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dite softness, as Mr. Westall, Angelica Kauffman, and others, have done in their effeminate performances? Are we to leave out of the scale of legitimate art, the extremes of infancy and old age, as not middle terms in man's life? Are we to strike off from the list of available topics and sources of interest, the varieties of character, of passion, of strength, activity, &c.? Is every thing to wear the same form, the same colour, the same unmeaning face? Are we only to repeat the same average idea of perfection, that is, our own want of observation and imagination, for ever, and to melt down the inequalities and excrescences of individual nature in the monotony of abstraction? Oh no! As well might we prefer the cloud to the rainbow; the dead corpse to the living moving body! So Sir Joshua debated upon Rubens's landscapes, and has a whole chapter to inquire whether accidents in nature, that is, rainbows, moonlight, sun-sets, clouds and storms, are the proper thing in the classical style of art. Again, it is urged, that this is not what is meant, viz. to exclude different classes or characters of things, but that there is in each class or character a middle point, which is the point of perfection. What middle point? Or how is it ascertained? What is the middle age of childhood? Or are all children to be alike, dark or fair? Some of Titian's children have black hair, and others yellow or auburn who can tell which is the most beautiful? May not a St. John be older than an infant Christ? Must not a Magdalen be different from a Madonna, a Diana from a Venus? Or may not a Venus have more or less gravity, a Diana more or less sweetness? What then becomes of the abstract idea in any of these cases? It varies as it does in nature; that is, there is indeed a general principle or character to be adhered to, but modified everlastingly by various other given or nameless circumstances. The highest art, like nature, is a living spring of uncon, strained excellence, and does not produce a continued repetition of itself, like plaster-casts from the same figure. But once more it may be insisted, that in what relates to mere form or organic structure, there is

necessarily a middle line or central point, any thing short of which is deficiency, and any thing beyond it excess, being the average form to which all the other forms included in the same species tend, and approximate more or less. Then this average form as it exists in nature should be taken as the model for art. What occasion to do it out of your own head, when you can bring it under the cognizance of your senses? Suppose a foot of a certain size and shape to be the standard of perfection, or if you will, the mean proportion between all other feet. Ĥow can you tell this so well as by seeing it? How can you copy it so well as by having it actually before you? But, you will say, there are particular minute defects in the best-shaped actual foot which ought not to be transferred to the imitation. Be it so. But are there not also particular minute beauties in the best, or even the worst shaped actual foot, which you will only discover by ocular inspection, which are reducible to no measurement or precepts, and which in finely developed nature outweigh the imperfections a thousand fold, the proper general form being contained there also, and these being only the distinctly articulated parts of it with their inflections which no artist can carry in his head alone? For instance, in the bronze monument of Henry VII. and his wife, in Westminster Abbey, by the famous Torregiano, the fingers and finger nails of the woman in particular are made out as minutely, and, at the same time, as beautifully as it is possible to conceive; yet they have exactly the effect that a cast taken from a fine female hand would have, with every natural joint, muscle, and nerve, in complete preservation. Does this take from the beauty or magnificence of the whole? No: it aggrandizes it. What then does it take from? Nothing but the conceit of the artist that he can paint a hand out of his own head (that is, out of nothing, and by reducing it again as near as can be to nothing, to a mere vague image) that shall be better than any thing in nature. A hand, or foot, is not one thing, because it is one word or name; and the painter of mere abstractions had better lay down his

pencil at once, and be contented to write the descriptions or titles under works of art. Lastly, it may be objected that a whole figure can never be found perfect or equal; that the most beautiful arm will not belong to the same figure as the most beautiful leg, and so on. How is this to be remedied? By taking the arm from one, and the leg from the other, and clapping them both on the same body? That will never do; for however admirable in themselves, they will hardly agree together. One will have a different character from the other; and they will form a sort of natural patchwork. Or, to avoid this, will you take neither from actual models, but derive them from the neutralizing medium of your own imagination. Worse and worse. Copy them from the same model, the best in all its parts you can get; so that if you have to alter, you may alter as little as possible, and retain nearly the whole substance of nature.* You may depend upon it that what is so retained, will alone be of any specific value. The rest may have a negative merit, but will be positively good for nothing. It will be to the vital truth and beauty of what is taken from the best nature, like the piecing of an antique statue. It fills a gap, but nothing more. It is, in fact, a mental blank.

