ESSAY I. ON PICTURESQUE BEAUTY.
[]ESSAY I.

DISPUTES about beauty might perhaps be involved in leſs confuſion, if a diſtinction were eſtabliſhed, which certainly exiſts, between ſuch objects as are beautiful, and ſuch as are pictureſque—between thoſe, which pleaſe the eye in their natural ſtate; and thoſe, which pleaſe from ſome quality, capable of being illuſtrated in painting.

Ideas of beauty vary with the object, and with the eye of the ſpectator. Thoſe arti⯑ficial forms appear generally the moſt beau⯑tiful, with which we have been the moſt converſant. Thus the ſtone-maſon ſees beau⯑ties in a well-jointed wall, which eſcape the architect, who ſurveys the building under a different idea. And thus the painter, who [4] compares his object with the rules of his art, ſees it in a different light from the man of general taſte, who ſurveys it only as ſimply beautiful.

As this difference therefore between the beau⯑tiful, and the pictureſque appears really to exiſt, and muſt depend on ſome peculiar conſtruction of the object; it may be worth while to ex⯑amine, what that peculiar conſtruction is. We inquire not into the general ſources of beauty, either in nature, or in repreſentation. This would lead into a nice, and ſcientific diſcuſſion, in which it is not our purpoſe to engage. The queſtion ſimply is, What is that quality in objects, which particularly marks them as pictureſque?

In examining the real object, we ſhall find, one ſource of beauty ariſes from that ſpecies of elegance, which we call ſmoothneſs, or neatneſs; for the terms are nearly ſynonymous. The higher the marble is poliſhed, the brighter the ſilver is rubbed, and the more the maho⯑gany ſhines, the more each is conſidered as an object of beauty: as if the eye delighted in gliding ſmoothly over a ſurface.

In the claſs of larger objects the ſame idea prevails. In a pile of building we wiſh to [5] ſee neatneſs in every part added to the elegance of the architecture. And if we examine a piece of improved pleaſure-ground, every thing rough, and ſlovenly offends.

Mr. Burke, enumerating the properties of beauty, conſiders ſmoothneſs as one of the moſt eſſential. "A very conſiderable part of the effect of beauty, ſays he, is owing to this quality: indeed the moſt conſiderable: for take any beautiful object, and give it a broken, and rugged ſurface, and however well-formed it may be in other reſpects, it pleaſes no longer. Whereas, let it want ever ſo many of the other conſtituents, if it want not this, it becomes more pleaſing, than almoſt all the others without it."^*— How far Mr. Burke may be right in making ſmoothneſs the moſt conſiderable ſource of beauty, I rather doubt^†. A conſiderable one it cer⯑tainly is.

[6]Thus then, we ſuppoſe, the matter ſtands with regard to beautiful objects in general. But in pictureſque repreſentation it ſeems ſomewhat odd, yet we ſhall perhaps find it equally true, that the reverſe of this is the caſe; and that the ideas of neat and ſmooth, inſtead of being pictureſque, in fact diſqualify the object, in which they reſide, from any pre⯑tenſions to pictureſque beauty.—Nay farther, we do not ſcruple to aſſert, that roughneſs forms the moſt eſſential point of difference between the beautiful, and the pictureſque; as it ſeems to be that particular quality, which makes objects chiefly pleaſing in paint⯑ing.—I uſe the general term roughneſs; but properly ſpeaking roughneſs relates only to [7] the ſurfaces of bodies: when we ſpeak of their delineation, we uſe the word ruggedneſs. Both ideas however equally enter into the pictureſque; and both are obſervable in the ſmaller, as well as in the larger parts of nature—in the outline, and bark of a tree, as in the rude ſummit, and craggy ſides of a mountain.

Let us then examine our theory by an ap⯑peal to experience; and try how far theſe qualities enter into the idea of pictureſque beauty; and how far they mark that dif⯑ference among objects, which is the ground of our inquiry.

A piece of Palladian architecture may be elegant in the laſt degree. The proportion of it's parts—the propriety of it's ornaments—and the ſymmetry of the whole, may be highly plea⯑ſing. But if we introduce it in a picture, it immediately becomes a formal object, and ceaſes to pleaſe. Should we wiſh to give it pictureſque beauty, we muſt uſe the mallet, inſtead of the chiſſel: we muſt beat down one half of it, deface the other, and throw the mutilated members around in heaps. In ſhort, from a ſmooth building we muſt turn it into a [8] rough ruin. No painter, who had the choice of the two objects, would heſitate a moment.

Again, why does an elegant piece of garden-ground make no figure on canvas? The ſhape is pleaſing; the combination of the objects, harmonious; and the winding of the walk in the very line of beauty. All this is true; but the ſmoothneſs of the whole, tho right, and as it ſhould be in nature, offends in picture. Turn the lawn into a piece of broken ground: plant rugged oaks inſtead of flowering ſhrubs: break the edges of the walk: give it the rude⯑neſs of a road: mark it with wheel-tracks; and ſcatter around a few ſtones, and bruſh-wood; in a word, inſtead of making the whole ſmooth, make it rough; and you make it alſo pictureſque. All the other ingredients of beauty it already poſſeſſed.

You ſit for your picture. The maſter, at your deſire, paints your head combed ſmooth, and powdered from the barber's hand. This may give it a more ſtriking likeneſs, as it is more the reſemblance of the real object. But is it therefore a more pleaſing picture? I fear not. Leave Reynolds to himſelf, and he will make it pictureſque: he will throw the hair diſhevelled about your ſhoulders. Virgil would [9] have done the ſame. It was his uſual practice in all his portraits. In his figure of Aſcanius, we have the fuſos crines; and in his portrait of Venus, which is highly finiſhed in every part, the artiſt has given her hair, ‘— diffundere ventis.^*’

That lovely face of youth ſmiling with all it's ſweet, dimpling charms, how attractive is it in life! how beautiful in repreſentation! It is one of thoſe objects, that pleaſe, as many do, both in nature, and on canvas. But [10] would you ſee the human face in it's higheſt form of pictureſque beauty, examine that pa⯑triarchal head. What is it, which gives that dignity of character; that force of expreſſion; thoſe lines of wiſdom, and experience; that energetic meaning, ſo far beyond the roſy hue, or even the bewitching ſmile of youth? What is it, but the forehead furrowed with wrinkles? the prominent cheek-bone, catching the light? the muſcles of the cheek ſtrongly marked, and loſing themſelves in the ſhaggy beard? and, above all, the auſtere brow, projecting over the eye—that feature which particularly ſtruck Homer in his idea of Jupiter^*, and which [11] he had probably ſeen finely repreſented in ſome ſtatue? in a word, what is it, but the rough touches of age?

As an object of the mixed kind, partaking both of the beautiful, and the pictureſque, we admire the human figure alſo. The lines, and ſurface of a beautiful human form are ſo in⯑finitely varied; the lights and ſhades, which it receives, are ſo exquiſitely tender in ſome parts, and yet ſo round, and bold in others; it's proportions are ſo juſt; and it's limbs ſo fitted to receive all the beauties of grace, and contraſt; that even the face, in which the charms of intelligence, and ſenſibility reſide, is almoſt loſt in the compariſon. But altho the human form, in a quieſcent ſtate, is thus [12] beautiful; yet the more it's ſmooth ſurface is ruffled, if I may ſo ſpeak, the more pictu⯑reſque it appears. When it is agitated by paſſion, and it's muſcles ſwoln by ſtrong ex⯑ertion, the whole frame is ſhewn to the moſt advantage.—But when we ſpeak of muſcles ſwoln by exertion, we mean only natural exer⯑tions, not an affected diſplay of anatomy, in which the muſcles, tho juſtly placed, may ſtill be overcharged.

It is true, we are better pleaſed with the uſual repreſentations we meet with of the human form in a quieſcent ſtate, than in an agitated one: but this is merely owing to our ſeldom ſeeing it naturally repreſented in ſtrong action. Even among the beſt maſters we ſee little knowledge of anatomy. One will inflate the muſcles violently to produce ſome trifling effect: another will ſcarce ſwell them in the production of a laboured one. The eye ſoon learns to ſee a defect, tho unable to remedy it. But when the anatomy is perfectly juſt, the human body will always be more pictureſque in action, than at reſt. The great difficulty indeed of repreſenting ſtrong muſcular motion, ſeems to have ſtruck the ancient maſters of ſculpture: for it is certainly much harder to [13] model from a figure in ſtrong, momentary action, which muſt, as it were, be ſhot flying; than from one, ſitting, or ſtanding, which the artiſt may copy at leiſure. Amidſt the variety of ſtatues tranſmitted from their hands, we have only three, or four in very ſpirited ac⯑tion.^* Yet when we ſee an effect of this kind well executed, our admiration is greatly in⯑creaſed. Who does not admire the Laocoon more than the Antinous?

