variegated manner in which it is communicated, Pietro da Cortona has treated this subject upon quite other Jjrinciples. Blind as he was to all its grandeur, pathos, and real excellence, his composition was, as usual, thrown away upon what is In many cases mistakenly called the picturesque arrange ment of heights and distances, lines, angles, and other mechanic cal, subordinate attentions ; which may be of prime consequence in trifling subjects, but which, in such cases as the present, should never be sought after but as aids and agreeable attendants upon those matters of higher consideration, which never enter the thoughts of unfeeling and mere mechanical fabricators of compo sition. Such men do^but disgrace themselves in great subjects* 3 N ^ 460 The matters of art are suited to all capacities, when artists knoAAfe how to make a prudent choice; from still life upwards every, man might find something df a-piece with himself. The Cartoon, In which Is represerited the death of Ananias, is; another, and a most admirable example of expressive energetic composition. Raffael has here with great judgement and Inge-, nuity so connected all the parts of his subject, as to afford the happiest illustration ofthis dreadful instance of Divine vengeance. On one side of the apostles the people are bringing their sub stance for the common participation ; on the other, it is distri buted according to every man's occasion, and in the centre is exhibited the punishment of that voluntary fraud which Ananias had hypocritically attempted. The Countenance and action of Saint Peter, who delivers the sentence, and of the other apostle who shews It to have come down from heaven ; In a word, every part of the composition is skilfully expressive of the subject, even to the very railing which surrounds the apostles, and marks the common repository of this exemplary community. ' TheElymas, the Paul at Athens, the Sacrifice at Lystra, the Murder of the Innocents, and almost the whole of those ten designs which Raffael made for the tapestries of the pope's cha pel, are in the same noble, energetic strain, and appear, as I have hinted beforfe, amongst the best and most vigorous examples our art affords, of an expressive, judicious manner of treating compo^' sitlons of the vehement and passionate kind. ¦ Raffael has also produced the highest examples pf excellence iri the more copious and diffusive compositions. His picture of the Sacrament is a lofty strain of divine, poetic enthusiasm; in 461 which, with the utmost feeling and judgement he has happily linked together the sublimest theological Ideas. The Sacramen tal Host, which is placed on the altar. Immediately under, and apparently connected with the Divine persons of the Holy Trinity, forms a centre and a great uniting principal, which associates all parts of the composition, even In despite of a feeble defective chiaro-scuro, and some other vestiges of the old gOthic manner ; which, were they not borne down by the energy and unity of Raffael's ideas, would have gone near to the dissociating arid maiming the general appearance of this composition. How ever, It is but just to remind you, that an inspection of the execution and manner of handling^ of the upper part and right side of this picture, must immediately convince an artist, that it was the first which Raffael executed In the Vatican, and that by the time he had arrived at the left hand corner, this feebleness was quite vanished. Every thing in this most subhme of all Jlaffael's compositions, which undoubtedly it is, notwithstanding its defects, every thing, I say, tends to, and Is regulated by, the expression of the subject. The whole importance of the celestial part of the composition, which seems, as It were, infused in the Host on the Altar, is what visibly gives occasion to all that beautiful variety of action,, contemplation, love, and reverence; jwhlch are so animatedly expressed In the figures that surround it, and which is judiciously and feelingly made to coincide with the peculiar characters, dispositions, and ages of those profound doctors^ sovereign pontiffs, and simple believers, which form this admirable group. The same ability, but mOre equally sustained as to execution, AS observable in the School of Athens, or, to speak more properly, in the Picture of Philosophy. The figures which form this great 462, composition, not excepting even the portrait of Raffael's friaid,-^ the Duke of Urbino, all of them seem to have been introduced for the sole purpose of variegating the action, expression, and sentiment his subject required ; and the several gestures and modes of contemplation, explication, and attention, are not less admirable in their diversity than In their assimilation, as the same grave dispassionate, philosophic aspect. Is with a happy propriety sustained throughout. But Avhether it was from the Avant of any necessarily obvious, connecting principle in the nature of philosophy itself, or from whatever cause. It is certain that a general concentrating principle of sentiment seems want ing : here appears no source of action, and the matter of the composition seems better connected and united than the spirit of it : for although the several ranges and groups of objects are much better united for the purposes of easy and collected vision, than they are in the picture of Theology, yet, as a totality of ex^ pression, there is wanting that force and Confederated sentiment', which operates so powerfully in the theological subject. The two advanced groups of the followers of Pythagoras and Archi medes are coriaplete, independent In themselves, and seem to have little or no reference to any other part of the picture; altogether unconnected with Plato and Aristotle, who are in the interior and centre, and have been supposed, and were per haps intended, to be a kind of principals in the composition. But these, and a few other trifling difficulties may, (as I said be fore) have arisen out of the very nature of the subject itself. It was perhaps impossible to Introduce Into tbe composition any obvious and sufficiently dignified thing, or circumstance which might comprehend, concentrate, and help to specify 'the several attentions of these disciples of mere philosophical, human wlsdon*. The pronation of Aristotle's hand, and the finger pointing 463 upwards of that of Plato, are happily expressive and characteris tic; but are by no means sufficient pivots to sustain the whole sentiment of the composition. These two compositions of Theology and Philosophy, afford a most instructive and Invaluable example of the conduct that should be adopted in such abstract comprehensive subjects of the painter's own creation, as are only circumscribed by the spirit and essence of things. When particular known personages are introduced, It would be advisable, for the satisfaction even of the little and least generous critics, that the artist should endea vour by some Ingenious effort to obviate those anachronisms, of which Raffael made but little account. His desire of giving those subjects all their plenitude, and also of introducing all the famous men, who in their several times had distinguished them selves in each :. and the scene being laid upon earth, and conse quently in time, the anachronisms were of course unavoidable. These compositions might however have been treated differently, either by not laying the scene in time, as is the case in the up per part of the Theology, or else by attaching himself to possible general incidents and characteristic personages, rather than to those who were particular and known. Instead of Epicurus (whose manners and doctrine were, according to CicerO, so in consistent with each other) the Indolent and selfish Epicureans might have been represented, and the Pyrrhonians, Stoics, and the other sects, might also have been characterised in a similar manner. And in that part of the Theology where the scene Is laid upon earth (instead of S. Bonaventura, S. Jerome, Gregory- Aquinas, kc. who lived in times so removed from each other a^d who might very well be placed in heaven) this terrestrial 464 region might be reserved for the several ecclesiastical orders and communities; the pontifical and other dignitaries might be happily characterized; certain indications might be given of works of charity, penitence, and so forth, and yet all equally co-opierate in the general action. Thus, whether we allow ourselves the llberiy of committing a- few trifling anachronisms for the sake of some individual advan-' tages ; or whether we avoid them in order to obtain a greater or more consistent purity and unity of design ; whichever way we may Incline, it Is evident from those pictures of Raffael, that by a composition of possible general Incidents, an ingenious and knowing man might represent law, medicine, or any other art or science of great and general utility. The spirit of ages or natioas might be thus represented : you might give all the features of a base, servile, venal age — trifling-, dissipated, and full of those mean, selfish hopes and fears which ultimately eradicate all vir tue, private as well as public ; or you riiight represent times more magnanimous and heroic. Thus you might do what, from its imagined impossibility, had been long regarded as one of the fabulous stories of antiquity — that is, you might make a por trait of the good people of England, ^hich might appear at the same time cruel and merciful, wise, foolish, giddy, and so forthj as Parrhasius is said to have done of the people of Athens. . Those compositions of the general kind, where the fable, story, 91- subject, is of the artist's own creation, may be extended to every conceivable action, with all the latitude of tragic, comic,^ or other poetry, and they are often susceptible of more perti- nence and ethic application than those actions which are circiim-- 465 scribed by historical or other particular known facts. Of this kind Is Poussin's Arcadia, the Flemish Feast In the Luxemburg, by Rubens, almost the greatest part of Watteau's compositions, Hogarth's Election, his Harlot's and Rake's Progress, the Plague by Raffael, and many others. When these actions are grounded upon, or interwoven with, mere local usages, they are liable to become obscure and uninte resting, in proportion as those local usages are less generally known : for this reason it Is that Raffael's Plague, the Extreme Unction, the Confirmation, and other invented subjects of Poussin, are more universally intelligible than those of Hogarth ; even supposing that these latter were sufficiently well drawn to Invite the attention of the spectator, which Is far from being the case. However, the March to Finchley, and the Tavern Debauch, Avhere one of the girls, like another Thais, is setting fire to the globe, and some other of his works, where the humour Is not merely local, ought to be excepted, as the disorders committed by the military, the excesses of a tavern, and such like, are much the same every where. Allowing for some peculiarities of Watteau's affectation and Rubens's vulgarity and unnecessary grossness, the gallant and festive usages which they have represented, are just as familiar to one nation as to another.* * It would be almost a crime to omit taking notice in this place, of two very striking pathetic compositions of this general kind, by M. Greuze. — One is an aged, enraged father denouncing curses on his son, who had been inveigled to go and serve in the army. The other represents the return of this undutiful son, maimed in his limbs, as the only fruit of his campaign, and struck with the shocking sight of his father, who had been wom down with anxiety and fatigue, now stretched out dead on a bier in the midst of his forlorn family. VOL. I. 3 O 466 In the Attila, the Heliodorus, the Incendio del Borgo, and indeed all the other works of Raffael, founded upon particular historical facts ; It was his constant maxim to endeavour at ob taining that arrangement which was best Calculated to give the most entire, and the most energetic expression of his subject. In the Saint Peter delivered from prison, he has even given three different points of time in the same view : the awaking of Saint Peter, the leading him forth through the sleeping guards, and the confusion of the awakened guards after he was gone. This fault, like the anachronisms before mentioned, is hardly imputa ble, as it was not committed through Ignorance, but by election, and although the representing the three different effects of the light of the angel, of the torch, and of the moon, may be allowed to have had some weight with him, yet without doubt his prin cipal Inducement was to give his subject that entireness and complete elucidation which he was so solicitous to obtain in all his works. This worthy object of his solicitude is what I would recommend to your attention, and not the particular conduct which he adopted on this occasion. Upon the whole, it may be observed, that there is generally found In the compositions of Raffael, a most beautiful and inte resting chain of well reasoned and happily variegated Incidents, a solid, manly judgement, and above all, a divine, enthusiastic warmth, and expressive energy, which has set him above all moderns in this branch of the art. The allegoric Is another species of composition, and has been adopted in order to substantiate intellectual subjects, by giving 467 them such a form and body as may make them known to our senses. But this method of allegorizing, whether it be simple and carried through the whole composition, or of the partial and mixed kind, where it is blended with historical fact, is in both cases so extremely liable to be misused, that It can never be safely meddled AvIth, but by men of much discretion and judgement. Even some of the greatest artists have been deservedly censured for the obscurity of many of those emblematic and allegoric refinements Avhich they have sometimes wholly, and often par tially, employed in their compositions. Many parts of Raffael's picture of the Jurisprudence Is at present unintelligible. His two large figures of Justice and Meekness in the Hall of Constan tine, are in the same state ; with respect to idea, they present nothing but a blank to the mind. The same may be said of many things In the galleries of the Luxemburg and Versailles, and what from the confusion occasioned by ill-directed flattery, and the jargon of far-fetched and over-refined allegory, the ceiling at Whitehall does absolutely present no subject to the mind of the spectator. Associations of mere local, temporary notions, are too mutable and evanescent to serve as a durable basis for the sustaining of symbols and allegorical personages. When the allusions of resemblance do not obviously consist In the things themselves, but in a kind of arbitrary compacts, which are (like mere words) confined to a limited number of persons, places, and times, there is great likelihood of their soon perish ing. This truth is sufficiently evident in all the arts, as well in those which depend upon language, as In those which employ forms; although it has been of more fatal consequence in the latter : for, however justly we might complain of the want of simplicity and true taste In Spenser, and other writers, who had given Into this fashion of allegorizing, yet from the nature 3 0^ 468 of language, their Ideas will be ever as Intelligible as their lan guage ; by a word or two properly placed, it was always In their power to carry the reader with them In the highest flights of their absurdity, and though they might offend his taste and judgement, yet his understanding was not darkened. But this matter is quite different In painting and sculpture : if the spec tator has not the same range of thought and sentiment which operated in the construction of the work, the labour Is lost, and at best, is but a blank. What must be said then of the absurd collections of Otto Venlus, Ripa, and others, who have been at the pains of raking together all this offal of the Imagination. However such books may have their use, and serve as a kind of bathos, replete with all the low, beggarly allusion, false wit, and Impertinent, trifling refinement which the artist must carefully avoid. What remains to us of the ancient allegorical personifications is of a nature quite the reverse. It is simple, obvious, and besides, it makes a part of every man's education, and is long likely so to continue ; as the Greek and Roman literature is In no danger of losing its credit. All civilized nations, that is, almost all nations, are become Its conservators, and happily there are now no more Goths and Vandals, from whom any further de struction Is to be apprehended. Of this legitimate kind of allegory many sound examples might be Instanced. I shall just mention tAvo, which are perhaps the more excellent, as their ingenious authors had somewhat more than their share in the general participation of the subject matter. One is. Time delivering Truth from the persecution of 469 Rage and Envy, by Nicholas Poussin. The other Is the Calumny by Apelles, which Lucian has so admirably described, and ac companied by such a suite of remarks on the nature of the subject? as, I believe, have never been outdone by any observer on life and manners. From this description of Lucian, Raffael has restored the design : and others of no less beauty and pertinence might be fabricated on the remarks. It is very much to be doubted, whether these and such like general abstract compositions are not of all others the most full, complete, and eloquent, and carry with them the most compre hensive, ethical application. The representation of some one similar historical fact might perhaps Interest the passions more (yet of this I am not certain) but It Avould not fill the mind, and come home to all the occasions of general application like the allegoric composition. Of the mixt composition of allegoric and historic fact, Rubens has in one respect given a very admirable specimen In his Judge ment of Paris. The allegoric expedient of the Fury, who is bursting through the clouds, leads the mind into all the terrible consequences of the decision ; and nothing can better shew what should and should not be done on these occasions, where allegory is blended with history, than the comparison of this sublime conception of Rubens with the over-refined allegories of the Scamander, Simois, the Nymphs, and other trifling addenda of cold details, which spoil that otherwise most excellent design, which Raffael has left us on the same subject. There are then some few occasions where the allegoric com position may (when in the hands of a wise. Ingenious, and feel- 470 ing artist) be adopted in preference to any other. But the stu dent cannot be too often reminded, that when these occasions occur, (which can be but seldom) he must in nowise indulge himself in any silly, unwarranted conceits of his own fancy. His invention must consist in the disposition of old, and not in the creation of new things. The figures and symbols he employs, must address the spectators in the language received, and well understood, and not In any short-lived emblematic jargon. In the instances I have mentioned from Poussin and Apelles, the subject or action is substantially and fully explained by the figures themselves : as it would have been in any particu lar historical or invented fact. The Insignia of the figures can add nothing to the explication and interest of the action ; though they raise the personages, from mere historic individuals. Into the abstract, and more sublime characters of Time, Eternity, Rage, and Envy. One cannot without some astonishment, reflect on the ridicu lous allegoric absurdities which have been so frequently committed in sepulchral monuments ; the place of all others where we might expect to find something solemn, direct, pathetic ; of a plain, manly sense ; useful, exemplary, and utterly devoid of all the fripperies, and impertinence of mere wit. There are no occa sions where the operations of a great mind could have been more effectually manifested, and It is much to be regretted, that so many noble opportunities, and such immense sums of money, should be so shamefully and idly thrown away upon mere manu al labour, as if there had been no such thing as mind in the country. I shall mention one expedient, which, if it could be adopted, might help to do away a great deal of this impertinent trifling. When the life of the deceased may have been of that 471 unmeddling, retired nalure, as not to furnish any adequate ma terials for the subject of such a monument as his friends might wish to have erected; instead of torturing allegory to no purpose, or more probably to a bad purpose, recourse -may be had to the numberless subjects our religion might afford. Even many exemplary subjects of moral action might be invented, agreeably to the wishes of the testator or his friends. This would open a noble field of sculpture, in the round, in basso relievo, or both, and of the most interesting kind ; the dead might be made to address the living after a becoming manner, and an honourable reputation would naturally accrue to all the parties concerned, by thus converting into a matter of utility, and moral advantage, that, which is but too often nothing better than an unintelligible mass, or a mere nuisance of flattery and falsehood.