Art is defined by Lord Bacon as a proper disposal of the things of nature by human thought and experience, so as to answer the several purposes of mankind; in which sense art stands opposed to nature.

Art is principally used for a system of rules serving to facilitate the performance of certain actions; in which sense it stands opposed to science, or a system of speculative principles.

Arts are commonly divided into useful or mechanic, fine or liberal. The former are those wherein the hand and body are more concerned than the mind; of which kind are most of those which furnish us with the necessaries of life, and are popularly known by the name of trades. The latter are such as depend more on the labour of the mind than of the hand; they are the produce of imagination and taste, and their end is pleasure.

USEFUL ARTS.

Some useful arts must be nearly coeval with the human race; for food, clothing, and habitation, even in their original simplicity, require some art. Many other arts are of such antiquity as to place the inventors beyond the reach of tradition. Several have gradually crept into the world without an inventor. The busy mind, however, accustomed to a beginning in things, cannot rest till it finds or imagines a beginning to every art. The most probable conjectures of this nature the reader may see in the historical introductions to the different articles. Lord Kames, in his Sketches of the History of Man, has given some curious illustrations of the progress of the arts.

In all countries where the people are barbarous and illiterate, the progress of arts is extremely slow. It is vouched by an old French poem, that the virtues of the lodestone were known in France before the year 1180. The mariner's compass was exhibited at Venice anno 1260, by Paulus Venetus, as his own invention. John Goya of Amalfi was the first who, many years afterwards, used it in navigation, and also passed for being the inventor. Though it was used in China for navigation long before it was known in Europe, yet to this day it is not so perfect as in Europe. Instead of suspending it in order to make it act freely, it is placed upon a bed of sand, in which position every motion of the ship disturbs its operation. Handmills, termed querns, were early used for grinding corn; and when corn came to be raised in greater quantity, horse-mills succeeded. Water-mills for grinding corn are described by Vitruvius. Wind-mills were known in Greece and in Arabia as early as the 7th century, and yet no mention is made of them in Italy till the 14th. That they were not known in England till the reign of Henry VIII. appears from a household book of an earl of Northumberland, contemporary with that king, stating an allowance for three mill-horses, "two to draw in the mill, and one to carry stuff to and from the mill." Water-mills for corn must in England have been of a later date. The ancients had mirror-glasses, and employed glass to imitate crystal vases and goblets; yet they never thought of using it in windows. In the 13th century the Venetians were the only people who had the art of making crystal glass for mirrors. A clock that strikes the hours was unknown in Europe till the end of the 12th century; and hence the custom of employing men to proclaim the hours during night. Galileo was the first who conceived an idea that a pendulum might be used for measuring time; and Huygens was the first who put the idea in execution, by making a pendulum clock. Hooke, in the year 1660, invented a spiral spring for a watch, though a watch was far from being a new invention. Paper was made no earlier than the 14th century; and the invention of printing was a century later. Silk manufactures were long established in Greece before silk-worms were introduced there. The manufacturers were provided with raw silk from Persia; but that commerce being frequently interrupted by war, two monks, in the reign of Justinian, brought eggs of the silk-worm from Hindostan, and taught their countrymen the method of managing them. The art of reading made a very slow progress; to encourage that art in England, the capital punishment for murder was remitted if the criminal could but read, which in law language is termed benefit of clergy. One would imagine that the arts must have made a very rapid progress when so greatly favoured; but there is a signal proof of the contrary; for so small an edition of the Bible as 600 copies, translated into English in the reign of Henry VIII., was not wholly sold off in three years.

The discoveries of the Portuguese on the west coast of Africa is a remarkable instance of the slow progress of arts. In the beginning of the 15th century they were totally ignorant of that coast beyond Cape Non, 28 degrees north latitude. In 1410 the celebrated Prince Henry of Portugal fitted out a fleet for discoveries, which proceeded along the coast to Cape Bajadore, in 28 degrees, but had not courage to double it. In 1418 Tristan Vaz discovered the island Porto Santo; and the year after the island Madeira was discovered. In 1439 a Portuguese captain doubled Cape Bajadore; and the next year the Portuguese reached Cape Blanco, lat. 20 degrees. In 1446 Numa Tristan doubled Cape de Verde, lat. 14.40. In 1448 Don Gonzalo Vallo took possession of the Azores. In 1449 the islands of Cape de Verde were discovered for Don Henry. In 1471 Pedro d'Escovar discovered the island St Thomas and Prince's Island. In 1484 Diego Cam discovered the kingdom of Congo. In 1486 Bartholomew Diaz, employed by John II. of Portugal, doubled the Cape of Good Hope, which he called Cabo Tormentoso, from the tempestuous weather he found in the passage.

The progress of art seldom fails to be rapid when a people happen to be roused out of a torpid state by some fortunate change of circumstances. Prosperity, contrasted with former abasement, gives to the mind a spring, which is vigorously exerted in every new pursuit. The Athenians made but a mean figure under the tyranny of Pisistratus, but upon regaining freedom and independence they were converted into heroes. Miletus, a Greek city of Ionia, being destroyed by the king of Persia, and the inhabitants made slaves, the Athenians, deeply affected with the misery of their brethren, boldly attacked the king in his own dominions, and burnt the city of Sardis. In less than ten years after, they gained a signal victory at Marathon; and, under Themistocles, made head against that prodigious army with which Xerxes threatened utter ruin to Greece. Such prosperity produced its usual effects: arts flourished with arms, and Athens became the chief theatre for sciences, as well as for fine arts. The reign of Augustus Caesar, which put an end to the rancour of civil war, and restored peace to Rome, with the comforts of society, proved an auspicious era for literature, and produced a cloud of Latin historians, poets, and philosophers, to whom the moderns are indebted for their taste and talents. One who makes a figure rouses emulation in all: one catches fire from another, and the national spirit is everywhere triumphant; classical works are composed, and useful discoveries made in every art and science. With regard to Rome, it is true that the Roman government under Augustus was in effect despotic; but despotism in that single instance made no obstruction to literature, it having been the policy of that reign to hide power as much as possible. A similar revolution happened in Tuscany about three centuries ago. That country having been divided into a number of small republics, the people, excited by mutual hatred between small nations in close neighbourhood, became ferocious and bloody, flaming with revenge for the slightest offence. These republics being united under the great duke of Tuscany, enjoyed the sweets of peace in a mild government. That comfortable revolution, which made the deeper impression by a retrospect of recent calamities, roused the national spirit, and produced ardent application to arts and literature. The restoration of the royal family in England, which put an end to a cruel and envenomed civil war, promoted improvements of every kind; arts and industry made a rapid progress among the people, though left to themselves by a weak and fluctuating administration. Had the nation, upon that favourable turn of fortune, been blessed with a succession of able and virtuous princes, to what a height might not arts and sciences have been carried!

Another cause of activity and animation is the being engaged in some important action of doubtful issue,—a struggle for liberty, the resisting a potent invader, or the like. Greece, divided into small states frequently at war with each other, advanced literature and the fine arts to unrivalled perfection. The Corsicans, while engaged in a perilous war for defence of their liberties, exerted a vigorous national spirit; they founded a university for arts and sciences, a public library, and a public bank. After a long stupor during the dark ages of Christianity, arts and literature revived among the turbulent states of Italy. The Royal Society in London, and the Academy of Sciences in Paris, were both of them instituted after civil wars that had animated the people and roused their activity.

In a country thinly peopled, where even necessary arts want hands, it is common to see one person exercising more arts than one. In every populous country, even simple arts are split into parts, and each part has an artist appropriated to it. In the large towns of ancient Egypt a physician was confined to a single disease. In mechanic arts that method is excellent. As a hand confined to a single operation becomes both expert and expeditious, a mechanic art is perfected by having its different operations distributed among the greatest number of hands: many hands are employed in making a watch, and a still greater number in manufacturing a web of woollen cloth. Various arts or operations carried on by the same man invigorate his mind, because they exercise different faculties; and as he cannot be equally expert in every art or operation, he is frequently reduced to supply want of skill by thought and invention. Constant application, on the contrary, to a single operation, confines the mind to a single object, and excludes all thought and invention. In such a train of life the operator becomes dull and stupid, like a beast of burden. The difference is visible in the manners of the people. In a country where, from want of hands, several occupations must be carried on by the same person, the people are knowing and conversable: in a populous country, where manufactures flourish, they are ignorant and unsociable. The same effect is equally visible in countries where an art or manufacture is confined to a certain class of men. It is visible in Hindostan, where the people are divided into castes, which never mix even by marriage, and where every man follows his father's trade. The Dutch lint-boors are a similar instance: the same family carries on the trade from generation to generation, and are accordingly ignorant and brutish even beyond other Dutch peasants.

Useful arts pave the way to fine arts. Men upon whom the former had bestowed every convenience, turned their thoughts to the latter. Beauty was studied in objects of sight; and men of taste attached themselves to the fine arts, which multiplied their enjoyments and improved their benevolence. Sculpture and painting made an early figure in Greece, which afforded plenty of beautiful originals to be copied in these imitative arts. Statuary, a more simple imitation than painting, was sooner brought to perfection. The statue of Jupiter by Phidias, and of Juno by Polycleites, though the admiration of all the world, were executed long before the art of light and shade was known. Apollodorus, and Zeuxis his disciple, who flourished in the 95th Olympiad, were the first who figured in that art. Another cause concurred to advance statuary before painting in Greece, viz. a great demand for statues of their gods. Architecture, as a fine art, made a slower progress. Proportions, upon which its elegance chiefly depends, cannot be accurately ascertained, but by an infinity of trials in great buildings. A model cannot be relied on; for a large and a small building, even of the same form, require different proportions.

**FINE ARTS.**

The term Fine Arts may be viewed as embracing all those arts in which the powers of imitation or invention are exerted, chiefly with a view to the production of pleasure by the immediate impression which they make on the mind. But the phrase has of late, we think, been restricted to a narrower and more technical signification; namely, to painting, sculpture, engraving, and architecture, which appeal to the eye as the medium of pleasure; and, by way of eminence, to the two first of these arts. In the following observations we shall adopt this limited sense of the term; and shall endeavour to develop the principles upon which the great masters have proceeded, and also to inquire, in a more particular manner, into the state and prospects of these arts in this country.