Animal life, as well as human, is, in gene⯑ral, beautiful both in nature, and on canvas. We admire the horſe, as a real object; the elegance of his form; the ſtatelineſs of his [14] tread; the ſpirit of all his motions; and the gloſſineſs of his coat. We admire him alſo in repreſentation. But as an object of pictu⯑reſque beauty, we admire more the worn-out cart-horſe, the cow, the goat, or the aſs; whoſe harder lines, and rougher coats, exhibit more the graces of the pencil. For the truth of this we may examine Berghem's pictures: we may examine the ſmart touch of Roſa of Tivoli. The lion with his rough mane; the briſtly boar; and the ruffled plumage of the eagle^*, are all objects of this kind. Smooth-coated [15] animals could not produce ſo pictu⯑reſque an effect.

But when the painter thus prefers the cart-horſe, the cow, or the aſs to other objects more beautiful in themſelves, he does not cer⯑tainly recommend his art to thoſe, whoſe love of beauty makes them anxiouſly ſeek, by what means it's fleeting forms may be fixed.

Suggeſtions of this kind are ungrateful. The art of painting allows you all you wiſh. You deſire to have a beautiful object painted— your horſe, for inſtance, led out of the ſtable [16] in all his pampered beauty. The art of paint⯑ing is ready to accommodate you. You have the beautiful form you admired in nature ex⯑actly transferred to canvas. Be then ſatisfied. The art of painting has given you what you wanted. It is no injury to the beauty of your Arabian, if the painter think he could have given the graces of his art more forcibly to your cart-horſe.

But does it not depreciate his art, if he give up a beautiful form, for one leſs beautiful, merely becauſe he could have given it the graces of his art more forcibly—becauſe it's ſharp lines afford him a greater facility of execu⯑tion? Is the ſmart touch of a pencil the grand deſideratum of painting? Does he diſ⯑cover nothing in pictureſque objects, but qualities, which admit of being rendered with ſpirit?

I ſhould not vindicate him, if he did. At the ſame time, a free execution is ſo very faſcinating a part of painting, that we need not wonder, if the artiſt lay a great ſtreſs upon it.—It is not however intirely owing, as ſome imagine, to the difficulty of maſter⯑ing an elegant line, that he prefers a rough one. In part indeed this may be the caſe; [17] for if an elegant line be not delicately hit off, it is the moſt inſipid of all lines: whereas in the deſcription of a rough object, an error in delineation is not eaſily ſeen. However this is not the whole of the matter. A free, bold touch is in itſelf pleaſing.^* In elegant figures indeed there muſt be a delicate outline—at leaſt a line true to nature: yet the ſurfaces even of ſuch figures may be touched with freedom; and in the appen⯑dages of the compoſition there muſt be a mixture of rougher objects, or there will be a want of contraſt. In landſcape univerſally the rougher objects are admired; which give the freeſt ſcope to execution. If the pencil be timid, or heſitating, little beauty reſults. The execution then only is pleaſing, when the hand firm, and yet deciſive, freely touches the characteriſtic parts of each object.

[18]If indeed, either in literary, or in pic⯑tureſque compoſition you endeavour to draw the reader, or the ſpectator from the ſubject to the mode of executing it, your affectation^* diſ⯑guſts. At the ſame time, if ſome care, and pains be not beſtowed on the execution, your ſlovenlineſs diſguſts, as much. Tho perhaps the artiſt has more to ſay, than the man of let⯑ters, for paying attention to his execution. A truth is a truth, whether delivered in the lan⯑guage of a philoſopher, or a peaſant: and the intellect receives it as ſuch. But the artiſt, who deals in lines, ſurfaces, and colours, which are an immediate addreſs to the eye, con⯑ceives the very truth itſelf concerned in his mode of repreſenting it. Guido's angel, and []

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[19] the angel on a ſign-poſt, are very different beings; but the whole of the difference con⯑ſiſts in an artful application of lines, ſurfaces, and colours.

It is not however merely for the ſake of his execution, that the artiſt values a rough object. He finds it in many other reſpects accommodated to his art. In the firſt place, his compoſition requires it. If the hiſtory-painter threw all his draperies ſmooth over his figures, his groups, and combinations would be very awkward. And in landſcape-painting ſmooth objects would produce no compoſition at all. In a mountain-ſcene what compoſition could ariſe from the corner of a ſmooth knoll coming forward on one ſide, interſected by a ſmooth knoll on the other; with a ſmooth plain perhaps in the middle, and a ſmooth mountain in the diſtance. The very idea is diſguſting. Pictureſque compo⯑ſition conſiſts in uniting in one whole a variety of parts; and theſe parts can only be obtained from rough objects. If the ſmooth moun⯑tains, and plains were broken by different objects, the compoſition might be good, on a ſuppoſition the great lines of it were ſo before.

[20] Variety too is equally neceſſary in his com⯑poſition: ſo is contraſt. Both theſe he finds in rough objects; and neither of them in ſmooth. Variety indeed, in ſome degree, he may find in the outline of a ſmooth object: but by no means enough to ſatisfy the eye, without including the ſurface alſo.

From rough objects alſo he ſeeks the effect of light and ſhade, which they are as well diſpoſed to produce, as they are the beauty of compoſition. One uniform light, or one uniform ſhade produces no effect. It is the various ſurfaces of objects, ſometimes turn⯑ing to the light in one way, and ſometimes in another, that give the painter his choice of opportunities in maſſing, and graduating both his lights, and ſhades.—The richneſs alſo of the light depends on the breaks, and little receſſes, which it finds on the ſurfaces of bodies. What the painter calls richneſs on a ſurface, is only a variety of little parts; on which the light ſhining, ſhews all it's ſmall inequalities, and roughneſſes; and in the painter's language, inriches it.—The beauty alſo of catching lights ariſes from the roughneſs of objects. What the painter calls a catching light is a ſtrong touch of light [21] on ſome prominent part of a ſurface, while the reſt is in ſhadow. A ſmooth ſurface has no ſuch prominences.

In colouring alſo, rough objects give the painter another advantage. Smooth bodies are commonly as uniform in their colour, as they are in their ſurface. In gloſſy objects, tho ſmooth, the colouring may ſometimes vary. In general however it is otherwiſe; in the objects of landſcape, particularly. The ſmooth ſide of a hill is generally of one uniform colour; while the fractured rock preſents it's grey ſurface, adorned with patches of greenſward running down it's guttered ſides; and the broken ground is every where varied with an okery tint, a grey gravel, or a leaden-coloured clay: ſo that in fact the rich colours of the ground ariſe generally from it's broken ſurface.

From ſuch reaſoning then we infer, that it is not merely for the ſake of his execution, that the painter prefers rough objects to ſmooth. The very eſſence of his art requires it.

[22]As pictureſque beauty therefore ſo greatly depends on rough objects, are we to exclude every idea of ſmoothneſs from mixing with it? Are we ſtruck with no pleaſing image, when the lake is ſpread upon the canvas; the mar⯑moreum aequor, pure, limpid, ſmooth, as the poliſhed mirror?

We acknowledge it to be pictureſque: but we muſt at the ſame time recollect, that, in fact, the ſmoothneſs of the lake is more in reality, than in appearance. Were it ſpread upon the canvas in one ſimple hue, it would certainly be a dull, fatiguing object. But to the eye it appears broken by ſhades of various kinds; by the undulations of the water; or by reflections from all the rough objects in it's neighbourhood.

It is thus too in other gloſſy bodies. Tho the horſe, in a rough ſtate, as we have juſt obſerved, or worn down with labour, is more adapted to the pencil, than when his ſides ſhine with bruſhing, and high-feeding; yet in this latter ſtate alſo he is certainly a pictu⯑reſque object. But it is not his ſmooth, and ſhining coat, that makes him ſo. It is the apparent interruption of that ſmoothneſs by a variety of ſhades, and colours, which produces [23] the effect. Such a play of muſcles appears, every where, through the fineneſs of his ſkin, gently ſwelling, and ſinking into each other— he is all over ſo lubricus aſpici, the reflections of light are ſo continually ſhifting upon him, and playing into each other, that the eye never conſiders the ſmoothneſs of the ſurface; but is amuſed with gliding up, and down, among theſe endleſs tranſitions, which in ſome degree, ſupply the room of roughneſs.

It is thus too in the plumage of birds. Nothing can be ſofter, nothing ſmoother to the touch; and yet it is certainly pictureſque. But it is not the ſmoothneſs of the ſurface, which produces the effect—it is not this we admire: it is the breaking of the colours: it is the bright green, or purple, changing perhaps into a rich azure, or velvet black; from thence taking a ſemitint; and ſo on through all the varieties of colour. Or if the colour be not changeable, it is the harmony we admire in theſe elegant little touches of na⯑ture's pencil. The ſmoothneſs of the ſurface is only the ground of the colours. In itſelf we admire it no more, than we do the ſmooth⯑neſs of the canvas, which receives the colours of the picture. Even the plumage of the ſwan, [24] which to the inaccurate obſerver appears only of one ſimple hue, is in fact varied with a thouſand ſoft ſhadows, and brilliant touches, at once diſcoverable to the pictureſque eye.