* * Sepulchral Monuments being a kind of affectionate conservation, and embalming of the dead, in order to retain as much as may be, their character and memory still with us ; from the sums expended in erecting them, the publicity of their situations, and durability of their existence — from all these considerations united, it would seem a mat ter of much importance, that they should be executed in the best, and most adequate manner, and not afford subject for ridicule and contempt, instead of admiration and praise ; more especially when it be considered, that these monuments are more easily ac cessible, than any thing else in the country, to the inspection of strangers, who may be utterly unacquainted with the influence, and jobbmg, by which the doing of them is ob tained ; particularly in those monuments, done at the expense of the nation, and of par ticular societies. With respect to those more important monuments, consecrated to the memory of heroes, and great men ; it is a very arduous undertaking, to attempt any thing further than the inscription, and a characteristic representation of the person ; depending on the notoriety and celebrity of his character for the rest : however desirable it may be to do more, yet it is dangerous ; for to appreciate, pourtray, and properly transmit to posterity 412 There is a kind of arrangement, AA^hlch is altogether mechani cal, and does not deserve the name of composition : particularly Avhen it Is employed in associating objects which are susceptible of action and connected sentiment, and can never be supposed to exist together without them. This unmeaning arrangement is hardly admissible amongst the inanimate objects of nature : but the human character, such personages as S. Mark, S.Nicholas, S. Catharine, S. Sebastian, and so forth, ought never to be brought together without story, business, or connexion, merely to be ex hibited like a parcel of chairs, tables, or other furniture: and yet some of the greatest artists have given their sanction to these and the like absurdities ; unhappily necessitated as they were, to lay aside their own judgement and to ad6pt the dreams and visions of their silly employers. This was evidently the case in the Saint Jerom of Coreggio, in the Saint Nicholas, and Saint Mark of Titian, and in many other Avorks. However some good has arisen out of this evil ; as those great artists have apparently endeavoured in some measure to atone for this Avant of subject an adequate representation of the peculiar merits of great men, requires extraordinary mental qualifications in the artist; — an enterprise with that bow, which is only to be drawn by Ulyssian nerves. It should be permitted only to a hero to commemorate a hero : and it is only from the hand and masterly felicity of a Tacitus, Diodorus, or a Xenophon, that we can reasonably expect those beautiful monumental-like eulogiums upon a Thrasea Petus, a Priscus, Epaminondas, or Socrates, which, like gems of a trancendent lustre, gracefully intervene to render the rubbish and ordinaiy tissue of human transactions supportable. Does the sculptor, who would wish to immortalize his work by appreciating and setting in an advantageous view the character estic peculiar excellence of an Alfred, a Sir Thomas More, or Sir F. Bacon, does he, or ought he to expect to succeed without similar requisites.? Is it not from an adequate com prehension and elevation of mind that we are entitled to hope for success either in writing or in art ? What can the employers of inadequate artists think, or rather do they think at all ? 473 by a more than ordinary solicitude in giving what perfection they could to the other parts. Correggio has been enabled by the double attention he has bestowed on the Infant Jesus to give some sentimental connexion to the parts of his arrangement, but in the others every principle of association and connexion Is wanting, except such as Is necessary for the mere mechanical distribution of the parts as a whole, so as not to offend the sight. After the preceding reasoning and examples, by which I wished to impress upon your mind the necessity of regarding the expression of the subject, as the primary object of the composition; it remains now, that we take some notice of those more mechanical attentions to the mere distribution of the se veral objects, by which they are rendered agreeable in their several situations, and are altogether made to concur in forming one entire and compleat totality, of easy comprehension to the sight. Different Integrals or totalities may be equally entire and compleat, although their configuration and their several distri butions and arrangements be very different from each other, and although some of them might Incline to the more uniform, and others to the more variegated appearance, according to what the sentiment of the subject may require : since the more uni form may be rendered productive of grandeur, and the more variegated of beauty. In these particular cases, the quantity or degree of this uniformity or variety must be regulated by the sentiment proper to the subject. But on all occasions whatever, some modification and judicious co-operation of these two op posite principles of uniformity and variety is absolutely neces- VOL. I. 3 f 474 sary, in order to rendisr every Avhole and its component parts an object agreeable, or at least not disagreeable to the sight. But these as well as all other things have their destined limits ; and the student must be well aware, that a too great uniformity, or a dull repetition of the same things, without any diversity in their forms, aspects, and other circumstances, must be insipid, tiresome, and disgusting : and on the other hand, a too great variety and affectation of continued and strongly marked diversity and con trast, must perplex, distract the sight, and destroy all unity of idea and comprehension. These extremes therefore are equally reprehensible, arid have been for similar reasons, judiciously avoided by all good composers, in every other art, as well as in those of Design. That the whole of the composition may with ease and pleasure to the spectator be comprehended in one view, it Is necessary that its several parts (however variegated in their details) be so artfully linked together as to form one general appearance, con sisting of a few large parts, masses or groups of objects. But whether the several parts of this concatenated mass be on the same, or on differerit plans, it is equally necessary, that although they be so united as to form an easy concurrence into one ge neral view, yet they are not to be crowded or huddled together : their separation and distinctness from each other are objects of no less consequence than their union. The several portions or masses of this general appearance should be diversified either In their magnitude or figure, or some in both. Of these masses one ought to be principal, and all the others dependent and sub ordinate ; and as the attention will therefore necessarily center on this principal mass. It follows of course, that whatever is intended to be of the greatest Interest in the composition, will appear more 475 properly and to the greatest advantage, as forming the whole or a part of this principal mass. As to the general shape, or form of the principal and its subordinate groups, taken together, whether it incline to the pyramidal, either erect, Inverted, laterally or horizontally placed ; or to any other figure ; this is a matter entirely arbitrary: the only attention employed on this occa sion Is to guard against the too great regularity, sameness, and equality of parallel, rectilinear, rectangular, or even too circular appearances. In a word, whatever be the general figure of thei^e concatenated groups, it should neither be too regular, nor too complicated, and it Is rather to be loosely or obscurely indicated or hinted, than clearly and specifically defined. The several parts of this concatenated mass should preserve some kind of equilibrium, and symmetrical order amongst themselves, that nothing may appear wanting to Its completion as a whole, and in the same manner that the several masses or groups are attach ed to each other ; that nothing may appear entirely insulated or detached in all its parts, the several figures and other component parts of a group, must In some part of Its contour or drapery be, as it were, let Into or interwoven with the next object. Useless repetition is disgusting, I say useless repetition, be cause It sometimes happens, that It is necessary to repeat the same action or gesture, and even to extend it through many figures ; from whose general co-operation Its energy Is to be de rived : but even in this case, it Is desirable to make some light variations in the circumstances, appendages, or such parts as are not essential to this concurrence. For in general the eye as Avell as the mind is in a continual progress, always desirous of something that hath not been yet shewn. 3 P 2 476 By this variety and continued diversity in the actions, gestures, and aspects of the several figures. It is not to be understood that their contrasts should be very violent ; it is not necessary, that if one arm is advanced forwards, the other should be carried back wards, or that the back view of one figure should be contrasted with the front view of another. This extreme and direct oppo sition is too fierce and violent to produce a pleasing effect; it would be even too regular, would want novelty, and must defeat the very purpose which it was intended to answer ; since your stock of variety would by this means be too scanty and soon exhausted. These violent contrasts are sometimes useful, where you want to produce interruption ; but in general the end of variety is better answered by slight transitions In the several possible aspects and degrees of action, and these are numberless : as in any one given action of a figure many intermediate views might be taken even between the front and lateral ones, which will be sufficiently different for the purpose of variety ; how much more then, Avhen you may Indulge the liberty of such small vari ations in the action itself, as may fairly arise from temper, habit, or other circumstances. The School of Athens Is very admirable in this respect, there is nothing of affected antithesis, or studied contrast in the whole composition. Unconscious and unsolici- tous of the spectator's attention, the several groups and figures seem to have no retrospect to any thing but their proper em ployment. The beautiful variations which diversify every part of this extensive composition are carried on by such easy transi tions, as are at once most grateful to the view, most capable of endless extension, and the least ostentatious and liable to detec tion. Thus, by the highest and most laborious efforts of study, Raffael has been enabled to conceal every appearance of artful management. 477 One has a pleasure in pursuing those mechanical attentions of composition In Raffael ; and much more in the fine antiques, where they are even carried still farther, with a higher, and more studied accuracy ; as it was natural to expect, from the extreme solicitude of the Grecian artists, to preserve beautiful, and agreeably variegated forms. In every aspect of their works. When the highest possible association of those mechanical atten tions is thus worthily employed in decorating and giving the last perfection to beautiful, or majestic form, and to interesting and sublime action, the mind is satisfied ; every thing is then in its becoming and proper place ; small and trifling particulars are no longer such when thus dignified by these exalted associa tions. We can then pursue with pleasure, even with enthusi asm, the skilful manner in which the sculptor of Laocoon has obviated the disagreeable parallel appearances, and the void oc casioned by the necessary action of the left arm : how usefully and agreeably Is the hiatus or chasm between the legs of the father filled up by the drapery, and by the noble contortions of the serpents which bind the whole together, break it into agree able angles, and give the necessary massive appearance which should predominate In this place. Also the almost rectarigular appearance, occasioned by the raising of the right knee, is done away by the inclination and action of the younger son, which fills the void. It would be ungenerously anticipating your satisfaction, to pursue the many similar detailed observations Avhich this glorious group affords. Go to it yourselves — it will abundantly repay your attentions, as well In study of the mechanical, as of the ideal perfections. 478 Some people, particularly artists, have affected to doubt, whether the ancient Greeks were acquainted with those regula tions of uniformity and variety which constitute what is called picturesque composition. This group of the Laocoon ought to have shewn them hoAv little reason there was for such doubts : nay, even the Apollo, the Hercules Farnese, and many other single figures, are evidently coristructed upon the same harmo nious principles of picturesque composition, that Is pursued In a group of many figures. The totality is the same, of whatever number of parts It be composed. If modern art is sometimes unjustly and Ignorantly under rated by some mere antiquaries and others, who affect to confine their whole admiration and attention to the labours of past ages, this Invidious business may be regretted, but cannot be helped. Horace is a witness, that it Is a nuisance which has existed even in the very best ages, when there was less reason to expect It ; and that it arises more out jealousy to the abilities and fame of our cotemporaries, than from any sincere conviction of the su periority of past times : however, but a few can have ability sufficient to be chargeable with this ungenerous conduct — the herd is more excusable, and rather to be pitied than blamed ; for in general their knowledge is of books, and not of arts ; and they are so little acquainted with any real principles of judge ment, which only can enable them to determine in all new oc currences, that rather than give up the unhappy vanity of being thought connoisseurs and so ud judges, they are necessarily obliged (in order to conceal the real state of the fact) to adopt only the eulogiums which are upon record, and to affect an utter disregard for every thing else. But the reverse of wrong 479 is not always right ; let us not, as artists, take our measures of conduct out of pure opposition to such people, by running into the opposite extreme. That which dishonours them can do us no credit ; and besides, it will III become us to forget our obliga tions to our Illustrious predecessors In the art, and to attempt stripping them of any part of that praise which they may fairly and justly claim. Let us In justice to the art, make but little account of the composition of the Niobe, of the Toro Farnese, of the greatest part of the pictures at Herculaneum ; and If you will, of a great number of the basso-relievos. But let us not say that the ancients were unacquainted with the principles of harmoni ous composition, whilst there are so many admirable monuments which evidence the contrary,* * These principles of harmonious composition are, after all, but of secondary consi deration, and in the order of things, must, whenever the nature and circumstances of the subject require it, give place to that true and energetic expression of the business in hand, which is the prime object. Of this truth a better instance could not be given than in that admirable statue of the Discobulus, in the collection of Mr. Townley. The figure is stooping forwards with a considerable curvature of the back, the left arm hanging across the body so as to have the hand in contact with the right knee : the right arm holding the Discus, being flung back as far as may be, and in an insulated line almost per pendicular to the curve of the body, and the left leg and foot dragging behind with the toes bent backwards, griping the earth, so as to produce the greater impetus in the general discharge of the succeeding action ; where the discus is to be sent forward with the greatest possible force. Although these contrivances of the animal body appear almost to be instinctive, yet, as we have had occasion to observe in the last discourse, they are progressional in the ac quirement, not only in the human frame, but in that of all other animal bodies : however differently the mechanism of each may be contrived for the peculiar adaptation to their several stations. The coiling up of a serpent, the squatting, gathering up, and contraction of the 480 As art is of a two-fold nature, consisting of the ideal and the mechanical. It has so happened, that when arts have been nearly perfected by the consecutive labours of great men, the necessary operations of the mere mechanical conduct will by that time be reduced to such sure principles of practice, as that they may be exercised apart, when they fall (as in the unavoidable course of parts of a cat, a horse, or a man, operate in the same manner, as a wound-up spring or a bent bow, with however an observable advantage in the human body, resulting from its erect posture, and the accumulated force obtained from gravitation in occasionally carry ing the weight of its upper limbs so much out of the centre of its equilibrium on both sides during the discharge. There is a repetition of this figure of the Discobolus (with only the difference of the turn of the head) in the possession of the Marchese Massimi, which Abbate Fea, in his Roman edition of Wincleman, proves by a passage from Lucian to have been copied from the famous Discobolus in bronze of Myron. On my first seeing this figure at Mr. Townley's, a Torso in the capitol at Rome, of which I had made some drawings, occur red to my recollection immediately. It is restored as a fallen gladiator, by the famous Mr. Le Gros, and was evidently in its ancient state the same figure as this of Mr. Townley and that at the Massimi. The Marquis of Lansdown has also another Torso of the same figure restored as a Diomed ; and there is another restored as one of the sons of Niobe. For the reasons adduced by Abbate Fea, all these five marble repetitions of this Discobolus, which had been dug up in different places, are evidently copies of the same original, and are glorious testimonies of the great estimation in which the bronze of Myron was held by the ancients. The position of the head hanging down in the same direction as the body, is very remarkable in Mr. Townley's figure, as it is a deviation from the original of Myron, as described by Lucian, and consequently from the Massimi copy, which corresponds perfectly with that description. In all other respects these figures agree, and this deviation appears to have been not unwisely made, as in this way all ambiguity in the intention of the figure by the direction of the eyes (which are not wanting in the action) is ingeniously avoided ; and in finishing the action, at least an equal acceleration of impetus is produced, by the head shooting upwards and forward, along with the other extremities. 481 things must soon happen) into the hands of men of mean intellects, who, incapable of meddling with the ideal, will operate solely with these mechanical principles, as their entire stock of trade, and thus bring about a separation between the body and the soul of art, with very little prospect of their being happily re-united afterwards. Every art will furnish but too many instances of these This, to the best of my recollection, is the only work of any of the celebrated ancient sculptors, of which even any copy remains ; for the sculptors of the Laocoon, though much and justly extolled for this performance, are not enumerated with the artists of the first class ; though they must certainly stand in that rank with us. Rut, to come back to our Discobolus, in Mr. Townley's collection. Resides its ad mirable expression of the subject, many views of its lower limbs and their sublime proportions, call to one's recollection the noble style of design of Annibal Carrache in the Farnese Gallery, and are the best vouchers for its sublimity, value, and preference, to any other style of design adopted by the painters of the old schools. Ry way of parenthesis, it will not be foreign to our purpose to mention here a parti cular respecting this Discobolus of Myron, which also furnishes an admirable illustration of what I thought myself so much obliged to insist upon in the second discourse, with regard to the inefficacy and uncertainty of even the best chosen mere words, when com pared with the things themselves. Lucian, whose credit as a fine writer, stands in the highest estimation, who was for some part of his time bred a statuary, and who seems to be the only ancient writer, now preserved, who had such a thorough and familiar knowledge of the arts of painting and sculpture, as to write accurately on the productions of either, has, in one of his dialogues so described this Discobolus of Myron, that when the Massimi Discobolus was discovered in 1782, Abbate Fea found from this passage that it was a copy of Myron's bronze figure, and followed up his discovery with this remarkable observation : " It is however to be confessed, that it is only by the inspection of this figure, we rightly comprehend Lucian's meaning, which for want of it, has hitherto been mistaken by the interpreters and commentators ; and that a just version of it can now be given." Here the Abbe instances interpretations of some of the words of this passage by the learned Gesner, by Solanus, and Reitzius, which are laughably absurd and ridiculous. VOL. I. 3 Q ' 48^ compositions of mere manual dexterity. How frequently has it been found that a musical composer, Avithout either understand ing or sensibility as a man, may, notwithstanding, as an artist, be so furnished with mechanical information in his concords and discords, his harmonical arrangemerits of firsts, thirds, fifths, and a long et cetera of proportionate relations, as to entertain the ear for hours together, without any the least regard to that imitation of passion and manners, which have been thought so essential in this as well as in other arts. So it has often happened In the painter's composition ; it might have required great abilities to have first discovered, that picturesque harmony depended upon certain proportionate conjunctions of uniformity and variety ; but this knowledge once communicated and exemplified In some illustrious instances, the further continuance and prosecution of it became a matter of mechanical operation, arising out of mere habit and dextrous application. Whether these conjunctions of uniformity and variety be con sidered as relating to the lines and angles formed by the contours and surfaces of the component parts ; or to the arrangement of the different degrees In the chiaro-scuro of those parts ; or In the degrees and quantities of the more uniform or more variegated hues and tints of colour (for the mere harmony of a composi tion extends to all these particulars, and may be equally put In practice without any great attention paid to the essential qualities of the things so composed) — whether they be hogs or heroes — whether flowers, fruit, dead game, kettles,, pans, and the other utensils of a kitchen — the objects surrounding a death bed, or those composing a triumph — whether the objects be well or 111 chosen, drawn or characterized — to the mechanical composer it 483 is all a matter of perfect Indifference, his only solicitude is about the harmonious manner of arranging them. An agreeable arrangement of the ingenious Mr. Cozens 's for tuitous blots, will answer just as well as one that is chained down to the specific properties of natural objects. Many agreeable examples of this mere harmonious arrangement may be found In the compositions of Ciro FerrI, Cortona, Lan- franc, and of Correggio, upon whom the others were formed. But notwithstanding that these harmonical attentions seem to have been the prevailing principle of Correggio's admirable com position in the Dome at Parma : yet this, as well as all his other works, Is so impregnated with a certain elevated style of design and graceful sentiment, that we are hardly conscious (at least for some time) of the absence of some of those higher requisites which distinguish the compositions of Raffael, and the antique. As to Lanfranco, Cortona, Ferri, and the others ofthis leaven, their composition is in general more agreeable, and rises in Its value In proportion to the insipidity of the subject ; as must ever be the case with those Avho are destitute of the higher excellence, and yet these three men are certainly in the number of the ablest mechanical artists. But when the mind looks for great exertions, it will reject with disgust any attempt to satisfy It with matters of inferior importance. Let so much suffice at present for composition, whether it regards the several circumstances of an action, or the detailed portions and members of any other integral or totality. 