The great works of art at present extant, and which may be regarded as models of perfection in their several kinds, are the remains of classic art, consisting chiefly of sculpture—the pictures of the celebrated Italian masters—those of the old German and the Dutch and Flemish schools—to which we may add the comic productions of our own countryman Hogarth. These all stand unrivalled in the history of art; and they owe their pre-eminence and perfection to one and the same principle,—the immediate imitation of nature. This principle predominated equally in the classical forms of the antique and in the grotesque figures of Hogarth: the perfection of art in each arose from the truth and identity of the imitation with the reality; the difference was in the subjects—there was none in the mode of imitation. Yet the advocates for the ideal system of art would persuade their disciples, that the difference between Hogarth and the antique does not consist in the different forms of nature which they imitated, but in this, that the one is like and the other unlike nature. This is an error the most detrimental perhaps of all others, both to the theory and practice of art. As, however, the prejudice is very strong and general, and supported by the highest authority, it will be necessary to go somewhat elaborately into the question in order to produce an impression on the other side.

What has given rise to the common notion of the ideal, as something quite distinct from actual nature, is probably the perfection of the Greek statues. Not seeing among ourselves any thing to correspond in beauty and grandeur, either with the features or form of the limbs in these exquisite remains of antiquity, it was an obvious, but a superficial conclusion, that they must have been created from the idea existing in the artist's mind, and could not have been copied from anything existing in nature. The contrary, however, is the fact. The general form, both of the face and figure, which we observe in the old statues, is not an ideal abstraction, is not a fanciful invention of the sculptor, but is as completely local and national (though it happens to be more beautiful) as the figures on a Chinese screen, or a copperplate engraving of a negro chieftain in a book of travels. It will not be denied that there is a difference of physiognomy as well as of complexion in different races of men. The Greek form appears to have been naturally beautiful, and they had, besides, every advantage of climate, of dress, of exercise, and modes of life to improve it. The artist had also every facility afforded him in the study and knowledge of the human form; and their religious and public institutions gave him every encouragement in the prosecution of this art. All these causes contributed to the perfection of these noble productions; but we should be inclined principally to attribute the superior symmetry of form common to the Greek statues, in the first place, to the superior symmetry of the models in nature; and in the second, to the more constant opportunities for studying them. If we allow, also, for the superior genius of the people, we shall not be wrong; but this superiority consisted in their peculiar susceptibility to the impres- Fine Arts. sions of what is beautiful and grand in nature. It may be thought an objection to what has just been said, that the antique figures of animals, &c., are as fine, and proceed on the same principles, as their statues of gods or men. But all that follows from this seems to be, that their art had been perfected in the study of the human form, the test and proof of power and skill; and was then transferred easily to the general imitation of all other objects, according to their true characters, proportions, and appearances. As a confirmation of these remarks, the antique portraits of individuals were often superior even to the personifications of their gods. We think that no unprejudiced spectator of real taste can hesitate for a moment in preferring the head of the Antinous, for example, to that of the Apollo. And in general it may be laid down as a rule, that the most perfect of the antiques are the most simple,—those which affect the least action, or violence of passion,—which repose the most on natural beauty of form, and a certain expression of sweetness and dignity, that is, which remain most nearly in that state in which they could be copied from nature without straining the limbs or features of the individual, or racking the invention of the artist. This tendency of Greek art to repose has indeed been reproached with insipidity by those who had not a true feeling of beauty and sentiment. We, however, prefer these models of habitual grace or internal grandeur to the violent distortions of suffering in the Laocoön, or even to the supercilious air of the Apollo. The Niobe, more than any other antique head, combines truth and beauty with deep passion. But here the passion is fixed, intense, habitual—it is not a sudden or violent gesticulation, but a settled mould of features; the grief it expresses is such as might almost turn the human countenance itself into marble!

In general, then, we would be understood to maintain, that the beauty and grandeur so much admired in the Greek statues were not a voluntary fiction of the brain of the artist, but existed substantially in the forms from which they were copied, and by which the artist was surrounded. A striking authority in support of these observations, which has in some measure been lately discovered, is to be found in the Elgin marbles, taken from the Acropolis at Athens, and now universally admitted to be the work of Phidias. The process of fastidious refinement and indefinite abstraction is certainly not visible there. The figures have all the ease, the simplicity, and variety, of individual nature. Even the details of the subordinate parts, the loose hanging folds in the skin, the veins under the belly or on the sides of the horses, more or less swollen as the animal is more or less in action, are given with scrupulous exactness. This is true nature and true art. In a word, these invaluable remains of antiquity are precisely like casts taken from life. The ideal is not the preference of that which exists only in the mind to that which exists in nature; but the preference of that which is fine in nature to that which is less so. There is nothing fine in art but what is taken almost immediately, and, as it were, in the mass, from what is finer in nature. Where there have been the finest models in nature, there have been the finest works of art.

As the Greek statues were copied from Greek forms, so Raphael's expressions were taken from Italian faces; and we have heard it remarked, that the women in the streets at Rome seem to have walked out of his pictures in the Vatican.

Sir Joshua Reynolds constantly refers to Raphael as the highest example in modern times (at least with one exception) of the grand or ideal style; and yet he makes the essence of that style to consist in the embodying of an abstract or general idea, formed in the mind of the artist by rejecting the peculiarities of individuals, and retaining Fine Arts. only what is common to the species. Nothing can be more inconsistent than the style of Raphael with this definition. In his Cartoons, and in his groupes in the Vatican, there is hardly a face or figure which is anything more than fine individual nature finely disposed and copied. The painter Barry, who could not be suspected of prejudice on this side of the question, speaks thus of them: "In Raphael's pictures (at the Vatican) of the Dispute of the Sacrament, and the School of Athens, one sees all the heads to be entirely copied from particular characters in nature, nearly proper for the persons and situations which he adapts them to; and he seems to me only to add and take away what may answer his purpose in little parts, features, &c.; conceiving, while he had the head before him, ideal characters and expressions, which he adapts these features and peculiarities of face to. This attention to the particulars which distinguish all the different faces, persons, and characters, the one from the other, gives his pictures quite the verity and unaffected dignity of nature, which stamp the distinguishing differences betwixt one man's face and body and another's."

If any thing is wanting to the conclusiveness of this testimony, it is only to look at the pictures themselves; particularly the Miracle of the Conversion, and the Assembly of Saints, which are little else than a collection of divine portraits, in natural and expressive attitudes, full of the loftiest thought and feeling, and as varied as they are fine. It is this reliance on the power of nature which has produced those masterpieces by the prince of painters, in which expression is all in all—where one spirit—that of truth—pervades every part, brings down heaven to earth, mingles cardinals and popes with angels and apostles,—and yet blends and harmonizes the whole by the true touches and intense feeling of what is beautiful and grand in nature. It is no wonder that Sir Joshua, when he first saw Raphael's pictures in the Vatican, was at a loss to discover any great excellence in them, if he was looking out for his theory of the ideal,—of neutral character and middle forms.

There is more an appearance of abstract grandeur of form in Michael Angelo. He has followed up, has enforced, and expanded, as it were, a preconceived idea, till he sometimes seems to tread on the verge of caricature. His forms, however, are not middle, but extreme forms, massy, gigantic, supernatural. They convey the idea of the greatest size and strength in the figure, and in all the parts of the figure. Every muscle is swollen and turgid. This tendency to exaggeration would have been avoided if Michael Angelo had recurred more constantly to nature, and had proceeded less on a scientific knowledge of the structure of the human body; for science gives only the positive form of the different parts, which the imagination may afterwards magnify as it pleases; but it is nature alone which combines them with perfect truth and delicacy, in all the varieties of motion and expression. It is fortunate that we can refer, in illustration of our doctrine, to the fragment of the Theseus in the British Museum, which shows the possibility of uniting the grand and natural style in the highest degree. The form of the limbs, as affected by pressure or action, and the general sway of the body, are preserved with the most consummate mastery. We should prefer this statue as a model for forming the style of the student to the Apollo, which strikes us as having something of a theatrical appearance; or to the Hercules, in which there is an ostentatious and overlaboured display of anatomy. This last figure is so overloaded with sinews, that it has been suggested as a doubt, whether, if life could be put into it, it would be able to move. Grandeur of conception, truth of nature, and pu- Having spoken here of the Greek statues, and of the works of Raphael and Michael Angelo, as far as relates to the imitation of nature, we shall attempt to point out, to the best of our ability, and as concisely as possible, what we conceive to be their general and characteristic excellences. The ancients excelled in beauty of form; Michael Angelo in grandeur of conception; Raphael in expression. In Raphael's faces, particularly his women, the expression is very superior to the form; in the ancient statues the form is the principal thing. The interest which the latter excite is in a manner external; it depends on a certain grace and lightness of appearance, joined with exquisite symmetry and refined susceptibility to voluptuous emotions; but there is in general a want of pathos. In their looks we do not read the workings of the heart; by their beauty they seem raised above the sufferings of humanity; by their beauty they are deified. The pathos which they exhibit is rather that of present and physical distress, than of deep internal sentiment. What has been remarked of Leonardo da Vinci, is also true of Raphael, that there is an angelic sweetness and tenderness in his faces, in which human frailty and passion are purified by the sanctity of religion. The ancient statues are finer objects for the eye to contemplate; they represent a more perfect race of physical beings, but we have little sympathy with them. In Raphael, all our natural sensibilities are heightened and refined by the sentiments of faith and hope, pointing mysteriously to the interests of another world. The same intensity of passion appears also to distinguish Raphael from Michael Angelo. Michael Angelo's forms are grander, but they are not so informed with expression. Raphael's, however ordinary in themselves, are full of expression, "even to overflowing;" every nerve and muscle is impregnated with feeling,—bursting with meaning. In Michael Angelo, on the contrary, the powers of body and mind appear superior to any events that can happen to them; the capacity of thought and feeling is never full, never strained or tasked to the extremity of what it will bear. All is in a lofty repose and solitary grandeur, which no human interest can shake or disturb.

It has been said that Michael Angelo painted men, and Raphael men; that the one was an epic, the other a dramatic painter. But the distinction we have stated is, perhaps, truer and more intelligible, viz., that the one aimed at greater dignity of form, and the other gave greater force and refinement of expression. Michael Angelo, in fact, formed his ideas on classic art, in favour of which an enthusiastic feeling had arisen in his time, many of the finest specimens of the works of the ancients having been then first brought to light; his style, therefore, is based very much on sculpture, and is characterized by grandeur and severity—nevertheless his works possess much that is picturesque. The whole figure of his Jeremiah droops and hangs down like a majestic tree surcharged with showers. His drawing of the human form has the characteristic freedom and boldness of Titian's landscapes.