Thus too a piece of poliſhed marble may be pictureſque; but it is only, when the poliſh brings out beautiful veins, which in appearance break the ſurface by a variety of lines, and colours. Let the marble be perfectly white, and the effect vaniſhes. Thus alſo a mirror may have pictureſque beauty; but it is only from it's reflections. In an unreflecting ſtate, it is inſipid.

In ſtatuary we ſometimes ſee an inferior artiſt give his marble a gloſs, thinking to atone for his bad workmanſhip by his excellent poliſh. The effect ſhews in how ſmall a degree ſmoothneſs enters into the idea of the pictureſque. When the light plays on the ſhining coat of a pampered horſe, it plays among the lines, and muſcles of nature; and is therefore founded in truth. But the poliſh of marble-fleſh is unnatural^*. The lights [25] therefore are falſe; and ſmoothneſs being here one of the chief qualities to admire, we are diſguſted; and ſay, it makes bad, worſe.

After all, we mean not to aſſert, that even a ſimple ſmooth ſurface is in no ſituation pic⯑tureſque. In contraſt it certainly may be: nay in contraſt it is often neceſſary. The beauty of an old head is greatly improved by the ſmoothneſs of the bald pate; and the rougher parts of the rock muſt neceſſarily be ſet off with the ſmoother. But the point lies here: to make an object in a peculiar man⯑ner pictureſque, there muſt be a proportion of roughneſs; ſo much at leaſt, as to make an oppoſition; which in an object ſimply beau⯑tiful, is unneceſſary.

Some quibbling opponent may throw out, that wherever there is ſmoothneſs, there muſt alſo be roughneſs. The ſmootheſt plain con⯑ſiſts of many rougher parts; and the rougheſt rock of many ſmoother; and there is ſuch a variety of degrees in both, that it is hard to [26] ſay, where you have the preciſe ideas of rough, and ſmooth.

To this it is enough, that the province of the pictureſque eye is to ſurvey nature; not to anatomize matter. It throws it's glances around in the broad-caſt ſtile. It comprehends an extenſive tract at each ſweep. It examines parts, but never deſcends to particles.

Having thus from a variety of examples en⯑deavoured to ſhew, that roughneſs either real, or apparent, forms an eſſential difference be⯑tween the beautiful, and the pictureſque; it may be expected, that we ſhould point out the reaſon of this difference. It is obvious enough, why the painter prefers rough objects to ſmooth ^*: but it is not ſo obvious, why the quality of roughneſs ſhould make an eſſential difference between the objects of nature, and the objects of artificial repreſentation.

To this queſtion, we might anſwer, that the pictureſque eye abhors art; and delights ſolely in nature: and that as art abounds with regularity, which is only another name [27] for ſmoothneſs; and the images of nature with irregularity, which is only another name for roughneſs, we have here a ſolution of our queſtion.

But is this ſolution ſatisfactory? I fear not. Tho art often abounds with regularity, it does not follow, that all art muſt neceſſarily do ſo. The pictureſque eye, it is true, finds it's chief objects in nature; but it delights alſo in the images of art, if they are marked with the characteriſtics, which it requires. A painter's nature is whatever he imitates; whether the object be what is commonly called natural, or artificial. Is there a greater ornament of landſcape, than the ruins of a caſtle? What painter rejects it, becauſe it is artificial?—What beautiful effects does Vandervelt produce from ſhipping? In the hands of ſuch a maſter it furniſhes almoſt as beautiful forms, as any in the whole circle of pictureſque objects?—And what could the hiſtory-painter do, without his draperies to combine, contraſt, and harmonize his figures? Uncloathed, they could never be grouped. How could he tell his ſtory, with⯑out arms; religious utenſils; and the rich furniture of banquets? Many of theſe con⯑tribute [28] greatly to embelliſh his pictures with pleaſing ſhapes.

Shall we then ſeek the ſolution of our queſtion in the great foundation of pictureſque beauty? in the happy union of ſimplicity and variety; to which the rough ideas eſſentially contribute. An extended plain is a ſimple object. It is the continuation only of one uniform idea. But the mere ſimplicity of a plain produces no beauty. Break the ſur⯑face of it, as you did your pleaſure-ground; add trees, rocks, and declivities; that is, give it roughneſs, and you give it alſo variety. Thus by inriching the parts of a united whole with roughneſs, you obtain the combined idea of ſimplicity, and variety; from whence reſults the pictureſque.—Is this a ſatisfactory anſwer to our queſtion?

By no means. Simplicity and variety are ſources of the beautiful, as well as of the pictureſque. Why does the architect break the front of his pile with ornaments? Is it not to add variety to ſmplicity? Even the very black-ſmith acknowledges this prin⯑ciple by forming ringlets, and bulbous circles on his tongs, and pokers. In nature it is the ſame; and your plain will juſt as much [29] be improved in reality by breaking it, as upon canvas.—In a garden-ſcene the idea is dif⯑ferent. There every object is of the neat, and elegant kind. What is otherwiſe, is in⯑harmonious, and roughneſs would be diſorder.

Shall we then change our ground; and ſeek an anſwer to our queſtion in the nature of the art of painting? As it is an art ſtrictly imi⯑tative, thoſe objects will of courſe appear moſt advantageouſly to the pictureſque eye, which are the moſt eaſily imitated. The ſtronger the features are, the ſtronger will be the effect of imitation; and as rough objects have the ſtrongeſt features, they will conſe⯑quently, when repreſented, appear to moſt advantage.—Is this anſwer more ſatisfactory?

Very little, in truth. Every painter, knows that a ſmooth object may be as eaſily, and as well imitated, as a rough one.

Shall we then take an oppoſite ground, and ſay juſt the reverſe (as men preſſed with dif⯑ficulties will ſay any thing) that painting is not an art ſtrictly imitative, but rather deceptive —that by an aſſemblage of colours, and a peculiar art in ſpreading them, the painter gives a ſemblance of nature at a proper diſ⯑tance; which at hand, is quite another thing [30] —that thoſe objects, which we call pictureſque, are only ſuch as are more adapted to this art —and that as this art is moſt concealed in rough touches, rough objects are of courſe the moſt pictureſque.—Have we now at⯑tained a ſatisfactory account of the matter?

Juſt as much ſo, as before. Many painters of note did not uſe the rough ſtile of painting; and yet their pictures are as admirable, as the pictures of thoſe, who did: nor are rough objects leſs pictureſque on their canvas, than on the canvas of others: that is, they paint rough objects ſmoothly.

Thus foiled, ſhall we in the true ſpirit of inquiry, perſiſt; or honeſtly give up the cauſe, and own we cannot ſearch out the ſource of this difference? I am afraid this is the truth, whatever airs of dogmatizing we may aſſume. Inquiries into principles rarely end in ſatisfac⯑tion. Could we even gain ſatisfaction in our preſent queſtion, new doubts would ariſe. The very firſt principles of our art would be queſ⯑tioned. Difficulties would ſtart up veſtibulum ante ipſum. We ſhould be aſked, What is beauty? What is taſte?—Let us ſtep aſide a moment, and liſten to the debates of the learned on theſe heads. They will at leaſt [31] ſhew us, that however we may wiſh to ſix principles, our inquiries are ſeldom ſatisfactory.

One philoſopher will tell us, that taſte is only the improvement of our own ideas. Every man has naturally his proportion of taſte. The ſeeds of it are innate. All depends on culti⯑vation.

Another philoſopher following the analogy of nature, obſerves, that as all mens faces are different, we may well ſuppoſe their minds to be ſo likewiſe. He rejects the idea there⯑fore of innate taſte; and in the room of this makes utility the ſtandard both of taſte, and beauty.

Another philoſopher thinks the idea of utility as abſurd, as the laſt did that of innate taſte. What, cries he, can I not admire the beauty of a reſplendent ſun-ſet, till I have inveſtigated the utility of that peculiar radiance in the at⯑moſphere? He then wiſhes we had a little leſs philoſophy amongſt us, and a little more common ſenſe. Common ſenſe is deſpiſed like other common things: but, in his opinion, if we made common ſenſe the criterion in matters of art, as well as ſcience, we ſhould be nearer the truth.

[32]A fourth philoſopher apprehends common ſenſe to be our ſtandard only in the ordinary affairs of life. The bounty of nature has furniſhed us with various other ſenſes ſuited to the objects, among which we converſe: and with regard to matters of taſte, it has ſupplied us with what, he doubts not, we all feel within our⯑ſelves, a ſenſe of beauty.

Pooh! ſays another learned inquirer, what is a ſenſe of beauty? Senſe is a vague idea, and ſo is beauty; and it is impoſſible that any thing determined can reſult from terms ſo inaccurate. But if we lay aſide a ſenſe of beauty, and adopt proportion, we ſhall all be right. Proportion is the great principle of taſte, and beauty. We admit it both in lines, and colours; and indeed refer all our ideas of the elegant kind to it's ſtandard.