3 q 2 484 I shall, (God willing) In my next Lecture, lay before you such observations on chiaro-scuro, as appear to be of the most essential Importance. The chiaro-scuro Is properly a part of composition, and its expressive or agreeable arrangement must follow as a consequence, from the previous disposition of those lines, angles, and surfaces, which have been already mentioned. END OF LECTURE THE FOURTH, 485 LECTURE V. ON CHIARO-SCURO, Gentlemen, In the subject of our consideration this night, it may be for the purpose previously to take notice, that there has not been as yet, any proper and. accurate term adopted in the Eng lish language for that part of the art which is understood by the Italian word chiaro-scuro, and the French, clair-obscur. By these foreign words is meant, that general result which is effected by the several co-operating gradations of the light and dark objects of a picture, as well where those lights and darks arise from what is called the proper and inherent colour of the objects, as where they arise only from the several degrees of illumination and shadow. We have generally called this part of the art, the light and shade, words which, when thus contrasted to each other, give ^ very Inadequate and stinted Idea, which does not reach above half the desired extent, as It does not comprehend all those chiaros and scuros, lights and darks, which, whether they be In the shade or not, do so essentially concur In a well arranged 486 expressive chiaro-scuro. Neither does the clear-obscure (which an Ingenious writer has adopted) come fully to the desired point/ for the word clear Is at least equivocal, our Idea of clear colours and light colours being not the same. The general light and shade is also a phrase Incorrect and inadequate, for there maybe a beautiful and very forcible chiaro-scuro in a picture, by the mere opposition of light and dark colours, though almost all the ob jects should be in the light, and consequently little or no shade in the picture. This Is often found in many of Vandyke's, and other portraits, where the heavy colours of the drapery and other adjacent similar matters, contrast with the light colours, and produce the desired effect without any heavy or extensive shadows. K Chiaro-scuro, clair-obscur, literally rendered, is light-dark, a word which, besides being uncouth to an English ear, would be also ambiguous, as it might be mistaken for the discrimination of a species of dark of the lighter kind, from one still darker. Usage has notwithstanding reconciled the French and Italians to the appropriation of this term, though In the beginning it must have been equally uncouth and equivocal to them, as it would be to us without the particle (and), light and dark, chiaro e oscuro, which reduces It to the separate materials of which the word was originally formed. But as I am not of weight sufficient to gvre currency to this new term of light-dark, and as the words light and dark are In general use, and fully comprehend whatever can be understood by the appropriate term, chiaro-scuro, I shall, in speaking of this part of our art, use the Avords light and dark, or chiaro-scuro, in preference to light and shade, which for the reasons already given, are found to be Inadequate, defective, and tending to mislead. 48 7 The indlspensible necessity of selection, or judicious choice in all the component parts of a picture, has been urged at some length in a former discourse, and In no part of the art is this truth more evident, than in that which Is now the subject of our atten tion : for it does greatly depend upon the happy or unskilful distribution of the lights and darks, whether objects shall present themselves with that disgusting confusion and embarrassment which distract our sight, or with that unity and harmony which we can never behold without pleasure. There are times when the scenes about Hyde Park, Richmond, Windsor, and Blackheath, appear very little Interesting. The difference between a meri dian and evening light, the reposes of extensive shadow, the half lights, and catching splendours that those scenes sometimes exhi bit, compared with their ordinary appearance, do abundantly shew how much Is gained by seizing^ upon those transitory mo ments of fascination, when nature appears with such accumulated advantage. If this selection be so necessary respecting objects intrinsically beautiful, how much more studiously ought It to be endeavoured at, when we are obliged to take up with matters of less consequence. How many of the deservedly esteemed pro ductions of the Flemish and Dutch schools would be thrown aside, as intolerable and disgusting, were it not for the beautiful effects of their judicious distribution of the lights and darks. Art Is selection; it Is perfect when this selection Is pursued throughout the whole, and it is even so valuable when extended but to a part only, as to become a pass-port for the rest. Whether communicated light be any thing emitted from a luminous body, or whether it arises from any adaptation in the solid particles, or least Intersticial parts of the surfaces of objects, to exhibit the image of the luminary in proportion to the degree 488 of their compactness, or smoothness (as is evidently the case in the pupil of the eye and other smooth surfaces), — whatever the energy of light may be, or however it be communicated, is per haps a knowledge not to be obtained. In which happily we are not concerned. Our business Is, not with Its nature, but with its visible effects. As to shade, though It is the inseparable con comitant of light on all opaque bodies, yet certainly It is nothing in Itself but a mere negation, a privation, and absence of light occasioned by the interposition of the opaque parts of bodies : however, (to us at least) it is not a mere nonentity ; for as light is a principle the most active and procreative, is immediately communicated to all the objects directly before it, and by them so reflected or exhibited as to be visible (though with diminished lustre) in all that plenitude of objects that surround us, accord ing to the direction of their several surfaces ; so its total absence is merely a privation ; and nothing, however shadowed, is so absolutely blotted out, at least to us, as to prevent the returns of vision from co-operating with the Information of our other senses with respect to the whole or parts of their proper objects. On the other hand, this opposition of shade to light occasioned by the opacity of objects, and the interruption of their surfaces, is not only one great cause that objects are seen, but it also by its various degrees of strength and weakness, affords the means to judge of the distance at which we see them : and this holds in the degrees of light and dark with respect to the hues of colour, as well as In those where the mere strength or weakness of light and shadow is only considered. As all objects become indistinct, and are lost to the sight. In proportion as they are left in obscurity, so all the parts of ob jects exposed to the light are more distinctly seen and appear 489 more made out and determined than the parts in shadow. In the same manner all hues of colour are proportionably confound ed and perish in obscurity, and they receive their lustre and their characteristic discriminations from each other, but in pro portion as they approach the light : similar effects follow, as ob jects are more or less distant, receding from the sight and ap^ proaching the horizon ; they not only lose of their magnitude, but the discrimination of their component parts is rendered more difficult; they necessarily become proportionably blurred, con fused, and indistinguishable, as Avell in their forms, as hues of colour, and the more so, as the interposing medium of air hap pens to be dense and hazy. This difference in the degrees ; of distinctness. Is very observable In the evening and morning ap pearance of the same objects. The exhalations and mists upon which the sun's catching rays diffuse such a glory in the evening, give an additional indistinctness, as they are spread like a veil, between the eye and the remote objects. Whereas, in the morn ing, after the sleeping vapours have been dispersed or carried up, the parts, the hues, the determinate forms of remote objects* become much more distinguishable, and If I might so express myself, the beauty, freshness, and sharpness of the Impression is less effaced by the distance. Without entering too minutely Into the consideration of the lights and shadows of particular objects, which in great part falls within the province of perspective, yet It may be observed in general, that not only the light and shadows of the several objects consi dered separately, but the character of their general effect, de pends greatly upon the quality of the light, and the adventitious circumstances which accompany its communication. In a ge- VOL. I, 3 R 490 nferal light, when the sun Is so concealed by clouds as to give no particular eclat to that part of the hemisphere, objects, are Illu minated vertically, and but feebly, consequently their shadows are weak, contracted, and without any lateral projection : their greater or lesser degree of force, depends upon the comparative strerigth or weakness of their peculiar hues of colour, and their local situation, respecting the quantity of medium or air, in which they are Immersed by their greater or lesser degree of re moteness. When this general light Is brought through any aperture, as a gateway, window, or the like. It then becomes a particular light, and affords all the advantages of lateral, projected sha dows, and reflexes. The same happens In the open air, when the sun, though hidden, communicates a great degree of lustre (as it generally does) to the sky and clouds in that quarter : ob jects are often illuminated from that particular light, and the subordinate general light, communicated to the opposite side of the objects from the other less Illuminated parts of the air, serves but as a shadow for the particular, predominating light : it fol lows then that the shadows exposed to the open air, though (to use the phrase) projected from a stronger light, are less forcible, less sharp and decided, than the shadows of the Aveaker light, when in a confined situation which excludes the Interference of the surrounding air. The principal or strongest light on convex bodies, avIU be Of greater or lesser extent according to the extentof the convexity, and to the magnitude of the luminary. The light from a torch will be more contracted than that from a window, and the progression of this light on those surfaces, is by an insensible gradation from the 491 Advanced part where it first catches and shines to the Iriclinlng half light, to thehalf shadow, and to the retired parts or shade j where it Is lost. In angular bodies the interruption from the light to the shadow, will be sudden and precipitate, as the angles which oc casion It. The reflexes, which soften, and sometimes enliven the extremity of the shades, are no part of this direct light, but are either communications from the surrounding air, or from the neighbouring bodies, which are directly illuminated, and they are stronger or weaker according to the proximity of those bodies, arid the degree of light they possess. ^ As it Is by this opposition or contrast between the different degrees of light, or the different hues of colour, that all natural objects become visible, and as it is by the opposition of shade to light (occasioned by the interruption of surface within the boun dary of objects) that our sight Is enabled to distinguish solid bodies, from mere plain superfices ; as this is the invariable con-" stitutlon of things, it is difficult to account how the ancient Egyptians, the Chinese, and the other oriental nations, could have been for so many ages looking at nature, without having the ability to distinguish the component parts of the great spec tacle before them, and that they should overlook those grada tions of light, or relievo of light and shade, by which objects- are perceived, and their nature and distance ascertained. In a former discourse It has beeri intimated, that the pictures of those people were no more than a mere writing, where the slightest intimation of form, was (as it Is with us) sufficient for the pur pose intended. This account of the matter affords the most favourable salvo for their reputation; for otherwise, if we should suppose, that with the true spirit of artists, the imitation of na ture had been in the least attended to, we must then have ex- 3 R 2 492 pected, that In such an immense tract of time, nations so cried up for their great sagacity and superior penetration, would have' been able to arrive at the ordinary knoAvledge Of the mere light and shade of objects, as It is found in the wOrks of Albert Durer, Holbein, and the old Italian painters before Da Vinci. Some time since, ' in a conversation on this subject with orie of those indiscriminate admirers of antiquity (Avho had more knowledge of books, than of nature and art) in the hurry of his zeal, he was almost inclined to persist, that in those oriental nations, the na tural objects had no shadow at all, or that If there was any, It could not be discernible on the brown complexions of the in habitants. But not to pursue such absurdities further than they are worth, let us return our attention to the admirable principles and conduct, adopted by Giorgione, Titian, Correggio, Rubens, and the other great successors of Da Vinci, of whom it may be said without a figure, that they were not only skilled in all the happy artifices of the light and shade, which give relievo to objects, but that they went much further, and assisted by a ray of Intellectual sentiment, they defeated nature In her own way, Avith the materials they borrowed from herself With respect: to the conduct necessary to be pursued In ob taining this advantageous distribution of the lights and darks in a picture, there is little now can be said upon it, as our neigh bours on the continent have long since developed the principles of practice adopted by the great chiaro-scurlsts. It has been Avith good discernment observed, that the constant maxim of those great, artists, was to dispose all their light and dark objects after such a manner as would best contribute to their being seen with the greatest possible advantage and ease. That to this end they arranged them in groups and masses of light, half light, 493 darks and half-darks, and reflexes. Of these lights and darks one was principal, the rest subordinate, and all generally co-ope rated to produce a totality and entireness in the work. The principal light was generally so disposed, as to give the greatest lustre to that part where the action and personages were of the greatest consequence, and where accordingly It was most pro per to arrest the attention of the spectator. How far this light should extend, depended upon the previous arrangement of the objects, and the discreet and sentimental accommodation of It to the nature of the subject; but It is observable, that by extending it too far. Its comparative value Is proportionably lessened. Although this principal light should, as it were, occupy only its own sphere, and not be repeated ; yet it is not to be Avith out its satellites or dependents. Revificatlons and echoes of it, subordinate In magnitude or force, or both, should notwithstand ing, by an artful concatenation be distributed to the circum stances of secondary Importance in the other parts. These echoes prevent the too great silence, which would otherwise prevail in the middle tint and shade, and still further they remove that ap pearance of magic-lanthorn-like, and too artificial contrivance, which sometimes offends In the works of Rembrandt, Caravaggio, and others. If the frame, boundary, or termination of a picture be (as it ought to be) considered only as a window frame, or the limits of any other aperture through which we behold a certain portion of the creation, where any given action, business, or event maybe supposed to happen ; It must then appear evident, that nothing can be more ill-judged than the practice of sacrificing all the extremi ties of a picture to a concentrated light upon the middle group, except where the subject makes It proper, as In Correggio's Nati- 494 vity, and other night scenes. By this absurd cOnduct.Uhe picture^ as It were, becomes less than the canvass, its connexion with the rest of the creation Is destroyed, and all opportunity taken away of that artificial infinite, where Ingenuity may haA'e so many resources of suggested beauty or sublimity ; where the imagination, when satisfied with the scene before It, might, by the concatenated secondary lights, be led on to the conception of something still further out of the picture; It is enough that these secondary lights be really subordinate, and then. Instead of taking away from the principal light, they add greatly to Its value. As these first and secondary lights must regulate the general effect, and give law, as It were, to the masses of middle and ob scure tints ; too much care cannot be taken to preserve them large, flowing, undisturbed by any trifling iriterruptiOns, and. of variegated beautiful shapes. The middle tint, or intermediate passage between the two masses of light and dark. Is of the utmost Importance in produc ing a good general effect ; it is principally owing to the judicious and happy management of the middle tint, that those fierce oppo site extremes of light and dark are brought to co-operate and har monize; being subordinate in beauty, to the one, and In vigour and purity to the other, it makes their communication easy and agree able, and serves as a foil to both, by giving each Its comparative value. Parts of this mass of middle tint may be made to serve as an extension of the light in some places, and of the shade in others, just as you chuse to oppose it to the parts of other masses, still lighter or darker, so that by its beautiful and variegated. modes of penetrating into the light on the one hand, and , the dark on the other, it becomes the great ligature and common bond of union to both ; for provided that the nature and charac-; 495 ter of the middle tint be unequivocally defined and distinguished from things really light and dark in themselves, it Is (from the oblique position of objects, intervention of clouds, and so forth) equally susceptible of all advantageous, fleeting, accidental beauties, with the secondary lights. It Is not necessary that the middle tint should always intervene between every light and dark ; on the contrary, the eclat, spirit, and propriety of certain parts, absolutely require their being detached boldly from the light by the sole and Immediate opposition of vigorous shadows, or other dark tints. Extensive darks contribute greatly to the beautiful as well as to the grand and majestlcal result of the whole together : they equally serve to give a richness and grace to the broken hues of the middle tint, and eclat, beauty, and vigorous animation, to the masses of light; whilst they also afford a repose no less grateful and necessary to prevent the fatigue and over-exertion of the sight on the Illuminated parts. To this end all the obscure or dark parts, whether shade or otherwise, should (as much as Is possible without breaking In upon higher considerations) be arranged after such a manner, as to form but one general mass '•> and its greatest force be collected Into some one part, where It might dominate with most advantage, or with least disadvantage, and become a principal on which all the others are in a graduat ed and harmonious dependance. With respect to this mass of dark, it need hardly be observed, that even where most vigorous, it Is not a mere blot, which obliterates wherever it is extended. The occasions are very few indeed, where either the form or the proper colour of objects can be thus totally lost ; objects even dark in themselves, and in the most advanced and consequently the strongest shade, are notwithstanding only deprived of the 496 direct light : they are therefore more or less illuminated by the surrounding air, arid by the reverberations of light from the other bodies In their vicinity. The concatenated portions of this mass of dark, are like those of the light, equally susceptible of all the elegant variations of size and figure. The interposition of drapery. Its accidental cast of folds, and many other things, in their nature purely optional, may be ingeniously recurred to on those occasions, when they do not Interfere with propriety, or other Important considerations. By these happy artifices, the darks may be occasionally contracted, extended, and made to assume any desired form, and reflexes obtained wherever they may be attended with utility. With respect to the proportionate magnitude of these masses of light, middle tint, and dark, as relative to each other, it cannot precisely be determined. The nature of the subject, whether gay, majestic, or melancholy, affords the best rule to proceed by in each particular case. But an ingenious French writer has many years since observed, that for the most part the practice of those great painters, who best understood the fine effects of chiaro-scuro, was to make the mass of middle tint larger than that of the light, and the mass of dark still larger than the masses of light and middle tints united together. Although these recipes for the mechanical distribution of the lights and darks have been very sagaciously deduced from the practice of the excellent chiaro-scurlsts, and cannot fail of being attended with benefit ; yet the student should always recollect, that a beauty Impertinently placed, and obtained at the expense of a perfection of a superior order, will justly be considered as a great deformity ; and that consequently the measure of these 497 subordinate considerations must be dictated by matters of higher importance. The expression of the subject must not appear to be created for the chiaro-scuro, but the direct contrary. The chiaro-scuro and the other attentions of the composition should be calculated to give the