After Michael Angelo and Raphael, there is no doubt that Leonardo da Vinci and Coreggio are the two painters, in modern times, who have carried historical expression to the highest ideal perfection; and yet it is equally certain that their heads are carefully copied from faces and expressions in nature. Leonardo excelled principally in his women and children. We find, in his female heads, a peculiar charm of expression; a character of natural sweetness and tender playfulness, mixed up with the pride of conscious intellect and the graceful reserve of personal dignity. He blends purity with voluptuousness; and the expression of his women is equally characteristic of "the mistress or the saint." His pictures are worked up to the height of the idea he had conceived, with an elaborate felicity; but this idea was evidently first suggested, and afterwards religiously compared with nature. This was his excellence. His fault is, that his style of execution is too mathematical; that is, his pencil does not follow the graceful variety of the details of objects, but substitutes certain refined gradations, both of form and colour, producing equal changes in equal distances, with a mechanical uniformity. Leonardo was a man of profound learning as well as genius, and perhaps transferred too much of the formality of science to his favourite art.

The masterpieces of Coreggio have the same identity with nature, the same stamp of truth. He has indeed given to his pictures the utmost softness and refinement of outline and expression; but this idea, at which he constantly aimed, is filled up with all the details and varieties which such heads would have in nature. So far from any thing like a naked abstract idea, or middle form, the individuality of his faces has something peculiar in it, even approaching the grotesque. He has endeavoured to impress habitually on the countenance those undulating outlines which rapture or tenderness leave there, and has chosen for this purpose those forms and proportions which most obviously assisted his design.

As to the colouring of Coreggio, it is nature itself. Not only is the general tone perfectly true, but every speck and particle is varied in colour, in relief, in texture, with a care, a felicity, and an effect, which is almost magical. His light and shade are equally admirable. No one else, perhaps, ever gave the same harmony and roundness to his compositions. So true are his shadows,—equally free from coldness, opacity, or false glare,—so clear, so broken, so airy, and yet so deep, that if you hold your hand so as to cast a shadow on any part of the flesh which is in the light, this part, so shaded, will present exactly the same appearance which the painter has given to the shadowed part of the picture. Coreggio, indeed, possessed a greater variety of excellences in the different departments of his art than any other painter; and yet it is remarkable, that the impression which his pictures leave upon the mind of the common spectator is monotonous and comparatively feeble. His style is in some degree mannered and confined. For instance, he is without the force, passion, and grandeur of Raphael, who, however, possessed his softness of expression, but of expression only; and in colour, in light and shade, and some other qualities, was perhaps not equal to Coreggio. We may, perhaps, solve this apparent contradiction by saying, that he applied the power of his mind to a greater variety of objects than others; but that this power was still of the same character; consisting in a certain exquisite sense of the harmonious, the soft and graceful in form, colour, and sentiment, but with a deficiency of strength, and a tendency to effeminacy in all these.

It was at one time the fashion after Raphael and Coreggio to mention Guido, whose female faces are exceedingly beautiful and ideal, but altogether commonplace and vapid compared with those of Raphael or Coreggio; and Fine Arts for no other reason but that the general idea they convey is not enriched and strengthened by an intense contemplation of nature. For the same reason, we can conceive nothing more unlike the antique than the figures of Nicholas Poussin, except as to the preservation of the costume; and it is perhaps chiefly owing to the habit of studying his art at second-hand, or by means of scientific rules, that the great merits of that able painter, whose understanding and genius are unquestionable, are confined to his choice of subjects for his pictures, and his manner of telling the story. His landscapes, which he probably took from nature, are superior as paintings to his historical pieces. The faces of Poussin want natural expression, as his figures want grace; but the back-grounds of his historical compositions can scarcely be surpassed. In his Plague of Athens, the very buildings seem stiff with horror. His giants, seated on the top of their fabled mountains, and playing on their Pan pipes, are as familiar and natural as if they were the ordinary inhabitants of the scene. The finest of his landscapes is his picture of the Deluge. The sun is just seen, wan and drooping in his course. The sky is bowed down with a weight of waters, and heaven and earth seem mingling together.

Titian is at the head of the Venetian school. He is the first of all colourists. In delicacy and purity Correggio is equal to him, but his colouring has not the same warmth and gusto in it. Titian's flesh-colour partakes of the glowing nature of the climate, and of the luxuriosness of the manners of his country. He represents objects not through a merely lucid medium, but as if tinged with a golden light. Yet it is wonderful in how low a tone of local colouring his pictures are painted,—how rigidly his means are husbanded. His most gorgeous effects are produced, not less by keeping down than by heightening his colours; the fineness of his gradations adds to their variety and force; and, with him, truth is the same thing as splendour. Every thing is done by the severity of his eye, by the patience of his touch. He is enabled to keep pace with nature by never hurrying on before her; and as he forms the broadest masses out of innumerable varying parts and minute strokes of the pencil, so he unites and harmonizes the strongest contrasts by the most imperceptible transitions. Every distinction is relieved and broken by some other intermediate distinction, like half-notes in music; and yet all this accumulation of endless variety is so managed as only to produce the majestic simplicity of nature, so that to a common eye there is nothing extraordinary in his pictures, any more than in nature itself. It is, we believe, owing to what has been here stated, that Titian is, of all painters, at once the easiest and the most difficult to copy. He is the most difficult to copy perfectly, for the artifice of his colouring and execution is hid in its apparent simplicity; and yet the knowledge of nature, and the arrangement of the forms and masses in his pictures, are so masterly, that any copy made from them, even the rudest outline or sketch, can hardly fail to have a look of high art. Because he was the greatest colourist in the world, this, which was his most prominent, has, for shortness, been considered as his only excellence; and he has been said to have been ignorant of drawing. What he was, generally speaking, deficient in, was invention or composition, though even this appears to have been more from habit than want of power; but his drawing of actual forms, where they were not to be put into momentary action, or adapted to a particular expression, was as fine as possible. His drawing of the forms of inanimate objects is unrivalled. His trees have a marked character and physiognomy of their own, and exhibit an appearance of strength or flexibility, solidity or lightness, as if they were endowed with conscious power and purposes. Character was another excellence which Titian possessed in the highest degree. It is scarcely speaking too highly of his portraits to say, that they have as much expression, that is, convey as fine an idea of intellect and feeling, as the historical heads of Raphael. The chief difference appears to be, that the expression in Raphael is more imaginary and contemplative, and in Titian more personal and constitutional. The heads of the one seem thinking more of some event or subject, those of the other to be thinking more of themselves. In the portraits of Titian, as might be expected, the Italian character always predominates; there is a look of piercing sagacity, of commanding intellect, of acute sensibility, which it would be in vain to seek for in any other portraits. The daring spirit and irritable passions of the age and country are distinctly stamped upon their countenances, and can be as little mistaken as the costume which they wear. The portraits of Raphael, though full of profound thought and feeling, have more of common humanity about them. Titian's portraits are the most historical that ever were painted; and they are so for this reason, that they have most consistency of form and expression. His portraits of Hippolito de' Medici, and of a young Neapolitan nobleman, lately in the gallery of the Louvre, are a striking contrast in this respect. All the lines of the face in the one, the eye-brows, the nose, the corners of the mouth, the contour of the face, present the same sharp angles, the same acute, edgy, contracted, violent expression. The other portrait has the finest expansion of feature and outline, and conveys the most exquisite idea possible of mild, thoughtful sentiment. The consistency of the expression constitutes as great a charm in Titian's portraits as the harmony of the colouring. The similarity sometimes objected to his heads is partly national, and partly arises from the class of persons whom he painted. He painted only Italians; and in his time it rarely happened that any but persons of the highest rank, senators or cardinals, sat for their pictures. The similarity of costume of the dress, the beard, &c. also adds to the similarity of their appearance. It adds at the same time to their picturesque effect; and the alteration in this respect is one circumstance among others that has been injurious, not to say fatal, to modern art. This observation is not confined to portrait; for the hired dresses with which our historical painters clothe their figures sit no more easily on the imagination of the artist, than they do gracefully on the lay-figures over which they are thrown.

Giorgione, Paul Veronese, and Tintoret, are the remaining great names of the Venetian school. Their excellence consisted in bold, masterly and striking imitation of nature. Giorgione takes the first place among them; for he was the fellow-pupil and rival of Titian, whereas the others were only his disciples. His works, besides, are highly valued for their grandeur and dignity and for their poetical treatment, generally involving some deep allegorical meaning. The Caracci, Domenichino, Guido, Guercino, and Albani, who established, after the decline of Italian art, what is generally styled the Bolognese school, formed themselves on the principle of combining the excellences of the Roman and Venetian painters; they flourished for a time, but at last degenerated into absolute insignificance, in proportion as they departed from nature, or the great masters who had copied her, to mould their works on academic rules, and the phantoms of abstract perfection.

Rubens is the prince of the Flemish painters. Of all Flemish the great painters, he is perhaps the most artificial,—the and Dutch one who painted most from his own imagination,—and, painters, what was almost the inevitable consequence, the most of a mannerist. He had neither the Greek forms to study Fine Arts from, nor the Roman expression, nor the high character, picturesque costume, and sun-burnt hues which the Venetian painters had immediately before them. He took, however, what circumstances presented to him,—a fresher and more blooming tone of complexion, arising from moister air and a colder climate. To this he added the congenial splendour of reflected lights and shadows cast from rich drapery; and he made what amends he could for the want of expression, by the richness of his compositions, and the fantastic variety of his allegorical groups. Both his colouring and his drawing were, however, ideal exaggerations. But both had particular qualities of the highest value. He has given to his flesh greater transparency and freshness than any other painter; and this excellence he had from nature. One of the finest instances will be found in his Peasant Family going to Market, in which the figures have all the bloom of health upon their countenances; and the very air of the surrounding landscape strikes sharp and wholesome on the sense. Rubens had another excellence; he has given all that relates to the expression of motion in his allegorical figures, in his children, his animals, even in his trees, to a degree which no one else has equalled, or indeed approached. His drawing is often deficient in proportion, in knowledge, and in elegance, but it is always picturesque. The drawing of N. Poussin, on the contrary, which has been much cried up, is merely learned and anatomical: he has a knowledge of the structure and measurements of the human body, but very little feeling of the grand, or beautiful, or striking in form. All Rubens' forms have ease, freedom, and excessive elasticity. In the grotesque style of history,—as in the groups of satyrs, nymphs, bacchanals, and animals, where striking contrasts of form are combined with every kind of rapid and irregular movement,—he has not a rival. Witness his Silenus at Blenheim, where the lines seem drunk and staggering; and his procession of Cupids riding on animals at Whitehall, with that adventurous leader of the infantine crew, who, with a spear, is urging a lion, on which he is mounted, over the edge of the world; for beyond we only see a precipice of clouds and sky. Rubens' power of expressing motion perhaps arose from the facility of his pencil, and his habitually trusting a good deal to memory and imagination in his compositions; for this quality can be given in no other way. It is to be regretted that he so seldom painted portraits, as those he executed (and in the gallery at Munich there are some fine specimens) possess very high qualities. His landscapes are often delightful, being generally truthful representations of Flemish scenery.

