ESSAY I. ON PICTURESQUE BEAUTY.
[Page]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 arti­ficial forms appear generally the most beau­tiful, with which we have been the most conversant. Thus the stone-mason sees beau­ties in a well-jointed wall, which escape the architect, who surveys the building under a different idea. And thus the painter, who [Page 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 beau­tiful, and the picturesque appears really to exist, and must depend on some peculiar construction of the object; it may be worth while to ex­amine, 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 maho­gany 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 [Page 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 cer­tainly is.

[Page 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 pre­tensions 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 paint­ing.—I use the general term roughness; but properly speaking roughness relates only to [Page 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 ap­peal to experience; and try how far these qualities enter into the idea of picturesque beauty; and how far they mark that dif­ference 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 plea­sing. 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 [Page 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 rude­ness 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 [Page 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 [Page 10] would you see the human face in it's highest form of picturesque beauty, examine that pa­triarchal 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 [Page 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 in­finitely 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 [Page 12] beautiful; yet the more it's smooth surface is ruffled, if I may so speak, the more pictu­resque it appears. When it is agitated by passion, and it's muscles swoln by strong ex­ertion, the whole frame is shewn to the most advantage.—But when we speak of muscles swoln by exertion, we mean only natural exer­tions, 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 [Page 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 ac­tion.^* Yet when we see an effect of this kind well executed, our admiration is greatly in­creased. Who does not admire the Laocoon more than the Antinous?

Animal life, as well as human, is, in gene­ral, beautiful both in nature, and on canvas. We admire the horse, as a real object; the elegance of his form; the stateliness of his [Page 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 pictu­resque 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 [Page 15] animals could not produce so pictu­resque 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 cer­tainly 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 [Page 16] in all his pampered beauty. The art of paint­ing is ready to accommodate you. You have the beautiful form you admired in nature ex­actly 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 execu­tion? Is the smart touch of a pencil the grand desideratum of painting? Does he dis­cover 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 master­ing an elegant line, that he prefers a rough one. In part indeed this may be the case; [Page 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 appen­dages 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.

[Page 18]If indeed, either in literary, or in pic­turesque composition you endeavour to draw the reader, or the spectator from the subject to the mode of executing it, your affectation^* dis­gusts. 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 let­ters, for paying attention to his execution. A truth is a truth, whether delivered in the lan­guage 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, con­ceives the very truth itself concerned in his mode of representing it. Guido's angel, and [Page]

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[Page 19] the angel on a sign-post, are very different beings; but the whole of the difference con­sists 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 compo­sition consists in uniting in one whole a variety of parts; and these parts can only be obtained from rough objects. If the smooth moun­tains, and plains were broken by different objects, the composition might be good, on a supposition the great lines of it were so before.

[Page 20] Variety too is equally necessary in his com­position: 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 turn­ing 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 [Page 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.

[Page 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 mar­moreum 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 pictu­resque 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 [Page 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 na­ture'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 smooth­ness of the canvas, which receives the colours of the picture. Even the plumage of the swan, [Page 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 [Page 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 pic­turesque. 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 man­ner picturesque, there must be a proportion of roughness; so much at least, as to make an opposition; which in an object simply beau­tiful, is unnecessary.

Some quibbling opponent may throw out, that wherever there is smoothness, there must also be roughness. The smoothest plain con­sists 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 [Page 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 en­deavoured to shew, that roughness either real, or apparent, forms an essential difference be­tween 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 [Page 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, with­out arms; religious utensils; and the rich furniture of banquets? Many of these con­tribute [Page 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 sur­face 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 prin­ciple by forming ringlets, and bulbous circles on his tongs, and pokers. In nature it is the same; and your plain will just as much [Page 29] be improved in reality by breaking it, as upon canvas.—In a garden-scene the idea is dif­ferent. There every object is of the neat, and elegant kind. What is otherwise, is in­harmonious, 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 imi­tative, 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 conse­quently, 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 dif­ficulties 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 dis­tance; which at hand, is quite another thing [Page 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 at­tained 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 satisfac­tion. Could we even gain satisfaction in our present question, new doubts would arise. The very first principles of our art would be ques­tioned. 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 [Page 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 culti­vation.

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 there­fore 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 at­mosphere? 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.

[Page 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 our­selves, 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 cer­tainly 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 [Page 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 satis­faction. 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.
[Page 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 them­selves 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.

[Page 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. [Page 43] Sublimity alone cannot make an object pic­turesque. 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 [Page 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 com­position 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 acci­dental 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 [Page 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 pic­turesque 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 res­tricted to nature. It ranges through the limits of art. The picture, the statue, and the gar­den 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.^*

[Page 46]But among all the objects of art, the pictu­resque 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 al­most 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.’ [Page 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 compla­cency of mind, which is so nearly allied to benevolence, it is certainly the better. Appo­nat lucro. It is so much into the bargain: for we dare not promise him more from pictu­resque 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 pictu­resque traveller, is the pursuit of his object— the expectation of new scenes continually open­ing, and arising to his view. We suppose the country to have been unexplored. Under this circumstance the mind is kept constantly in an [Page 48] agreeable suspence. The love of novelty is the foundation of this pleasure. Every distant ho­rizon 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 be­hind; 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 com­position, [Page 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 com­pare 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 employ­ment, 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 [Page 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 pro­duced 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 cri­ticize 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. [Page 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 va­rieties; 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 rumina­ting, 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 record­ing, 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 at­tended with those enthusiastic feelings, which accompanied the real exhibition. But, in [Page 52] general, tho it may be a calmer species of plea­sure, 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 imagi­nation, 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 imagi­nation play, let it loose among uncommon scenes—such as perhaps never existed: whereas the nearer they approach the simple standard [Page 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 af­fectingly 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.