expression and sentiment of the subject all possible force and value. Every thing admissible in the chiaro-scuro should fairly follow from that natural order, in which the groups and other objects have been necessarily ar ranged for the better expression of the subject. This firmly fixed as the invariable law ; It may then be observed, that in the infinitely various configurations of the sky and clouds, which may with equal possibility be connected with the subject, much assistance may be derived by obtaining such accidental lights or shades as, not interfering Avith propriety, their admission, extent, or local situation may be considered as a matter purely optional; and still further, although in the very arrangement of the figures and groups, the expression of the subject, with its becom ing dignity, fitness, and propriety, be the prime object, yet (as was observed In our last discourse) without detracting from this, some attention must be also paid in the collocation of these figures and groups, that they may either by their direct or perspective situation, produce an agreeable variegated unity in their lines and forms : so it Is but extending the same consideration to Its natural length, to the composition of lights and darks, and con triving it, that such certain portions of the surfaces of these forms, may have such aspects with regard to the luminary, as will best admit their being a proper substratum for those large, spreading masses of light, half light, and dark, upon which the beautiful, vigorous, and expressive effect of the work does so much depend. Indeed the principal and the subordinate considerations of a picture ought and might very well be carried VOL. I. 3 s 498 on altogether; and it is only from Inability or laziness that they can interfere to the prejudice of each other. The chiaro-scuro may be also greatly assisted by the judicious management of the drapery ; for although, the modes of dress employed In the composition must be in strict conformity with the usages and characters of the people represented, and although the disposition and cast of folds in the several draperies must be governed by the action, attitude, or way in which the figures are employed, and must further be so disposed as not to take from the spirit and energy of the action and value of the form, by a too great concealment of the junctures and other parts of importance : yet in the Infinitely various casts and modes of dis tinction of the folds of these draperies, which may be equally compatible with the same action ; an ingenious artist has it always in his power to extend or contract his lights or darks, according to the occasions of his general effect, without the least infraction of propriety. Every beauty of which all the kinds of drapery is susceptible, may be rendered highly available In com pleting and removing any disagreeable appearances which might otherwise follow from the more absolute parts of the composition and chiaro-scuro : the several textures of coarse and fine linen, of cotton, silk, woollen cloth, afford an extensive variety in the cast and manner of their several foldings, some more smart. and frequently interrupted, others more flowing, majestic, and com posed of larger parts. Spirit and force may be obtained by the precipitate opposition of the lights and darks In the close and deep folds, suavity, grace, and accord by those more open and extended ; and opportunities are every where afforded of break ing all unavoidably parallel rectangular and other too definite and regular appearances, by the beautiful and variegated angles 499 that are formed between the origin and the more dispersed parts of these folds. Almost all compositions afford these accesslonal advantages ; as, however differeritly feshloned, the dresses of the people of all ages have been more or less formed out of the same materials. The further use that may be made of the uniformity and variety of the colours of these draperies, will be taken notice of in our next discourse ; but, as every colour, whether simple or compound, has its proper chiaro-scuro, consisting of all the pos sible degrees of depth or strength of hue, from the slightest or weakest tincture downwards, and as the selection of any of these degrees, and the situation which it may occupy, is often optional, all these considerations taken together, afford an infinity of resource for adjusting the composition and chiaro-scuro, for continuing assimilated forms, or for interrupting, breaking, and variegating them to any desired extent ; and this Is equally pur- suable in the lights and darks, in the middle tint, and In the reflexes. Thus with attention and amorous assiduity it is almost always in the power of an artist to superinduce an harmonious and sen timentally expressive chiaro-scuro upon that ordinary distribu tion of light and shade, which natural bodies necessarily exhibit. I have in a former discourse had occasion to take notice, that architecture (where It was not a mechanical art dependent on mere convenience, and upon the rule and plummet) was an emanation of the arts of design, and consequently In every thing that regarded its more liberal concerns. Its beautiful or majestlcal effects, as a whole and parts, it was the pure offspring of drawing or modelling, and absolutely and solely depended upon the composition of forms, and the composition of chiaro-scuro and 3 s 2 500 relievo, which those forms produced. The same principles of uniformity and variety, or of variegated . unity, which must be previously pursued in so arranging and constructing the figures and general forms of a picture, that they may serve as a proper substratum for that chiaro-scuro which brings them to the sight as an harmonious totality — these same principles, and these only, are the constituents of all similar agreeable effects in architecture, since the architect must have these effects present to his mind, that they may follow as consequences, from the arrangement of forms which enter into the composition of his buildings. These laws of variegated unity being grounded upon the just consider ation of the human faculties, and accommodated (as was before observed) to our abilities and inabilities of perception, they are therefore equally applicable to every Avhole and its parts, and are great agents of satisfaction in all other arts, as well as In those which depend upon vision : nay, they are applicable to nature herself, which may be made a work of art, with no small accu mulation of advantage ; as it is evident In gardening, the laying out of grounds, and other matters : and every man conversant with the higher poetry, must have often observed the ingenious subordinations, the contrasts, and all the artful necessary expedi ents that have been employed to give force and eclat to the principal action, or a character and unity to the whole. But not to stray from our own immediate concerns. When the examples of beautiful and majestlcal arrangements of relative magnitudes and forms in architecture were once executed, they might be easily copied and multiplied by the rule and compass of mere mechanics : but the history of architecture and architects both in Grece and Italy affords one continued chain of proof, that all the great inventors, restorers, and improvers of architec ture were (as might naturally have been expected) painters or 501 sculptors. This, by-the-bye, as it neither suits our time or occa sion to go Into any historical details. But what Is Immediately for our purpose, and was Indeed my inducement for the men tioning architecture in this place, is the occasion it affords for the illustration of the utility and importance of chiaro-scuro, and the absolute necessity of Its being a leading consideration in the fabrication of all objects presented to the sight. Attending only to the actual fact, without entering Into the reasons or the neces sities which might have occasioned it, we must confess, that many of our churches and public buildings of the last age, have the same bad appearance as Chinese pictures, where there is no light and shade to give brilliancy, repose, and majesty of effect ; mere walls inlaid with pilasters or half columns, unconnected perfora tions for windows and doors, and nothing to relieve the sight from a dull disgusting monotony of light, without shade. This hateful Insipid uniformity cannot be removed by diversifying forms on the same surface, like mere outlines on paper. They want the force of chiaro-scuro to give them that relievo which the sight necessarily demands, and without which they are not forms, but sketches and Indications of form. In the sound ex amples of art, when pilasters or half columns have been employ ed, and consequently the entablature deprived of its accustomed projecture, they were either accompanied with arched ways which produced the necessary quantity of shadow, as in the Theatre of Marcellus, the Colliseo, and many others, or their continuity was interrupted by other more retired parts or objects to which they served as illuminated portions or masses. Where prominent parts could not be obtained for the projection of adequate shade, voids have been introduced, as they answer the same end, but In a less degree : they serve as a shade when the object is in shadow, In all cases where this uniformity of 502 surface and equally diffused light Is supportable, shadow, or Ivhat is equivalent to it, will be somewhere found to have occa sioned it, either by gloomy trees or other dark objects connected with the view, Canaletto would make good pictures of our worst churches by employing his skill In the relative pictriresque accompaniments. Whatever impressions of boldness and masculine vigour, whatever soft and feminine gracefulness, and whatever easy, splendid luxuriance, men of taste and sentiment have discovered in the three Grecian orders, these peculiar characteristics are In nothing more discoverable than in their several chiaro- scuros. If any man doubt this, let him compare a model or a shaded drawing of the Temple of Minerva, or of the Portico of the Pantheon, with the mere geometrical or perspective outline. These geometrical and proportionate measures and mere lines, are to the sight little better than nonentities until they receive being and realization from relievo and the chiaro-scuro which follows It. Let us even suppose that the Corinthian columns on the sides of St. Martin's church had been entire, yet so as to be in contact with the wall ; how frittered and meagre would this lateral view appear in comparison of the noble portico in front, sustained as it Is by the majestic shade flung into Its intercolum- niations by the projection of Its entablature. The Temple at NIsmes, and that of Fortuna VIrilis, being nearly the same with this of St. Martin's, the same objection will lie equally to all. However, it may be worth observing, that if this difference Of distribution in the front and sides of the same building arose from a desire of saving expense, the convenience of windows afforded by this discontinuance of lateral projecting columns Is at least to us a valuable compensation for any thing that may have been 503 lost as to effect. As to the ancients, who wanted nothing of this convenience, it is a departure from the spirit and character of their work, for which no other than an economical reason can be given, as they appear not to have sought for, but rather to have excluded all other light but that of fire. Their religious rites and ceremonies performed by torch-light In a dark quadrangular building, without any other aperture but the door ; and thickly beset all round with, as it were, a dark grove of columns, the very forms of those columns and their capitals, particularly some of the most ancient in Egypt — all these things (however im proved by successive and ingenious refinements) do indeed strongly indicate a commemoration and representation of usages which could only have arisen amongst the Cimmerians, or such like people. To descend even to the Gothic churches, many of them are so disposed (whether with intention, or perhaps from an uncon scious feeling of the beauties and general forms of the ancient colonnades, which they imitated in their own barbarous way ; or rather, these general forms were the last things forgotten, and had survived all the smaller particular details which were lost in the gradual corruption of architecture) these Gothic churches are so disposed, I say, that their cloisters, aisles, and the different partitions of their front and lateral views, almost always present the eye with large masses of shade, which give the necessary support and value to the parts Illuminated, and produce such a relievo and effect in the totality, as makes a considerable impres sion of awe and grandeur on the mind, in despite of Its very barbarous and defective particulars. Thus, It is apparent, that variegated unity, and its consequent 504 relievo, of a proportionate light and shade, is the operating cause of the beautiful arrangements in architecture, as well as in painting and sculpture. There Is however this remarkable difference In those arts : in architecture the proportionate arrangement, and Its relievo of light and shade is, I had almost said, the whole of the art ; at least it is of much more essential consequence to that art than it is even to painting and sculpture, and for this plain reason, that the particular inanimate square or curve ingredients of the architectonic composition, have but little value or interest in themselves when compared with the various iirtrinsic beauties of animate and vegetative life, which enter into the composition of the painter or sculptor. The successful management of this variegated unity and relievo of light and shade, can only be expected from the skilful designer. It is he alone who, from the sure and expansive principles of composition and chiaro-scuro, can pursue beauty and sublimity in a thousand different ways ; whilst without these essential requisites of design, men are but mere builders, and must unavoidably copy, or plurider from the works of those who are gone before them ; and in either case the absurdities that may result from the difference of climate, local situation, and from ill-according particulars, however beautiful In their own original proper arrangement, are too obvious to be mentioned. These absurdities happen fre quently when gentlemen, from a little reading In Palladio or Serlio, will venture to become their own architects, or to Interfere and obtrude their notions on the artists they employ. In pursuing this Important part of the distribution and effects of light and shade, it gives me no small pleasure to find that I have been led to take notice of a particular which reflects great honour on our own age, as compared with the last. Some of 505 the most distinguished architects both here and on the continent, are in the number of our ablest designers. Of this truth our own recollection will furnish such an Instance In those very admirable drawings of our worthy professor of architecture, which are annually exhibited round this chair, as makes it altogether unnecessary for me to offer further proofs of the sound enlarged principles of design and harmonious arrangement of effects which have been so happily pursued by the architects of the present century. With respect to the chiaro-scuro of sculpture, it is to be con sidered in two different ways, as the sculpture is a principal, or as it Is only an agent. Where it is a principal, as in groups and figures In the round, the masses of light and shade, or, in other words, the agreeable or majestic effect of the work In all its possible views, cannot be too much attended to. The taste of lines and harmonious flow of the parts or several members of the work (whether a group or a single figure) their variety and their combined unity, are the efficient causes of that light and shade which give ease and satisfaction to the eye of the spectator, and engage him, as it were, to enter into the contemplation of those still more essential beauties of a higher order, which result from the sublime conception of the form and character, and the graceful or pathetlcal expression of the subject. As to the oppositions of chiaro-scuro that are effected by dif ferently coloured marbles, it would take up too much of our time to offer reasons why it ought to be rejected altogether. To speak my own feelings of this matter, 1 never see it with pleasure ; the less the opposition in the colour of the materials, the less offended is my sight. Also the mixture of bronze with marble VOL. I. 3 T 506 in any imitation of natural objects, is to me always disgusting. There are no doubt. great authorities for the using bronze as the material of statues, and certainly it may, from the weight and senslbleness of its colour do extremely well, perhaps better than any thing else in Insulated works which have the air for a back ground, and are to be seen at a distance, as Is the case of Falconet's Monument of Peter the Great, that of Marcus Aurelius, and many others; but In most other cases, in those of enclosed situations, to repeat my own feelings once more, I would wish to have the bronze gilt. The light and shade of a gilt figure is no doubt less agreeable, I was going to say less natural, than that of a figure in marble, but it is notwithstanding much more eligible in confined situations than that of bronze. Sculpture may In all sepulchral and other such monuments, be considered as a principal or sole object, caiTying with It its own laws, and from the junction of alto and basso-relievo, affords a noble opportunity for those artist-like attentions to the fine effects of composition and chiaro-scuro, of which it is sus> ceptible In a high degree, and of which some great moderns have given such illustrious specimens, as incontrovertibly demonstrate the advantage of the undertaking, whether there had been any ancient examples for it or not : as works of this nature must be regulated by the consideration of the dis tance at which they are seen, and their aspects respecting the spectator, and also respecting the light ; whether they receive It perpendicularly, laterally, or in front : their situation ought al ways to be previously determined in order to make these essential circumstances coincide with the just and happy expression of the subject, which I shall again repeat, ought in all works whatever, to appear the chief and governing principle, from Avhence the mode of composition and chiaro-scuro issued as from their source. 507 I could wish not only for your sake, and that of the public at large, but also on my own account, that our collection of plaster casts in the Academy was more ample. In the number of excel lent things that must be attended to during one's residence abroad, the Impressions of many of them will unavoidably not be so fresh on the memory after some years, as to enable a man to speak of them Avith confidence ; more particularly on such an occasion as the present — but from what I recollect of the happy effects produced by the skilful arrangements of alto and basso-re^ lievo, and the perspective imitations of the aerial as well as lineal de- graduations of the object in Algarde's famous work at S. Peter's, in that of Puget at Paris, and some others ; this mode of process is capable of producing the sublimest and most extensive effects in sculpture ; what should hinder that it might not even be asso ciated with groups In the round? For my own part I cannot help being strongly of opinion, that such a subject as the Niobe, would come upon the eye of the spectator with a much more col lected force, if treated by a great artist In this way., than in the scattered manner in which this composition appeared In the Villa Medici. It may be thought that more might be lost than gained by this procedure, and that It would be sacrificing the great advantage afforded by the different views of sculptured figures In the round. But let It be considered, that such a com position as I speak of, formed of detached figures, and of those in alt and in bas-relief, insensibly vanishing almost into the Intaglio of a proper and significant back-ground; such a composition, besides excluding all foreign Impertinent matter that must ne cessarily detract from the impression of the subject upon the mind, would, on the contrary, afford a fit opportunity of indicat ing all such historical and other opposite becoming circumstances of the scene, as might urge on and give this Impression of the 3 T 2 508 subject all its completion : and from the very nature of vision with respect to near or more remote objects, such a composition as this, would not be so strictly confined to any individual per spective point as to exclude a great variety of views of the ad vanced figures ; it would admit almost (nay to the full) as many as the composition of the Niobe does at present ; for It was evi dent from the state of the work, that It was not intended tp be viewed on all sides indifferently, perhaps it was even proper it should not; for however differently it might be with Puget 's famous MIlo, Le Pautre's vEneas, and Anchises, and Coustou 's Alexander and Bucephalus, which very prOperly admit of being seen on all sides ; yet there can be no doubt, or at least I have none, but that the sculptor of the Niobe reasoned rightly as far as he went, and that the adequate expression of such extensive subjects as necessarily comprehend a concatenation of many cir cumstances, requires that the figures be more or less presented to the eye of the spectator under certain aspects, the most noble and the most proper, and upon inspection It will appear that the Laocoon, and even the Apollo Belvedere, and many other single figures, were Intended for niches, or at least were not Interided to be so Insulated as to be seen all round. 