« AnteriorContinuar »
evening together. To be admitted to their conversation was the highest honour of the place; many youths aspired to distinction, by pretending to occasional invitations; and the ladies were often wishing to be men that they might partake the pleasures of learned society.
I know not whether by merit or destiny, I was, soon after my arrival, admitted to this envied party, which I frequented till I had learned the art by which each endeavoured to support his character.
Tom Steady was a vehement assertor of uncontroverted truth; and, by keeping himself out of the reach of contradiction, had acquired all the confidence which the consciousness of irresistible abilities could have given. I was once mentioning a man of eminence, and, after having recounted his virtues endeavoured to represent him fully, by mentioning his faults. “Sir,” said Mr. Steady, “that he has faults I can easily believe, for who is without them 2 No man, sir, is now alive, among the innumerable multitudes that swarm upon the earth, however wise or however good, who has not, in some degree, his failings and his faults. If there be any man faultless, bring him forth into public view, show him openly, and let him be known; but I will venture to affirm, and, till the contrary be plainly shown, shall always maintain, that no such man is to be found. Tell not me, sir, of impeccability and perfection; such talk is for those that are strangers in the world. I have seen several nations, and conversed with all ranks of people; I have known the great and the mean, the learned and the ignorant, the old and the young, the clerical and the lay; but I have never found a man without a fault; and I suppose shall die in the opinion, that to be human is to be frall.” ~
To all this nothing could be opposed. I listened with a hanging head. Mr. Steady looked round on the hearers with triumph, and saw every eye congratulating his victory. He departed, and spent the next morning in following those who retired from the company, and telling them, with injunctions of secrecy, how poor Spritely began to take liberties with men wiser than himself; but that he suppressed him by a decisive argument, which put him totally to silence.
Dick Snug is a man of sly remark and pithy sententiousness: he never immerges himself in the stream of conversation, but lies to catch his companions in . the eddy: he is often very successful in breaking narratives and confounding eloquence. A gentleman giving the history of one of his acquaintance, made mention of a lady that had many lovers: “ Then,” said Dick, “ she was either handsome or rich.” This observation being well received, Dick watched the progress of the tale; and hearing of a man lost in a shipwreck, remarked, “ that no man was ever drowned upon dry land.”
Will-Startle is a man of exquisite sensibility, whose delicacy of frame and quickness of discernment subject him to impressions from the slightest causes; and who therefore passes his life between rapture and horror, in quiverings of delight, or convulsions of disgust. His emotions are too violent for many words; his thoughts are always discovered by exclamations. Wile, odious, horrid, detestable, and sweet, charming, delightful, astonishing, compose almost his whole vocabulary, which he utters with various contortions and gesticulations not easily related or described.
V O L. VII. B b
Jack Solid is a man of much reading, who utters nothing but quotations: but having been, I suppose too confident of his memory, he has for some time neglected his books, and his stock grows every day more scanty. Mr. Solid has found an opportunity every night to repeat from Hudibras,
Doubtless the pleasure is as great
and from Waller,
Poets lose half the praise they would have got,
Dick Misty is a man of deep research and forcible penetration. Others are content with superficial appearances; but Dick holds, that there is no effect without a cause, and values himself upon his power of explaining the difficult and displaying the abstruse. Upon a dispute among us, which of two young strangers was more beautiful, “You,” says Mr. Misty, turning to me, “like Amaranthia better than Chloris. I do not wonder at the preference, for the cause is evident: there is in man a perception of harmony, and a sensibility of perfection, which touches the finer fibres of the mental texture; and, before Reason can descend from her throne to pass her sentence upon the things compared, drives us towards the object proportioned to our faculties, by an impulse gentle yet irresistible; for the harmonick system of the Universe, and the reciprocal magnetism of similar natures, are always operating towards conformity and union; nor can the powers of the soul cease from agitation, till they find something on which they can repose.” To this nothing was opposed; and Amaranthia was acknowledged to excel Chloris. Of the rest you may expect an account from, . Sir, yours, - Rob IN SPRITELY.
No. 79. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1759.
`s Your acceptance of a former letter on painting, gives me encouragement to offer a few more sketches on the same subject. Amongst the painters, and the writers on painting, there is one maxim universally admitted and continually inculcated. Imitate nature is the invariable rule: but I know none who have explained in what manner this rule is to be understood; the consequence of which is, that every one takes it in the most obvious sense, that objects are represented naturally when they have such relief that they seem real. It may appear strange, perhaps, to hear this sense of the rule disputed; but it must be considered, that if the excellency of a painter consisted only in this kind of imitation, painting must lose its rank, and be no longer considered as a liberal art, and sister to poetry, this imitation being merely mechanical, in which the slowest intellect is
always sure to succeed best; for the painter of genius cannot stoop to drudgery, in which the understanding has no part; and what pretence has the art to claim kindred with poetry, but by its powers over the imagination ? To this power the painter of genius directs him; in this sense he studies nature, and often arrives at his end, even by being unnatural in the confined sense of the word. The grand style of painting requires this minute attention to be carefully avoided, and must be kept as separate from it as the style of poetry from that of history. Poetical ornaments destroy that air of truth and plainness which ought to characterize history; but the very being of poetry consists in departing from this plain narration, and adopting every ornament that will warm the imagination. To desire to see the excellences of each style united, to mingle the Dutch with the Italian school, is to join contrarieties which cannot subsist together, and which destroy the efficacy of each other. The Italian attends only to the invariable, the great and general ideas which are fixed and inherent in universal nature; the Dutch, on the contrary, to literal truth and a minute exactness in the detail, as I may say of nature modified by accident. The attention to these petty peculiarities is the very cause of this naturalness so much admired in the Dutch pictures, which, if we suppose it to be a beauty, is certainly of a lower order, which ought to give place to a beauty of a superiour kind, since one cannot be obtained but by departing from the other. If my opinion was asked concerning the works of Michael Angelo, whether they would receive any advantage from possessing this Inechanical merit, I should