Part 2

The great painters, it is agreed, painted beyond nature—but how? Why, if I may venture to say it, by drawing and colouring extravagantly. But were they right or wrong in doing so? This depends upon circumstances. I remember seeing at a Painter’s a head taken from nature, another copied from Hans Holbein, and a third from Giulio Romano—upon which the artist made a dissertation.—He first produced the portrait from nature, and asked me how I liked it? I told him that there appeared to me great simplicity and elegance in it, and an excellence which I thought essential to a good picture—a proper ballance between the light and shade of every part. (I meant that the shade of the white was lighter than that of blue—of blue fainter than of black, &c. so that each colour was as perceivable in the shadows as lights.) Ay, says he, that is true, but I will shew you a style preferable to it—Upon which he produced the copy from Holbein.—I agreed, that it was stronger, and such as nature might appear in many instances.——But here, says he, is something _beyond_ nature; this I call the sublime style of painting, and this I will try to bring my heads to.—Then he discovered the copy from Giulio—there is strength, says he—see how faint the others are.—Now, acknowledge that the picture I painted from nature is nothing to it. It must be confessed, I replied, that the extravagance of the last picture does for a moment dazzle our eyes—yours seems weak by the comparison, it is like looking upon white paper after staring at the sun.—On the contrary, if I pass from yours to this, I am hurt at seeing every thing so extravagant, and so far _beyond the modesty of nature_!—“It is not intended to be strictly natural, it is the _fine ideal_, it is something above, beyond nature!” “I must own that I have no idea of any beauty beyond what may be found in nature—indeed, whence is the idea to be taken? But do not think I rate Giulio or any of the sublime painters lightly; I am so sensible of their merit, that, contrary perhaps to your expectation, I am about to defend their practice. They generally painted for churches, where the picture is seen in a bad light, or at a distance; so that it could not be seen at all if the manner was not violent: both the drawing and colouring must be extravagant to strike—for which reason, they overcharged their attitudes, blackened their shadows, reddened their carnations, and whitened their lights; and all this with the greatest propriety. But if you apply this practice to closet or portrait painting, what is an excellence in them, becomes a defect in you. This picture which you have copied with so much success, I dare say has an admirable effect where it hangs; but near the eye or in a strong light, it is hard and over-done. On the other hand, if your portrait was to be hung at a great distance, or in an obscure place, the delicate touches I now admire would escape the sight. The style proper for the church is improper for the closet, and the contrary. The great painters were in the right then, in painting _beyond nature_; but let us not imagine that such figures and characters are therefore the most beautiful. No painter can invent a figure surpassing the _finest_ of nature: for character and form, nature is the _just_ and _only_ standard. He shews his genius more by properly associating natural objects, and expressing natural characters, than by exaggerating them or by inventing new ones.”

When I receive the picture you have promised me, I will criticise it with as much sincerity as

I am your Friend, &c.

=LETTER= VI.

You have turned my thoughts much towards painting of late—I have been trying to solve this question.

What is the reason that those objects which displease us, or at best, that pass unnoticed, in nature, please us most in painting?

A deep road, a puddle of water, a bank covered with docks and briars, and an old tree or two, are all the circumstances in many a fine landscape. As clowns and half starved cattle are the figures a landscape-painter chuses for his pictures; so, rough-looking fellows wrapt up in sheets and blankets, are chosen by the history-painter, to express the greatest personages, and in the most dignified actions of their lives.

Let the following observations have what weight they may—tho’ they do not clearly answer, they seem to throw some light on this difficult question.

1. While we are uncultivated, like the Irish Oscar, if we are to be awakened, it must be by having a great stone thrown against our heads. The man of the utmost elegance and refinement may remember the time when, in reading, nothing moved him but the marvellous, and in painting, nothing pleased him but the glaring. While he was in this state, he delighted in books of chivalry and Chinese pictures—these gave place to less extravagant representations of life; and at last by much converse with men of taste, reading purer authors, and seeing better pictures, he is taught how to feel, and finds a perfect revolution even in his sensations. Those objects which once delighted him, he now despises—these, on the contrary, he formerly took no notice of, he now sees with rapture; and even goes so far as to admire the objects in nature, _he has learnt_ to like in representation.—Now, it is this improved, tho’ artificial state of the mind that constitutes the judge of painting—and it is the judge the painter is sollicitous to please.—He is to attain this end then, by departing as much as possible from what is our natural barbarous taste, and by conforming to that we have acquired.

2. It is most certain that in all the arts we make difficulties in order to shew our skill in conquering them.—Some French writer calls this principle _la difficultè vaincue_; and this conquest is the source of much pleasure. What is it but this that induces the novellist and play-writer to embarrass their characters with difficulties and troubles? What is there but this that can make a musical canon to be thought fine in composition, or extravagant execution in performance agreeable, when the mind cannot comprehend the one, nor the ear follow the other? and, to bring it to the present subject—what is it but this that induces the painter to make use of the most unpromising objects, and produce beauty where you might expect nothing but deformity?

