APPENDIX.
Reading edition
The following article upon the character of Fuseli, as an artist, is from the pen of William Young Ottley, Esq. F.S.A.
"A very slight comparison of the works of Sir Joshua Reynolds with the portraits habitually produced by the painters of this country during the first half of the last century, and whose merits, for the most part, as pictures, now fit them only for the housekeeper's room or the garret, will suffice to establish his claim as a restorer of art and a reformer of public taste. Somewhat later, Mr. West produced his 'Death of Wolfe,' and some other pictures representing subjects of our national history, which much surpassed what had before been done among us in that way; and in landscape, we had the now justly admired Wilson.
"In the highest department of painting however, which not improperly may be termed poetic or epic painting, we had still no artist of any eminence; when in the year 1779, Mr. Fuseli, after a stay of eight years in Italy, came and settled among us. Of Mortimer, who had shortly before died young, great expectations, it is true, had been formed; and we had then also Cipriani, a Florentine, who, in his way an excellent draughtsman, long continued uninterruptedly to furnish our portfolios with pretty designs of sporting Nymphs, Cupids, and Graces. But the former, although conversant with the human figure, was too easily led to imitate the deformed and squalid in nature, and was deficient in greatness of style; and the genius of the latter wanted the nerve requisite to fit him for subjects requiring force and expression.
"The genius of Mr. Fuseli was of a very different class. An intimate acquaintance with the learned languages had early enabled him to fill his mind from the rich storehouses of ancient poesy; he was all energy and imagination. But in his youth, not then intending to practise painting professionally, he had not subjected himself, as an artist, to the restraints of an academic education. To curb his genius afterwards was impossible; and to this circumstance we must attribute much of that fine wildness of character which distinguishes his performances; not unmixed, it is true, with a certain exaggeration of manner in the drawing and action of the figures, but which still no person of fancy would consent to exchange for the regulated but cold manner too often learned in schools. Had it been the intention of Mr. Fuseli to devote his pencil to the representation of subjects of real, sober history, the every-day occurrences of life, this peculiarity in his style, often amounting to extravagance, would have been inapplicable. But it has ever been his aim, especially in his larger works, to soar in the sublime regions of Poetry; and what, it may be asked, is Poetry, if entirely divested of amplification?
"A style founded upon ordinary nature, such as we see every day, is certainly ill-fitted to subjects of the above elevated description; and should it be objected, as a consequence of this fact, that such subjects are therefore not the proper subjects for painting at all, may it not be asked, what is then to be said of many of the greatest works of Michelangiolo, of several of those of Raffaelle, of the admired performances of Giulio Romano at Mantua, and of many of the most extensive compositions even of Rubens? Nor can it be insisted that such cases are not in point, inasmuch as those artists did not use the same exaggeration of style in their naked figures as we see in those of Mr. Fuseli: for, although they did not exaggerate in the same manner, yet they all did exaggerate; Michelangiolo, by giving to his figures that immensity of character, which has occasioned them to be appropriately styled 'a race of giants;' Raffaelle and Giulio, amongst other things, by encreasing in thickness the limbs of their figures beyond what nature will commonly be found to justify; and Rubens, by a mixed augmentation of muscle and obesity, which, were his figures alive, might, perhaps, be found to have given them, in most cases, the appearance of encreased strength, without the reality: to say nothing of Parmigiano, whose works, though deservedly esteemed, often display, in the outlines and proportions of the figures, a far greater degree of extravagance than can generally be detected in those of the respected Professor of Painting to our Royal Academy.[74] But enough has been said to shew that the greatest artists have not thought that a style of drawing strictly imitative of common nature, was well adapted to subjects of an ideal character. It may be proper that we should now add a few words upon the style of Mr. Fuseli in particular.