1 am almost tempted to mention Bernini's four doctors of the church, and the glory Surrounding S. Peter's chair, as an admir able specimen of this mixed composition of the different kinds of relievo, and certainly It Is a most animated, noble performance ; no doubt. It must be admitted that his style of design is sometimes overdone, too exquisite; and his judgement may be said not to keep pace Avith his extreme sensibility, and the noble force of his disposition. However, this charge will hold good btit in few in stances, and his design in general is full of intelligence, the 509 Vet-y reverse of unformed Dutch vulgarity, and his imagina tion, which was always that of a great man, cannot be too much esteemed. About fifty years ago there happened at Rome one of the noblest occasions for a stupendous composition of this mixed re^ lievo in the Fontana de Trevi, But from powerful favour, or some other such wretched consideration, the pope unfortunately threw the work away upon a mere architect, and Fifippo Valle, AvIth other sculptors, being but understrappers In the business, Avere ill-fated Instruments in a hand that knew not how to em ploy them to any purpose of advantage ; the work eventually turned out to be a disgrace to the pope, to those who executed it, and above all to the city in which It was erected, and affords a striking lesson to succeeding generations, of the folly of taking design, and the composition of forms and chiaro-scuro, out of the hands of those who can manage them, and committing them to men Avhose views extend no further than the square and com pass. From such perverse folly, what can be expected but monuments of expensive and lost labour, Avithout amenity of de sign, effect, or any other valuable leading quality to recommend them ? Had the whole of this great machine of the Fontana de Trevi been committed to any one of those sculptors ; or had any historical painter, or such a man as Bernini, the designing of It, . what might not have been done with such an opportunity of one great concentrated suite of views, I say concentrated ; because, as this could not be an insulated composition, viewed on the four sides, like the so justly celebrated fountain in the Piazza Navona, the whole impression of the subject here Avould be entire, would be one, and not many, as a significant and co-operating back ground would happily concentrate all the views in front ? 510 But to return, and to finish what I had to say of the desirable increase of our little collection of plaster casts in the Academy, it Is on many accounts a thing most ardently to be wished : for as almost all our great houses are filled with old foreign pictures of one kind or other, but at best of little Importance to the na tional reputation, and as our churches, the natural receptacle for. all Interesting, serious, and manly art, can affi)rd no prospect for the exercise of national ability, whilst, to the disgrace of the age, the mistaken delicacy of ignorance, and abused, superan nuated, fanatical prejudices, are unfortunately allowed to stand so much in the way ; whilst matters are likely to remain after this fashion, it would be at least some amusement, and prevent the ennui of inactivity, to have it in our power to lounge over what the other artists had done, who were more fortui nately circumstanced, to compare the casts of the Curtius at the Borghese, of some bas-reliefs at the Villa Medici, and other ancient works of this kind, with some of the best works of the moderns ; to trace the modern bas-relief from Its first, and very respectable attempt at picturesque effects. In Ghiberti's Gates of the Baptisterium, which we have, to the most famous of those of later date, which we have not. In the ancient bas-reliefs there certainly is not much attention paid to any de-graduation of objects and their effects. Their composition seldom or never extends further than tAVo plans, and although the figures in the interior or second plan, are of lower relief, and produce conse quently, and very properly, a less forcible effect of chiaro scuro ; yet the lineal perspective does not here correspond with the aerial, for the figures upon both those plans are generally of the same size. It may be said, and even Insisted upon, that the second plan seems intended for little else than to give that ple nitude of objects, which the mere arrangement of forms required, 511 and consequently that no perspective de-graduation was attempt ed by the ancients ; but this Is not satisfactory : there seems an error, and it is better to confess it ; for undoubtedly the compa rative diminution of force and relievo naturally presupposes a comparative diminution of magnitude. These bas-reliefs have merit enough In other respects to preserve their rank in the art, and It is probable that most of them were placed In such situa tions, that they were more or less governed by other laws than those AvhIch arose out of themselves. When sculpture Is only an agent, as it is in the frieze, and other parts of architecture ; Its effects of chiaro-scuro should become subordinate, and like every other member, appear only as a cooperating part in the general effect of the whole building. This, I believe, will be found to be the true reason for what may be thought the imperfect, inartificial mode of execution, which it appears by the fragments In the Academy, was adopted in the bas-reliefs of the frieze on the temple of Minerva at Athens. The figures which were Intended to appear nearest the eye, are inclining to the flat ; they have comparatively the least convex ity, and come off from their ground in a bold, square, and de tached way, Avilh a relievo similar to that of the Triglyphs and Pateras, ordinarily used in those situations. Thus the lights being larger, and less broken, the whole appearance of those advanced objects is comparatively more preserved and dis tinct than the others, and the effect proper to the occasion is perhaps better obtained than It could have been In any other way. If these works were, from architectonic and optical considera tions, solely calculated to produce their effect In a certain given 512 situation distant from the sight, it can be no wonder, nor Is it any imputation of want of skill in Phidias, or his workmen, that they should appear very differently, and much wanting when brought near the eye. Into a situation the reverse of that for which they were Intended. Had they been calculated for the pannels of an arched way, almost on a level with the spectator like those beautiful bas-reliefs in the Arch of Titus, there can be no doubt, but that a style of execution directly the reverse ought necessarily to have been adopted, and would haA^e been adopted ; for the knowledge which influenced the conduct of the artist in the one mode, does actually Imply the cognizance of the other. This procedure, where the most advanced objects are kept comparatively flatj naturally produces a broad light on those advanced objects, with smart shadows or touches about the arms, eyes, nose, and other associated projecting, and engraved parts, which are relieved and Avell set off by the more interior figures. In consequence of their being more rounded, and thereby affording a greater quantity of middle tint and scarcity of light. This, as was before observed, is perhaps the most skilful and best method which could have been adopted for producing an advantageous effect In objects so situated. Something of this kind Is observable in the famous basso-relievo, vulgarly called the Trimalchio, of which there is an excellent one in Mr. Townley's collection. The figures and objects about them in the first plan, are com paratively broad and flat, whilst those on the second and third plans are rounder and more relieved : Indeed they are too much relieved, projecting shades too forcible, and by that means pro ducing a false chiaro-scuro, which militates AAith the general 513 effect, and Is In direct opposition to the perspective diminution of magnitude, by Avhich this ancient sculptor has properly enough Intimated the distance at which those figures are seen, but which ought to have been accompanied with a decrease of force and relievo proportionate to this decrease of magnitude. It is only by this Inseparable correspondence in the force and magnitude of objects, that we are habituated to judge of the comparative proximity or distance of those objects both In nature and art. It Is observable then, that the happiest and least faulty examples amongst the ancient basso-relievos, are either like this in the frieze of the Temple of Minerva, or those on the Arch of Titus— those in the Villa Medici, and many others, where little more is attempted than the representing figures on one plan. When they endeavoured to do any thing more, and to carry on the other parts of the scene, through many plans, into the dis tance, certain failures, from an Ignorance of those laws of vision, called perspective, become more or less apparent in proportion to the extent of what is attempted. There is no need of palliation here ; and as the ancient artists have always too much merit not to ensure our admiration, we shall, notwithstanding the blind zeal of many of their indiscriminate admirers, who will see no thing but perfection In what they have done, and notwithstanding the rashness and impropriety of looking for more than they have done, we shall, I say, proceed to observe, that this Ignorance of perspective is often but too visible, not only In their marble bas-reliefs, but on the reverses of their medals, and in their paintings discovered at Herculaneum and at Rome. All these examples taken together, form such a body of evidence? as Avould force us to conclude that the ancient painters, their sculptors In bas-relief, and medalists, were Incapable of carrying these arts to VOL. I. 3 u 514 any considerable degree of perfection, in any scenes where per- spective, many plans and distances occurred. It is being very uncandid and trifling with us, to affirm,^ as many of our zealots do, that the ancients thought this perspective appearance of objects of too little consequence to bestow- much attention on it, and, as from themselves, they observe further in confirmation of this, that the effect of the principal objects would be disturbed by the clatter and relievo of objects in the back-ground, that the violent inflection of the vanishing lines of buildings would have a bad effect, and that the alto-relievo is a bad taste, and better avoided, since nothing can be more disgust ing than the clumps of alto-relievo on the Arch of Severus, and on the Antonine Column ; and, in fine, that perhaps perspective representations were improper, and their admission ought to be precluded In sculptured scenes of relievo. This cavilling and chicanery, thus substituted for true and just reasoning, might with a proper allowance for human frailty, be excusable in an a&ir of religion or of national or deep personal interest. But in estimating the works of taste and art, executed by people whom we have not known, and who have been dead two thousand years since, this is surely altogether unworthy the good citizen of a community, where the same arts are still in practice. Let It be then honestly allowed, that perspective is necessary for the completion of bassorrelievo, as well as of painting. The ancients were too sagacious and too much In love with art, not to see this, and endeavour after it ; and in what remains both of their basso-relievos and paintings, the same instances which prove their ignorance and ill success In those perspective repre- 515 sentatlons, aflbrd also a manifest proof of their eagerness and solicitude to attain the ability of giviiftg this last perfection to art, A conclusion thus resulting from such a body of facts, and spreading so widely in diffierent arts, cannot fbe distorbed and controverted by conjectural Inferences from passages in ancient writers, whicli intiimate a 'knowledige of the true laws of optics and perspecti've. The curious passage in the fourth book of Lucretius, respect ing the contraction of a long portico into the visual point, and the passage in the proem of Vitruvius, to his seventh book, respecting the writings on these subjects of vision, by Agatharcus, Democritus, and Anaxarchus, as well as other passages In ancient authors, particularly two,* which were some years since com- * Note communicated by Mr. Nicolaides. Heliodorus, the philosopher, made a division of optics, at the end of his first book of optics printed at Paris in the year 1657 : into what is called optics peculiarly, catqptracks, and into a third part, which he calls Scenographicon (the drawing of bodies). Of this he speaks thus: " The Scenographic part of optics examines how the drawings of edifices should be drawn. For, whereas, objects do not appear as they are in reality, the architects endea vour to make their works appear not in their true proportion, but in that in which thiey should appear. " The end of the architect is to make his work appear proportional in appearance, and to invent remedies, as well as he can, against the deceptions of the sight, not caring for the true symmetry and proportion, but for that of the eye. 3 V 2 516 municated to me by Mr. Nicolaides, a learned Greek, are Irrecon- cileable with those incontrovertible facts, respecting the state of art, which are so glaringly testified in the remains of ancient basso-relievos and paintings. It Is Indeed much to be regretted that the ancient artists were not better enabled to compleat what they attempted often in their marble bas-reliefs, and more frequently^on their medals ; instead of the inartificial, wretched scrawls, which they have made of the representation of their temples and other buildings, what could " Thus, therefore, because a cylindrical column would appear broken in the middle by becoming narrow in respect to the sight, in this part he makes it broader. " Likewise he draws the circle, not as a circle, but as a section of a rectangular cone : and the mariy, and very high pillars he draws in other proportions both in number and height." Such is the care of a maker of a colossus, to give an apparent symmetry of his work, that it may appear proportional to the sight, but not in reality. For the works placed on a great height, do not appear as they exist. The bther division of optics is by Proclus, a Platonic philosopher, in his comments upon the first book of Euclid. " Optic, is a daughter of Geometry, for it makes use of lines of the sight and angles which are constituted of them. It is divided into what is properly called optics, which accounts for the false appearance of visible things, occasioned by their distance. As for example, for the apparent coincidence of parallel lines ; for the sight of quadran gular objects in the form of circular — into Catoptricks, which treats of the various re flections, eflccted upon some particular bodies, by which means the similarity of exter nal things is to be perceived, — and into what is called Sciographic, which teaches how the apparent objects in pictures should appear neither improportional, nor deformed, on account of the distances and heights of the objects painted." 517 they not have preserved for us, had they been furnished with the same skill and union of relievo and Intaglio perspectlvely employed, by which the moderns have been enabled ingeniously to convert the reverses of their medals and medallions into Im portant archives. In which are recorded, and will be trans mitted to posterity, all those beautiful specimens of modern architecture, aijd other arts, with which, since the fifteenth cen tury, the reverses of the papal and other medals have been so elegantly, and so usefully adorned ? How much should we be delighted to have a view remaining of that miracle of art, (which it must have been) Trajan's Forum; or with those wonders of the interior or exterior views of the statue and sanctuary scene about it, at Ells, or at Ephesus ? What ecstasy to have such works executed with a skill of relievo and Intaglio, similar to that which is employed in the medallions of the Interior and ex terior views of St. Peter's at Rome, or of St. Paul's in London I It is true, that this admirable union of relievo. Intaglio, and skilful perspective arrangement. Is often ill employed In our mo dern reverses, on very worthless designs. But this Is an abuse, and Is chargeable on the artist or his employer, and can never be brought in argument against the art Itself The same poAvers of execution which would delight us when employed upon a design of Michael Angelo, or any other great man, would not fail to produce disgust, when thrown away upon a contemptible design of some Inferior artist. I must again repeat it, that this happy union of high and low relievo, perspectlvely sinking into a proper Intaglio, is, with the knowledge of the eighteenth century, capable of producing the sublimest and most wonderful effects in sculpture, and would be the ultimatum of that art. Even such a group as the Laocoon, 518 situated in a proper coweiSpoudiBsg baick-groimd, would receive an additiOMai iriterest by being only the principal in such a scene;* Thus miHicli at present for the consideration of lights and darks, their proportionate relitivo, and their advantageous distri bution. It will be for our purpose In the close of this discourse, to impress upon the recollection of the student, as a fadt of the Utmost Importance, that the happy and artist-like management of the light and shade of figures, can have no solid aaad reputable basis, but in sound drawing. Skilfully to ascertain the precise commencement, termination, and variegated forms of the lights, half lights, and shades, their just degrees of force and tenderness, which ought to be the sole result of the several configurations, aspects, proximity, and re moteness of the figures : to ascertain and render these with a be coming skill, is as much the part of intelligent and accurate * Whether Tias-relief be large, and in marble, orsmall, ona medal, or coin, or impress ed from the lapidary's work in intaglio, the [principles which constitute its excellence are ever and invariably the same. It is susceptible of all the fine qualities of da Vinci, Raffael, Michael Angelo, and Carrache ; whatever there be exquisite in the Grecian gusto may be united to all the vigour of effect in the Flemish School. Hedlinger has done much as to the general effect, spirit, and above all, the variegated beauty and harmony of his compositions, his piquant light sustained by the varieties of middle and lower tints, resulting from his admirably diversified sur&ce into all the gra dations of quiescence and relief, where nothing is repeated either as to magnitude, form, force, or relieyo, and where whatever Rubens, Vandyke, Both, Berghem, or Rembrandt, could effect by the magic of chiaro-scuro, as fer as his compositions go, is most gracefully attended to — whether in his portraits, the hair, draperies, &c. or in his reverses. 519 drawing, as fixing the character and the contour. And as the arrangement of these several particular enlightened and shaded Objects must depend on the composition, and consequently arise out of the very nature of the subject Itself, it must then appear evident, that the becoming and adequate chiaro-scuro, or the advantageous arrangement of all these several lights and shades, with those other naturally bright and obscure objects of a picture which produce in the whole result an expressive, sentimental, and harmonious totality, can only arise out of the most essential considerations of art. The materials which it employs, being necessarily absolute in their figure and determination must then be derived from intel ligent drawing. The collocation of these materials form the composition proper to the subject. And the whole must form a just and proper ground-work for those enchanting hues of colour which decorate the surface, and give the last finish and perfection to objects. As the chiaro-scuro is so intimately connected with the co louring of a picture, and Is Indeed Its natural basis and support; we shall, (God willing,) resume the fm'ther consideration of it in the discoure on colouring, where their united extent, and the comparative merits of the great artists, whose excellence lay this way, will be best seen. This discourse on colouring and the comparative merits of the great colourists, I shall offer to your consideration at our next meeting. END OF THE FIFTH LECTURE. 