It remains to speak of Vandyck and Rembrandt, the one the disciple of Rubens, the other the entire founder of his own school. It is not possible for two painters to be more opposite. The characteristic merits of the former are very happily summed up in a single line of a poetical critic, where he speaks of "The soft precision of the clear Vandyck."

The general object of this analysis of the works of the great masters has been to show that their pre-eminence has constantly depended, not on the creation of a fantastic, abstract excellence, existing nowhere but in their own minds, but in their selecting and embodying some one view of nature, which came immediately under their habitual observation, and which their particular genius led them to study and imitate with success. This is certainly the case with Vandyck. His portraits, mostly of English women, in the collection in the Louvre, have a cool refreshing air about them, a look of simplicity and modesty even in the very tone, which forms a fine contrast to the voluptuous glow and mellow golden lustre of Titian's Italian women. There is a quality of flesh-colour in Vandyck which is to be found in no other painter, and which exactly conveys the idea of the soft, smooth, sliding, continuous, delicately varied surface of the skin. The objects in his pictures have the least possible difference of light and shade, and are presented to the eye without passing through any indirect medium. It is this extreme purity and silvery clearness of tone, together with the facility and precision of his particular forms, and a certain air of fashionable elegance, characteristic of the age in which he flourished, that places Vandyck in the first rank of portrait painters.

Rembrandt is peculiarly distinguished by the extreme originality of his style. He may be said to have created a medium of his own, through which he saw all objects. He was the grossest and the least vulgar, that is to say, the least common-place in his grossness, of all men. He was the most downright, the least fastidious of the imitators of nature. He took any object, he cared not what, how mean soever in form, colour, and expression; and from the light and shade which he threw upon it, it came out gorgeous from his hands. As Vandyck made use of the smallest contrasts of light and shade, and painted as if in the open air, Rembrandt used the most violent and abrupt contrasts in this respect, and painted his objects as if in a dungeon. His pictures may be said to be "bright with excessive darkness." His vision had acquired a lynx-eyed sharpness from the artificial obscurity to which he had accustomed himself. "Mystery and silence hung upon his pencil." Yet he could pass rapidly from one extreme to another, and dip his colours with equal success in the gloom of night or in the blaze of the noon-day sun. In surrounding different objects with a medium of imagination, solemn or dazzling, he was a true poet; in all the rest he was a mere painter, but a painter of no common stamp. The powers of his hand were equal to those of his eye; and indeed he could not have attempted the subjects he did, without an execution as masterly as his knowledge was profound. His colours are sometimes dropped in lumps on the canvass; at other times they are laid on as smooth as glass; and he not unfrequently painted with the handle of his brush. He had an eye for all objects as far as he had seen them. His history and landscapes are equally fine in their way. His landscapes we could look at for ever, though there is nothing in them. But "they are of the earth, earthly." It seems as if he had dug them out of nature. Every thing is so true, so real, so full of all the feelings and associations which the eye can suggest to the other senses, that we immediately take as strong an affection to them as if they were our home—the very place where we were brought up. No length of time could add to the intensity of the impression they convey. Rembrandt is the least classical and the most romantic of all painters. His Jacob's Ladder is more like a dream than any other picture that ever was painted. The figure of Jacob himself is thrown in one corner of the picture like a bundle of clothes, while the angels hover above the darkness in the shape of airy wings.

It would be needless to prove that the generality of the Dutch painters copied from actual objects. They have become almost a bye-word for carrying this principle into its abuse, by copying every thing they saw, and having no choice or preference of one thing to another, unless that they preferred that which was most obvious and common. We forgive them. They perhaps did better in faithfully and skilfully imitating what they had seen, than in imagining what they had not seen. Their pictures at least show that there is nothing in nature, however mean or trivial, that has not its beauty, and some interest belonging to it, if truly represented. We prefer Vangoyen's views on the borders of a canal, the yellow- Fine Arts. tufted bank and passing sail, or Ruysdael's woods and sparkling water-falls, to the most classical or epic compositions which they could have invented out of nothing; and we think that Teniers' boors, old women, and children, are very superior to the little carved ivory Venuses in the pictures of Vandermeer; just as we think Hogarth's Marriage à la Mode is better than his Sigismunda, or, as Wilkie's Card-Players is better than his Alfred. We should not assuredly prefer a Dutch Fair by Teniers to a Cartoon by Raphael; but we suspect we should prefer a Dutch Fair by Teniers to a Cartoon by the same master; or we should prefer truth and nature in the simplest dress, to affectation and inanity in the most pompous disguise. Whatever is genuine in art must proceed from the impulse of nature and individual genius.

In the French school there are but two names of high and established reputation, N. Poussin and Claude Lorraine. Of the former we have already spoken; of the latter we shall give our opinion when we come to speak of our own Wilson. We ought not to pass over the names of Murillo and Velasquez, those admirable Spanish painters. It is difficult to characterize their peculiar excellences as distinct from those of the Italian and Dutch schools. They may be said to hold a middle rank between the painters of mind and body. They express not so much thought and sentiment, nor yet the mere exterior, as the life and spirit of the man. Murillo is probably at the head of that class of painters who have treated subjects of common life. After making the colours on the canvass feel and think, the next best thing is to make them breathe and live. But there is in Murillo's pictures of this kind a look of real life, a cordial flow of native animal spirits, which we find nowhere else. We might here refer particularly to his picture of the Two Spanish Beggar Boys, in the collection at Dulwich College, which cannot easily be forgotten by those who have ever seen it.

We come now to treat of the progress of art in Britain. We shall speak first of Hogarth, both as he is the first name in the order of time that we have to boast of, and as he is the greatest comic painter of any age or country. His pictures are not imitations of still life, or mere transcripts of incidental scenes or customs; but powerful moral satires, exposing vice and folly in their most ludicrous points of view, and, with a profound insight into the weak sides of character and manners, in all their tendencies, combinations, and contrasts. There is not a single picture of his, containing a representation of merely natural or domestic scenery. His object is not so much "to hold the mirror up to nature," as "to show vice her own feature, scorn her own image." Folly is there seen at the height—the moon is at the full—it is the very error of the time. There is a perpetual collision of eccentricities, a tilt and tournament of absurdities, pampered into all sorts of affectation, airy, extravagant, and ostentatious! Yet he is as little a caricaturist as he is a painter of still life. Criticism has not done him justice, though public opinion has. His works have received a sanction which it would be vain to dispute, in the universal delight and admiration with which they have been regarded, from their first appearance to the present moment. If the quantity of amusement, or of matter for reflection, which they have afforded, is that by which we are to judge of precedence among the intellectual benefactors of mankind, there are perhaps few persons who can put in a stronger claim to our gratitude than Hogarth. The wonderful knowledge which he possessed of human life and manners is only to be surpassed (if it can be) by the powers of invention with which he has arranged his materials, and by the mastery of execution with which he has embodied Fine Arts and made tangible the very thoughts and passing movements of the mind. Some persons object to the style of Hogarth's pictures, or the class to which they belong. First, Hogarth belongs to no class, or, if he belongs to any, it is to the same class as Fielding, Smollett, Vanbrugh, and Molière. Besides, the merit of his pictures does not depend on the nature of his subjects, but on the knowledge displayed of them, on the number of ideas, on the fund of observation and amusement contained in them. Make what deductions you please for the vulgarity of the subjects—yet in the research, the profundity, the absolute truth and precision of the delineation of character,—in the invention of incident, in wit and humour, in life and motion, in everlasting variety and originality,—they never have been, and probably never will be, surpassed. They stimulate the faculties, as well as amuse them. "Other pictures we see, Hogarth's we read!"¹

There is one error which has been frequently entertained on this subject, and which we wish to correct, namely, that Hogarth's genius was confined to the imitation of the coarse humours and broad farce of the lowest life. But he excelled quite as much in exhibiting the vices, the folly, and frivolity of the fashionable manners of his time. His fine ladies do not yield the palm of ridicule to his waiting-maids, and his lords and his porters are on a very respectable footing of equality. He is quite at home, either in St Giles's or St James's. There is no want, for example, in his Marriage à la Mode, or his Taste in High Life, of affectation verging into idiocy, or of languid sensibility that might die of a rose in aromatic pain.

Many of Hogarth's characters would form admirable illustrations of Pope's Satires, who was contemporary with him. In short, Hogarth was a painter of real, not of low life. He was, as we have said, a satirist, and consequently his pencil did not dwell on the grand and beautiful, but it glanced with equal success at the absurdities and peculiarities of high or low life, "of the great vulgar and the small."

To this it must be added, that he was as great a master of passion as of humour. He succeeded in low tragedy as much as in low or genteel comedy, and had an absolute power in moving the affections and rending the hearts of the spectators, by depicting the effects of the most dreadful calamities of human life on common minds and common countenances. Of this the Rake's Progress, particularly the hedlam scene, and many others, are unanswerable proofs. Hogarth's merits as a mere artist are not confined to his prints. In general, indeed, this is the case. But when he chose to take pains, he could add the delicacies of execution and colouring in the highest degree to those of character and composition; as is evident in his series of pictures, all equally well painted, of the Marriage à la Mode.

We shall next speak of Wilson, whose pictures may be divided into three classes,—his Italian landscapes, or imitations of the manner of Claude,—his copies of English scenery,—and his historical compositions. The first of these are, in our opinion, by much the best; and we appeal, in support of this opinion, to the Apollo and the Seasons, and to the Phaeton. The figures are of course out of the question (these being as uncouth and slovenly as Claude's are insipid and finical); but the landscape in both pictures is delightful. In looking at them we breathe the air which the scene inspires, and feel the genius of the place present to us.

¹ See an admirable essay on the genius of Hogarth, by Charles Lamb, in a periodical work called The Reflector. In general, Wilson's views of English scenery want almost everything that ought to recommend them. The subjects he has chosen are not well fitted for the landscape painter, and there is nothing in the execution to redeem them. Ill-shaped mountains, or great heaps of earth—trees that grow against them without character or elegance—motionless waterfalls—a want of relief, of transparency and distance, without the imposing grandeur of real magnitude (which it is scarcely within the province of art to give), are the chief features and defects of this class of his pictures.