2. This leads us to the second point laid down before, which was, that the highest art is the imitation of the finest nature, or in other words, of that which conveys the strongest sense of pleasure or power, of the sublime or beautiful.

The artist does not pretend to invent an absolutely new class of objects, without any foundation in nature. He does not spread his palette on the canvas, for the mere finery of the thing, and tell us that it makes a brighter show than the rainbow, or even than a bed of tulips. He does not draw airy forms, moving above the earth, "C gay creatures of the element, that play i' th' plighted clouds," and scorn the mere material existences, the concrete descendants of those that came out of Noah's

Ark, and that walk, run, or creep upon it. No, he does not paint only what he has seen in his mind's eye, but the common objects that both he and others daily meet-rocks, clouds, trees, men, women, beasts, fishes, birds, or what he calls such. He is then an imitator by profession. He gives the appearances of things that exist outwardly by themselves, and have a distinct and independent nature of their own. But these know their own nature best; and it is by consulting them that he can alone trace it truly, either in the immediate details, or characteristic essences. Nature is consistent, unaffected, powerful, subtle: art is forgetful, apish, feeble, coarse. Nature is the original, and therefore right: art is the copy, and can but tread lamely in the same steps. Nature penetrates into the parts, and moves the whole mass: it acts with diversity, and in necessary connexion; for real causes never forget to operate, and to contribute their portion. Where, therefore, these causes are called into play to the utmost extent that they ever go to, there we shall have a strength and a refinement, that art may imitate but cannot surpass. But it is said that art can surpass this most perfect image in nature by combining others with it. What! by joining to the most perfect in its kind something less perfect? Go to, this argument will not pass. Suppose you have a goblet of the finest wine that ever was tasted: you will not mend it by pouring into it all sorts of samples of an inferior quality. So the best in nature is the stint and limit of what is best in art: for art can only borrow from nature still; and, moreover, must borrow entire objects, for bits only make patches. We defy any landscape-painter to invent out of his own head, and by jumbling together all the different forms of hills he ever saw, by adding a bit to one, and taking a bit from another, any thing equal to Arthur's seat, with the appendage of Salisbury Crags, that overlook Edinburgh. Why so? Because there are no levers in the mind of man equal to those

* I believe this rule will apply to all except grotesques, which are evidently taken from opposite natures.

with which nature works at her ut-
most need. No imagination can toss
and tumble about huge heaps of
earth as the ocean in its fury can.
A volcano is more potent to rend
rocks asunder than the most splash-
ing pencil. The convulsions of na-
ture can make a precipice more
frightfully, or heave the backs of
mountains more proudly, or throw
their sides into waving lines more
gracefully than all the beau idéal of
art. For there is in nature not only
greater power and scope, but (so to
speak) greater knowledge and unity
of purpose.
Art is comparatively
weak and incongruous, being at once
a miniature and caricature of na-
ture. We grant that a tolerable
sketch of Arthur's seat, and the ad-
joining view, is better than Primrose
Hill itself, (dear Primrose Hill! ha!
faithless pen, canst thou forget its
winding slopes, and valleys green, to
which all Scotland can bring no pa-
rallel?) but no pencil can transform
or dandle Primrose Hill (our favour-
ite Primrose Hill) into a thing of
equal character and sublimity with
Arthur's seat. It gives us some pain
to make this concession; but in doing
it, we flatter ourselves that no
Scotchman will have the liberality in
any way to return us the com-
pliment. We do not recollect a more
striking illustration of the difference
between art and nature in this re-
spect, than Mr. Martin's very sin-
gular, and, in some things, very me-
ritorious pictures. But he strives to
outdo nature. He wants to give
more than she does, or than his sub-
ject requires or admits. He sub-
divides his groups into infinite little-
ness, and exaggerates his scenery
into absolute immensity. His figures
are like rows of shiny pins; his
mountains are piled up one upon the
back of the other, like the stories of
houses. He has no notion of the
moral principle in all art, that a part
may be greater than the whole. He
reckons that if one range of lofty
square hills is good, another range
above that with clouds between must
be better. He thus wearies the ima-
gination, instead of exciting it. We
see no end of the journey, and turn
back in disgust. We are tired of the
effort, we are tired of the monotony
of this sort of seduplication of the