True, ſays an admirer of the antique; but this proportion muſt have a rule, or we gain nothing: and a rule of proportion there cer⯑tainly is: but we may inquire after it in vain. The ſecret is loſt. The ancients had it. They well knew the principles of beauty; and had that unerring rule, which in all things adjuſted their taſte. We ſee it even in their ſlighteſt vaſes. In their works, proportion, tho varied [33] through a thouſand lines, is ſtill the ſame; and if we could only diſcover their principles of proportion, we ſhould have the arcanum of this ſcience; and might ſettle all our diſputes about taſte with great eaſe.

Thus, in our inquiries into firſt principles, we go on, without end, and without ſatis⯑faction. The human underſtanding is unequal to the ſearch. In philoſophy we inquire for them in vain—in phyſics—in metaphyſics—in morals. Even in the polite arts, where the ſubject, one ſhould imagine, is leſs recondite, the inquiry, we find, is equally vague. We are puzzled, and bewildered; but not informed. All is uncertainty; a ſtrife of words; the old conteſt, ‘Empedocles, an Stertinii deliret acumen?’

In a word, if a cauſe be ſufficiently underſtood, it may ſuggeſt uſeful diſcoveries. But if it be not ſo (and where is our certainty in theſe diſquiſitions) it will unqueſtionably miſlead.

ESSAY II. ON PICTURESQUE TRAVEL.
[41]ESSAY II.

ENOUGH has been ſaid to ſhew the difficulty of aſſigning cauſes: let us then take another courſe, and amuſe ourſelves with ſearching after effects. This is the general intention of pictureſque travel. We mean not to bring it into competition with any of the more uſeful ends of travelling: but as many travel without any end at all, amuſing them⯑ſelves without being able to give a reaſon why they are amuſed, we offer an end, which may poſſibly engage ſome vacant minds; and may indeed afford a rational amuſement to ſuch as travel for more important purpoſes.

In treating of pictureſque travel, we may conſider firſt it's object; and ſecondly it's ſources of amuſement.

[42]It's object is beauty of every kind, which either art, or nature can produce: but it is chiefly that ſpecies of pictureſque beauty, which we have endeavoured to characterize in the preceding eſſay. This great object we purſue through the ſcenery of nature; and examine it by the rules of painting. We ſeek it among all the ingredients of landſcape—trees—rocks —broken-grounds—woods—rivers—lakes— plains—vallies—mountains—and diſtances. Theſe objects in themſelves produce infinite variety. No two rocks, or trees are exactly the ſame. They are varied, a ſecond time, by combination; and almoſt as much, a third time, by different lights, and ſhades, and other aerial effects. Sometimes we find among them the exhibition of a whole; but oftener we find only beautiful parts. ^*

That we may examine pictureſque objects with more eaſe, it may be uſeful to claſs them into the ſublime, and the beautiful; tho, in fact, this diſtinction is rather inaccurate. [43] Sublimity alone cannot make an object pic⯑tureſque. However grand the mountain, or the rock may be, it has no claim to this epithet, unleſs it's form, it's colour, or it's accompaniments have ſome degree of beauty. Nothing can be more ſublime, than the ocean: but wholly unaccompanied, it has little of the pictureſque. When we talk therefore of a ſublime object, we always underſtand, that it is alſo beautiful: and we call it ſublime, or beautiful, only as the ideas of ſublimity, or of ſimple beauty prevail.

The curious, and fantaſtic forms of nature are by no means the favourite objects of the lovers of landſcape. There may be beauty in a curious object; and ſo far it may be pictureſque: but we cannot admire it merely for the ſake of it's curioſity. The luſus naturae is the naturaliſt's province, not the painter's. The ſpiry pinnacles of the mountain, and the caſtle-like arrangement of the rock, give no peculiar pleaſure to the pictureſque eye. It is fond of the ſimplicity of nature; and ſees moſt beauty in her moſt uſual forms. The Giant's cauſeway in Ireland may ſtrike it as a novelty; but the lake of Killarney attracts it's attention. It would range with ſupreme [44] delight among the ſweet vales of Switzerland; but would view only with a tranſient glance, the Glaciers of Savoy. Scenes of this kind, as unuſual, may pleaſe once; but the great works of nature, in her ſimpleſt and pureſt ſtile, open inexhauſted ſprings of amuſement.

But it is not only the form, and the com⯑poſition of the objects of landſcape, which the pictureſque eye examines; it connects them with the atmoſphere, and ſeeks for all thoſe various effects, which are produced from that vaſt, and wonderful ſtorehouſe of nature. Nor is there in travelling a greater pleaſure, than when a ſcene of grandeur burſts unexpectedly upon the eye, accompanied with ſome acci⯑dental circumſtance of the atmoſphere, which harmonizes with it, and gives it double value.

Beſides the inanimate face of nature, it's living forms fall under the pictureſque eye, in the courſe of travel; and are often objects of great attention. The anatomical ſtudy of figures is not attended to: we regard them merely as the ornament of ſcenes. In the human figure we contemplate neither exactneſs of form; nor expreſſion, any farther than it is ſhewn in action: we merely conſider general ſhapes, dreſſes, groups, and occupations; which [45] we often find caſually in greater variety, and beauty, than any ſelection can procure.

In the ſame manner animals are the objects of our attention, whether we find them in the park, the foreſt, or the field. Here too we conſider little more, than their general forms, actions, and combinations. Nor is the pic⯑tureſque eye ſo faſtidious as to deſpiſe even leſs conſiderable objects. A flight of birds has often a pleaſing effect. In ſhort, every form of life, and being has it's uſe as a pictureſque object, till it become too ſmall for attention.

But the pictureſque eye is not merely reſ⯑tricted to nature. It ranges through the limits of art. The picture, the ſtatue, and the gar⯑den are all the objects of it's attention. In the embelliſhed pleaſure-ground particularly, tho all is neat, and elegant—far too neat and elegant for the uſe of the pencil; yet, if it be well laid out, it exhibits the lines, and principles of landſcape; and is well worth the ſtudy of the pictureſque traveller. Nothing is wanting, but what his imagination can ſupply—a change from ſmooth to rough.^*

[46]But among all the objects of art, the pictu⯑reſque eye is perhaps moſt inquiſitive after the elegant relics of ancient architecture; the ruined tower, the Gothic arch, the remains of caſtles, and abbeys. Theſe are the richeſt legacies of art. They are conſecrated by time; and al⯑moſt deſerve the veneration we pay to the works of nature itſelf.

Thus univerſal are the objects of pictureſque travel. We purſue beauty in every ſhape; through nature, through art; and all it's various arrangements in form, and colour; admiring it in the grandeſt objects, and not rejecting it in the humbleſt.

From the objects of pictureſque travel, we conſider it's ſources of amuſement—or in what way the mind is gratified by theſe objects.

We might begin in moral ſtile; and conſider the objects of nature in a higher light, than merely as amuſement. We might obſerve, that a ſearch after beauty ſhould naturally lead the mind to the great origin of all beauty; to the ‘— firſt good, firſt perfect, and firſt fair.’ [47] But tho in theory this ſeems a natural climax, we inſiſt the leſs upon it, as in fact we have ſcarce ground to hope, that every admirer of pictureſque beauty, is an admirer alſo of the beauty of virtue; and that every lover of nature reflects, that

If however the admirer of nature can turn his amuſements to a higher purpoſe; if it's great ſcenes can inſpire him with religious awe; or it's tranquil ſcenes with that compla⯑cency of mind, which is ſo nearly allied to benevolence, it is certainly the better. Appo⯑nat lucro. It is ſo much into the bargain: for we dare not promiſe him more from pictu⯑reſque travel, than a rational, and agreeable amuſement. Yet even this may be of ſome uſe in an age teeming with licentious pleaſure; and may in this light at leaſt be conſidered as having a moral tendency.

The firſt ſource of amuſement to the pictu⯑reſque traveller, is the purſuit of his object— the expectation of new ſcenes continually open⯑ing, and ariſing to his view. We ſuppoſe the country to have been unexplored. Under this circumſtance the mind is kept conſtantly in an [48] agreeable ſuſpence. The love of novelty is the foundation of this pleaſure. Every diſtant ho⯑rizon promiſes ſomething new; and with this pleaſing expectation we follow nature through all her walks. We purſue her from hill to dale; and hunt after thoſe various beauties, with which ſhe every where abounds.

The pleaſures of the chaſe are univerſal. A hare ſtarted before dogs is enough to ſet a whole country in an uproar. The plough, and the ſpade are deſerted. Care is left be⯑hind; and every human faculty is dilated with joy.

And ſhall we ſuppoſe it a greater pleaſure to the ſportſman to purſue a trivial animal, than it is to the man of taſte to purſue the beauties of nature? to follow her through all her receſſes? to obtain a ſudden glance, as ſhe flits paſt him in ſome airy ſhape? to trace her through the mazes of the cover? to wind after her along the vale? or along the reaches of the river?