His historical landscapes, his Niobe, Celadon, and Amelia, &c., do not, in our estimation, display either true taste or fine imagination, but are affected and violent exaggerations of clumsy common nature. They are made up mechanically of the same stock of materials—an overhanging rock, bare shattered trees, black rolling clouds, and forked lightning. The figures in the most celebrated of these are not, like the children of Niobe, punished by the gods, but like a group of rustics crouching from a hail-storm. We agree with Sir Joshua Reynolds, that Wilson's mind was not, like N. Poussin's, sufficiently imbued with the knowledge of antiquity to transport the imagination 3000 years back, to give natural objects a sympathy with preternatural events, and to inform rocks, and trees, and mountains, with the presence of a God. To sum up his general character, we may observe, that, besides his excellence in aerial perspective, Wilson had great truth, harmony, and depth of local colouring. He had a fine feeling of the proportions and conduct of light and shade, and also an eye for graceful form, as far as regards the bold and varying outlines of indefinite objects, as may be seen in his foregrounds, &c., where the artist is not tied down to an imitation of characteristic and articulate forms. In his figures, trees, cattle, and in everything having a determinate and regular form, his pencil was not only deficient in accuracy of outline, but even in perspective and actual relief. His trees, in particular, frequently seem pasted on the canvas, like botanical specimens. In fine, we cannot subscribe to the opinion of those who assert that Wilson was superior to Claude as a man of genius; nor can we discern any other grounds for this opinion than what would lead to the general conclusion,—that the more slovenly the performance the finer the picture, and that that which is imperfect is superior to that which is perfect. It might be said, on the same principle, that the coarsest sign-painting is better than the reflection of a landscape in a mirror; and the objection that is sometimes made to the mere imitation of nature cannot be made to the landscapes of Claude, for in them the graces themselves have, with their own hands, assisted in selecting and disposing every object. Is the general effect in his pictures injured by the details? Is the truth inconsistent with the beauty of the imitation? Does the perpetual profusion of objects and scenery, all perfect in themselves, interfere with the simple grandeur and comprehensible magnificence of the whole? Does the precision with which a plant is marked in the foreground take away from the air-drawn distinctions of the blue glimmering horizon? Is there any want of that endless airy space, where the eye wanders at liberty under the open sky, explores distant objects, and returns back as from a delightful journey? There is no comparison between Claude and Wilson. Sir Joshua Reynolds used to say that there would be another Raphael before there would be another Claude. His landscapes have all that is exquisite and refined in art and nature. Everything is moulded into grace and harmony; and, at the touch of his pencil, shepherds with their flocks, temples and groves, and winding glades and scattered hamlets, rise up in never-ending succession, under the azure sky and the resplendent sun, while

Universal Pan Knit with the graces, and the hours in dance, Leads on the eternal spring.

Michael Angelo has left, in one of his sonnets, a fine apostrophe to the earliest poet of Italy: Fain would I, to be what our Dante was, Forego the happiest fortunes of mankind.

What landscape painter does not feel this of Claude?

We have heard an anecdote connected with the reputation of Gainsborough's pictures, which rests on pretty good authority. Sir Joshua Reynolds, at one of the academy dinners, speaking of Gainsborough, said to a friend, "He is undoubtedly the best English landscape painter." "No," said Wilson, who overheard the conversation; "he is not the best landscape painter, but he is the best portrait painter in England." They were both wrong; but the story is creditable to the versatility of Gainsborough's talents.

Those of his portraits which we have seen are not in the first rank. They are, in a good measure, imitations of Van dyck, and have more an air of gentility than of nature. His landscapes are of two classes or periods, his early and his later pictures. The former are minute imitations of nature, or of painters who imitated nature, such as Ruysdael, &c., some of which have great truth and clearness. His later pictures are flimsy caricatures of Rubens, who himself carried inattention to the details to the utmost limit that it would bear. Many of Gainsborough's later landscapes may be compared to bad water-colour drawings, washed in by mechanical movements of the hand, without any communication with the eye. The truth seems to be, that Gainsborough found there was something wanting in his early manner, that is, something beyond the literal imitation of the details of natural objects; and he appears to have concluded rather hastily, that the way to arrive at that something more was to discard truth and nature altogether. His fame rests principally, at present, on his fancy pieces, cottage children, shepherd boys, &c. These have often great truth, great sweetness, and the subjects are often chosen with great felicity. We too often find, however, even in his happiest efforts, a consciousness in the turn of the limbs, and a pensive languor in the expression, which is not taken from nature. We think the gloss of art is never so ill bestowed as on such subjects, the essence of which is simplicity. It is, perhaps, the general fault of Gainsborough, that he presents us with an ideal common life, of which we have had a surfeit in poetry and romance. His subjects are softened and sentimentalized too much; it is not simple unaffected nature that we see, but nature sitting for her picture.

Our artist, we suspect, led the way to that masquerade style, which prides itself on giving the air of an Adonis to the driver of a hay cart, and models the features of a milkmaid on the principles of the antique. His Woodman's Head is admirable. Nor can too much praise be given to his Shepherd Boy in a Storm, in which the unconscious simplicity of the boy's expression, looking up with his hands folded and with timid wonder,—the noisy chattering of a magpie perched above,—and the rustling of the coming storm in the branches of the trees,—produce a most delightful and romantic impression on the mind.

Gainsborough was to be considered, perhaps, rather as a man of delicate taste, and of an elegant and feeling mind, than as a man of genius; as a lover of the art rather than an artist. He devoted himself to it with a view to amuse and soothe his mind, with the ease of a gentleman, not with

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1 Claude left sketches of all the pictures he had painted, in a book which he denominated Liber Veritatis. By reference to this he avoided repetitions of his subjects; and it has served in aftertimes to ascertain the originality of his reputed productions. On the back of these drawings he wrote the names of the individuals by whom the pictures were purchased. That volume is now in the possession of the Duke of Devonshire. the severity of a professional student. He wished to make his pictures, like himself, amiable; but a too constant desire to please almost unavoidably leads to affectation and effeminacy. He wanted that vigour of intellect which perceives the beauty of truth; and thought that painting was to be gained, like other mistresses, by flattery and smiles. It was an error which we are disposed to forgive in one around whose memory, both as an artist and a man, many fond recollections, many vain regrets, must always linger.

The authority of Sir Joshua Reynolds, both from his example and instructions, has had, and still continues to have, a considerable influence on the state of art in this country. That influence has been, on the whole, unquestionably beneficial in itself, as well as highly creditable to the rare talents and elegant mind of Sir Joshua; for it has raised the art of painting from the lowest state of degradation,—of dry, meagre, lifeless insanity,—to something at least respectable, and bearing an affinity to the rough strength and bold spirit of the national character. Whether the same implicit deference to his authority, which has helped to advance the art thus far, may not, among other causes, limit and retard its future progress,—whether there are not certain original errors, both in his principles and practice, which, the farther they are proceeded in, the farther they will lead us from the truth,—whether there is not a systematic bias from the right line, by which alone we can arrive at the goal of the highest perfection,—are questions well worth considering.

We shall begin with Sir Joshua's merits as an artist. There is one error which we wish to correct at setting out, because we think it important. There is not a greater or more unaccountable mistake than the supposition that Sir Joshua Reynolds owed his success or excellence in his profession to his having been the first who introduced into this country more general principles of the art, and who raised portrait to the dignity of history, from the low drudgery of copying the peculiarities, meannesses, and details of individual nature, which was all that had been attempted by his immediate predecessors. This is so far from being true, that the very reverse is the fact. If Sir Joshua did not give these details and peculiarities so much as might be wished, those who went before him did not give them at all. Those pretended general principles of the art, which, it is said, "alone give value and dignity to it," had been pushed to their extremest absurdity before his time; and it was in getting rid of the mechanical systematic monotony and middle forms, by the help of which Lely, Kneller, Hudson, the French painters, and others, carried on their manufactories of history and face painting, and in returning (as far as he did return) to the truth and force of individual nature, that the secret both of his fame and fortune lay. The pedantic servile race of artists whom Reynolds superseded had carried the abstract principle of improving on nature to such a degree of refinement that they left it out altogether, and confounded all the varieties and irregularities of form, feature, character, expression, or attitude, in the same artificial mould of fancied grace and fashionable insipidity. The portraits of Kneller, for example, seem all to have been turned in a machine; the eye-brows are arched as if by a compass, the mouth curled, and the chin dimpled; the head turned on one side, and the hands placed in the same affected position. The portraits of this mannerist, therefore, are as like one another as the dresses which were then in fashion, and have the same "dignity and value" as the full-bottomed wigs which graced their originals. The superiority of Reynolds consisted in his being varied and natural, instead of being artificial and uniform. The spirit, grace, or dignity, which he added to his portraits, he borrowed from nature, and not from the ambiguous quackery of rules. His feeling of truth and nature was too strong to permit him to adopt the unmeaning style of Kneller and Hudson; but his logical acuteness was not such as to enable him to detect the verbal fallacies and speculative absurdities which he had learned from Richardson and Coyper; and from some defects in his own practice, he was led to confound negligence with grandeur. But of this hereafter.

Sir Joshua Reynolds owed his vast superiority over his contemporaries to incessant practice and habitual attention to nature, to quick organic sensibility, to considerable power of observation, and still greater taste in perceiving and availing himself of those excellencies of others which lay within his own walk of art. We can by no means look upon Sir Joshua as having a claim to the first rank of genius. He would hardly have been a great painter if other greater painters had not lived before him. He would not have given a first impulse to the art; nor did he advance any part of it beyond the point where he found it. He did not present any new view of nature, nor is he to be placed in the same class with those who did. Even in colour, his pallet was spread for him by the old masters; and his eye imbibed its full perception of depth and harmony of tone from the Dutch and Venetian schools rather than from nature. His early pictures are poor and flimsy. He indeed learned to see the finer qualities of nature through the works of art, which he, perhaps, might never have discovered in nature itself. He became rich by the accumulation of borrowed wealth; and his genius was the offspring of taste. He combined and applied the materials of others to his own purpose with admirable success; he was an industrious compiler or skilful translator, not an original inventor, in art. The art would remain, in all its essential elements, just where it is if Sir Joshua had never lived. He has supplied the industry of future plagiarists with no new materials. But it has been well observed, that the value of every work of art, as well as the genius of the artist, depends not more on the degree of excellence than on the degree of originality displayed in it. Sir Joshua, however, was perhaps the most original imitator that ever appeared in the world; and the reason of this, in a great measure, was, that he was compelled to combine what he saw in art with what he saw in nature, which was constantly before him. The portrait painter is, in this respect, much less liable than the historical painter to deviate into the extremes of manner and affectation; for he cannot discard nature altogether under the excuse that she only puts him out. He must meet her face to face; and if he is not incorrigible, he will see something there that cannot fail to be of service to him. Another circumstance which must have been favourable to Sir Joshua was, that though not the originator in point of time, he was the first Englishman who transplanted the higher excellencies of his profession into his own country, and had the merit, if not of an inventor, of a reformer of the art. His mode of painting had the graces of novelty in the age and country in which he lived; and he had, therefore, all the stimulus to exertion which arose from the enthusiastic applause of his contemporaries, and from a desire to expand and refine the taste of the public.