3. It is necessary that a painter should chuse such objects as are capable of variety either from shape or arrangement. Regular formal objects admit but little, especially those where art has the greatest share in their production, unless they are capable of motion, as ships, windmills, &c. and then they become pictoresque by a proper choice of attitude. It is curious to observe the shifts to which artists are reduced, when they are obliged to paint such objects as are in themselves unpictoresque—suppose a fine house with avenues of trees. They will vary the tint of the stones in the one, and of the leaves in the other, or by throwing in accidental shades and lights produce a variety. In like manner, portrait-painters undress the hair, loosen the coat, and wrinkle the stockings that they may produce a variety in the _manner_ of _treating_ a subject which wanted it in form.

Those objects which have no set form have of course most variety. A road or river may wind in any direction—trees are of all sizes and shapes, may stand here or there—loose drapery admits of a thousand folds and dispositions which the stiff modern dress is incapable of. So that the painter by taking these has ample materials for shewing his judgment in form, or skill in arrangement——for making, and overcoming difficulties—and lastly, by the uniting both these he conforms to the principles by which the cultivated taste is pleased—the ultimate end of all the fine arts.

If you are not satisfied with this solution, help me to a better—but give a fair reading to this of

Your sincere friend, &c.

=LETTER= VII.

I do not admit your excuse.—A genius should never comply with _local_ or _temporary_ taste—instead of debasing himself to the people, he should elevate the people to him. When Milton subtilizes divinity, and Shakespeare “cracks the wind of a poor phrase;” who but wishes that those great poets had not descended from their sphere?

Your allusions to incidents which must soon be forgot, are only worthy of a writer who expects but a short existence. It is true our plays abound with such allusions. When Foigard, in the Beaux Stratagem, says he is a subject of the King of Spain—they ask him in a fury “which King of Spain?” This did very well at the time; but these two Kings of Spain are now of much less consequence than their brother monarchs of Brentford. I think it is in the same play where one of the characters is asked “when he was at church last?” he should answer “at the coronation;” but it is a point to give a reply that shall suit the time when the play is performed, forgetting that there are many expressions which remove you back into the last century when the play was written. I remember in the late King’s reign the reply used to be “at the installation;” at the accession of his present Majesty an actor thought he had a good opportunity of returning to “coronation,” but unluckily it was before the King was crowned.

Allusions of this sort soon become obscure, and yet they will not bear being altered. “Pray you avoid them.”

Adieu, &c.

=LETTER= VIII.

True, my friend, musicians do commit strange absurdities by way of expression—but fanciful people make them commit others which they never thought of.

The most common mistake of composers is to express words and not ideas. This is generally the case with Purcel, and frequently with Handel. I believe there is not a single piece existing of the former, if it has a word to be played upon, but will prove my assertion: and the latter, if the impetuosity of the musical subject will give him leave, will at any time quit it for a pun. There is no trap so likely to catch composers as the words _high_ and _low_, _down_ and _up_. “By G— (as Quin says) they must bite.” In what raptures was Purcel when he set “They that _go down_ to the sea in ships.” How lucky a circumstance, that there was a singer at that time, who could _go down_ to DD, and _go up_ two Octaves above? for there is in other parts of the anthem a going _up_ as well as _down_. The whole is a constellation of beauties of this kind. Handel had leisure, at the conclusion of an excellent movement, to endeavour at an imitation of the rocking of a cradle (See the end of the anthem “My heart is inditing”), and has his _ups_ and _downs_ too in plenty. If many examples of this may be found in these great geniuses, it would be endless to enumerate the instances in those of the lower order. Let it suffice to observe, that all operas without exception, the greatest part of church-music, and particularly Marcello’s psalms, abound in this ridiculous imitative expression.

This is trifling with the words and neglecting the sentiment; but the fault is much increased when a word is expressed in contradiction to the sentiment. A most flagrant instance of this is in Boyce’s Solomon, in the song of “Arise my Fair One come away.”—The hero of the piece is inviting his mistress to come to him, and to tempt her the more, in describing the beauty of the spring, he tells her that

“Stern winter’s _gone_ with all its train “Of chilling frosts and dropping rain,”

but it is _come_ in the music—the unlucky words of _winter_, _frost_, and _rain_, made the composer set the lover a shivering, when he was full of the feelings of the “genial ray!”