"It is well known that the human figure, trained and disciplined by gymnastic exercises, presents to the eye an appearance very different from that which we perceive in the bodies of persons of inert habits accidentally seen naked, or stripped for the purpose of being drawn from. The frequent opportunities of viewing the human figure naked, which were afforded to the ancient Greek artists, by the public games and festivals used among them, could not fail to render this familiar to them; and accordingly, besides the correctness of proportion which we admire in their works, we find in their statues the nicest distinctions of this kind, exactly suited to the age, dignity, and habits of life of the different personages they were intended to represent. To their figures of Gods and Heroes, it is well known they were accustomed to give proportions more or less differing from those which they commonly adopted when representing the figures of ordinary men; and this variation from any thing like a common standard is especially observable in the celebrated colossal statue upon Monte Cavallo, of the sublime excellence of which all men may now form a judgment from the bronze cast of it lately erected in one of our parks: for, besides that the arch formed under the breast by the ribs, and the divisions of the abdominal muscles are more strongly marked in that statue than in almost all others, the lower limbs bear to the rest of the figure a greater proportionate length than we find in perhaps any other example of ancient sculpture. A figure like this, uniting in the fullest manner strength and activity with dignity, was peculiarly adapted to subjects of an elevated and energetic character, such as at all times pressed upon the imagination of Mr. Fuseli; and accordingly he made its proportions the basis of his style. If it be urged that he too constantly kept to the proportions of the above model, it may be answered that few or none of the painters of modern times have shewn a disposition to imitate the ancients in that nice discrimination of character in their naked figures, which has been noticed above; and it is well known that it has been objected, even against Michelangiolo, the greatest designer of all, that the numerous figures in his stupendous 'Last Judgment,' however varied in attitude, are all of nearly the same character of form. The fact is, that Mr. Fuseli's style of design is of the most elevated kind, and consequently best suited to subjects of a very elevated character.
"In respect of invention, composition, clair-obscure, the works of Mr. Fuseli generally merit unmixed praise; and although in the more technical parts of colouring, they have not equal pretensions, still in this also they deserve commendation; being commonly painted in that solemn tone of colouring which we admire in the works of the greatest fresco-painters, and which Sir Joshua Reynolds observes to be so well adapted to the higher kind of pictorial representation. As an inventor, he equals the greatest painters that have lived since the restoration of the art. No one was ever more fully gifted with the rare faculty of at once discovering, in the writer he is perusing, the point of the story, and the moment of time, best calculated to produce a forcible effect in painting. The loftier his subject, the more easily he reaches it; and when he undertakes that at which another artist would tremble, he is the most sure of success. The truth of this was especially made manifest in the year 1799, when Mr. Fuseli exhibited publicly a large collection of his works, under the title of 'The Milton Gallery;' the subjects of by far the greater part of the pictures having been taken by him from the 'Paradise Lost.' The magnificent imagery of this poem, the beautiful, the sublime, or the terrific character of the personages represented in it, and of the actions described, all combined to fit it for the display of the artist's surprising genius in its fullest force; besides which, the style of Mr. Fuseli was here exactly suited to his subject. But although the series, as a whole, was one of the greatest works of painting ever produced, (certainly in its kind the most perfect,) elevating the painter to the same rank as the poet; it failed, as the poem itself had originally done, to ensure to its author that immediate share of public favour which was his due, and which is sure to be attendant upon successful endeavours in those inferior branches of the art which are more within the range of public capacity.
"But the fashion or opinion of the day, in matters of taste, is not always the judgment of posterity; and it cannot be too much regretted that the principal pictures of the series, at least, have not been kept together for the future advantage of our artists, and the gratification of those whose studies might hereafter qualify them to appreciate their excellence. For be it remembered, by such persons as might otherwise be too readily induced to undervalue that which they do not understand, that Sir Joshua Reynolds became, in the latter part of his life, 'clearly of opinion that a relish for the higher excellencies of the art is an acquired taste, which no man ever possessed without long cultivation, great labour, and attention.'"
VERSES
TO HENRY FUSELI, ESQ. R.A.
ON HIS SERIES OF PICTURES FROM THE POETICAL WORKS OF MILTON.
BY WM. ROSCOE, ESQ.