same object. We were satisfied be-
fore; but it seems the painter was
not, and we naturally sympathise
with him. This craving after quan-
tity is a morbid affection. A land-
scape is not an architectural eleva-
tion. You may build a house as
high as you can lift up stones with
pulleys and levers, but you cannot
raise mountains into the sky merely
with the pencil. They lose proba-
bility and effect by striving at too
much; and, with their ceaseless
throes, oppress the imagination of
the spectator, and bury the artist's
fame under them. The only error of
these pictures is, however, that art
here puts on her seven-league boots,
and thinks it possible to steal a march
upon nature.
make Arthur's Seat sublime, if he
chose to take the thing as it is; but
he would be for squaring it according
to the mould in his own imagination,
and for clapping another Arthur's
Seat on the top of it, to make the
Calton Hill stare! Again, with re-
spect to the human figure. This has
an internal structure, muscles, bones,
blood-vessels, &c. by means of which
the external surface is operated upon
according to certain laws. Does the
artist, with all his generalizations,
understand these, as well as nature
does? Can he predict, with all his
learning, that if a certain muscle is
drawn up in a particular manner, it
will present a particular appearance
in a different part of the arm or leg,
or bring out other muscles, which
were before hid, with certain modi-
fications? But in nature all this is
brought about by necessary laws,
and the effect is visible to those, and
those only, who look for it in actual
objects. This is the great and mas-
ter-excellence of the ELGIN MAR-
BLES, that they do not seem to be
the outer surface of a hard and im-
movable block of marble, but to be
actuated by an internal machinery,
and composed of the same soft and
flexible materials as the human body.
The skin (or the outside) seems to
be protruded or tightened by the na-
tural action of a muscle beneath it.
This result is miraculous in art: in
nature it is easy and unavoidable.
That is to say, art has to imitate or
produce certain effects or appear-
ances without the natural causes:

Mr. Martin might

but the human understanding can hardly be so true to those causes as the causes to themselves; and hence the necessity (in this sort of simulated creation) of recurring at every step to the actual objects and appearances of nature. Having shown so far how indispensable it is for art to identify itself with nature, in order to preserve the truth of imitation, without which it is destitute of value or meaning, it may be said to follow as a necessary consequence, that the only way in which art can rise to greater dignity or excellence is by finding out models of greater dignity and excellence in nature. Will any one, looking at the Theseus, for example, say that it could spring merely from the artist's brain, or that it could be done from a common, illmade, or stunted body? The fact is, that its superiority consists in this, that it is a perfect combination of art and nature, or an identical, and as it were spontaneous copy of an individual picked out of a finer race of men than generally tread this ball of earth. Could it be made of a Dutchman's trunk-hose? No. Could it be made out of one of Sir Joshua's Discourses on the middle form? No. How then? Out of an eye, a head, and a hand, with sense, spirit, and energy to follow the finest nature, as it appeared exemplified in sweeping masses, and in subtle details, without pedantry, conceit, cowardice, or affectation! Some one was asking at Mr. H-yd-n's one day, as a few persons were looking at the cast from this figure, why the original might not have been done as a cast from nature? Such a supposition would account at least for what seems otherwise unaccountable-the incredible labour and finishing bestowed on the back and other parts of this figure, placed at a prodigious height against the walls of a temple, where they could never be seen after they were once put up there. If they were done by means of a cast in the first instance, the thing appears intelligible, otherwise not. Our host stoutly resisted this imputation, which tended to deprive art of one of

its greatest triumphs, and to make it as mechanical as a shaded profile. So far, so good. But the reason he gave was bad, viz. that the limbs could not remain in those actions long enough to be cast. Yet surely this would take a shorter time than if the model sat to the sculptor; and we all agreed that nothing but actual, continued, and intense observation of living nature could give the solidity, complexity, and refinement of imitation which we saw in the half animated, almost moving figure before us.* Be this as it may, the principle here stated does not reduce art to the imitation of what is understood by common or low life. It rises to any point of beauty or sublimity you please, but it rises only as nature rises exalted with it too. To hear these critics talk, one would suppose there was nothing in the world really worth looking at. The Dutch pictures were the best that they could paint: they had no other landscapes or faces before them. Honi soit qui mal y pense. Yet who is not alarmed at a Venus by Rembrandt? The Greek statues were (cum grano salis) Grecian youths and nymphs; and the women in the streets of Rome (it has been remarked†) look to this hour as if they had walked out of Raphael's pictures. Nature is always truth: at its best, it is beauty and sublimity as well though Sir Joshua tells us in one of the papers in the IDLER that in itself, or with reference to individuals, it is a mere tissue of meanness and deformity. Luckily, the Elgin Marbles say No to that conclusion: for they are decidedly part and parcel thereof. What constitutes fine nature, we shall inquire under another head. But we would remark here, that it can hardly be the middle form, since this principle, however it might determine certain general proportions and outlines, could never be intelligible in the details of nature, or applicable to those of art. Who will say that the form of a finger nail is just midway between a thousand others that he has not remarked: we are only struck with it when it is more than ordinarily beautiful, from