After the purſuit we are gratified with the attainment of the object. Our amuſement, on this head, ariſes from the employment of the mind in examining the beautiful ſcenes we have found. Sometimes we examine them under the idea of a whole: we admire the com⯑poſition, [49] the colouring, and the light, in one comprehenſive view. When we are fortunate enough to fall in with ſcenes of this kind, we are highly delighted. But as we have leſs frequent opportunities of being thus gratified, we are more commonly employed in analyzing the parts of ſcenes; which may be exquiſitely beautiful, tho unable to produce a whole. We examine what would amend the compoſition; how little is wanting to reduce it to the rules of our art; what a trifling circumſtance ſometimes forms the limit between beauty, and deformity. Or we com⯑pare the objects before us with other objects of the ſame kind:—or perhaps we compare them with the imitations of art. From all theſe operations of the mind reſults great amuſement.

But it is not from this ſcientifical employ⯑ment, that we derive our chief pleaſure. We are moſt delighted, when ſome grand ſcene, tho perhaps of incorrect compoſition, riſing before the eye, ſtrikes us beyond the power of thought—when the vox faucibus haeret; and every mental operation is ſuſpended. In this pauſe of intellect; this deliquium of the ſoul, an enthuſiaſtic ſenſation of pleaſure overſpreads [50] it, previous to any examination by the rules of art. The general idea of the ſcene makes an impreſſion, before any appeal is made to the judgment. We rather feel, than ſurvey it.

This high delight is generally indeed pro⯑duced by the ſcenes of nature; yet ſometimes by artificial objects. Here and there a capital picture will raiſe theſe emotions: but oftener the rough ſketch of a capital maſter. This has ſometimes an aſtoniſhing effect on the mind; giving the imagination an opening into all thoſe glowing ideas, which inſpired the artiſt; and which the imagination only can tranſlate. In general however the works of art affect us coolly; and allow the eye to cri⯑ticize at leiſure.

Having gained by a minute examination of incidents a compleat idea of an object, our next amuſement ariſes from inlarging, and correcting our general ſtock of ideas. The variety of nature is ſuch, that new objects, and new combinations of them, are continually adding ſomething to our fund, and inlarging our collection: while the ſame kind of object occurring frequently, is ſeen under various ſhapes; and makes us, if I may ſo ſpeak, more learned in nature. We get it more by heart. [51] He who has ſeen only one oak-tree, has no compleat idea of an oak in general: but he who has examined thouſands of oak-trees, muſt have ſeen that beautiful plant in all it's va⯑rieties; and obtains a full, and compleat idea of it.

From this correct knowledge of objects ariſes another amuſement; that of repreſenting, by a few ſtrokes in a ſketch, thoſe ideas, which have made the moſt impreſſion upon us. A few ſcratches, like a ſhort-hand ſcrawl of our own, legible at leaſt to ourſelves, will ſerve to raiſe in our minds the remembrance of the beauties they humbly repreſent; and recal to our memory even the ſplendid colouring, and force of light, which exiſted in the real ſcene. Some naturaliſts ſuppoſe, the act of rumina⯑ting, in animals, to be attended with more pleaſure, than the act of groſſer maſtication. It may be ſo in travelling alſo. There may be more pleaſure in recollecting, and record⯑ing, from a few tranſient lines, the ſcenes we have admired, than in the preſent enjoyment of them. If the ſcenes indeed have peculiar greatneſs, this ſecondary pleaſure cannot be at⯑tended with thoſe enthuſiaſtic feelings, which accompanied the real exhibition. But, in [52] general, tho it may be a calmer ſpecies of plea⯑ſure, it is more uniform, and uninterrupted. It flatters us too with the idea of a ſort of creation of our own; and it is unallayed with that fatigue, which is often a conſiderable abatement to the pleaſures of traverſing the wild, and ſavage parts of nature.—After we have amuſed ourſelves with our ſketches, if we can, in any degree, contribute to the amuſement of others alſo, the pleaſure is ſurely ſo much inhanced.

There is ſtill another amuſement ariſing from the correct knowledge of objects; and that is the power of creating, and repreſenting ſcenes of fancy; which is ſtill more a work of creation, than copying from nature. The imagination becomes a camera obſcura, only with this difference, that the camera repreſents objects as they really are; while the imagi⯑nation, impreſſed with the moſt beautiful ſcenes, and chaſtened by rules of art, forms it's pictures, not only from the moſt admirable parts of nature; but in the beſt taſte.

Some artiſts, when they give their imagi⯑nation play, let it looſe among uncommon ſcenes—ſuch as perhaps never exiſted: whereas the nearer they approach the ſimple ſtandard [53] of nature, in it's moſt beautiful forms, the more admirable their fictions will appear. It is thus in writing romances. The correct taſte cannot bear thoſe unnatural ſituations, in which heroes, and heroines are often placed: whereas a ſtory, naturally, and of courſe af⯑fectingly told, either with a pen, or a pencil, tho known to be a fiction, is conſidered as a tranſcript from nature; and takes poſſeſſion of the heart. The marvellous diſguſts the ſober imagination; which is gratified only with the pure characters of nature.

But if we are unable to embody our ideas even in a humble ſketch, yet ſtill a ſtrong impreſſion of nature will enable us to judge of the works of art. Nature is the archetype. The ſtronger therefore the impreſſion, the better the judgment.

[54]We are, in ſome degree, alſo amuſed by the very viſions of fancy itſelf. Often, when ſlumber has half-cloſed the eye, and ſhut out all the objects of ſenſe, eſpecially after the enjoyment of ſome ſplendid ſcene; the ima⯑gination, active, and alert, collects it's ſcat⯑tered ideas, tranſpoſes, combines, and ſhifts them into a thouſand forms, producing ſuch exquiſite ſcenes, ſuch ſublime arrangements, ſuch glow, and harmony of colouring, ſuch brilliant lights, ſuch depth, and clearneſs of ſhadow, as equally foil deſcription, and every attempt of artificial colouring.

It may perhaps be objected to the pleaſure⯑able circumſtances, which are thus ſaid to attend pictureſque travel, that we meet as many diſguſting, as pleaſing objects; and the man of taſte therefore will be as often offended, as amuſed.

But this is not the caſe. There are few parts of nature, which do not yield a pictureſque eye ſome amuſement.

It is true, when ſome large tract of barren country interrupts our expectation, wound up in queſt of any particular ſcene of grandeur, or beauty, we are apt to be a little peeviſh; and to expreſs our diſcontent in haſty ex⯑aggerated phraſe. But when there is no diſappointment in the caſe, even ſcenes the moſt barren of beauty, will furniſh amuſe⯑ment.

Perhaps no part of England comes more under this deſcription, than that tract of bar⯑ren country, through which the great military road paſſes from Newcaſtle to Carliſle. It is a waſte, with little interruption, through a ſpace of forty miles. But even here, we have always ſomething to amuſe the eye. The interchangeable patches of heath, and green-ſward make an agreeable variety. Often too on theſe vaſt tracts of interſecting grounds we ſee beautiful lights, ſoftening off along the ſides of hills: and often we ſee them adorned with cattle, flocks of ſheep, heath-cocks, grous, plover, and flights of other wild-fowl. A group of cattle, ſtanding in [56] the ſhade on the edge of a dark hill, and relieved by a lighter diſtance beyond them, will often make a compleat picture without any other accompaniment. In many other ſituations alſo we find them wonderfully pleaſing; and capable of making pictures amidſt all the deficiences of landſcape. Even a winding road itſelf is an object of beauty; while the richneſs of the heath on each ſide, with the little hillocs, and crumbling earth give many an excellent leſſon for a fore⯑ground. When we have no opportunity of examining the grand ſcenery of nature, we have every where at leaſt the means of ob⯑ſerving with what a multiplicity of parts, and yet with what general ſimplicity, ſhe covers every ſurface.

But if we let the imagination looſe, even ſcenes like theſe, adminiſter great amuſement. The imagination can plant hills; can form rivers▪ and lakes in vallies; can build caſtles, and abbeys; and if it find no other amuſe⯑ment, can dilate itſelf in vaſt ideas of ſpace.

But altho the pictureſque traveller is ſeldom diſappointed with pure nature, however rude, [57] yet we cannot deny, but he is often offended with the productions of art. He is diſguſted with the formal ſeparations of property—with houſes, and towns, the haunts of men, which have much oftener a bad effect in landſcape, than a good one. He is frequently diſguſted alſo, when art aims more at beauty, than ſhe ought. How flat, and inſipid is often the garden-ſcene! how puerile, and abſurd! the banks of the river how ſmooth, and par⯑rallel! the lawn, and it's boundaries, how unlike nature! Even in the capital collec⯑tion of pictures, how ſeldom does he find deſign, compoſition, expreſſion, character, or har⯑mony either in light, or colouring! and how often does he drag through ſaloons, and rooms of ſtate, only to hear a catalogue of the names of maſters!

The more refined our taſte grows from the ſtudy of nature, the more inſipid are the works of art. Few of it's efforts pleaſe. The idea of the great original is ſo ſtrong, that the copy muſt be very pure, if it do not diſ⯑guſt. But the varieties of nature's charts are ſuch, that, ſtudy them as we can, new va⯑rieties will always ariſe: and let our taſte be ever ſo refined, her works, on which it is [58] formed (at leaſt when we conſider them as objects,) muſt always go beyond it; and fur⯑niſh freſh ſources both of pleaſure and amuſe⯑ment.