Spirit of him who wing'd his daring flight Towards the pure confines of primæval light, Say, whilst this nether world thy powers confin'd, Weak child of dust, frail offspring of mankind, Thy station'd barrier this terrestrial mound, Th' incumbent vault of heaven thine upward bound, Thy means the common energies of man, Thy life a shadow, and thy years a span; How couldst thou, struggling with opposing Fate, Burst through the limits of this mortal state? Thence, soaring high, pursue, with stedfast gaze, The opening wonders of th' empyreal blaze, Where countless Seraphs pour, in burning zone, Concentric glories round th' eternal throne? Or hear, and hearing live, the dread alarms Of heavenly war, and Cherubim in arms; See in th' abyss the proud apostate hurl'd, And rising into light, the infant World? Fav'rite of Heaven! 'twas thine, on mortal eyes To pour these visions, rich with rainbow dyes, Peopling the void of space with forms unseen, Rising from being to what might have been!— Nor he not breathes a portion of thy fire, Who "bids the pencil answer to the lyre;" Marks the bright phantoms at their proudest height, And with determin'd hand arrests their flight; Bids shadowy forms substantial shape assume, And heaven's own hues in mortal labours bloom. For toils like these, whate'er the meed divine, That glorious meed, my Fuseli, is thine, Who first to Truth's embodied fulness wrought The glowing outline of the Poet's thought. Artist sublime! whose pencil knows to trace The early wonders of the kindred race! Not thine to search th' historian's scanty page, The brief memorial of a fleeting age; Not thine to call, from Time's surrounding gloom, High deeds of cultur'd Greece, or conqu'ring Rome; Not thine, with temporary themes to move, Of Hope, Aversion, Pity, Rage, or Love.— Beyond whate'er the Drama's powers can tell, Beyond the Epic's high, impetuous swell, Alike by clime and ages unconfined, Thou strik'st the chords that vibrate on mankind; Op'st the dread scenes that Heaven suspensive eyed, A world created, or a world destroy'd; Recall'st the joys of Eden's happier prime, Whilst life was yet unconscious of a crime, Whilst Virtue's self could Passion's glow approve, And Beauty slumber'd in the arms of Love; Till, dread reverse! on man's devoted race Th' insidious serpent work'd the dire disgrace. Then first, whilst Nature shudder'd with affright, Of Sin and Death was held th' incestuous rite; Then first, o'er vanquish'd man, began their reign, The fiends of Woe, the family of Pain: Disease the poison'd cup of anguish fills, And opes the Lazar-house of human ills— See Frenzy rushes from his burning bed; See pining Atrophy declines his head; See mute Despair, that broods on woes unknown, And Melancholy gaze herself to stone! Then, pouring forth from Hell's detested bound, Revenge, and Fraud, and Murder stalk around; Till opening skies declare th' avenging God, And Mercy sleeps, whilst Justice waves the rod. Yet, whilst the bursting deluge from the earth Sweeps the rebellious brood of giant birth, One proud survivor rolls his vengeful eyes, And with last look the living God defies. But now the waves their silent station keep, And Vengeance slumbers o'er the mighty deep; Again, rejoicing o'er the firm fix'd land, The favour'd Patriarch leads his household band; With sacred incense bids his altars blaze, And pours to God the living song of praise. Thus, as th' immortal Bard his flight explores, On kindred wing the daring artist soars; Undazzled shares with him Heaven's brightest glow, Or penetrates the boundless depths below; Or on the sloping sun-beam joys to ride, Or sails amidst the uncreated void; Imbibes a portion of his sacred flame, Reflects his genius, and partakes his fame.
ODE
ADDRESSED TO HENRY FUSELI, ESQ. R.A.