520 LECTURE VL ON COLOURING. Gentlemen, When the art was In an Immature state, and Its different parts Avere In growth and progress ; the standard or idea of perfection of which it was susceptible, did with the people at large, and perhaps with the greatest part of the artists themselves, little more than keep pace with those works which were actually produced at the time. The general taste and idea of perfection, went on advancing only in proportion to the ad vanced degrees which the artists had attained In the perfection of form, or in the expression, or in relievo and colouring ; or after wards in the uniting of all these as so many constituent parts of a more expanded or cultivated whole. Hence the admiration and praises which have been bestoAved upon the rudest, the more limited, or the more extended and cultivated productions of the several, periods of this progress, are expressed in the same hearty terms of warmth and excess. The history of art does not mention any work, which was re- 521 ceived with a more extensive, extraordinary eclat and admiration, than the Madonna of Cimabue, which Is yet to be seen at S. Maria Novella ; although it is very certain that this work, with all its past celebrity, would not, in the estimation of our age, and con sidered merely for the skill of the artist, carry aAvay the palm from the queen of hearts or diamonds. The very great deficiencies of this work of Cimabue, might perhaps Induce some to think that he could not possiblv have availed himself of the inspection of nature when he painted It. But the imitations of early art are exactly like those of children; nothing is seen even In the spectacle before us, until It be in some measure otherwise previously known and sought for, and numberless observable differences between the ages of ignorance and those of knowledge, shew how much the contraction or ex tension of our sphere of vision depends upon other considerations than the simple returns of our mere natural optics. The people then, of those ages only, saw so much, and admired it, because they knew no more. It behoves us, then, young gentlemen, to reflect, that when,. from various intercourse and communication, the public obtains possession of an Idea of art, as a great complex whole ; its con stituent parts being brought to maturity, and happily and exten sively united, it will be then absurd to expect, that out of compliment to whatever narrow faculties we may choose to cul tivate, this public taste shall go back again to what It has long since left, and bestow praise and admiration upon such little particulars of colour or resemblance, as were wont to arrest its attention in the infancy of things. Such indulgence is not now to be thought of, but perhaps quite the reverse ; for unfortu- VOL. I. 3 X h22 nately in proportion as the world grows more erilightenedj fastidiousness, and a useless arid too critical nicety' may be ex pected to Increase also, and sometimes, to the no small annoyance of the truest feelings and judgemerit. Many of the old Venetian painters, even Giorgione, and others of the same time, did In their pursuit of colouring, of force, bril liancy, and beauty of effect, overlook" almost all the other parts of the art. Although this deficiency AA^as not imputed as any drawback from their reputation, and probably entered as little Into the then public Idea, as into that of the artists ; yet, as was before observed, things are nOw very differently circumstanced, and there cannot be the least doubt but that more censure than celebrity would follow from such a procedure at this time. The higher requisites of the art, which ' have been the subject of the preceding discourses, cannot at present be disperised with, and the persuasion of this truth is so generally felt, that when an artist Is not Avell grounded in these essentials, and has, from the objections which may be offered, frequent occasion to alter the drawing, and to disturb and to rub in and out different parts of his work whilst he is painting it ; however well he tnay be acquainted with the use and practice of colours, yet even this will not always be apparent in his work: the loads of discordant colour which must be the consequence of such in'esolutlon and frequent alterations, must naturally destroy the purity of the tints, and ultimately produce destructive fermentations, muddl- ness, and mutability ; at the same time that It defaces, or will not admit any of, that beauty of execution and penciling whieh is the natural offspring of a familiar knowledge of the configura tion of the several detailed parts, and of certainty and masterly precision in the drawing of them. This inconvenience was not B23 experienced by the old colourists, for as they were indulged in the narrow limits they prescribed to themselves ; whatever pro portions or forms they first hit upon, these were adhered to steadily; as but little regard was paid to any thing but the arrangement and conduct of their colours, their several tints, and foundations of tints, Were therefore laid undisturbed in their places, and brilliancy, purity, permanence, and a handsome, workmanlike method of handling followed of course. For reasons not very dissimilar, one seldom finds an ill-coloured picture in the Dutch school ; the little more or the little less In the drawing could make no difference worth attending to, where they regarded not so much the beauty or perfection of the human form, as the contrary : it was not easy to err in the drawing and composition of works formed out of trite, vulgar, slattern matter, level to the meanest and most mechanical capacity. As a good method of colouring can only be obtained by pro ceeding with decision and promptitude, whether at the expense of all the grand essentials of art, or In a strict conformity with them : and as the former of these methods of practice Avould be no longer endurable, there remains now no other method of be coming practised with colours but that which is founded upon fixed design, proper choiceof objects, and ability and unalterable precision in the drawing. Under this Idea then, that you are firmly persuaded of the necessity of previously determining all the several forms and situations of the different parts of your composition, and that the several characters, actions, and expres sions of your figures are ably and correctly drawn upon the canvass ; your next labour will be (and not before) skilfully to apply all those harmonious tints of colour, which enrich the 3x2 524 surfaces of those objects, and according to their several natures and their situations of proximity or distance, coriiplete the ap pearance of truth and reality. After a few words about what has been affirmed as to the phy sical nature of colours, I shall proceed to lay before you the most authorized and surest observations which have fallen in my way upon the materials of colouring and the practice of the best colourists. People have been for many ages in possession of an opinion, that our sensation of different colours depended on the different ways in which light Is communicated to us from the several con figurations and differences of those corpuscles and their interstices which form the surfaces and several modifications of the different bodies, and severally and differently excite and stimulate the nerves employed in our sense of vision, with those peculiar irri tations or sensations which we distinguish by the different ideas of colours, both simple and compound. And that great and ex cellent man, Mr. Boyle, has both from analogy and experiment adduced many proofs to shew that this opinion appears to be founded on fact. („ Our knowledge of the nature of light, of the constituent matter and nature of surfaces, and of the animal organization, is at present perhaps too bounded to enter more deeply or specifically into this matter. Happily it is not necessary to our well-being here, and though our vanity may be mortified, we may with Malbranche and Berkeley, very well content ourselves with the full and sufficient information of our senses, as well that of vision, as every other respecting the uses or injuries we may derive from the 525 matters around us ; although they give us no Information re specting the essence and real nature of any thing. For my own part, I feel but little conviction or satisfaction in the splendid theories deduced from prismatic experiment, which have been handed down for some time past with so much confidence ; where it is pretended to be demonstrated by this three-sided wedge of glass, that the solar light Is not homogeneal, as was formerly supposed, but that it Is combined of seven simple differently coloured pencils or rays of different refrangibillty. That colours are produced by the prism is evident ; but It is not evident from this, that what they call the specific coloured rays or pencils did previously exist in the light which passed through this triangular medium, and that the aspects and different surfaces of the component parts of the prism itself, contribute nothing, and have no other effect in the production ofthis phe nomenon but simply to decompound and separate a certain combination of supposed heterogeneous rays of seven particular colours, of which It is imagined light consists. Such experiments appear to be, if not foreign to the real object of enquiry, yet at at least very vague and inconclusive, and to have been made by men but little practised In the progressional affinities or differences of colour. To offer one Instance of this, our phi losophers have pretended to discover In the rain-bow, just seven primitive colours, and they make no mention of any derivative colours in that phenomenon. But If they mean by primitive colours, colours simple and uncompounded of any others, why seven, when there are but three ? - If they meant only to enumerate the differences, without regarding the actual fact of the procrea tion of the compounds from the primitives, why more than six ? 526 or, why not double that number, or even more, if all the inter mediates are attended to ? It may be worth remarking, that Milton has. In a few words, described this appearance with a much more accurate and happy propriety : — " And in a cloud, a bow Conspicuous, with three listed colours gay." and in another place : " His triple-colaaxeSi bow, whereon to look." But lest any one should think that our poet had from defect of sight overlooked the four other colours, we may quote the testimony of Aristotle, who has with his usual accuracy fallen upon the same tripartite division. It Is well known to all painters, that there are no more, and that there can be no more than three simple primitive colours In the rairi-bow, because there are no more colours of that character in nature thdirv yellow, red, and blue. All the others in the rain-bow, and every where else, are compounds or derivatives, formed of these three uncompounded primitives, which appear to have no affinity, and to participate in nothing with each other. The red and yellow contribute nothing to the formation of blue; the mixture of blue and red has no tendency to produce yellow, so the yelloAv and blue will not produce the primitive colour, red, but the compound, green. The most perfect green tint of the 527 rain-bow, Is that Intermediate space, where the blue and yellow meet in equal powers or quantities. The same is true of the purple and orange, which are the intermediate spaces of the blue and red, and of the red and yellow, and (if I may so express my self) all the filaments of participation in this harmonious texture are proportionally either more or less blue or yellow greens, red or blue purples, russet or golden orange, as the one or the other primitive predominates. Although any of those three colours produce by their mixture an intermediate colour, of a soft and beautiful character, yet a mixture of three together In equal degrees of power, is productive of nothing but the destruction of all Impression of colour, and is like a body which remains im moveable when pushed all the different ways, by equal forces. The impression of colour is equally annihilated when the three colours are in the highest degree. of brightness, by produc ing white or light, or when, in their deepest hue, they produce black, or total dark ; or when In any of the Intermediate states between those extremes of ligbt and darkness (as Is the case with the terrestrial colours we use) they In their mixture produce nothing but a grey or dirty tint, proportionally lighter or darker, and equally removed from any impression of colour. Although In the number of the red, blue, and yellow colours with which painters imitate nature, perhaps not one of them is perfect, considered simply ; and although our blacks and Avhites are far short of the force and depth of real light and total dark ness, yet experience shews that those materials are, notwithstand ing, sufficient to ansAver all the desirable ends of the most perfect imitation, and that with the skill and management employed by 528 the great colourists, nature has produced nothing which art can not successfully rival. We have many kinds of red, blue, and yellow colours, of dif ferent degrees of depth, or brightness of hue ; the colours of each class may be made use of to lead each other on through the degrees of chiaro-scuro; they may be further assisted when occasion requires it, either by the luminous quality of the colour un derneath, or by a mixture with white or black ; and each of these methods is to be employed, as it may best answer the purpose of your imitation. Innumerable degrees of chiaro-scuro, or light and dark tints, may by these means be obtained in any of the different classes of simple colours, or in any of the classes of purple, green, or orange, which are compounded of them. The difference between the tints obtained by transparency, and those by a mixture with white and black is, that the former is more vivid and pure, and the latter more dirty, dull, broken, and grayish, as might be expected, seeing that white and black arises from a participation of all the three. These dirty and broken colours are, however, of the utmost importance in our art, and occupy the greatest part in all well coloured pictures. They contribute to shew off with advantage the virgin tints, both simple and compound, and they are almost infinitely divisi ble, as well In the diversities of their hue, as in the degrees of their adulteration. Mixt, as was before observed, in equal quantities, they produce gray: in unequal quantities, they produce a dead, or greyish yellow, or blue, or red, or purple, green, orange, and in all 529 degrees from the first sullying of the tint down to its annihilation into a lighter or darker gray. The endless variety with which this conduct Is pursued In na ture herself, is truly wonderful and entertaining: on the one hand it affords (and without the perplexity of too much differ ence) that boundless scope which is so grateful to the mind in all its objects of pursuit; and on the other, it affords the only, and true means, whereby the tints of pure colour and their simple compounds receive a value, spirit, rarity, and importance, of which we could otherAvise have had no Idea. That beauty then, which enchants us in the colouring of na tural objects, has less connexion with fine colours, or with a multiplicity and variety of them, than Is vulgarly imagined. Each particular tint or colour in itself is common and ordinary -enough; all depends upon the taste and skill with which these tints are variegated and opposed to each other. To imitate with fidelity, sentiment, and even with its highest splendour and gaiety, all this harmonious arrangement in the colouring of natural objects ; there is no necessity that the painter should employ any other than a few simple and ordinary colours ; yellow, brown, and red ochres ; blue, white, and black, with here and there perhaps a tincture of cinnabar, are all that is wanting to a man whose skill and ability knows how to make use of them to advantage. With these, and these only, Giorgione and Titian have executed those immortal works, which have been hitherto the standard of beautiful and perfect colouring, and which are as far removed VOL. I. 3 Y 530 from a meagreness and poverty of tints, as they are from a tawdry meretricious gaiety. I have often had occasion to lament the great want of reposi- tarles of art In this metropolis, which, whilst they afforded the opportunities of inspection and study, absolutely necessary for your advancement, would also be further serviceable in forming the taste of the public. In no part of the art Is this vexation more severely experienced than In the want of a standing collec tion of good pictures.* The public at Paris are In no danger of being misled in their ideas of old and standard art, by the exag gerated puffing catalogues and other frauds of auctioneers, and mercenary picture dealers, with which, until very lately. It was our misfortune to be annually infested. At Paris no amateur can be deceived in his notion of fine colouring, and of the conduct, style, and manner of Titian, No young artist need be interrupt ed In his studies Avhilst he has such frequent and easy access to the legitimate undoubted works of the great artists In the noble and invaluable collections of the Luxemburg, Palais-Royal, and Versailles, not to mention others. To a collection like one of these I could wish to refer you for the inspection of Titian's art and management of tints ; as the acquisition of this part of our art does more than any other, absolutely depend on the practical lessons of a skilful master, or the close inspection and investiga tion of able performances, * Mr. Barry lived to see this desideratum in a great measure accomplished by the noble collection of pictures from the Orleans and other galleries which are in the posses sion of the Marquis of Stafford, and thrown open to artists and the pi^blic in the most liberal and becoming manner ; and which Mr. Barry himself profited by, whilst he will profit others, by the very able and luminous critique he has given of the chief of those paintings, and now published in these volumes. 531 However, as some general observations may be, and have been usefully made upon the conduct and practice of colouring, I shall lay such of them before you as may seem likely to be attended with most profit. Although something might be obtained in point of expedition by painting upon a darkish ground, which approaches near the middle tint of your work; yet it is not the best method, as It will greatly tend to corrupt and destroy the purity and fidelity of all your lighter tints ; particularly If you do not employ a great body of colour In the laying them In : for though we have some colours which are particularly called transparent, in contra distinction to those which are less so ; yet all colours participate of transparency In some degree ; and when a light colour, though opake, is thinly spread over a dark One, It is by the colour under neath rendered dim and muddy. Whereas, on the contrary, the dark colour laid over the light one. Increases Its brilliancy. The best mode of practice, then, Is that of employing stiff body colour on a white ground, or on one nearly approaching It, as was the custom of Titian, Rubens, Vandyke, and the other good colourists. From this you work down, proceeding darker and darker, and reserving your transparent colours and darkest touches and tints for the last. By this method, if you do | not otherwise prevent It, the effects of time upon your work, will be rather for Its advantage and its greater brilliancy, than the con trary. However far you may be inclined to advance matters in your bozzo, or first colouring, (and the further you can complete your forms and general effect, the better) yet the making out, or rather, if I may be allowed the expression, the carving out AvIth your pencil all the detailed particulars, the joints and other 3 Y 2 532 knotty parts of the body according to the happy characteristic delineations of their several forms and perspective aspects, had better, perhaps, be reserved for the second colouring or repassing over your work, because you will be then freed from many consi derations, and the better enabled to attend to those particulars, and execute them at once. You may afterwards heighten, or give them what depth you please, when you are giving force and transparency to the shadows, and harmony to your general effect ; but all the spirit and felicity in the handling of those parts would be greatly and unavoidably impaired by the repetition or twice painting of them. The transparency, force, and beauty of your last colouring will greatly depend upon the clearness of your bozzo, or first co lour, which should be in the middle tint and the shadows, rather of a cold, greyish, or pearly hue, more or less, according to the nature of your carnation, as this will be the best basis for the trans parencies that are to be obtained in repassing those parts with the warm and more oleaglnous'colours with which you finish ; and it will also prevent the necessity of employing the warm and cold tints at the same time, which by their mixture would produce muddlness and opacity where the contrary Is wanting. Those colours without body, AvhIch are more immediately considered as transparent, are to be used with great caution, for though they are necessary to give a richness and depth to the dark colours, by preventing that mealy appearance which results from the light, resting and glittering on their surfaces ; yet as these transparent pigments carry with them much oil, and but little colour, they in time would necessarily become Injurious, should you too indiscreetly employ them In veiling over the lighter tints. 533 In conformity with that principle of selection which has been pursued through the design, composition, and other parts of the art, we must in the colouring also, not content ourselves with making a mere imitation of such tints and associations of colour as the natural objects may casually exhibit. Selection 'and perfection are your objects in all things, and not mere casual fact. Every thing is bad, and to be rejected, when better can be found. We have in the last discourse had occasion to observe, that the effect of chiaro-scuro should be so calculated as to cooperate and give all possible value and advantage to that expression and sentiment, which the subject ought to impress on the mind of the spectator. The same sensibility, which alone can regulate the proper mode, and degree of light or dark that is happily adapted to the subject, whether of the gay, majestic, or melancholy kind, must also direct and govern your choice In that general tone or hue of colour, which may predominate throughout these lights and darks, without Injuring the local and proper tints of colour, peculiar to the situation and nature of the several objects. The whole, and every part of your work, should wear the same character of gaiety or gloom; and nothing can be more aptly calculated to give this last degree of compleatness to the sentiment of your work, than the selection of such simple, com pound, or broken colours, and such identical tones and degrees of those colours, as tally exactly with the happiest conceivable expression of your subject. This selection of Ideal, poetical compleatness in the whole, and in all Its parts, is Avhat makes our work an art of the mind, where all the higher faculties of 534 man are employed : and It can never be too often, or too forcibly impressed upon your attention, that this sentimental assemblage of happily cooperating Incidents and circumstances, lies as much within the sphere of possible nature as any other asseiriblage, the most ordinary, vulgar, and uninteresting. Although the quality and degree of this general hue, or first tone of the picture, must necessarily predominate, and hold all the other tones of colour In a graduated subordination ; yet this may be done without infringing upon that tendency to an equi librium, which must in some degree be preserved between the warm and cold tints of colour, upon which the har mony of your arrangement does much depend ; and all these attentions may be very well combined, whether your light be contracted or more diffused, communicated through a hazy or clear medium, of a warmish or a more cold colour, more bright or more gloomy: the characteristic peculiarities of a morning, noon, or evening light, may be easily preserved un der any of those circumstances of difference. Contrariety and difference being no less necessary in the colouring of a picture, than affinity and accord, the judicious artist will find numberless resources, of which in either case he may avail himself, without in the least departing from the verity of nature. For example, opposition or agreement will depend upon the association or dissociation of colours with or without those intermediates of compound, half, or broken colour, which soften and still their difference. Besides, as each colour, whether simple or compound, is susceptible of innumerable degrees of Illumination and obscurity, strength and weakness ; the accord and affinity, or the discord and contrariety of those degrees of 535 their chiaro-scuro may be any of them adopted as occasion shall require. Further, although light is the cause why we distinguish the colour proper to each object, yet the differences of colour of the several objects will be most apparent, not in the most promi nent parts, which receive the greatest degree of light, but in the parts next to them, where the light has but the second degree of strength. The reason of this is, that the peculiarities of colour are In some measure absorbed in the highest degree of illumination, where the light glitters, and has a tendency to produce Its own image, as in a mirror or other smooth surface. The differences of colours are also less distinguishable and more inclined to accord, in proportion to their immersion In this half tint, and In the shade, in the deepest degree of which they are quite lost. The harmonical effect of colouring depending upon the judi cious arrangement of the accords, and the contrarieties in the several tones and hues of colour; a very slight transition of hue from the colour of one object to another, will be