ESSAY III. ON THE ART OF SKETCHING LANDSCAPE.
[61]ESSAY III.

THE art of ſketching is to the pictureſque traveller, what the art of writing is to the ſcholar. Each is equally neceſſary to fix, and communicate it's reſpective ideas.

Sketches are either taken from the imagi⯑nation, or from nature.—When the imaginary ſketch proceeds from the hands of a maſter, it is very valuable. It is his firſt conception; which is commonly the ſtrongeſt, and the moſt brilliant. The imagination of a painter, really great in his profeſſion, is a magazine abound⯑ing with all the elegant forms, and ſtriking effects, which are to be found in nature. Theſe, like a magician, he calls up at pleaſure with a wave of his hand; bringing before the eye, ſometimes a ſcene from hiſtory, or ro⯑mance; [62] and ſometimes from the inanimate parts of nature. And in theſe happy moments, when the enthuſiaſm of his art is upon him, he often produces from the glow of his imagi⯑nation, with a few bold ſtrokes, ſuch wonder⯑ful effuſions of genius, as the more ſober, and correct productions of his pencil cannot equal.

It will always however be underſtood, that ſuch ſketches muſt be examined alſo by an eye learned in the art, and accuſtomed to pictu⯑reſque ideas—an eye, that can take up the half-formed images, as the maſter leaves them; give them a new creation; and make up all that is not expreſſed from it's own ſtore-houſe. —I ſhall however dwell no longer on ima⯑ginary ſketching, as it hath but little relation to my preſent ſubject. Let me only add, that altho this eſſay is meant chiefly to aſſiſt the pictureſque traveller in taking views from nature, the method recommended, as far as it relates to execution, may equally be applied to imaginary ſketches.

Your intention in taking views from nature, may either be to fix them in your own memory [63] —or to convey, in ſome degree, your ideas to others.

With regard to the former, when you meet a ſcene you wiſh to ſketch, your firſt conſi⯑deration is to get it in the beſt point of view. A few paces to the right, or left, make a great difference. The ground, which folds awkwardly here, appears to fold more eaſily there: and that long blank curtain of the caſtle, which is ſo unpleaſing a circumſtance, as you ſtand on one ſide, is agreeably broken by a buttreſs on another.

Having thus fixed your point of view, your next conſideration, is, how to reduce it properly within the compaſs of your paper: for the ſcale of nature being ſo very different from your ſcale, it is a matter of difficulty, without ſome experience, to make them coin⯑cide. If the landſcape before you is extenſive, take care you do not include too much: it may perhaps be divided more commodiouſly into two ſketches.—When you have fixed the portion of it, you mean to take, fix next on two or three principal points, which you may juſt mark on your paper. This will en⯑able you the more eaſily to aſcertain the re⯑lative ſituation of the ſeveral objects.

[64]In ſketching, black-lead is the firſt inſtru⯑ment commonly uſed. Nothing glides ſo volubly over paper, and executes an idea ſo quickly.—It has beſides, another advantage; it's grey tint correſponds better with a waſh, than black, or red chalk, or any other paſtile. —It admits alſo of eaſy correction.

The virtue of theſe haſty, black-lead ſketches conſiſts in catching readily the cha⯑racteriſtic features of a ſcene. Light and ſhade are not attended to. It is enough if you expreſs general ſhapes; and the relations, which the ſeveral interſections of a country bear to each other. A few lines drawn on the ſpot, will do this. "Half a word, ſays Mr. Gray, fixed on, or near the ſpot, is worth all our recollected ideas. When we truſt to the picture, that objects draw of themſelves on the mind, we deceive ourſelves. Without accurate, and particular obſervation, it is but ill-drawn at firſt: the outlines are ſoon blur⯑red: the colours, every day grow fainter; and at laſt, when we would produce it to any body, we are obliged to ſupply it's defects [65] with a few ſtrokes of our own imagination."^*— What Mr. Gray ſays, relates chiefly to verbal deſcription: but in lineal deſcription it is equally true. The leading ideas muſt be fixed on the ſpot: if left to the memory, they ſoon evaporate.

The lines of black-lead, and indeed of any one inſtrument, are ſubject to the great incon⯑venience of confounding diſtances. If there are two, or three diſtances in the landſcape, as each of them is expreſſed by the ſame kind of line, the eye forgets the diſtinction, even in half a day's travelling; and all is confuſion. To remedy this, a few written references, made on the ſpot, are neceſſary, if the land⯑ſcape be at all complicated. The traveller ſhould be accurate in this point, as the ſpirit of his view depends much on the proper ob⯑ſervance of diſtances.—At his firſt leiſure however he will review his ſketch; add a few ſtrokes with a pen, to mark the near grounds; and by a ſlight waſh of Indian ink, throw in a few general lights, and ſhades, to keep all fixed, and in it's place.—A ſketch [66] need not be carried farther, when it is in⯑tended merely to aſſiſt our own memory.

But when a ſketch is intended to convey, in ſome degree, our ideas to others, it is neceſ⯑ſary, that it ſhould be ſomewhat more adorned. To us the ſcene, familiar to our recollection, may be ſuggeſted by a few rough ſtrokes: but if you wiſh to raiſe the idea, where none exiſted before, and to do it agreeably, there ſhould be ſome compoſition in your ſketch—a degree of correctneſs, and expreſſion in the out-line— and ſome effect of light. A little ornament alſo from figures, and other circumſtances may be introduced. In ſhort, it ſhould be ſo far dreſſed, as to give ſome idea of a picture. I call this an adorned ſketch; and ſhould ſketch nothing, that was not capable of being thus dreſſed. An unpictureſque aſ⯑ſemblage of objects; and, in general, all untractable ſubjects, if it be neceſſary to re⯑preſent them, may be given as plans, rather than as pictures.

In the firſt place, I ſhould adviſe the tra⯑veller by no means to work his adorned ſketch [67] upon his original one. His firſt ſketch is the ſtandard, to which, in the abſence of nature, he muſt at leaſt recur for his general ideas. By going over it again, the original ideas may be loſt, and the whole thrown into con⯑fuſion. Great maſters therefore always ſet a high value on their ſketches from nature. On the ſame principle the pictureſque tra⯑veller preſerves his original ſketch, tho in itſelf of little value, to keep him within proper bounds.

This matter being ſettled, and the adorned ſketch begun anew, the firſt point is to fix the compoſition.

But the compoſition, you ſay, is already fixed by the original ſketch.

It is true: but ſtill it may admit many little alterations, by which the forms of objects may be aſſiſted; and yet the reſem⯑blance not disfigured: as the ſame piece of muſic, performed by different maſters, and graced variouſly by each, may yet con⯑tinue ſtill the ſame. We muſt ever recol⯑lect that nature is moſt defective in com⯑poſition; and muſt be a little aſſiſted. Her ideas are too vaſt for pictureſque uſe, without the reſtraint of rules. Liberties however with [68] truth muſt be taken with caution: tho at the ſame time a diſtinction may be made between an object, and a ſcene. If I give the ſtriking features of the caſtle, or abbey, which is my object, I may be allowed ſome little liberty in bringing appendages (which are not eſſential features) within the rules of my art. But in a ſcene, the whole view becomes the portrait; and if I flatter here, I muſt flatter with de⯑licacy.

But whether I repreſent an object, or a ſcene, I hold myſelf at perfect liberty, in the firſt place, to diſpoſe the foreground as I pleaſe; reſtrained only by the analogy of the country. I take up a tree here, and plant it there. I pare a knoll, or make an addition to it. I remove a piece of paling—a cottage—a wall— or any removeable object, which I diſlike. In ſhort, I do not ſo much mean to exact a liberty of introducing what does not exiſt; as of making a few of thoſe ſimple variations, of which all ground is eaſily ſuſceptible, and which time itſelf indeed is continually making. All this my art exacts:

The foreground indeed is a mere ſpot, compa⯑red with the extenſion of the diſtance: in itſelf it is of trivial conſequence; and cannot well be called a feature of the ſcene. And yet, tho ſo little eſſential in giving a likeneſs, it is more ſo than any other part in forming a compo⯑ſition. It reſembles thoſe deep tones in muſic, which give a value to all the lighter parts; and harmonize the whole.

As the foreground therefore is of ſo much conſequence, begin your adorned ſketch with fixing this very material part. It is eaſier to aſcertain the ſituation of your foreground, as it lies ſo near the bottom of your paper, than any other part; and this will tend to regulate every thing elſe. In your rough ſketch it has probably been inaccurately thrown in. You could not ſo eaſily aſcer⯑tain it, till you had gotten all your landſcape together. You might have carried it too high on your paper; or have brought it too low. As you have now the general ſcheme of your landſcape before you, you may adjuſt it properly; and give it it's due proportion. —I ſhall add only, on the ſubject of fore⯑grounds, [70] that you need not be very nice in finiſhing them, even when you mean to adorn your ſketches. In a finiſhed picture the fore⯑ground is a matter of great nicety: but in a ſketch little more is neceſſary, than to produce the effect you deſire.