To an eye for colour, and for effects of light and shade, Sir Joshua united a strong perception of individual character—a lively feeling of the quaint and grotesque in expression, and great mastery of execution. He had comparatively little knowledge of drawing, either as it regarded proportion or form. The beauty of some of his female faces and figures arises almost entirely from their softness and fleshiness. His pencil wanted firmness and precision. The expression, even of his best portraits, seldom implies either lofty or impassioned intellect or delicate sensibility. He

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1 The idea of the necessity of improving upon nature, and giving what was called a flattering likeness, was universal in this country seventy years ago, so that Gainsborough is not to be so much blamed for tampering with his subjects. also wanted grace, if grace requires simplicity. The mere negation of stiffness and formality is not grace; for looseness and distortion are not grace. His favourite attitudes are not easy and natural, but the affectation of ease and nature. They are violent deviations from a right line. Many of the figures in his fancy pieces are placed in postures in which they could not remain for an instant without extreme difficulty and awkwardness. We might instance the Girl Drawing with a Pencil, and some others. His portraits are his best pictures. He had a selection of fine subjects, and the great advantage, as far as practice went, in painting a number of persons of every rank and description. Some of the finest and most interesting are those of Dr Johnson, Goldsmith (which is, however, too much a mere sketch), Baretti, Dr Burney, John Hunter, and the inimitable portrait of Bishop Newton. The elegant simplicity of character, expression, and drawing, preserved throughout the last picture, even to the attitude and mode of handling, discover the true genius of a painter. We also remember to have seen a print of Thomas Warton, than which nothing could be more characteristic or more natural. These were all Reynolds' intimate acquaintances, and it could not be said of them that they were men of "no mark or likelihood." Their traits had probably sunk deep into the artist's mind; he painted them as pure studies from nature, copying the real image existing before him, with all its known characteristic peculiarities; and, with as much wisdom as good-nature, sacrificing the graces on the altar of friendship. They are downright portraits and nothing more, and they are valuable in proportion. In his portraits of women, Sir Joshua had to contend with, and often to modify—and this, probably, was one of the reasons of his generalizing so much—the barbarous costume of his time, yet he has done so with such success, and imparted so much grace and elegance to his portraits of ladies, that an accomplished writer (Lady Eastlake) has lately attempted to prove by reference to his portraits that the costume of Sir Joshua's day is preferable to that of any other period.

The arch simplicity of expression, and the grotesque character which he has given to the heads of his children, though striking and beautiful, are borrowed from Correggio, and are rather overdone. His Puck is the most masterly of all these; and the colouring, execution, and character are alike exquisite. The single figure of the Infant Hercules is also admirable. Many of those to which his friends have suggested historical titles are mere common portraits or casual studies. Thus, the Infant Samuel is an innocent little child saying its prayers at the bed's feet; it has nothing to do with the story of the Hebrew prophet. The same objection will apply to many of his fancy pieces and historical compositions. There is often no connection between the picture and the subject but the name. Even his celebrated Iphigenia, beautiful as she is, and prodigal of her charms, does not answer to the idea of the story. In drawing the naked figure, Sir Joshua's want of truth and firmness of outline became more apparent; and his mode of laying on his colours, which in the face and extremities was relieved and broken by the abrupt inequalities of surface and variety of tints in each part, produced a degree of heaviness and opacity in the larger masses of flesh-colour, which can, indeed, only be avoided by extreme delicacy or extreme lightness of execution.

Shall we speak the truth at once? In our opinion, Sir Joshua did not possess either that high imagination, or those strong feelings, without which no painter can become a poet in his art. His larger historical compositions have been generally allowed to be most liable to objection in a critical point of view. We shall not attempt to judge them by scientific or technical rules, but make one or two observations on the character and feeling displayed in them. The highest subject which Sir Joshua has attempted was the Count Ugolino, and it was, as might be expected from the circumstances, a total failure. He had, it seems, painted a study of an old beggar-man's head; and some person, who must have known as little of painting as of poetry, persuaded the unsuspecting artist that it was the exact expression of Dante's Count Ugolino, one of the most grand, terrific, and appalling characters in modern fiction. Reynolds, who knew nothing of the matter but what he was told, took his good fortune for granted, and only extended his canvass to admit the rest of the figures. The attitude and expression of Count Ugolino himself are what the artist intended them to be, till they were pampered into something else by the officious vanity of friends—those of a common mendicant at the corner of a street, waiting patiently for some charitable donation. The imagination of the painter took refuge in a parish workhouse, instead of ascending the steps of the Tower of Famine. The hero of Dante is a lofty, high-minded, and unprincipled Italian nobleman, who had betrayed his country to the enemy, and who, as a punishment for this crime, is shut up with his four sons in the dungeon of the citadel, where he shortly finds the doors barred against him, and food withheld. He in vain watches with eager feverish eye the opening of the door at the accustomed hour, and his looks turn to stone; his children one by one drop down dead at his feet; he is seized with blindness, and, in the agony of his despair, he gropes on his knees after them.

Calling each by name

For three days after they were dead.

Even in the other world he is represented with the same fierce, dauntless, unrelenting character, "gnawing the skull of his adversary, his fell repast." The subject of the Laocon is scarcely equal to that described by Dante. The horror there is physical and momentary; in the other, the imagination fills up the long, obscure, dreary void of despair, and joins its unutterable pangs to the loud cries of nature. What is there in the picture to convey the ghastly horrors of the scene, or the mighty energy of soul with which they are borne? His picture of Macbeth is full of wild and grotesque images; and the apparatus of the witches contains a very elaborate and well-arranged inventory of dreadful objects. His Cardinal Beaufort is a fine display of rich mellow colouring; and there is something gentlemanly and Shakspearian in the king and the attendant nobleman. At the same time we think the expression of the cardinal himself is too much one of physical horror, a canine gnashing of the teeth, like a man strangled. This is not the best style of history. Mrs Siddons as the Tragic Muse is neither the tragic muse nor Mrs Siddons; and we have still stronger objections to Garrick between Tragedy and Comedy.

In his historical works in particular there is a striking similarity between Sir Joshua Reynolds' theory and his practice; and as each of these has been appealed to in support of the other, it is necessary that we should examine both. Sir Joshua's practice was generally confined to the illustration of that part of his theory which relates to the more immediate imitation of nature; and it is to what he says on this subject that we shall chiefly direct our observations at present.

He lays it down as a general and invariable rule, that "the great style in art, and the most perfect imitation of nature, consists in avoiding the details and peculiarities of particular objects." This sweeping principle he applies almost indiscriminately to portrait, history, and landscape; and he appears to have been led to the conclusion itself, from supposing the imitation of particulars to be inconsistent with general rule and effect. It appears to us that the highest perfection of the art depends, not on separating, but on uniting general truth and effect with individual distinctness and accuracy.

First, It is said that the great style in painting, as it relates to the immediate imitation of external nature, consists in avoiding the details of particular objects. It consists neither in giving nor avoiding them, but in something quite different from both. Any one may avoid the details. So far there is no difference between the Cartoons and a common sign painting. Greatness consists in giving the larger masses and proportions with truth;—this does not prevent giving the smaller ones too. The utmost grandeur of outline, and the broadest masses of light and shade, are perfectly compatible with the utmost minuteness and delicacy of detail, as may be seen in nature. It is not, indeed, common to see both qualities combined in the imitations of nature, any more than the combination of other excellences; nor are we here saying to which the principal attention of the artist should be directed; but we deny that, considered in themselves, the absence of the one quality is necessary or sufficient to the production of the other.

If, for example, the form of the eye-brow is correctly given, it will be perfectly indifferent to the truth or grandeur of the design, whether it consists of one broad mark, or is composed of a number of hair-lines arranged in the same order. So, if the lights and shades are disposed in fine and large masses, the breadth of the picture, as it is called, cannot possibly be affected by the filling up of those masses with the details, that is, with the subordinate distinctions which appear in nature. The anatomical details in Michael Angelo, the ever-varying outline of Raphael, the perfect execution of the Greek statues, do not destroy their symmetry or dignity of form; and in the finest specimens of the composition of colour we may observe the largest masses combined with the greatest variety in the parts of which those masses are composed.

The gross style consists in giving no details, the finical in giving nothing else. Nature contains both large and small parts, both masses and details; and the same may be said of the most perfect works of art. The union of both kinds of excellence, of strength with delicacy, as far as the limits of human capacity and the shortness of human life would permit, is that which has established the reputation of the most successful imitators of nature. Farther, their most finished works are their best. The predominance, indeed, of either excellence in the best masters has varied according to their opinion of the relative value of these qualities,—the labour they had the time or the patience to bestow on their works,—the skill of the artist,—or the nature and extent of his subject. But if the rule here objected to, that the careful imitation of the parts injures the effect of the whole, be once admitted, slovenliness would become another name for genius, and the most unfinished performance be the best. That such has been the confused impression left on the mind by the perusal of Sir Joshua Reynolds' Discourses, is evident from the practice as well as conversation of many (even eminent) artists. The late Mr Opie proceeded entirely on this principle. He left many admirable studies of portraits, particularly in what relates to the disposition and effect of light and shade; but he never finished any of the parts, thinking them beneath the attention of a great artist. He went over the whole head the second day as he had done the first, and therefore made no progress. The picture at last, having neither the lightness of a sketch nor the accuracy of a finished work, looked coarse, laboured, and heavy. Titian is an excellent example of high finishing united with breadth. In him the details are engrained on the most profound knowledge of effect, and attention to the character of what he represented. His pictures have the exact look of nature, the very tone and texture of flesh. The variety of his tints is blended into the greatest simplicity. There is a proper degree both of solidity and transparency. All the parts hang together; every stroke tells, and adds to the effect of the rest. Sir Joshua seems to deny that Titian finished much, and says that he produced, by two or three strokes of his pencil, effects which the most laborious copyist would in vain attempt to equal. It is true, he availed himself in some degree of what is called execution, to facilitate his imitation of the details and peculiarities of nature; but it was to facilitate, not to supersede it. There can be nothing more distinct than execution and dabbling. Titian, however, made a very moderate, though a very admirable, use of this power; and those who copy his pictures will find that the simplicity is in the results, not in the details. To conclude our observations on this head, we will only add, that while the artist thinks there is anything to be done, either to the whole or to the parts of his picture, which can give it still more the look of nature, if he is willing to proceed, we would not advise him to desist. This rule is the more necessary to the young student, for he will be apt to relax in his attention as he grows older.