ON SEEING ENGRAVINGS FROM HIS
DESIGNS,
BY HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
Mighty magician! who on Torneo's brow, When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light, That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below, And listen to the distant death-shriek long, From lonely mariner foundering in the deep, Which rises slowly up the rocky steep, While weird sisters weave the horrid song: Or when along the liquid sky Serenely chant the orbs on high, Dost love to sit in musing trance, And mark the northern meteor's dance; (While far below the fitful oar Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore,) And list the music of the breeze, That sweeps by fits the bending seas; And often bears with sudden swell The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell, By the spirits sung, who keep Their night-watch on the treacherous deep, And guide the wakeful helms-man's eye To Helicé in northern sky, And there, upon the rock inclined, With mighty visions fill'st the mind, Such as bound, in magic spell, Him[75] who grasp'd the gates of Hell, And bursting Pluto's dark domain, Held to the day the terrors of his reign. Genius of horror and romantic awe, Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep, Can force the inmost soul to own its law; Who shall now, sublimest spirit, Who shall now thy wand inherit, From him,[76] thy darling child, who best Thy shuddering images express'd? Sullen of soul, and stern, and proud, His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd; And now he lays his aching head In the dark mansion of the silent dead. Mighty magician! long thy wand has lain Buried beneath the unfathomable deep; And, oh! for ever must its efforts sleep, May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain? Oh, yes, 'tis his!—thy other son; He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on, Fuesslin waves thy wand,—again they rise, Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes; Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep, Where round his head the volley'd lightnings flung, And the loud winds that round his pillow rung, Woo'd the stern infant to the arms of Sleep, Or on the highest top of Teneriffe Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look Where far below the weather-beaten skiff On the gulf-bottom of the ocean strook. Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear The death-sob, and, disdaining rest, Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast, And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear. Then, Superstition, at thy call, She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, And set before his awe-struck sight The savage feast and spectred fight; And summon'd from the mountain tomb The ghastly warrior son of gloom, His fabled Runic rhymes to sing, While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing; Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees, Laid on the stormy Hebrides, Which on the mists of evening gleam, Or crowd the foaming desert stream; Lastly, her storied hand she waves, And lays him in Florentian caves; There milder fables, lovelier themes Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams; There Pity's lute arrests his ear, And draws the half-reluctant tear; And now at noon of night he roves Along th' embowering moon-light groves, And as from many a cavern'd dell The hollow wind is heard to swell, He thinks some troubled spirit sighs; And as upon the turf he lies, Where sleeps the silent beam of night, He sees below the gliding sprite, And hears in Fancy's organs sound Aërial music warbling round. Taste lastly comes, and smooths the whole, And breathes her polish o'er his soul; Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat, The wonderous work is now complete. The Poet dreams:—the shadow flies, And fainting fast its image dies. But lo! the Painter's magic force Arrests the phantom's fleeting course; It lives—it lives—the canvass glows, And tenfold vigour o'er it flows. The Bard beholds the work achieved, And as he sees the shadow rise, Sublime before his wondering eyes, Starts at the image his own mind conceived. H. K. White.
The following verses were sent to me anonymously, by the post; as they shew the author to be well acquainted with the works of Mr. Fuseli, I trust the reader will think with me, there needs no apology for inserting them in this place. It is conjectured that they are from the pen of a young lady, who is alike distinguished for personal attractions and amiability, as for her taste and knowledge; the daughter of a gentleman who has been frequently mentioned in this Memoir.
A VISION.