[Page 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 ima­gination, active, and alert, collects it's scat­tered 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 pleasure­able 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 ex­aggerated phrase. But when there is no disappointment in the case, even scenes the most barren of beauty, will furnish amuse­ment.

Perhaps no part of England comes more under this description, than that tract of bar­ren 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 [Page 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 fore­ground. When we have no opportunity of examining the grand scenery of nature, we have every where at least the means of ob­serving 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 amuse­ment, can dilate itself in vast ideas of space.

But altho the picturesque traveller is seldom disappointed with pure nature, however rude, [Page 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 par­rallel! the lawn, and it's boundaries, how unlike nature! Even in the capital collec­tion of pictures, how seldom does he find design, composition, expression, character, or har­mony 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 dis­gust. But the varieties of nature's charts are such, that, study them as we can, new va­rieties will always arise: and let our taste be ever so refined, her works, on which it is [Page 58] formed (at least when we consider them as objects,) must always go beyond it; and fur­nish fresh sources both of pleasure and amuse­ment.

ESSAY III. ON THE ART OF SKETCHING LANDSCAPE.
[Page 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 imagi­nation, 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 abound­ing 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 ro­mance; [Page 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 imagi­nation, with a few bold strokes, such wonder­ful 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 pictu­resque 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 ima­ginary 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 [Page 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 consi­deration 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 coin­cide. 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 en­able you the more easily to ascertain the re­lative situation of the several objects.

[Page 64]In sketching, black-lead is the first instru­ment 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 cha­racteristic 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 blur­red: 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 [Page 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 incon­venience 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 land­scape be at all complicated. The traveller should be accurate in this point, as the spirit of his view depends much on the proper ob­servance 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 [Page 66] need not be carried farther, when it is in­tended merely to assist our own memory.

But when a sketch is intended to convey, in some degree, our ideas to others, it is neces­sary, 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 as­semblage of objects; and, in general, all untractable subjects, if it be necessary to re­present them, may be given as plans, rather than as pictures.

In the first place, I should advise the tra­veller by no means to work his adorned sketch [Page 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 con­fusion. Great masters therefore always set a high value on their sketches from nature. On the same principle the picturesque tra­veller 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 resem­blance not disfigured: as the same piece of music, performed by different masters, and graced variously by each, may yet con­tinue still the same. We must ever recol­lect that nature is most defective in com­position; and must be a little assisted. Her ideas are too vast for picturesque use, without the restraint of rules. Liberties however with [Page 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 de­licacy.

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, compa­red 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 compo­sition. 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 ascer­tain 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 fore­grounds, [Page 70] that you need not be very nice in finishing them, even when you mean to adorn your sketches. In a finished picture the fore­ground 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 adjust­ment 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, [Page 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 re­quires 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 pro­duces an effect with the rudest materials: but these precepts aim only at giving a few in­structions 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.

[Page 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 land­scape 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, [Page 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, [Page 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 re­mains to add light, and shade. In this ope­ration 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 [Page]

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[Page 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 gene­ral. There must be a strong opposition of light and shade; in which the sky, as well as the landscape, must combine. But in what [Page 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 cir­cumstance 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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[Page 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 instru­ment, 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 in­lightened.

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 [Page 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 resem­blance 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. [Page]

[Page 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 begin­ning, 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 be­yond 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 finish­ed in Indian ink. By the addition of a little colour I mean only to give some distinction [Page 80] to objects; and introduce rather a gayer stile into a landscape.

When you have finished your sketch there­fore 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 in­clines rather to the former. By washing this tint over your whole drawing, you lay a foun­dation 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.

[Page 81]You proceed next to your middle, and fore­grounds; 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 fore­ground 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 vegeta­tion. 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 gall­stone; 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 co­loured like the vegetation in their neigh­bourhood. 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.

[Page 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 instruc­tions 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 how­ever [Page 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 sepa­rate 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.

[Page 84]Before I conclude these remarks on sketch­ing, 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 un­touched.

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 reced­ing [Page]

[Page 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 amuse­ment) 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 pro­montory —the castle—the abbey—the flat dis­tance —and the mountain melting into the horizon. It admits too the relation, which all these parts bear to each other. But it [Page 86] descends not to the minutiae of objects. The fringed bank of the river—the Gothic ornaments of the abbey—the chasms, and frac­tures of the rock, and castle—and every little object along the vale, it pretends not to delineate with exactness. All this is the pro­vince of the finished drawing, and the pic­ture; 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 amuse­ment, employ their leisure on human figures, animal life, portrait, perhaps history. Here and there a man of genius makes some pro­ficiency in these difficult branches of the art: but I have rarely seen any, who do. Dis­torted 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 [Page 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 ad­dressed 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 paint­ing, 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 in­ferior branch, than to be a mere bungler in a superior. Even if you should not excel in execution (which indeed you can hardly ex­pect) you may at least by bringing home the delineation of a fine country, dignify an in­different [Page 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.