Secondly, With regard to the imitation of expression, we can hardly agree with Sir Joshua, that "the perfection of portrait painting consists in giving the general idea or character without the individual peculiarities." No doubt, if we were to choose between the general character and the peculiarities of feature, we ought to prefer the former. But they are so far from being incompatible with, that they are not without some difficulty distinguishable from, each other. There is a general look of the face, a predominant expression arising from the correspondence and connection of the different parts, which it is of the first and last importance to give, and without which no elaboration of detached parts, or marking of the peculiarities of single features, is worth anything; but which, at the same time, is not destroyed, but assisted, by the careful finishing, and still more by giving the exact outline, of each part.

Till within these few years it was on this point that the modern French and English schools differed, and, in our opinion, were both wrong. The English seemed generally to suppose, that if they only left out the subordinate parts, they were sure of the general result. The French, on the contrary, as erroneously imagined that, by attending successively to each separate part, they would infallibly arrive at a correct whole; not considering that, besides the parts, there is their relation to each other, and the general expression stamped upon them by the character of the individual, which to be seen must be felt; for it is demonstrable, that all character and expression, to be adequately represented, must be perceived by the mind, and not by the eye only. The French painters gave only lines and precise differences, the English only general masses and strong effects. But sounder ideas and a more correct practice now prevail in both countries.

Much has been said of historical portrait; and we have no objection to this phrase, if properly understood. The giving historical truth to a portrait means, then, the representing the individual under one consistent, probable, and striking view; or showing the different features, muscles, &c., in one action, and modified by one principle. A portrait thus painted may be said to be historical; that is, it carries internal evidence of truth and propriety with it; and the number of individual peculiarities, as long as they are true to nature, cannot lessen, but must add to, the strength of the general impression.

It might be shown, if there were room in this place, that Sir Joshua has constructed his theory of the ideal in art upon the same mistaken principle of the negation or abstraction of particular nature. The ideal is not a negative, but a positive thing. The leaving out the details or peculiarities of an individual face does not make it one jot more ideal. To paint history, is to paint nature as answering to a general, predominant, or preconceived idea in the mind, of strength, beauty, action, passion, thought, &c.; but the way to do this is not to leave out the details, but to incorporate the general idea with the details; that is, to show the same expression actuating and modifying every movement of the muscles, and the same character preserved consistently through every part of the body. Grandeur does not consist in omitting the parts, but in connecting all the parts into a whole, and in giving their combined and varied action: abstract truth or ideal perfection does not consist in rejecting the peculiarities of form, but in rejecting all those which are not consistent with the character intended to be given, and in following up the same general idea of softness, voluptuousness, strength, activity, or any combination of these, through every ramification of the frame. But these modifications of form or expression can only be learnt from nature, and therefore the perfection of art must always be sought in nature. The ideal properly applies as much to the idea of ugliness, weakness, folly, meanness, vice, as of beauty, strength, wisdom, magnanimity, or virtue. The antique heads of fauns and satyrs, of Pan or Silenus, are quite as ideal as those of the Apollo or Bacchus; and Hogarth adhered to an idea of humour in his faces, as Raphael did to an idea of sentiment. But Raphael found the character of sentiment in nature as much as Hogarth did that of humour, otherwise neither of them would have given one or the other with such perfect truth, purity, force, and keeping. Sir Joshua Reynolds' ideal, as consisting in a mere negation of individuality, bears just the same relation to real beauty or grandeur as caricature does to true comic character.

Writers on art have long been in the habit of complaining that the English are hitherto without any painter of serious historical subjects, who can be placed in the first rank of genius;—that although many of the pictures of modern artists have shown a capacity for correct and happy delineation of actual objects and domestic incidents, only inferior to the masterpieces of the Dutch School—and in landscape Turner and others have depicted the effects of air and of powerful relief in objects in a way which was never surpassed; yet in the highest walk of art—in giving the movements of the finer or loftier passions of the mind, this country has not produced a single painter who has made even a faint approach to the excellence of the great Italian painters;—and the pictures of Barry, Northcote, West, Fuseli, and Haydon have been instanced in proof of this assertion. But such complaints are most unjustly made: for how should works be expected of a class and quality for which there is neither demand, encouragement, sympathy, nor appreciation? Though it be undoubtedly true that the province of art as well as of literature is to lead and instruct the public mind, yet it is not less certain that both are acted on by, and reflect the feelings, tastes, and habits of, the people; and though for a long time various causes combined to check the progress of art in Britain, since the establishment of the English school its artists have not only energetically kept pace with, but often greatly aided in advancing, the spirit of the age.

When we consider the deplorable state of art when the English school was founded, we cannot admire too much the energy of the movement, and the success with which it was crowned. The eighteenth century was the period in history when art was most debased. All of art that remained to the world was the mannered and tawdry school of Louis XIV., then almost in a state of imbecility; and about the middle of the century when the English school was founded, there was no corresponding movement elsewhere, and bad taste had to be opposed in every direction. The modern French school dates from the end of last century, and at first it was anything but successful. A political bias inclined art to the same walk that literature had taken, namely, the classic, which emanated from the ancient republican states; and as sculpture is the chief expositor of that kind of art, painting was made entirely sculptur-esque, and its powers and capabilities were confined within limits and forced in a direction at variance with its proper functions. Within the last thirty years, however, the French school has made great advances, and is now in a flourishing condition.

The modern school of Germany was not founded till the beginning of this century. It arose under most favourable circumstances; for peace had been established in Europe, and the nations required repose after a long and ruinous war, which, however, had dispersed the treasures of art in the various royal galleries, shown the public the value and importance attached to such works, and made their study more generally available. All these movements have combined to improve and elevate taste generally, and in this country in particular, abounding as it does in wealth and energy, they have been eagerly taken advantage of; so that the British school is rapidly attaining the high position that will fit it in every way to respond to the requirements of the greatest and wealthiest nation in the world.

It is now above a hundred years since Hogarth painted his March to Finchley. At that period art had fallen low indeed—the glorious schools of Italy and Germany had long passed away, as also had what is styled the revival in Bologna, an attempt that has in general been estimated too favourably, as it did more to injure art than to revive it—the lights of the Spanish, the Flemish, and the Dutch schools were extinguished, and all that remained was the baneful example of the French school of Louis XIV., and even it was in decadence. In Germany, French art as well as French literature alone prevailed, and in England a national school was scarcely hoped for. When Hogarth produced those wonderful works which so powerfully embody English character, he adopted, to a certain extent, in technical treatment, the style of Watteau, the painter, however, of whom France has most reason to boast as a genuine national artist. Thornhill was executing huge sprawling allegories in emulation of De la Fosse and other French painters, portrait painting was chiefly in the hands of foreigners, and landscape painting was almost unknown. Thus we find art everywhere paralyzed at the time when Hogarth and Reynolds arose to revive it—the productions of the former exceeding in humour every previous effort in art, the portraits of the latter ranking with those of Velasquez, Vandyck, and Rembrandt, while the works of their contemporaries, Wilson, Gainsborough, Bacon, &c., are deservedly held in high esteem. There is one striking peculiarity in the English school—it has not like others commenced timidly, risen to a certain point, and then fallen. No greater works have been produced in the English school than those of its founders Hogarth and Reynolds, in their peculiar walks. It has not, however, declined since the days of Reynolds; on the contrary, it has risen much higher. The explanation seems to be this, that the English school was the last that arose in Europe, having been instituted only in the middle of the eighteenth century, and the general revival of art over the greater part of Europe took place before there was any perceptible decadence in Britain. Though that revival therefore affected in the most striking manner the schools of France and Germany, where art was either in utter decay or had long passed away, and was therefore loudly called for and eagerly welcomed, the movement in England is to be viewed less in the light of a revival, than merely as aiding in bringing forth a rich harvest of increased motives and facilities of improvement, for the further sustenance and gradual development and increase of a healthy and vigorous system. Thus, for example, though we have not had a portrait painter superior to Reynolds, yet, admirable though that great painter's works are, increased knowledge has produced an appreciation of art that demands, and doubtless will soon call forth, a higher and purer style, uniting to the force of Reynolds more careful drawing, greater individuality of expression, and higher finish. And though Hogarth has never been excelled for broad humour, still the Distraining for Rent—Reading the Will—The Penny Wedding, and The Chelsea Pensioners of Wilkie, are higher works than any of Hogarth's, as they combine a greater number of the qualities essential to a complete work of art, and the expression is brought out with greater delicacy and more artistic skill. Also, the painters of history and genre subjects of the present time go far beyond those who practised in the early period of the school. What works of that day would stand in comparison with those of Etty? In landscape the superiority is even more striking. Turner far surpassed Wilson and Gainsborough,—and Bonington, Calcott, Collins, P. Nasmyth, Miller, and many others (we avoid names of living artists, and refer only to those lately deceased), may be successfully opposed to them; while our school of water-colour painters, which is of purely English origin, is looked up to and imitated all over Europe.

