It is not in St. Mark’s Place that you are to look for the finest monuments of the art of Titian, or the genius of Palladio; for those you must visit the churches and palaces: but if you are inclined to make that tour, you must find another Cicerone, for I shall certainly not undertake the office. I do not pretend to be a competent judge of painting or architecture; I have no new remarks to make on those subjects, and I wish to avoid a hackneyed repetition of what has been said by others.
Some people seem affected by paintings to a degree which I never could feel, and can scarcely conceive. I admire the works of Guido and Raphael, but there are amateurs who fall downright in love with every man, woman, or angel, produced by those painters.
When the subject is pathetic, I am often struck with the genius and execution of the artist, and touched with the scene represented, but without feeling those violent emotions of grief which some others display. I have seen a man so affected with the grief of Venus, for the death of Adonis, that he has wiped his eyes as if he had been shedding tears; and have heard another express as much horror at the martyrdom of a saint, as he could have done had he been present at the real execution. Horace’s observation is perfectly just, as he applies it,
Segniùs irritant animos demissa per aurem,
Quàm quæ sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus—
He is treating of dramatic pieces;
Aut agitur res in scenis, aut acta refertur,
is the preceding line. On the stage, what is actually represented, makes a stronger impression than what is only related; and in real life, no doubt, we should be more shocked by seeing a murder committed, than by hearing an account of it. But whether seeing a pathetic story expressed in painting, or hearing it related, has the most powerful effect, is a different question. I only say for myself, that, on contemplating a painted tragedy, I can never help recollecting that it is acted upon canvas. This never fails to dart such a ray of comfort into my heart, as cheers it up, in spite of all the blood and carnage I see before my eyes. With a mind so vulgarly fabricated, you will not be surprised when I acknowledge, that I have felt more compassion at the sight of a single highwayman going to Tyburn, than at the massacre of two thousand innocents, though executed by Nicholas Poussin himself. This convinces me that I am not endued with the organs of a connoisseur.
But if you are violently bent upon being thought a man of very refined taste, there are books in abundance to be had, which will put you in possession of all the terms of technical applause, or censure, and furnish you with suitable expressions for the whole climax of sensibility. As for myself, I was long ago taught a lesson, which made a deep impression on my mind, and will effectually prevent me from every affectation of that kind. Very early in life, I resided above a year at Paris, and happened one day to accompany five or six of our countrymen, to view the pictures in the Palais Royal. A gentleman who affected an enthusiastic passion for the fine arts; particularly that of painting, and who had the greater desire to be thought a connoisseur, was of the party. He had read the lives of the painters, and had the Voyage Pittoresque de Paris by heart. From the moment we entered the rooms he began to display all the refinements of his taste; he instructed us what to admire, and drew us away with every sign of disgust when we stopped a moment at an uncelebrated picture. We were afraid of appearing pleased with any thing we saw; till he informed us whether or not it was worth looking at. He shook his head at some, tossed up his nose at others; commended a few, and pronounced sentence on every piece, as he passed along, with the most imposing tone of sagacity.—“Bad, that Caravaggio is too bad indeed, devoid of all grace;—but here is a Caracci that makes amends; how charming the grief of that Magdalen! The Virgin, you’ll observe, gentlemen, is only fainting, but the Christ is quite dead. Look at the arm, did you ever see any thing so dead?—Aye, here’s a Madona, which they tell you is an original, by Guido; but any body may see that it is only a tolerable copy.—Pray, gentlemen, observe this St. Sebastian, how delightfully he expires: Don’t you all feel the arrow in your hearts? I’m sure I feel it in mine. Do let us move on; I should die with agony if I looked any longer.”
We at length came to the St. John, by Raphael, and here this man of taste stopped short in an extasy of admiration.—One of the company had already passed it, without minding it, and was looking at another picture; on which the connoisseur bawled out—“Good God, Sir! what are you about?” The honest gentleman started, and stared around to know what crime he had been guilty of.