* Some one finely applied to the repose of this figure the words: Sedet, in æternumque sedebit,

Infelix Theseus.

+ By Mr. Coleridge.

450

symmetry, an oblong shape, &c. The staunch partisans of this theory, however, get over the difficulty here spoken of, in practice, by omitting the details altogether, and making their works sketches, or rather what the French call ebauches, and the English daubs.

3. The IDEAL is only the selecting a particular form which expresses most completely the idea of a given character or quality, as of beauty, strength, activity, voluptuousness, &c. and which preserves that character with the greatest consistency throughout.

Instead of its being true in general that the ideal is the middle point, it is to be found in the extremes; or, it is carrying any idea as far as it will go. Thus, for instance, a Silenus is as much an ideal thing as an Apollo, as to the principle on which it is done, viz. giving to every feature, and to the whole form, the utmost degree of grossness and sensuality that can be imagined, with this exception (which has nothing to do with the understanding of the question), that the ideal means by custom this extreme on the side of the good and beautiful. With this reserve, the ideal means always the something more of any thing which may be anticipated by the fancy, and which must be found in nature (by looking long enough for it) to be expressed as it ought. Suppose a good heavy Dutch face (we speak by the proverb)-this, you will say, is gross; but it is not gross enough. You have an idea of something grosser, that is, you have seen something grosser and must seek for it again. When you meet with it, and have stamped it on the canvas, or carved it out of the block, this is the true ideal, namely, that which answers to and satisfies a preconceived idea; not that which is made out of an abstract In idea, and answers to nothing. the Silenus, also, according to the notion we have of the properties and character of that figure, there must be vivacity, slyness, wantonness, &c. Not only the image in the mind, but a real face may express all these combined together; another may express them more, and another most, which last is the ideal; and when the image in nature coalesces with, and gives a body, force, and reality to

the idea in the mind, then it is that
we see the true perfection of art.
The forehead should be " villainous
low;" the eye-brows bent in; the
eyes small and gloating; the nose
pugged, and pointed at the end, with
distended nostrils; the mouth large
and shut; the cheeks swollen; the
neck thick, &c. There is, in all this
process, nothing of softening down,
of compromising qualities, of finding
out a mean proportion between dif-
ferent forms and characters; the sole
object is to intensify each as much
as possible. The only fear is "to
o'erstep the modesty of nature," and
run into caricature. This must be
avoided; but the artist is only to
stop short of this. He must not out-
rage probability. We must have
seen a class of such faces, or some-
thing so nearly approaching, as to
The forehead
prevent the imagination from revolt-
ing against them.
must be low, but not so low as to
lose the character of humanity in the
It would thus lose all its
brute.

For that which
force and meaning.
is extreme and ideal in one species,
is nothing, if, by being pushed too
far, it is merged in another. Above
all, there should be keeping in the
whole and every part. In the Pan,
the horns and goat's feet, perhaps,
warrant the approach to a more ani-
mal expression than would otherwise
be allowable in the human features;
but yet this tendency to excess must
be restrained within certain limits.
If Pan is made into a beast, he will
cease to be a God! Let Momus dis-
tend his jaws with laughter, as far
as laughter can stretch them, but no
farther; or the expression will be
that of pain and not of pleasure.
Besides, the overcharging the ex-
pression or action of any one feature
will suspend the action of others.
The whole face will no longer laugh.
But this universal suffusion of broad
mirth and humour over the coun-
tenance is very different from a pla-
cid smile, midway between grief
and joy. Yet a classical Momus, by
modern theories of the ideal, ought
They
to be such a nonentity in expression.

The ancients knew better.
pushed art in such subjects to the
verge of "all we hate," while they
felt the point beyond which it could
not be urged with propriety, i. e.

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