sufficient for the extension of your accord, and may be rendered more or less sensible by preserving them in larger or more contracted masses ; but massive they must be, or their effect Is lost. The contrariety between the portions or masses of colour may be mellowed, softened, or rendered less striking by the gradual progress of the one into the other by means of an intermediate or third mass, and it may be rendered more striking and forcible by their direct and immediate opposition ; both these methods may be happily employed in different parts of those 536 masses, as the sentiment and effect of the work may require their union, or their precipitate estrangement. Nothing can contribute more to the beautiful and harmonious effect of your colouring than a careful attention to those varieties of tint and hue, which arise from the colour reflected by one object upon another. This communication of reflected colour, which is often mutual, may serve not only to unite and extend your lights, but also to reconcile any differences or antipathies amongst the colours, which border on each other. As the direct colour is always more powerful than the reflected, the latter may be occasionally flung with vast benefit Into certain parts of the middle tint and shade, where animation and variety may be wanting. Objects and situations the most dull and colourless are occasionally susceptible of this participation. Thus, it is very apparent that a well coloured picture has many advantages and perfections, which, though all of them strictly natural, are but rarely and partially united by nature herself How very Important a part these innumerable hues of colour have In the formation of this beautiful assemblage of imi tated or natural objects, may be accurately seen on comparing a fine print after Berghem, Wouvermans, Watteau, Rubens, or Titian, with the pictures of those fine colourists. Although what is called the colour of a print has been greatly improved and advanced since the time of Vischer, and Pontius, yet the phrase is improper and inaccurate, as there is no colour produ ced in a print. What those meant who first adopted the phrase, is the chiaro-scuro, or light and dark, in contradistinction to mere light and shade, which was for the most part all that the old engravers attended to. All the tints or degrees of light and 537 dark, the comparative lightness or darkness of different carna tions ; or heavier or lighter coloured draperies or other objects, may be, and indeed are now happily rendered by our engra vers, but the variety and difference in the hues of colour cer tainly cannot. Mr. Nordon and other travellers speak in great raptures of the vast works in upper Egypt, where the ancient artists had united basso-relievo and colouring In the same performance. These travellers have not told us, whether the whole scene or natural appearance of advanced and remote objects was attempted : as it would be of importance to know how far the Objects iri the second or third plans were either sculptured or painted, or both, and how it fared with the sky and distance of those historical representations ; for as such they speak of them. A few speci mens of this kind of work might surely be obtained with ease, and would be a great desideratum in the invaluable collection at the British Museum. Besides the qualification of general cu riosity, they would greatly contribute to elucidate the history and progressional improvement of the arts ; and it is highly probable that some advantage would also result from the oppor tunity of Inspecting those durable materials of colour, whidh have triumphed over such an immense tract of time. Certainly some attention Is due to the effect those works had upon the feelings of our travellers, and the rapturous admiration they have expressed, ought to incline us to admit, that in a certain degree the arts of painting and sculpture may be agreeably united, notwithstanding that the Greeks, who according to Pau sanias, had also practised something like this In the early times of their art, seem to have rejected it afterwards upon more mature VOL. I. 3 z 53S consideration; For after ¦ all reasonable allowance, it is certain that, if in this mixture of the tAVoarts, we should be inclined to attempt the representatiori of the Avhole scene, the result must infallibly be lame, defective, and even absurd : since, jalthough the relieved and sculptured part will afford different lights arid shades, very sensible in the advanced objects, and proportionably less so in those more retired and of lower relief; and though the colour of those objects may be more or less forcible, so as to correspond with their local situation; yet the hues of colour in the sky and distance must frequeritly be atjar with the light and shade of the advanced parts. For if, when the light is on the right side of the work, the hues of colour on the sky and distance be accommodated to a morning effect,: they caflnOt afterwards adapt themselves to the noon appearance, arid upon a still farther change of the luminary to the left side, they will be In direct contradiction to the effect of an everiing or setting suri. The association then of those arts would not answer the end proposed; and we may confidently and safely conclude, that painting, as It Avas practised by the great artists of the three last centuries. Is alone adequate to all the occasions of perfect imi* tation. The cartoons of Raffael excepted, which are painted in dis temper or size colour, almost all the principal works of painting now remaining have been executed either in fresco or oil. The method of painting in fresco is attended with some difficulties which do not occur in distemper Or oil. * »- t ilt affords no opportunity of obtalnirig depth, transparency, or a 539 mixture of cold and warm hue in the same tint, by covering one colour with another ; and it requires the very great ability of absolutely and unalterably determining the precise hue, strength, or weakness of the several tints in the very moment of laying them on, without a power of any subsequent softening or blending: those tints. To obviate in some measure the necessity of en countering all those difficulties together, the painters in fresco are not only provided with a cartoon, or large correct drawing, the size of the work, from whieh they trace as they go on ; but they have also a smaller finished performance either In oil or distemper, where the effects ol the chiaro-scuro and the hues of colour are previously studied and determined. Without these necessary precautions it would be Impossible to execute a great work In fresco, and even with them. It requires such spirit. frankness, decision, and graceful easy execution, as can alone ^ result from great Intelligence and ability. There being so little particularly worth remarking in the ancient frescos which have been dug out of the ruins of Rome, and in those found in Herculaneum, our attention avIII be more usefully employed on the more modern productions, where it is in general observable, that the best coloured pictures of the Roman school are those painted in fresco. The Madonna, della Sedia, the Head at the AltovitI, and a few other portraits In oil, seem to be entirely painted by Raffael himself, and are excellently well coloured, much better than his S. Marguerita, his Holy Family, S.John, or than a great part of the Transfiguration ; the tints of which picture, particularly in all the advanced parts, are greatly corrupted and injured by a sooty, dense colour, which predominates in the shadows, and 3 z 2 540 was probably made use of by Julio Romano, in retouching and finishing the. picture after Raffael's death. It is therefore only in the Dispute of the Sacrament, the School of Athens, the Miracle at Bolsena, the Galatea, and the other frescos, that we are enabled to form any equitable judgement of the whole extent of Raffael's science in colouring, such as it was. These pictures have altered nothing in their colouring; the several objects are well coloured, separately considered, and their several hues of colour even make on the whole an agreeable assemblage; but what from the want of availing himself of the accord and mel lowness brought about by reflexes, and his not being perfectly apprized that there was a chiaro-scuro of colours, and of the tirits of colour, as well as of mere light and shade ; It is certain, that in the colouring part, these Immortal works are short of the perfection, and of the superiority they possess in almost ev^ery other. The best coloured Avorks of Annibal Carrache are those which he executed at Bologna in conjunction with his two rela tions, with Guido, and his other scholars. His hue of colour was then better and warmer, than that which he after\vards adopted in the Farnese gallery. But notwithstanding that' Carrache's particular objects are In point of colotir inferior to those of Raffael, yet with respect to the general effect, and eco nomy of the whole mass of light and dark colours in each sub ject, the pictures of Carrache have very much the advantage. But the fresco ceiling of Pietro da Cortona at the Barbarini palace, is perhaps the best instance Avhich can be given, of all the brilliancy, force, mellownpss, variety, and harmonious Hianagement of colours, that is any where to be met with in so 541 large a machine in fresco. The middle tints and shadows appear to have all the transparency of oil, without any of those disadvantages, which so frequently follow It. It Is to be regretted that truth obliges one to say so much of a man who has so greatly contributed to the perversion of the other more Im portant parts of the art, and whose seducing works. If the student Is not previously well grounded In the great essentials of design, and expressive sentimental composition. It were Certainly much better he should never see. But to finish the enumeration of the fresco works ; Mengs's ceiling at S. Euseblo Is (If my memory does not fail me) a very respectable specimen of ability and masterly conduct in chiaro scuro and colouring. Although painting In fresco is never likely to be much in use amongst us, yet it may be for your purpose, who paint in oil, to reflect that, If all those beautiful fresco works were ne cessarily accomplished at once painting, the same, and much more, if it were necessary, can be done In oil by any artist of such ability and skill in drawing, as will enable him to decide his forms at once, without fumbling through three or four strata of colour before he can find them. All that impasta Or embody ing of colour, which may be necessary for certain lucid parts, may be given as you go on ; and you may afterwards retouch and give what depths you please ; as was the usual practice of Vandyke, not to mention others. His pictures, particularly his portraits, were evidently painted at once, Avith sometimes a little retouching, and they are not less remarkable for the truth, beauty, freshness of their tints, than for the spirited masterly manner of their handling or execution. I could not offer to 54-2 your consideration a more apposite and illustrious example of the success of this method of finishing as you go on, than the portraits of Vandyke. They are every where to be met with In this country, and you may easily convince yourselves, that his lights are sufficiently brilliant, forcible, and well embodied with colour, and betray no want of that impasta which furnishes the apology for loading those parts. Indeed, one should think that the very circumstance of painting on a light ground precludes^ the necessity of any such practice. But In the painting of history, where you have more com mand of your time and your model, if you should think it necessary to have a greater degree of pastosity or charging of colour on those parts than can be well managed at once painting; the other method I have before mentioned, Is directly for your purpose, viz. by making a slight general dead colour Of the whole, charging those lights with whatever quantity of colour you wish, and conducting the middle tint and shadows, broad, cool, and Indefinite as to their particular and more minute details : all which you leave to be determined with spirit and precision of form and transparency of tint in the second painting. This was the conduct adopted by Titian In those pictures which he painted in what Is called his second manner ; where the freedom of his execution was emancipated from his solicitous attention to the manner of Giorgione, or rather when he was conscious and satisfied that this inestimable manner was become his own. According to what Is related in Vasari, It was from seeing some works of Da Vinci, that Glorgiqne adopted that mellow, forcible, deep toned manner of colouring from which he himself, afterwards Titian, and the whole Venetian school, derived so 54^ much glory. Many particulars, which might, if necessary, have corroborated this fact, were, no doubt, easily traceable in the time of Vasari. But there is in the apartments of Don Paolo Borghesi at Rome, a half figure of our Saviour, with other figures in the back-ground, which, were It not for the superior excellence of the characters, expression, and drawing, which evidently mark the hand of Leonardo, might as to the glow of colouring, and the majestic, deep tones of the figures In the back-ground, very well pass for a picture Of Giorgione. There are passages even in Leonardo's Treatise on the Art, which directly lead to this manner, and (as the book was occasionally written as matter of reflection occurred) were no doubt penned down at the time when the first ideas of this glorious Improvement In the conduct of lights and colours suggested itself What makes this matter still more incontrovertible is the force, relievo, and beautiful mellow colouring which at the very same time Fra. Bartolomeo also adopted from Leonardo da Vinci. It is worth remarking that the further prosecution of this beautiful manner of colouring at Florence, ceased after Fra; Bartolomeo ; as their artists from that time employed themselves in the study of Michael Angelo's manner and style of design, almost to the utter exclusion of every other pursuit. But, at Venice, Da Vinci's happy discovery had better success, as the cultivation of it became more or less the unremitting object of the attention of all their artists, from Giorgione down to Tiepolo, and the painters of the present day. As the native writers of the Venetian story of Art have seditiously and ungratefully 544 avoided any mention of their obligation to Leonardo, justice^ truth, and my veneration for this great father of modern art, would not suffer me to overlook it on this occasion. The pictures of Giorgione being mostly painted for private people, are at present unfortunately no less difficult to be found than those of the latter time of Leonardo. There is at Venice but one undoubted, undisputed picture of Giorgione In oil. This : picture, which is at the Scuola de Sartori, Is very well preserved : it is composed of half figures of the Madonna and Bambino, S. Joseph, S. Barbara, kc. It is in many parts ill drawn, and from the subject and disposition of it, affords but little opportunity for those peculiar excellencies which distin guished Giorgione. But notwithstanding there Is enough to account for the very extraordinary admiration In which he was held. The warm, tender glow which is diffused over his carna tions, the breadth, force, and transparency of his shadows, their happy accord with each other, and Avith the lights and middle tints, and the majestic dusky hues of his secondary lights, are indeed of the most exquisite relish, and had left nothing further to be wished for, but the extension of the same intelligent, happy conduct, to the larger and more Interesting compositions, which soon followed in the works of his disciples and imitators. The few pictures which remain of Fra. Sebastiano at Venice, are for relievo, richness, depth, and majesty of hue, very Gior- gionesque, but it is in the most valued and precious works of Titian that we find this style at the highest. His Madonna, S. Sebastian, S. Catharine, kc. at the Frari ; his S: Marc, S. Sebas tian, kc. at the Salute, and his other works at this time, afford the fairest exhibition of what Giorgione had done. The style 545 which Titian afterwards adopted from the hurry of practice, and which Is not improperly called his own manner, was not of so high a relish for relievo and hue, though always admirable, full of excellence, and perhaps (certainly in his own opinion) better adapted to concentrate all his views, with respect to the execu tion of extensive historical compositions. In this class Is his famous picture of St. Peter, Martyr; the Annunciation ; the admirable picture of the Christ crowned with Thorns, at Milan; the Death of Abel ; the Abraham and Isaac ; the David and Goliah, and the greatest part of his works. In his latter times, Indeed, he carried this bravura or masterly execution to a vicious extreme, yet to the last, amidst all his dashing and slobbering, there is still remaining some grateful savour of that exquisite order, without which colours can have neither force, reality, nor value. Much as I wished it and sought it, I have never been able to meet, with any of those copies which Avere said to exist of Titian's large composition of the Bat tle of Cadore, which unfortunately perished in the burning of the Council-hall, a few years after It was painted. The order and management of Titian's tints, in an extensive composition, must then be sought for in his followers, Tintoret, and Paul Veronese. Tintoret Is very unequal in his works, and has left behind him a greater number of bad, or which is nearly the same thing, of middling Avorks, than any other artist of reputation. The effect of his chiaro-scuro is often admirable, and It is sometimes equally well tinted in point of colour. His very spirited mas terly picture of the Miracle, at the School of St. Mark ; his Cruci- VOL. I. 4 a S46 fixion, at the School of S. RoccO ; the Resurrection, at the Palace ; and some other of his works, are excellent examples of sound principles of light and colour, and of vigorous, spirited execu tion. But the same impetuous spirit, to which are owing many of his greatest beauties, has much more frequently precipitated him Into excesses subversive of all intelligence and variety ; which must ever be unavoidably the case when It Is not accom panied with equal judgement, and with a reasonable allowance of time for this judgement to exert itself; either of those is barren or abortive, as to excellence, without the other. Paul Veronese is an example Avhich I would hold out to you with much more pleasure ; for the whole economy and practical conduct of a picture no man Is more worthy your attention. His tints of colour, though often not equal in value to those of Titian, are, however, equally true, and necessarily much more variegated, from the greater extent of his subjects. He has shewn a most exquisite sensibility in according his almost endless vari ety of broken tints with the portions of pure vivid colour which accompany them; and the harmony resulting from all those variegated masses of colour, together with the light, easy, grace ful, spiritual manner in which the whole is conducted, leaves nothing further to be wished for in this part of the art. In this school, then, is to be found, all that can be desired respecting the scientific, necessary conduct to be employed In the colouring of a picture. In colouring, the Venetians were select and ideal, and have proceeded with a finesse and management quite the reverse of the conduct they adopted in the other parts of the art. Whilst those of the other schools of Italy, who had availed themselves of the Ideal respecting design and composi- 547 tion, have been equally defective In not pursuing the same selection in the chiaro-scuro of their colours. Thus It appears that the admiration as well as the disrelish which has followed the several acquisitions and deficiencies of those schools, tend equally to establish the truth of the maxim with Avhich Ave set out, and which has so often occurred in the past discourses, viz. that the object of art is not the imitation of mere nature, but the imitation of nature happily chosen and completed in all its circumstances, so as to correspond with that possibility and perfection which the mind conceives, and with which only It can be satisfied. The completing this idea of art by uniting the several perfec tions of the several schools, and great men, was the desideratum remaining. The Carraches set out with this noble object in view in the founding of their school, and although they advanced to a very great and respectable length In the completion of it, yet there remains still something, as well in the altitude and degree of those perfections to be united, as in the very union itself These great artists seem to have been not a little retarded by the mistake committed at their very outset, in not bestowing their attention upon the colouring of Titian and the Venetians in pre ference to the works of Correggio, for which they had contracted an early prejudice, and which they had from their vicinity, more frequent opportunities of Inspecting. Correggio is, no doubt, upon the whole of his character, one of those very few artists of the first class ; and, not to mention any other of his admirable works, his picture in the academy at Parma is, as far as It goes, and for an agreeable union of all the 4 A 2 548 parts of the art, perhaps superior to ariy other picture in the world. His conduct of the chlaro'rscuro, as well in the colours, as otherwise. Is singularly excellent in all his works, but not withstanding his tints of colour are, for variety and value, still short of what is found In Titian. Indeed the object of Correggio's pursuit seems, like that of the Carraches themselves, to have consisted In uniting all the parts of the art, rather than In the particular cultivation of any one of them- It is a matter of surprise and astonishment, that Rubens, who had so much general knowledge, such vigour of mind, added to an elegant, classical taste, who arrived in Italy in the time of the Carraches, who must have seen their works at Bologna, and even that master work of art, the Farnese gallery, and who (after what had been done by the different schools) could have no other rational prospect than that of adopting the same idea with the Carracci, in uniting these scattered members of art ; it Is, I can not help saying, really astonishing, that he was so little Impressed by the beautiful, grand, and Interesting character of design which Annibal had composed out of the works of Michael Angelo, Raf^ fael, and a still further attention to the details of nature, and which was so directly for his purpose ; as there Avas really no thing wanting but to unite it to the