Having fixed your foreground, you conſider in the ſame way, tho with more caution, the other parts of your compoſition. In a haſty tranſcript from nature, it is ſufficient to take the lines of the country juſt as you find them: but in your adorned ſketch you muſt grace them a little, where they run falſe. You muſt contrive to hide offenſive parts with wood; to cover ſuch as are too bald, with [...]uſhes; and to remove little objects, which in nature puſh themſelves too much in ſight, and ſerve only to introduce too many parts into your compoſition. In this happy adjuſt⯑ment the grand merit of your ſketch conſiſts. No beauty of light, colouring, or execution can atone for the want of compoſition. It is the foundation of all pictureſque beauty. No finery of dreſs can ſet off a perſon, whoſe figure is awkward, and uncouth.

Having thus digeſted the compoſition of your adorned ſketch, which is done with black-lead, [71] you proceed to give a ſtronger outline to the foreground, and nearer parts. Some indeed uſe no outline, but what they freely work with a bruſh on their black-lead ſketch. This comes neareſt the idea of painting; and as it is the moſt free, it is perhaps alſo the moſt excellent method: but as a black-lead outline is but a feeble termination, it re⯑quires a greater force in the waſh to produce an effect; and of courſe more the hand of a maſter. The hand of a maſter indeed pro⯑duces an effect with the rudeſt materials: but theſe precepts aim only at giving a few in⯑ſtructions to the tyroes of the art; and ſuch will perhaps make their out-line the moſt effectually with a pen. As the pen is more determined than black-lead, it leaves leſs to the bruſh, which I think the more difficult inſtrument.—Indian ink, (which may be heightened, or lowered to any degree of ſtrength, or weakneſs, ſo as to touch both the nearer, and more diſtant grounds,) is the beſt ink you can uſe. You may give a ſtroke with it ſo light as to confine even a remote diſtance; tho ſuch a diſtance is perhaps beſt left in black-lead.

[72]But when we ſpeak of an out-line, we do not mean a ſimple contour; which, (however neceſſary in a correct figure,) would in land⯑ſcape be formal. It is enough to mark with a few free touches of the pen, here and there, ſome of the breaks, and roughneſſes, in which the richneſs of an object conſiſts. But you muſt firſt determine the ſituation of your lights, that you may mark theſe touches on the ſhadowy ſide.

Of theſe free touches with a pen the chief characteriſtic is expreſſion; or the art of giving each object, that peculiar touch, whether ſmooth, or rough, which beſt expreſſes it's form. The art of painting, in it's higheſt perfection, cannot give the richneſs of nature. When we examine any natural form, we find the multiplicity of it's parts beyond the higheſt finiſhing: and indeed generally an attempt at the higheſt finiſhing would end in ſtiffneſs. The painter is obliged therefore to deceive the eye by ſome natural tint, or expreſſive touch, from which the imagination takes it's cue. How often do we ſee in the landſcapes of Claude the full effect of diſtance; which, when examined cloſely, conſiſts of a ſimple daſh, tinged with the hue of nature, [73] intermixed with a few expreſſive touches?— If then theſe expreſſive touches are neceſſary, where the maſter carries on the deception both in form, and colour; how neceſſary muſt they be in mere ſketches, in which colour, the great vehicle of deception, is removed?—The art however of giving thoſe expreſſive marks with a pen, which impreſs ideas, is no common one. The inferior artiſt may give them by chance: but the maſter only gives them with preciſion.—Yet a ſketch may have it's uſe, and even it's merit, without theſe ſtrokes of genius.

As the difficulty of uſing the pen is ſuch, it may perhaps be objected, that it is an improper inſtrument for a tyro. It loſes it's grace, if it have not a ready, and off-hand execution.

It is true: but what other inſtrument ſhall we put into his hands, that will do better? His black-lead, his bruſh, whatever he touches, will be unmaſterly. But my chief reaſon for putting a pen into his hands, is, that without a pen it will be difficult for him to preſerve his outline, and diſtances. His touches with a pen may be unmaſterly, we allow: but ſtill they will preſerve keeping in his landſcape, [74] without which the whole will be a blot of confuſion.—Nor is it perhaps ſo difficult to obtain ſome little freedom with a pen. I have ſeen aſſiduity, attended with but little genius, make a conſiderable progreſs in the uſe of this inſtrument; and produce an effect by no means diſpleaſing.—If the drawing be large, I ſhould recommend a reed-pen, which runs more freely over paper.

When the out-line is thus drawn, it re⯑mains to add light, and ſhade. In this ope⯑ration the effect of a waſh is much better, than of lines hatched with a pen. A bruſh will do more in one ſtroke, and generally more effectually, than a pen can do in twenty.^* For this purpoſe, we need only []

[]

[75] Indian ink; and perhaps a little biſtre, or burnt umber. With the former we give that greyiſh tinge, which belongs to the ſky, and diſtant objects; and with the latter (mixed more, or leſs with Indian ink) thoſe warm touches, which belong to the foreground. Indian ink however alone makes a good waſh both for the foreground, and diſtance.

But mere light and ſhade are not ſufficient: ſomething of effect alſo ſhould be aimed at in the adorned ſketch. Mere light and ſhade propoſe only the ſimple illumination of objects. Effect, by balancing large maſſes of each, gives the whole a greater force.—Now tho in the exhibitions of nature, we commonly find only the ſimple illumination of objects; yet as we often do meet with grand effects alſo, we have ſufficient authority to uſe them: for under theſe circumſtances we ſee nature in her beſt attire, in which it is our buſineſs to deſcribe her.

As to giving rules for the production of effect, the ſubject admits only the moſt gene⯑ral. There muſt be a ſtrong oppoſition of light and ſhade; in which the ſky, as well as the landſcape, muſt combine. But in what [76] way this oppoſition muſt be varied—where the full tone of ſhade muſt prevail—where the full effuſion of light—or where the various degrees of each—depends intirely on the cir⯑cumſtance of the compoſition. All you can do, is to examine your drawing (yet in it's naked out-line) with care; and endeavour to find out where the force of the light will have the beſt effect. But this depends more on taſte, than on rule.

One thing both in light and ſhade ſhould be obſerved, eſpecially in the former—and that is gradation; which gives a force beyond what a glaring diſplay of light can give. The effect of light, which falls on the ſtone, produced as an illuſtration of this idea, would not be ſo great, unleſs it graduated into ſhade. —In the following ſtanza Mr. Gray has with great beauty, and propriety, illuſtrated the viciſſitudes of life by the principles of pictureſque effect.

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[77]I may farther add, that the production of an effect is particularly neceſſary in drawing. In painting, colour in ſome degree makes up the deficency: but in ſimple clair-obſcure there is no ſuccedaneum. It's force depends on effect; the virtue of which is ſuch, that it will give a value even to a barren ſubject. Like ſtriking the chords of a muſical inſtru⯑ment, it will produce harmony, without any richneſs of compoſition.

It is farther to be obſerved, that when objects are in ſhadow, the light, (as it is then a reflected one,) falls on the oppoſite ſide to that, on which it falls, when they are in⯑lightened.

In adorning your ſketch, a figure, or two may be introduced with propriety. By figures I mean moving objects, as waggons, and boats, as well as cattle, and men. But they ſhould be introduced ſparingly. In profuſion they are affected. Their chief uſe is, to mark a road—to break a piece of foreground—to point out the horizon in a ſea-view—or to carry off the diſtance of retiring water by the contraſt of a dark ſail, not quite ſo diſtant, placed before it. But in figures thus deſigned for the ornament of a ſketch, a few ſlight [78] touches are ſufficient. Attempts at finiſhing offend.^*

Among trees, little diſtinction need be made, unleſs you introduce the pine, or the cypreſs, or ſome other ſingular form. The oak, the aſh, and the elm, which bear a diſtant reſem⯑blance to each other, may all be characterized alike. In a ſketch, it is enough to mark a tree. One diſtinction indeed is often neceſſary even in ſketches; and that is, between full-leaved trees, and thoſe of ſtraggling ramification. In compoſition we have often occaſion for both, and therefore the hand ſhould be uſed readily to execute either. If we have a general idea of the oak, for inſtance, as a light tree; and of the beech as a heavy one, it is ſufficient.

It adds, I think, to the beauty of a ſketch to ſtain the paper ſlightly with a reddiſh, or yellowiſh tinge; the uſe of which is to give a more pleaſing tint to the ground of the drawing by taking away the glare of the paper. It adds alſo, if it be not too ſtrong, a degree of harmony to the rawneſs of black, and white. []

[79] This tinge may be laid on, either before, or after the drawing is made. In general, I ſhould prefer the latter method; becauſe, while the drawing is yet on white paper, you may correct it with a ſponge, dipt in water; which will, in a good degree, efface Indian ink. But if you rub out any part, after the drawing is ſtained, you cannot eaſily lay the ſtain again upon the rubbed part without the appearance of a patch.