Besides the revival of art on the continent, a new influence has been brought to bear on British art, by the introduction of an element till lately unknown in this country, namely, government patronage. It was often made a subject of complaint, that while the governments of France and Germany gave liberal encouragement to the arts, the government of our country was noted for neglecting them. But the decoration of the new houses of parliament was at length taken advantage of as affording a fitting opportunity for employing native artists on national works; and about ten years ago competitions were instituted, and prizes offered, both in money and commissions for pictures. The amount of talent called forth in this way far exceeded expectation; and accordingly, several important commissions were awarded for pictures in fresco and in oil, though chiefly in the former style, as a species of painting not hitherto practised in England, and from its being thought best adapted for combining with architectural decoration. Several sculptors, too,—and the English school reckons at present many eminent names in that high walk of art—were employed by government. These commissions, so far as executed, satisfactorily demonstrate the high capabilities of the artists employed; but it is doubtful whether a demand for large works, especially when executed on walls, will become general in this country. There seem many reasons against it: the domestic habits of the people lead them to seek for enjoyment in their private dwellings, and there to collect around them what they prize most; works of large dimensions, therefore, can seldom be accommodated. Besides, largeness of style is in no degree dependent on dimensions of canvas; in a mercantile community too, large sums are seldom laid out without a calculation that it may be necessary at some future time to convert into money the property on which the expenditure was made, and moderately-sized pictures are generally preferred as an investment; and, indeed, extensive mansions adorned with fresco paintings are not now considered, as they were in former times, the means of adding importance to and handing down a family to posterity. Even in Germany, although art was there first fostered by government patronage, artists are turning their attention to private sales as the most lasting source from which art is to be supported. The King of Bavaria built churches principally with the view of encouraging fresco painting, but these have now become so numerous that there is scarcely a pretext for erecting one more; and his palaces, rebuilt or extended for the same purpose, are larger than he can occupy. In France a like feeling is gradually arising, and it has lately been strengthened by the following occurrence. The exiled Duchess of Orleans, in spring of the present year (1853), brought to public sale the gallery of modern French paintings which had been formed by the late duke, and a larger sum was realized than had been expended on the collection. In place of purchasing or commissioning easel pictures, had the duke employed the different artists to execute frescoes in some of his chateaux, they would never have formed a resource for his family in adversity, nor in any way benefited himself or others, as they would probably have been obliterated to make way for compositions illustrative of the deeds of the new dynasty.

Government has also taken up strenuously a plan which, it is strongly hoped, will improve the taste of the people, that, namely, of art tuition in design, particularly with reference to manufactures. With this view a number of schools have been instituted in London, in Edinburgh, and in the principal cities of the kingdom. These have been in operation for several years, most of them having been founded at the same time that government proposed competitions at Westminster Hall with the view of encouraging the fine arts. This latter plan seems, however, to have been discontinued, at least it is being but feebly carried out, while the schools of design are receiving the particular attention of government. On this legislative procedure, public opinion is much divided, many holding that, in place of forming schools where an inferior kind of art is taught, government should encourage only the highest, as that would involve improvement in all the inferior branches; others again—and among these many of the principal manufacturers—think that such schools now attempt too much, the plan having lately been tried, of communicating a practical knowledge of the particular trade or manufacture for which the designs are made. They hold that the education imparted should be limited to drawing and modelling, it being left to the employers and the master-designers in their establishments, to instruct the pupils in the kind of design that can be practically applied to the particular trade they engage in; as the attempt by these schools to turn out practical designers perfected in their profession is hopeless; and the little practical knowledge they can learn at the schools, serving only to puzzle them, must be all unlearned in the manufactory. There can be no doubt, however, that every step taken in disseminating education should be hailed with satisfaction,—that drawing, the medium by which knowledge is directly communicated to the mind through the eye, should be made a part of education as well as letters, and that galleries of art should be acquired by the nation, and be made available to the people in the same way as public libraries are. For it is in vain to educate men to execute fine designs, unless the people who are to purchase those designs are also sufficiently educated to be able to appreciate them.

Much has been written on the subject of artists forming themselves into societies or academies, and it has been alleged that all such institutions are injurious to art. This is surely very unreasonable. Artists are equally entitled to form societies for their mutual benefit and for advancing their profession generally, as members of the legal or medical profession. And if such combinations were injurious to art, it is reasonable to suppose that the artists themselves would be the first to make the discovery, seeing that whatever is detrimental to art must be hurtful to them; and it is surely natural that they should take a deep interest in art-education, and desire that a flourishing school of artists should succeed them, to maintain worthily and to perpetuate that profession to which all their energies have been devoted. The occasional outcry made against government assistance to academies is no good indication of a love of art. The support of that kind that this country has hitherto afforded to academies of art is of the most limited description, and immeasurably disproportionate to the sums expended in the endowment in universities of chairs in the various branches of literature and science, besides the numerous annual grants to learned bodies.

Art in France is perhaps, at present, in a more healthy state than it has been in any former period; for though entitled to claim, on the ground of birth, many eminent artists who flourished in past ages, the only really national French school was that of Louis Quatorze, which sprung up in an age when the standard of taste was extremely low. This school, when almost exhausted, was swept away at the Revolution; and the hard and exaggerated imitations of classic art then substituted, have not only been now much modified, but many of the artists of the French school have en- tered on several other walks of art, in which they have displayed great talent. We shall enumerate some of the chief French artists of the present day, and note generally their distinguishing styles.

Horace Vernet is celebrated for his pictures of the various battles in which the French have been engaged. These are mostly executed on a large scale, and are remarkable for truth and power. He has also painted a variety of subjects from sacred history, treated in a very original manner, by assuming that the Arabian costume has undergone little change since the time of the patriarchs, whom accordingly he has dressed like Arabs; and by introducing in his backgrounds truthful delineations of Eastern scenery. The novelty of this style, and the forcible manner in which Vernet has carried it out, has made it popular in France. Many able artists have adopted it, and it is as much the characteristic of the French school now, as the classic was at the commencement of this century.

The classic school founded by David, but much modified and improved, is at present represented by Ingres, and his works are highly estimated in France.

Delaroche holds, perhaps, as high a position as any French artist; his subjects are historical, and range from the medieval period to modern times; his works are characterized by good drawing, carefully studied expression, and correct costume and accessories. He is one of the chief artists of what is styled the romantic, in contradistinction to the classic school, of which, as before stated, Ingres is now the leader.

Airy Scheffer also belongs to the romantic school, his subjects are almost entirely medieval, and his style partakes of German feeling to a greater extent than that of any other French artist.

Delacroix belongs to a department of the romantic school in which the attempt to introduce into it something of the rich colouring of the Venetian school has been made with much success. This fascinating style of art was introduced into France by the English artist Bounington.

The genre subjects of Meissonier, which are of small dimensions and exquisitely finished, are highly valued.

Did our space permit, we could, in addition, enumerate many men of high ability, whose works, while they never fail to prove that our neighbours possess great readiness and facility in drawing, often display an amount of talent and originality highly creditable to French art.

The modern school of Germany deservedly holds a high rank, and in purity and elevation of style is superior to that of France. It is not older than the present century; and though in former ages there was a celebrated German school, of which there are many admirable examples extant, and it might be supposed that there would be a national bias in favour of this ancient school, still it can scarcely be called a revival of German art, as the founders of the modern school seem to have modelled their style not so much on old German as on early Italian art. They probably wished to adopt the purest model, and imagining that Italian art best afforded this, they resolved to be guided chiefly by its light. Many of the most distinguished German artists have sprung from the school of Dusseldorf. In this city there was at one time a celebrated gallery of pictures consisting chiefly of the chefs d'oeuvres of Rubens; but it so happened that one consequence of the various state partitions in Napoleon's time, was the transference of the Dusseldorf gallery to Munich the capital of Bavaria. But this spoliation, which at the time was looked upon by the Dusseldorfs as a heavy blow to their city, was the most fortunate thing for it that could have happened. German patriotism and talent more than made up for the loss, and the modern school that was founded in place of the Rubens gallery has produced a band of artists whose talents have made Dusseldorf celebrated all over Europe.

German Fine Arts art owes much to state patronage; all the most eminent artists have been employed on important works by the kings of Bavaria, Prussia, and Saxony, and other German princes. Though the German artists adopted Italian art as the basis of their style, yet different artists chose the art of different epochs as their examples. Overbeck, whose pencil is chiefly devoted to religious subjects, studied the works of Fra Angelico, a painter who flourished about a century before Raphael, and whose style is distinguished by deep feeling and simplicity; while Cornelius, whose range is more extensive, embracing both classical and religious subjects, has been influenced by the works of M. Angelo, and the art of the cinquecento period. Kaulbach is more German in feeling; his Battle of the Huns and the Taking of Jerusalem are grand compositions. The frescoes executed by Bendemann at Dresden; by Cornelius, Schmorl, and Hess at Munich; by Viet at Frankfort; by Stiebel at Cologne; and at Dusseldorf; Elferhelder, Rheinstein, &c., by Sättigast, Müche, Deger, and others; and the easel pictures of Schadow, Müller, Retzel, Hildebrandt, Sohn, Lessing, Köhler, Riedel, one of the best colourists of the German school. Achenbach, Calame, and Schermer, landscape painters, and many others, have raised modern German art to a very high position, higher, indeed, in the opinion of many, than that of any other country at present.

Of course this pre-eminence is not generally admitted either by the artists of France or England. Many, however, of the most celebrated French artists (Airy Scheffer, for example) have evidently profited by studying German art; and there can be no doubt that good examples of art are more generally diffused among the people in Germany than in England or France. Even in their story and song books, although for the sake of cheapness the illustrations are roughly executed on wood, and printed on coarse paper, the drawing and composition evince the highest artistic feeling. In this country, again, we have cheap publications for the people, excelling those of every other nation in the literary department, and, in so far as paper, printing, and the mechanical skill of the wood-cutting are involved, far superior to the German publications. But the designs have not their purity of drawing and artistic feeling; and the dashing cleverness of execution in the English woodcuts, is rather to be blamed than praised, as indicative of a rashness and presumption requiring to be checked and kept in proper bounds by judgment formed on cultivated taste. The position of engraving, too, affords a fair criterion of the state of taste, and that is admitted to be higher in Germany at present than anywhere else. Line engraving, which alone can express the true feeling of good art, has some able professors in France, but in this country the aid of machinery, by which manual labour is saved, and a straining at effect, and what by engravers is called colour, has lowered the art, and line has been almost superseded by the inferior styles of mezzotint and stipple engraving.

But let us refrain from farther comparisons; those we have indicated being made solely with the view of still farther exciting honourable emulation; and this, there can be no doubt, has been lately aroused by the great facilities of intercourse among nations, and the national exhibitions. The purity of design of the German school, and the variety and dexterity displayed in that of France, are qualities now generally admitted by the artists of this country, and anxiously noted with feelings of respect, and not slightingly as in former times; while the Germans and French, by their efforts, prove daily that they admire, and are anxious to infuse into their works, the brilliant colouring and truth to nature which have long been characteristics of the British school.

(W. H.—Z.—T.) (W. B. J.)