colouring and chiaro-scuro of the Venetians, of which Rubens had made himself a perfect master. This happily castigated style of design is equally compa tible with the best, as well as the Avorst system of chiaro-scuro and colouring; and nothing can be more idle and beside the point than those notions to the contrary which have been held by some men, otherwise knowing and Ingenious. The fecundity of Rubens's feeling, and capacioiis mind, with 549 this style of design, united to his other Important acquisitions, was exactly the conjunction required ; and would certainly have placed him at the head of the art : but in lieu of this, the mode of design which he adopted was (as I have had occasion to shew- in another place) the creature of a false system, and has, besides the injury done to his own works, sullied and corrupted the greatest part of those of his disciples and followers ; nay, more, from the inconsiderate precipitation of shallow critics, it has furnished an imputation of scandal to his country ; as if any better and more elevated style of design was incompatible with the nature it pro duced. However, Rubens did really make a happy use of the time he spent at Venice, and it is but justice to say, that the greatest part of his works are In the highest degree of perfection, both as to the chiaro-scuro and colouring : although in some of his less happy performances it must be confessed that his colour ing is sometimes attended with a false splendour, and his reflexes too artificial and overdone, so as to make his objects almost pellucid : and although the harmony which results from the very judicious arrangement of his several masses of colour be very great, yet it appears less agreeable, and of an Inferior relish to that which is found in the works of Paul Veronese. The happy effects of those sure and Infallible principles of light and colour, Avhich Rubens had so successfully disseminated in the Netherlands, Avere soon found in every department of art; landscapes, portraits, drolls, and even the dullest and most un interesting objects 'of still life, possess Irresistible charms and fascination, from the magic of those principles. Rembrandt, who, it Is said, was never at Venice, might, not withstanding, "have seen without going out of his country, many 550 pictures of the Venetian school. Besides, he was about thirty. years younger than Rubens, whose works were a general object of study, when Rembrandt was forming himself But, however it be, there is no doubt, for the colouring and chiaro-scuro Rem brandt is one of the most able artists that ever lived. Nothing can exceed the beauty, freshness, and vigour of his tints. They have the same truth, high relish, and sapidity, as those of Titian. Indeed, they have the closest resemblance to the hues of Titian, when he had Giorgione most in view. There is identically the same attention to the relievo and force obtained by his strong shadows and low deep tones; and his chiaro-scuro, though sometimes too artificial, is yet often (particularly in contracted subjects) productive of the most fascinating effects. It may be worth observing, that no part of Rembrandt's excellence Is deriv ed from the loads of colour which he has employed, or from the obtrusive, licentious, slovenly conduct of his pencil, or his trowel, which he Is said to have used. Whether he was origi nally led to this affectation by the uncertainty of painting without previous determination, or whether It was the mere affectation of differing from his contemporaries, who were generally solicitous about high finishing, matters not ; but the practice ought to be avoided. If it had arisen, as It does In old Bassano, from an attention to the details of his objects, and was no where used, but as these details called for it. It might appear the effect of a mastery and freedom which might plead Its allowance ; but In Rembrandt It is not less disgusting than It is useless; for, although it may be true that the unpleasantness of the manner disappears at the pro per distance for seeing the work, yet the effect of the picture at this distance has no advantage over a picture of his cotemporaries, Joerdans or Vandyke, whose tints are equally true and precious with those of Rembrandt, but whose beautiful handling or man- 551 ner of execution is much more compatible with all the other great concerns of art. This beautiful handhng, or masterly execution, makes a very graceful feature in the works of Titian, Paul Veronese, Guido, and the other great artists, particularly the colourists, and so little has it to do with the unnecessary loading of colour, that the fabric of the very diaper upon which Titian painted his cele brated picture of St. John, is almost traceable even In those parts where the colour is most charged. Happily the works of Vandyke are not scarce in this country, and in them you will find admirable examples of what has been urged respecting the beautiful arrangement of light and colours, united to all the graces of intelligent masterly execution ; and his style of design is much more correct and beautiful than that of Rubens. But perhaps it may be necessary to remind you, that as for the most part the works we possess of this great man consist of por traits, where he was not at liberty to avail himself In any consi derable degree of the opposition of shadow (particularly on the flesh) the vigour of his effects was necessarily and judiciously brought about by the mere chiaro-scuro, or opposition of the several colours proper to his object, and to the relatives which accompanied it. The observations, therefore, which these works afford upon the lower order of tints, and upon those in shadoAV and half-lights, will necessarily be too contracted to go all the length which your studies may require : as I do not know that we are in possession of any of the few exquisite historical compo^ 552 sitlons which he painted at his outset in life, before he was much engaged in portraits. But whether his subjects be extensive or contracted, they ex hibit such excellent principles of art ; the tints of his carnations have such verity In themselves, and such value, from the hues which are so judiciously associated with them in the draperies, and back-ground, and the exquisite execution or conduct of his pencil Is so very compatible Avith the most enlarged and consum mate style of design and composition, that I knOw of no single modefupon which your attention might be more properly engag ed. Would to Heaven an opportunity was afforded of planting your easels before some of his pictures hanging on these walls I Your gratitude would, I am sure, be sensibly excited by the addition of this advantage to the many others which have been already conferred on us by the bounty of our most gracious Sovereign and Patron. Such a matter Is much wanting to com plete your education as painters. Let it not be said that we are inattentive to those interests and advantages which students may derive from the works of this great artist ; however foreigners may arraign us for suffering his ashes, wherever they have been deposited amongst us, to have been so long unaccompanied with any little decent token of either affection, gratitude, or hos pitality.* * A just attention to the admirable principles of chiaro-scuro and colouring, dis coverable in the fine works of Titian, Rubens, Rembrandt, and Vandyke, must more than any thing lead us to reflect upon the great loss this academy has sustained by the death of its late illustrious president. In this very important part of the art, Sir Joshua Reynolds was singularly excellent, and we might call to our recollection many of his 553 In the whole of what has been offered, I have to the best of ray power endeavoured to lead your attention to the most ap proved, comprehensive, and compleat view of the art : and al though it is certain that no artist ever did, or ever can arrive works which have been exhibited on these walls, and which may be ranked with th^ finest examples of colouring and chiaro-scuro. For a great part of his life he was continually employed in painting of portraits, undoubtedly because there was no demand in the country for any thing else, as the public taste had been formed to this by the long line of the Hudson's, Highmore's, Jervas's, and Knellers, who had preceded him, and whose works sufficiently testify from -mrliot a. wretched state Sir Joshua raised this branch of the art, and how vigourous, graceful, and interesting it became by the masterly way in which he treated it. In many of Titian's portraits, the head and hands are mere staring lightish spots ; unconnected with either the drapery or back-ground, which are sometimes too dark, and mere obscure nothings : and in Lely, and even in Vandyke, we sometimes meet with the other extreme of too little solidity, too much flickering and washiness. Sir Joshua's object appears to have been, to obtain the vigour a;nd solidity of the one, and the bustle and spirit of the other, without the excesses of either, and in by far the greatest part of his portraits he has admirably succeeded. His portrait of Mrs. Siddons, is both for the ideal and executive, the finest picture of the kind, perhaps in the world, indeed it is something more than a portrait, and may serve to give an excellent idea of what an enthusiastic mind is apt to conceive of those pictures of confined history, for which Apelles was so celebrated by die ancient writers. But this picture of Mrs. Siddons, or the Tragic Muse, was painted not long since, when much of his attention had been turned to history, and it is highly probable that the picture of Lord Heathfield, the glorious defender of Gibraltar, would have been of equal impor tance, had it been a whole length, but even as it is, only a bust, there is great ani mation and a spirit, happily adapted to the indications of the tremendous scene around him, and to the admirable circumstance of the key of the fortress firmly grasped in his hands, than which imagination cannot conceive any thing more ingenious, and heroically characteristic. It is perhaps owing to the Academy, and to his situation in it, to the discourses which he biennially made to the pupils upon the great principles of historical art, and the generous ardour of his own mind to realize what he advised ; that we are indebted for a few expansive efforts of colouring and chiaro-scuro, which would do ho nour to the first names in the records of art. Nothing can exceed the brilliancy of VOL. I. 4 B 554 at the perfection of such a standard, any more thap at that of the Stoicks' perfect man, or any other of those ideal objects of imitation, so judiciously recommended by the ancients, yet as the imperfections, deficiencies, or exuberance, which Inevitably lightj the force, and vigourous effect of his picture of the infant Hercules strangling the serpents : it possesses all that we look for, and are accustomed to admire in Rem brandt, united to beautiful forms, and an elevation of mind, to which Rembrandt had no pretensions ; the prophetical agitation of Tiresias, and Juno enveloped with clouds, hanging over the scene like a black pestilence, can never be too much admired, and are indeed truly sublime,, It->s very muUi to fco regretted that this picture is in the hands of strangers, at a great distance from the lesser works of Sir Joshua, as it wuuld commu nicate great value and eclat to them. What a becoming, graceful ornament it would b& in one of the halls of the city of London ; but from an unhappy combination of evils, generally attendant upon human affairs, (particularly on those which, from their superior importance, are likely to excite much attention) there is, and there always has been oc casion to lament, that almost nine out of ten of those great opportunities of the exer tions of art, have been little better than thrown away. When a great corporation,; or any other great employer are willing to bestow attention upon art, and expend largely for the gratification of the pubJick taste in this way, theire is then done all that can fiairly be expected from them : hut whether this shall be well or ill directed, is very for tuitous, and as Fenelon, and all men of observation tell us, wiU depend greatly upon such tricks, artifices, and scrambling as must bring it more within the reach of mean ness and cunning, from which nOithing can be expected, than of that elevation of soul and wisdom, that alone could do it honour. The great employer is the greatest, I had almost said the only loser, when he does not fortunately light upon an artist adequate to the undertaking : the labours of ignorance can be the vehicle of nothing creditable with posterity. The good favour of the employers, or the greatness of the undertaking, cannot ^ve such an artist the necessary requisites. Although then, there is no reasonable ground for blame or censure, yet there is much for regret and concern, as these combina tions of artifice on the one side, and mistake on the other, are so often inseparable conco mitants, in the concerns of art. A very striking instance of this unlucky combination hap pened not long since in a sister kingdom, where it appears that the viceroy, and all the chief personages of the country, were so far infatuated, as to throw away their countenance and attention upon a large historical piqture painted by an engraver, which was to be a glorious record and commemoration in a great kingdom, of a new order of knighthood and of St. Patrick, the patron of both : how such an artist could, in an enlightened age, 555 accompany all human attempts at perfection, appertain to the frailty of the man, and not to the Object at which he en deavours : I must insist, let unfairness, cavilling, and peevish ness, say what they may, that excellence of any kind has never and in the face of a Royal Academy, muster up the necessary effrontery for such an undertaking, and expect, and really find so much support in it, is a matter of real asto nishment. Nothing could be more fatal, than that the students of the academy should ever be deluded into the notion that there are any short cuts to be found, by which the ends of art may be obtained, without all that long ahd previous education and labour, that have been heretofore judged so necessary. The rejection of all the drawings for the academy figure at the last contention for the medal, which never happened before, would incline one to think, that some of the students are in too great a hurry, and wish to appear at the end as cheaply as possible. Although this be too much the character of the age we live in, yet it ought to be hoped that the students, youns mon with time before them, would heartily despise it, and learn to tliink mure genierously : they, I persuade myself, were led into that precipit^t'o") *^y » late regulation regarding the duration of study, but which has bppu since done away ; to this we shall ascribe it, and not' to any want of modesty in the students : they will let no examples of any seeming temporary success pre vail with them, to have any reliance on whatever may be obtamed by the disingenuous arts of cabal and intrigue. They will remember that, " Painful and slow, to noble arts we rise, " And long, long labours, wait the glorious prize." Let it be the happiness of the students that this is the fact, that the acquisition of art requires much time, and great labour; this it is that will secure to themselves all that is valuable in theiv art, free from the invasions of vain people of rank and fortune, who though they may be inclined to dabble, and may sometimes obtain medals and little distinctions from other societies, yet will never bestow the necessary labour in the previous studies, which only can enable them ultimately to produce what is worthy of the art. Devote yourselves then generously to an honourable procedure, with a hearty contempt for all low cunning and short cuts— detest all clubs and occasions of cabal, their prime object is to level every thing, and to give strength to the malignity of ignorance and incapacity, by extensive associations. Go home from the academy, light your lamps, and exercise yourselves in the creative part of your art, with Homer, with Livy, and all the great characters, ancient and modem, for your companions and counsellors, 4 Ji 2 556 been attained to upon other principles. It Is only by thus keep ing perfection steadily in view, and endeavouring your utmost to possess it, that you can be enabled to afford just exertion to the talents which have been for this very end committed to These general reflections which led us from Sir Joshua, have brought us to him again, the lustre of his character cannot but be profitable to you, in whatever way it be considered. His efforts of the historical kind were all made within the compass of a few yea'rs before his death. No student in the academy could have been more eager for improvement than he was for the last twelve years, and the accumulated vigour and value which characterize What he has done within that period, to the very last, could never have been foreseen or expected from what he had done, even at the outset of the academy and for some years after ; it is to be regretted so much of this earnestness should have been suffered to evaporate without securing something more for the public. His mind was full of the idea of advancement and pursuit of the extraordinary and grand of the art ; he even in his last discourse seems to speak slightingly pf his own pursuits in art, and said, that were he to beg'm tbp world again, he would leave all, and imitate the manner of Mi chael Angelo. But nothing would be muio unjust than to take this passage too literally, it is the natural language of a mind full of generous heat, miiking but little account of what it had attained to, and rapidly in progress to something further. But surely, without either alteration or further advancement, had it been Sir Joshua's fortune to have lived a little longer, and whether commissioned or not, had he contrived to have left in this great city, some work, of the same majesty of effect, v^our, harmony, and beauty of colour, the same classical, happy propriety of character and intellectual arrangement, as is conspicuous in his infant Hercules ; the business of his reputation had been com pleated, and his country would have the satisfaction of shewing a work, that upon a fair balance of excellence and deficiency on both sides, would not shrink from a com parison with the most esteemed works : and you, young gentlemen, would be thereby possessed of a gieat advantage in assisting your studies, particularly in the chiaro-scuro and colouring, in which he was so singularly excellent, and which are so essentially ne cessary to the perfection of your art. We shall long have occasion to remember the literary, I might say, classical talents which form another part of the character of this great man, gracefully, highly ornamental, and most becoming his situation in this academy. From the congeniality of mind which associated him in friendly habits with all the great literary characters of his time, they followed him into this institution, and we have the honour of shewing their names, set like brilliants of the first water, in the ornamental appendages of professors of antient 557 your management ; and If this exertion does not enable you to take the lead as improvers, it will at least qualify you to keep pace with the expectations and demands of the public in the conservation of what has been already attained to. And al" literature, and other such similar accomplishments associated with the academy. As td those admirable discourses which he biennially read here, you will, I am sure, have reason to participate with me in the satisfaction of knowing, that together with the edition of them which is now printing, there will be published observations on the pictures in Flanders, which Sir Joshua had made during a summer's excursion to that country ; how fitted to each other such a man and such a work. Although the time at present will not allow us any further recognition of the many singular merits of this great man, which do so much honour to our institution and to the nation : yet as above all things, we are most interested in the becoming, generous feelings of the heart, it is impossible to withhold myself here from anticipating the exultation with which I shall see the young artists and students coming forward in a body, and with honest ardour petitioning that a contribution from them be accepted of, as part of a fund for defraying the expense of a monument for this father and ornament of the academy : the value of such a contri bution would be derived from the endearing, exemplary circumstance of its coming from them, and not from the sum ; it would be beginning life well, and be a kind of pledge and surety for the exercise of the same feelings through their remaining career. Half a crown from each, would be better than ten pounds. Such honest, generous intercourse between master and scholar, the dead and the living, cannot be exercised without satis faction and improvement to our own hearts. I speak as if there was a monument to be erected to the memory of Sir Joshua Reynolds : but to my astonishment I have heard of no such matter as yet : the academy will surely soon wake and rouse itself. It can never suffer that the engravers alone should do themselves and their profession honour by erecting a monument to the memory of Woollet, but it ought to be Mr.^Strange. If so much is done in the commemoration of small and subordinate excellence ; what ought not the academy to do, in a matter where themselves, the honour of the art, and of the country, are so deeply interested. Originating in the academy, all the artists and dilettante of the nation would come forward, and this Royal Institution (which I trust will live for ever) founded in the metropolis of the British Empire, would set out in a noble and becoming manner. God forbid that it should ever appear to our successors, in the next generation, that we too have been so devoted to the arts of mean, selfish po licy, as to neglect the incumbent duty of transmitting to them an honest, exemplary testimony of our recognition of so much excellence. Read in the Academy, Monday, Feb. ISth. 1793. 558 though the several peculiarities of temper and information may at tach you with a particular predilection to some one of the various possible combinations of the beautiful, the majestic, the pa thetic, or any other Interesting excellence, y«t this feature of originality, will, from your ability, and the general suffi ciency of your education as artists, receive grace and ornament in all those other more mechanical parts of the art, with which it should necessarily be accompanied. END OF THE SIXTH AND LAST LECTURE. '^i. Tfan"' ' 3. M'Creery, Printer, Fleet-street. END OF VOL. 1. 7163 h; 1 Sliiriiil^ii^^::;:.';:!!!