But sometimes expression of the sentiment is blameable, if such expression is improper for the general subject of the piece. Religious solemnity should not appear at the theatre, nor theatrical levity at the church. In the _Stabat Mater_ of Pergolesi, and in the _Messiah_ of Handel, there is an expression of whipping attempted, which, if it is understood at all, conveys either a ludicrous or prophane idea, according to the disposition of the hearer. Permit me to suspend my subject a moment just to observe, that there is sometimes mention made in plays, of providence, God, and other subjects, which are as incompatible with a place of public entertainment, as the common sentiments of plays are with the church. If we are disgusted at a theatrical preacher, we are not less offended when an actor heightens all these ill-placed sentiments—forcing them upon your notice by an affectation of a deep sense of religion, and most solemnly preaching the sermon which the poet so improperly wrote.

All these, and many more, are faults which musicians _really_ commit; but a connoisseur will make them guilty of others, by way of compliment, which the composers never dreamt of. The introduction of the Coronation anthem, _Zadok the Priest_, is an arpeggio, which Handel probably took from his own performance at the harpsichord; but a great judge says, it is to express the murmurs of the people assembled in the abbey. “All we like sheep are gone astray” in the Messiah is considered as most excellently expressing the breaking out of sheep from a field.—— But out of pity to the connoisseurs, virtuosi, and the most respectable _Conoscenti_, I will not increase my instances—God forbid I should rob any man of his criticism!

Lest I should encroach upon _your_ premises, I will quit such dangerous ground, and leave you with more celerity than ceremony.

=LETTER= IX.

I like every part of your poem except the parenthesis towards the conclusion. In the midst of a rapid description, or tender sentiment; or any thing that commands the attention, or attaches the heart; what is more disgustful than to have the image cut in two, for the sake of explaining a word, or removing an objection, which the reader may possibly make?

Milton and Shakespeare frequently interrupt the most lively and ardent passages—take some instances as they occur.

Their arms away they threw, and to the hills (For earth hath this variety from heav’n Of pleasure situate in hill or dale) Light as the lightning’s glimpse they ran, they flew.

PAR. LOST. B. VI.

————when on a day (For time, though in eternity, apply’d To motion, measures all things durable By present, past, and future) on such a day As heaven’s great year brings forth.

PAR. LOST. B. V.

————evening now approach’d (For we have also our evening and our morn, We ours for change delectable, not need) Forthwith from dance to sweet repast they turn Desirous; &c.

Upon the mention of _hills_ in the first quotation, and of _day_ and _evening_ in the second and last—he knew that he had some objections to answer, and accordingly set about doing it for fear of the consequences—I wish they had remained in their full force.

You have often read the Midsummer Night’s Dream—do you recollect this passage?

_Lys._ _Hermia_, for ought that ever I could read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth; But, either it was different in blood——

_Her._ O cross! too high, to be enthrall’d to low!——

_Lys._ Or else misgrafted in respect of years—

_Her._ O spite! too old, to be engag’d to young!

_Lys._ Or else it stood upon the choice of friends—

_Her._ O hell! to chuse love by another’s eye!

_Lys._ Or if there were a sympathy in choice— War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.

Read it without Hermia’s interruptions and it becomes one of the finest parts of the author—but it is miserably mangled as it stands.

You will remember that it is the improper use of the parenthesis I object to and not to the thing itself. “This figure of composition,” says a late ingenious author, “which is hardly ever used in common discourse, is much employed by the best writers of antiquity, in order to give a cast and colour to their style different from common idiom, and by Demosthenes particularly; and not only by the orators, but the poets.”

I would recommend to your consideration whether you had not better avoid giving any hint how the story of your poem is to conclude? Anticipation frequently spoils a fine incident. When Æneas is reciting to Dido what past at Troy, says he,

Arduus armatos mediis in mænibus astans Fundit equus.

ÆN. II.

The first mention of the Horse’s having armed men within, should have been reserved for this place. There is something truly terrible and sublime in Æneas’s being waked by such a variety of horrid sounds, and ignorant of the cause; the reader also should have been ignorant until Pantheus explained the mystery. See the whole passage in Æn. II. beginning at the 298th verse, and if possible, forget that this went before.

Delecta virum fortiti corpora furtim Includunt cæco lateri, &c.

One of the finest parts of Don Quixote is also spoiled by mentioning a circumstance which should have been delayed. The Knight and his ’Squire, at the close of the day, hear the clank of chains, and dreadful blows, which would have puzzled the reader as much as it frightened them, had not the author unluckily said “that the strokes were in _time_ and _measure_,” which is telling us very plainly that it was a mill. The whole scene is highly pictoresque and beautiful.

If these hints will be of any service to you it will be a great pleasure to

Yours, &c.

=LETTER= X.

The productions of genius require some ages to be brought to perfection. The liberal arts have their infancy, youth and manhood; and, to carry on the allusion, continue sometime in a state of strength, and then verge by degrees to a decline, which at last ends in a total extinction. The English language, poetry, and music, exhibit proofs of this observation, as far as they have as yet gone: with the two former I have at present nothing to do, but shall confine what I have to say on this subject to the latter.

