OF THE FINE ARTS. 



XXXV11 



and knowledge, should have set an example of 

 worth and virtue. The aim of Hogarth was to 

 represent life, to give us an image of man, to 

 exhibit the workings of his heart for good or for 

 evil, to shake us with mirth, rebuke us by satire, 

 and sadden us into humanity by woeful reflec- 

 tion. Other painters lavished the hues of heaven 

 on ladies of loose reputation, and made their 

 paramours into gods Hogarth dipped both in 

 the lake of darkness, and held them up to the 

 scorn and derision of mankind. 



Reynolds is considered by the academicians 

 as the founder of the British school of painting. 

 To him they attribute the introduction of all that 

 is vivid in colour or lofty in character. He did 

 much, and was one of the first who, by his 

 gentlemanly manners and probity, conferred 

 dignity upon the profession of painter in our isle. 

 The freedom, and ease, and breadth of colouring 

 of his portraits are only equalled by the indivi- 

 duality of character which he gave to all he 

 touched. They contain whatever was manly in 

 man or gentle and lovely in woman. The happy 

 looks and joyous eyes of his children are not 

 more natural than the employments which he has 

 assigned to them-; they fondle birds, gather 

 flowers, and chase butterflies, with a grace which 

 it is vain to seek in the earlier artists of the land. 

 His historical pictures are less happy ; his ima- 

 gination was of a humble order; he could not 

 image out a virtue from reflection alone, nor 

 impress the poetic costume of thought on his 

 groups from the poets. Had angels conde- 

 scended to sit, Reynolds would have found hues 

 to limn them with. Those who desire to see 

 how genius looked, or beauty demeaned herself, 

 for half a century, in Britain, must consult the 

 portraits of this great painter. 



To the methodical talents of West we owe 

 order and propriety. He is never extravagant ; 

 all his actions are decorously done ; his charac- 

 ters think calmly, and work without effort or 

 straining ; but he is cold and unimpassioned. 

 His figures are well shaped, and in graceful 

 attitudes, but the spirit of life and thought has 

 entered but partially into them; they seem 

 moved by galvanism, more than by heart and 

 soul. His battle scenes show none of that lofty 

 animation and contempt of death which inspire 

 those who, in the hour of extreme peril, triumph 

 over thousands and tens of thousands. He 

 painted scenes of peace and devotion, but the 

 beholder is not touched in heart by the one, nor 

 elevated in mind by the other ; his hues, as well 

 as his spirit, are sober. He was desired by 

 George the Third a monarch who had many fine 

 qualities with but little poetic taste to paint a 



series of great pictures from the Christian wor- 

 ship and from British history an order worthy 

 of a great prince ; and sore and long the artist 

 laboured 



; To reach the height of that great argument," 



with what success, let Windsor palace and chapel 

 tell. We walk before the pictures suspended in 

 those magnificent galleries with as little emotion 

 as if the princes, and peers, and priests who fill 

 the frames were so many shadows accidentally 

 thrown on the wall, or the varied colours in 

 which they are embodied were the passing hues 

 of a rainbow. 



Wilson created our poetic landscapes, Gains- 

 borough that of English nature and humble life, 

 and both are admirable. The former had visions 

 of celestial mountains, with gods seated on their 

 summits, nymphs singing on their sides, and the 

 happy children of men disporting in sun-lit 

 streams, shady forests, and " ruined temples 

 grey." The latter had less heavenly revelations ; 

 his hills are rocky, and rough with thorns, and 

 are haunted by horned cattle instead of fawns 

 and satyrs ; on his greensward declivities he 

 places smoking cottages and toiling hinds, while 

 he gives life to his groves by strolling children 

 and camps of roving gypsies, who tell fortunes 

 and rob hen-roosts. Wilson has abundance of 

 nature in his poetry, nor is Gainsborough without 

 poetry in his nature. 



Fuseli boasted that he alone brought poetry 

 and learning to the service of art, and Barry 

 lived and died in the belief that by his works the 

 true spirit of historic painting was restored. On 

 examining the productions of those audacious 

 men, we can see little to vindicate their lofty 

 pretensions. The former was all extravagance, 

 the latter all coldness and mystery ; and both 

 were on the continual strain after a sublimity 

 beyond their reach, and a sentiment too elusive 

 to be rudely grasped. Fuseli possessed a genius 

 fiery and impetuous, which allowed his hand to 

 make no calm delineations ; he could do nothing 

 in a common way ; his figures seem reeling with 

 intoxication ; his lovers meet and salute with 

 an ecstasy as if, like Duncan's horses, they would 

 eat each other ; his soldiers draw their swords 

 like men possessed by seven devils; while his 

 angels light as well as dark tumble to hell or 

 ascend to heaven with anything gave angelic 

 calmness, and the serenity of conscious power. 

 There is an eternal toil and trouble visible 

 in too many of his pictures. Sometimes, 

 however, he forgot himself and then his 

 creations were worthy of hia genius almost 