Last night I sunk to sleep's soft power resign'd, When wizard Fancy's wand, before my mind, Conjur'd in dreams a visionary shew, That seem'd with vivid Truth's warm tints to glow. By young Favonius' fragrant pinions fann'd,5 Amidst Elysian groves I seem'd to stand; Here, when th' immortal spirit quits its clay, The sons of Genius dwell in endless day: Not they who empires founded, or o'erthrew, Who conquer'd worlds, or who discover'd new;10 Not Philip's headlong son, not Scipio's foe, Nor Julius, guilty of his country's woe; In these fair fields the scourges of mankind Reap'd not the meed to virtuous fame assign'd. Here Music sweeps her lyre; her heav'nly lay15 The Passions hear, enraptur'd, and obey: Here dwells th' immortal Virgin Poesy, A noble wildness flashing in her eye; Inspired Bards around the Goddess throng, And catch the accents flowing from her tongue.20 Entranced, whilst gazing on the blissful scene, I mark'd a Deity of matchless mien, Her port majestic, in each motion grace, Fairer she shone than nymphs of mortal race: I recognis'd the Sov'reign of that art,25 Which through the eye finds entrance to the heart; Plac'd on an eminence, she sat alone, Below her vot'ries press'd around her throne. Great Vinci first, with greater Angelo, Sublime expression frowning on his brow,30 Led on the daring Tuscan band severe: Next Raphael with calm dignity drew near, Who join'd to grand conception just design, Conducting the majestic Roman line; Then Titian with a gay and brilliant throng,35 Sprung from the sea-born city, mov'd along; Corregio in succession next pass'd by, Leading the graceful School of Lombardy. A genius vast, original, and bold, The numerous band of Holland's sons controll'd;40 And with his Flemish train, of pomp profuse, The gorgeous Rubens dazzled e'en the Muse. In order due arranged on either hand, Beside the silent Queen they take their stand; Before whose throne Helvetia stood, to claim45 For an aspiring votary of Fame Admittance to these realms:—"O Muse," she cried, "The Master's works contemplate, and decide." While speaking thus, her wand on high she rear'd, And lo! a train of pictur'd groups appear'd;50 Heroic phantoms seem'd to start from night, And forms of beauty floated 'fore my sight; From ages past reflected scenes arose, Of human passions, and eternal woes. There I beheld pourtray'd the lofty story55 Of Man's first fall, and Satan's tarnish'd glory. There rose the spectre Prophet from the tomb, To Saul announcing his impending doom. Of Ilion's tale a vision seem'd to speak, And the long wand'rings of the prudent Greek.60 There Eriphyle bleeds upon the ground, While Furies fly t' avenge the impious wound. In horror plunged, deplor'd Jocasta's son The fated crimes he strove in vain to shun. Here stalk'd the shadow of the murder'd Dane;65 Appall'd, methought I saw th' astonish'd Thane Hail'd by each wither'd hag;—From Helle's tide Th' enamour'd youth rush'd to his Sestian bride. There, lost to hope, the lovers mourn for ever! Whom not th' infernal whirlwind's rage can sever.70 The traitor Guelph, too, 'midst his famish'd brood, Expects in Death th' eternal feast of blood. In knightly guise th' heroic Virgin's arm Redeems fair Amoret from magic charm: And Arthur slept; who woke but to deplore75 The Beauty lov'd for ever, seen no more. On the aërial portraiture, amaz'd, In pleasing wonder lost, intent I gaz'd; As Sorrow, Guilt, Despair, the scenes express'd, Awe, Terror, Pity, sway'd by turns my breast;80 When, suddenly, I saw the heaven-born Maid Of sacred numbers, from a neighbouring glade, 'Midst the great masters of immortal song, Toward the throne of Painting move along. Now blind no more Mæonides, and he,85 The daring Bard of Man's apostasy, With buskin'd Sophocles, and lofty Gray, Spenser, sweet master of the moral lay; Severely grand, the Florentine sublime, And Avon's Bard, unmatch'd by age or clime,90 All crowd the visionary scenes t' admire, Pleas'd that such scenes their genius could inspire. While onward the poetic Virgin press'd, And her who reign'd o'er Painting, thus address'd:— "O Muse! who charmest silently, attend95 To Poesy, thy Sister, and thy friend. No vot'ry of that art o'er which you reign, The nobler walks could ever yet attain, Unless I urged him proudly to aspire, And kindled in his breast poetic fire.100 Belgia, without my aid, may tint the scene With golden hues, and mimic Nature's green; Immortalize the Peasant and his can, Without selection, imitating Man; Or through transparent veins life's tide may gush,105 Tinging Venetian canvass with the blush Of glowing Nature; uninspir'd by me, The Rose of Merian may deceive the bee; At Rembrandt's touch the shining robe may flow, The diamond sparkle, or the ruby glow;110 But he whom I inspire disdains such praise; The soul's emotions, ardent, he displays; Fearless he wields Invention's magic wand, Sprites, fays, and spectres rise at his command; Unveil'd, the Passions at his will appear,115 E'en Heavenly essences he dares t' unsphere; As, from Promethean touch each image glows, And what the Poet thought the Painter shews. While 'midst Helvetia's native hills, before This foster-son of Britain sought her shore,120 I mark'd the future promise in the child; The fire of genius, vigorous, and wild, Sparkled in infancy, in manhood blaz'd; You won his youthful fancy, as he gaz'd, Th' enthusiast strove your favour to attain,125 And I propitious, smil'd, and pointed to your Fane. On Leban's brow the cedar tow'ring high Boasts not the lowly flow'ret's gaudy dye; Others may in the humbler parts excel, But, Queen, did ever artist think so well?130 Is not the highest merit of your art, T' exalt the fancy, and to touch the heart? Then welcome the poetic Painter, Muse, Nor to my fav'rite deathless fame refuse!" She ceased; nor vainly pled the Heavenly fair;135 Th' assenting Muse approv'd her sister's prayer: "Enter these realms," she cried; "th' award be thine, Amidst the sons of Genius here to shine, Where Envy's tongue no longer shall prevail: Hail Fuseli! Immortal artist, hail!"140 Resounding acclamations, as she spoke, Burst on my ear, I started, and awoke.