Some chuſe rather to add a little colour to their ſketches. My inſtructions attempt not the art of mixing a variety of tints; and finiſhing a drawing from nature; which is generally executed in colours from the begin⯑ning, without any uſe of Indian ink; except as a grey tint, uniting with other colours. This indeed, when chaſtly executed, (which is not often the caſe) exceeds in beauty every other ſpecies of drawing. It is however be⯑yond my ſkill to give any inſtruction for this mode of drawing. All I mean, is only to offer a modeſt way of tinting a ſketch already finiſh⯑ed in Indian ink. By the addition of a little colour I mean only to give ſome diſtinction [80] to objects; and introduce rather a gayer ſtile into a landſcape.

When you have finiſhed your ſketch there⯑fore with Indian ink, as far as you propoſe, tinge the whole over with ſome light horizon hue. It may be the roſy tint of morning; or the more ruddy one of evening; or it may incline more to a yellowiſh, or a greyiſh caſt. As a ſpecimen an evening hue is given. The firſt tint you ſpread over your drawing, is compoſed of light red, and oker, which make an orange. It may incline to one, or the other, as you chuſe. In this example it in⯑clines rather to the former. By waſhing this tint over your whole drawing, you lay a foun⯑dation for harmony. When this waſh is nearly dry, repeat it in the horizon; ſoftening it off into the ſky, as you aſcend.—Take next a purple tint, compoſed of lake, and blue, inclining rather to the former; and with this, when your firſt waſh is dry, form your clouds; and then ſpread it, as you did the firſt tint, over your whole drawing, except where you leave the horizon-tint. This ſtill ſtrengthens the idea of harmony. Your ſky, and diſtance are now finiſhed.

[81]You proceed next to your middle, and fore⯑grounds; in both which you diſtinguiſh between the ſoil, and the vegetation. Waſh the middle grounds with a little umber. This will be ſufficient for the ſoil. The ſoil of the fore⯑ground you may go over with a little light red. The vegetation of each may be waſhed with a green, compoſed of blue, and oker; adding a little more oker as you proceed nearer the eye; and on the neareſt grounds a little burnt terra Sienna. This is ſufficient for the middle grounds. The foreground may farther want a little heightening both in the ſoil, and vegeta⯑tion. In the ſoil it may be given in the lights with burnt terra Sienna; mixing in the ſhadows a little lake: and in the vegetation with gall⯑ſtone; touched in places, and occaſionally varied, with a little burnt terra Sienna.

Trees on the foreground are conſidered as a part of it; and their foliage may be co⯑loured like the vegetation in their neigh⯑bourhood. Their ſtems may be touched with burnt terra Sienna.—Trees, in middle diſtances are darker than the lawns, on which they ſtand. They muſt therefore be touched twice over with the tint, which is given only once to the lawn.

[82]If you repreſent clouds with bright edges, the edges muſt be left in the firſt orange; while the tint over the other part of the horizon is repeated, as was mentioned before.

A lowering, cloudy ſky is repreſented by, what is called, a grey tint, compoſed of lake, blue, and oker. As the ſhadow deepens, the tint ſhould incline more to blue.

The ſeveral tints mentioned in the above proceſs, may perhaps the moſt eaſily be mixed before you begin; eſpecially if your drawing be large. Rub the raw colours in little ſaucers: keep them clean, and diſtinct; and from them, mix your tints in other little veſſels.

I ſhall only add, that the ſtrength of the colouring you give your ſketch, muſt depend on the height, to which you have carried the Indian ink finiſhing. If it be only a ſlight ſketch, it will bear only a light waſh of colour.

This mode however of tinting a drawing, even when you tint it as high as theſe inſtruc⯑tions reach, is by no means calculated to produce any great effect of colouring: but it is at leaſt ſufficient to preſerve harmony. This you may preſerve: an effect of colouring you cannot eaſily attain. It is ſomething how⯑ever [83] to avoid a diſagreeable exceſs; and there is nothing ſurely ſo diſagreeable to a correct eye as a tinted drawing (ſuch as we often ſee) in which greens, and blues, and reds, and yellows are daubed without any attention to harmony. It is to the pictureſque eye, what a diſcord of harſh notes is to a muſical ear.

But the advocate for theſe glaring tints may perhaps ſay, he does not make his ſky more blue than nature; nor his graſs, and trees more green.

Perhaps ſo: but unleſs he could work up his drawing with the finiſhing of nature, he will find the effect very unequal. Nature mixes a variety of ſemitints with her brighteſt colours: and tho the eye cannot readily ſepa⯑rate them, they have a general chaſtizing effect; and keep the ſeveral tints of landſcape within proper bounds, which a glare of deep colours cannot do. Beſides, this chaſtizing hue is produced in nature by numberleſs little ſhadows, beyond the attention of art, which ſhe throws on leaves, and piles of graſs, and every other minute object; all which, tho not eaſily diſtinguiſhed in particulars, tells in the whole, and is continually chaſtening the hues of nature.

[84]Before I conclude theſe remarks on ſketch⯑ing, it may be uſeful to add a few words, and but a few, on perſpective. The nicer parts of it contain many difficulties; and are of little uſe in common landſcape: but as a building, now and then, occurs, which requires ſome little knowledge of perſpective, the ſubject ſhould not be left wholly un⯑touched.

If a building ſtand exactly in front, none of it's lines can go off in perſpective: but if it ſtand with a corner to the eye, as pictureſque buildings commonly do, it's lines will appear to recede. In what manner they recede, the following mechanical method may explain.

Hold horizontally between your eye, and the building you draw, a flat ruler, till you ſee only the edge of it. Where it cuts the neareſt perpendicular of the building, which you have already juſt traced on your paper, make a mark; and draw a ſlight line through that part, parallel with the bottom of your paper. This is called the horizontal line, and regulates the whole perſpective. Obſerve next the angle, which the uppermoſt of theſe reced⯑ing []

[85] lines makes with the neareſt perpendicular of the building; and continue that receding line till it meet the horizontal line. From the point, where it interſects, draw another line to the bottom of the neareſt perpendicular. This gives you the perſpective of the baſe. In the ſame manner all the lines, which recede, on both ſides, of the building; as well above, as below the horizontal line—windows, doors, and projections of every kind, (on the ſame plane)—are regulated. The points on the horizontal line, in which theſe receding lines unite, are called points of ſight.

After all, however, from the mode of ſketching here recommended (which is as far as I ſhould wiſh to recommend drawing landſcape to thoſe, who draw only for amuſe⯑ment) no great degree of accuracy can be expected. General ideas only muſt be looked for; not the peculiarities of portrait. It admits the winding river—the ſhooting pro⯑montory —the caſtle—the abbey—the flat diſ⯑tance —and the mountain melting into the horizon. It admits too the relation, which all theſe parts bear to each other. But it [86] deſcends not to the minutiae of objects. The fringed bank of the river—the Gothic ornaments of the abbey—the chaſms, and frac⯑tures of the rock, and caſtle—and every little object along the vale, it pretends not to delineate with exactneſs. All this is the pro⯑vince of the finiſhed drawing, and the pic⯑ture; in which the artiſt conveys an idea of each minute feature of the country he delineates, or imagines. But high finiſhing, as I have before obſerved, belongs only to a maſter, who can give expreſſive touches. The diſciple, whom I am inſtructing, and whom I inſtruct only from my own experience, muſt have humbler views; and can hardly expect to pleaſe, if he go farther than a ſketch, adorned as hath been here deſcribed.

Many gentlemen, who draw for amuſe⯑ment, employ their leiſure on human figures, animal life, portrait, perhaps hiſtory. Here and there a man of genius makes ſome pro⯑ficiency in theſe difficult branches of the art: but I have rarely ſeen any, who do. Diſ⯑torted faces, and diſlocated limbs, I have ſeen in abundance: and no wonder; for the ſcience of anatomy, even as it regards painting, is with difficulty attained; and few who have [87] ſtudied it their whole lives, have acquired perfection.

Others again, who draw for amuſement, go ſo far as to handle the pallet. But in this the ſucceſs of the ill-judging artiſt ſeldom anſwers his hopes; unleſs utterly void of taſte, he happen to be ſuch an artiſt as may be ad⯑dreſſed in the ſarcaſm of the critic, ‘—Sine rivali teque, et tua ſolus amares.’ Painting is both a ſcience, and an art; and if ſo very few attain perfection, who ſpend a life-time on it, what can be expected from thoſe, who ſpend only their leiſure? The very few gentlemen-artiſts, who excel in paint⯑ing, ſcarce afford encouragement for common practice.

But the art of ſketching landſcape is attainable by a man of buſineſs; and it is certainly more uſeful; and, I ſhould imagine, more amuſing, to attain ſome degree of excellence in an in⯑ferior branch, than to be a mere bungler in a ſuperior. Even if you ſhould not excel in execution (which indeed you can hardly ex⯑pect) you may at leaſt by bringing home the delineation of a fine country, dignify an in⯑different [88] s;ketch. You may pleaſe yourſelf by adminiſtring ſtrongly to recollection: and you may pleaſe others by conveying your ideas more diſtinctly in an ordinary ſketch, than in the beſt language.