What the music of the times preceding Harry the eighth was, I confess myself ignorant, nor indeed is the knowledge of it necessary: we may conclude that it was more barbarous than that of the sixteenth century, as the times in which it was used were less enlightened. Some masses, mottets, and madrigals are what have reached us. The whole consists of a succession of chords without art or meaning, and perfectly destitute of air. In Elizabeth’s reign appeared some composers, Tallis, Bird, Morley, and Farrant, which improved the barren style of their predecessors: they had more choice in their harmony, and made some little advances in melody. There are some pieces of instrumental music composed at this time which still exist: particularly a book of lessons, for the virginals, which was the Queen’s.—Whether the composers thought that her sacred Majesty excelled in musical abilities as much as in rank, or as she wished to do in beauty, I know not; but this is certain, that these pieces are so crowded with parts, and so aukwardly barbarous, as to render the performance of them impossible—so natural is it, even in the infancy of art, to mistake difficulty for beauty.

I do not recollect any composer that really improved music for the first half of the seventeenth century, except Orlando Gibbons; of whom, a service for the church, and two or three anthems remain, the harmony of which is good, and the melody pleasing. In the Gloria Patri of the Nunc Dimittis is the best canon, in my judgment, that was ever made. Gibbons was also a composer for the virginals, but in no respect better than his predecessors. I believe it was about this time that the species of canon called the catch, was produced. The intent of my making this short recapitulation of the former state of music is purely prefatory to what I have to say upon the subject of catches.

This odd species of composition, whenever invented, was brought to its perfection by Purcel. Real music was as yet in its childhood; but the reign of Charles the second carried every kind of vulgar debauchery to its height. The proper æra for the birth of such pieces as “when quartered, have ever three parts obscenity, and one part music.”

The definition of a catch is a piece for three or more voices, one of which leads, and the others follow in the same notes. It must be so contrived, that rests (which are made for that purpose) in the music of one line be filled up with a word or two from another line; these form a cross-purpose or catch, from whence the name. Now, this piece of wit is not judged perfect, if the result be not the rankest indecency.

Perhaps this definition may be objected to, and I may be told that there are catches perfectly harmless. It is true that some pieces are called catches that have nothing to offend, and others that may justly pretend to please; but they want what is absolutely necessary for a catch—the break, and cross-purpose.

It may also be said that the result of the break, is not always indecency. I confess there are catches upon other subjects, drunkenness is a favourite one; which, though good, is not so _very_ good as the other: and there may possibly be found one or two upon other topicks which might be heard without disgust; but these are not sufficient to contradict a general rule, or make me retract what I have advanced.

I will next examine their musical merit.—And this as compositions must consist either in their harmony, or melody; or their effect in performance.

The harmony of a catch is nothing more than the common result of filling up a chord.—There is not contrivance enough to make it esteemed as a piece of ingenuity. “What! they are all canons!” So is every tune in the world, if you will set it in three or more parts, and sing those parts in succession as a catch—but a _real_ canon is not so easily produced: it is one of those difficult trifles which costs an infinite deal of labour, and after all is worth nothing. I do not except the famous _Non nobis_ of Bird, in which are some passages not to be endured. The excellence in the composition of a catch consists in making the breaks, and filling them up properly. The melody is, for the most part, the unimproved vulgar drawl of the times of ignorance.

Let us next attend to the manner of performance. One voice leads, a second follows, and a third, &c. succeeds, unaccompanied with any instrument to keep them in tune together. The consequence is, that the voices are always sinking, but not equally, for the best singer will keep nearest the pitch, and the others depart farthest from it. If the parts are doubled, which is sometimes the case, all these defects are multiplied. To this let there be added the imperfect scale of an uncultivated voice, the _departing_ from the real sound by way of humour, the noise of so many people striving to outsing each other, the confusion of speaking different words at the same time, and all this heightened by the laughing and other accompaniments of the audience—it presents such a scene of savage folly as would not disgrace the Hottentots indeed, but is not much to the credit of a company of civilized people.

As the catch in a manner owed its existence to a drunken club, of which some musicians were members; upon their dying, it languished for years, and was scarce known except among choir-men, who now and then kept up the spirit of their forefathers. As the age grew more polished, a better style of music appeared. Corelli gave a new turn to instrumental music, and was successfully followed by Geminiani and Handel; the last excelled in vocal as well as instrumental music.

There have been refinements and confessed improvements upon all these great men since; and no doubt but at this time there are much better performers, and more elegant, tho’ less solid composers. This is the united effect of the labours of the whole together, for there is no _one man_ to be compared with either of the above-mentioned.