Part 22

[77] Probably her brothers, Clarendon and Rochester.

[78] Such was James’s account of the dying hours of his first wife. Burnet gives a different statement, which may be here transcribed:—

“While things were in fermentation, the Duchess of York died. It was observed, that for fifteen months before that time, she had not received the sacrament; and that upon all occasions, she was excusing the errors that the church of Rome was charged with, and was giving them the best colours they were capable of. An unmarried clergy was also a common topic with her. Morley had been her father confessor; for he told me, she practised secret confession to him from the time that she was twelve years old; and, when he was sent away from the court, he put her in the hands of Blandford, who died bishop of Worcester. Morley also told me, that upon the reports that were brought him of her slackness in receiving the sacrament, she having been for many years punctual to once a month, he had spoken plainly to her about it, and told her what inferences were made upon it. She pretended ill health, and business; but protested to him, she had no scruples with relation to her religion, and was still of the church of England; and assured him, that no Popish priest had ever taken the confidence to speak to her of those matters. He took a solemn engagement of her, that if scruples should arise in her mind, she would let him know them, and hear what he should offer to her upon all of them. And he protested to me, that to her death she never owned to him that she had any scruples, though she was for some days entertained by him at Farnham, after the date of the paper, which was afterwards published in her name. All this passed between the bishop and me, upon the duke’s shewing me that paper, all writ in her own hand, which was afterwards published by Maimbourg. He would not let me take a copy of it; but he gave me leave to read it twice. And I went immediately to Morley, and gave him an account of it; from whom I had all the particulars already mentioned. And upon that he concluded, that that unhappy princess had been prevailed on to give falsehoods under her hand, and to pretend that these were the grounds of her conversion. A long decay of health came at last to a quicker crisis than had been apprehended. All of the sudden she fell into the agony of death. Blandford was sent for, to prepare her for it, and to offer her the sacrament. Before he could come, the queen came in, and sat by her. He was modest and humble, even to a fault. So he had not presence of mind enough to begin prayers, which probably would have driven the queen out of the room. But, that not being done, she pretending kindness, would not leave her. The bishop spoke but little, and fearfully. He happened to say, he hoped she continued still in the truth: Upon which she asked, what is truth; and then, her agony encreasing, she repeated the word truth, truth, often; and in a few minutes after she died, very little beloved, or lamented. Her haughtiness had raised her many enemies. She was indeed a firm and a kind friend: But the change of her religion made her friends reckon her death rather a blessing than a loss at that time to them all. Her father, when he heard of her shaking in her religion, was more troubled at it, than at all his own misfortunes. He writ her a very grave and long letter upon it, enclosed in one to the duke. But she was dead before it came into England.”—_Burnet’s History of his own Times_, Book II.

[79] History of Henry VIII. p. 402, according to Dryden. I cannot find the passage alluded to.

[80] Clement the Tenth.

[81] The church of England Divines made a common cause at this important crisis. Those who directed the warfare, were Tillotson, Stillingfleet, Tennison, and Patrick; and under their banners, Burnet numbers Sherlock, Williams, Claget, Gee, Aldrich, Atterbury, Whitby, Hooper, and Wake. It is probable, that when a piece of such consequence as the Answer to the Royal Papers was to be brought forward, more than one of these would be employed in revising, at least, and correcting it.

[82] The Duke of York, who commanded the fleet in the Dutch wars.

[83] Robert Wisdom was a fugitive in the reign of Queen Mary; in that of Elizabeth, he became rector of Stysted in Essex, and of Settrington in Yorkshire, and died in 1568. He was a zealous puritan, and the author of a hymn, printed at the end of Sternhold’s psalms, which begins with the passage referred to in the text:

Preserve us, Lord, by thy dear word; From Turk and Pope defend us, Lord.

The witty Bishop Corbet thus addresses the ghost of Robert Wisdom:

Thou, once a body, now but aire, Arch-botcher of a psalme or prayer, From Carfax come; And patch me up a zealous lay, With an old _ever and for aye_, Or _all and some_. Or such a spirit lend mee, As may a hymne down send mee, To purge my braine. So, Robert, look behind thee, Least _Turk or Pope_ do find thee, And goe to bed againe.

[84] This assertion Stillingfleet denied. See the conclusion of his Answer to the Defence, where he affirms “such a book had been lately published in London.” To this Dryden replied, that “the magnified piece of Duncombe on this subject, which his opponent must have meant, was stolen, or translated, without acknowledgment, from the Spanish of Rodriguez;” meaning, probably, the Jesuit Alonso Rodriguez, who wrote “_Exercio de perfecion y Virtudes Christianas, Sevilla, 1609_.” But while Dryden claimed for the Catholic church the merit of this work, he seems to have mistaken the name of the translator; for in the preface to the “Town and Country Mouse,” Prior, or Montague, upbraid him with having confounded _Allen_ with _Duncombe_; names which did not so much as rhyme. In a list of books subjoined to “The Practice of a Holy Life, by Thomas Allen, rector of Kettering, in Northamptonshire,” I find “The Virtue of Humility, recommended to be printed by the late Reverend and Learned Dr Henry Hammond,” which may be the book alluded to by Stillingfleet. See Vol. X. pages 114. 249.

[85] Hitherto Stillingfleet had been encountering the person who defended the two papers which were found in the king’s strong box, with which part of the controversy Dryden had nothing to do.

[86] Defence, p. 250.

[87] Defence, p. 219.

[88] Defence, p. 217.

[89] Ibid. p. 210.

[90] Defence, p. 211.

[91] Defence, p. 220.

[92] Ibid. p. 232.

[93] Defence, p. 232.

[94] Defence, p. 212.

[95] Defence, p. 213.

[96] Ibid, p. 217, 218.

[97] Defence, p. 222.

[98] Defence, p. 242.

[99] Nicholas Sanders, some time regius professor of the canon law at Oxford. Upon the Reformation, he fled to Rome, where he was long a retainer of Cardinal Hosius. At last Gregory XIII. sent him as Nuncio into Ireland, where he died in 1580. His work here alluded to, is a history of the Reformation, under the opprobrious title _De Origine et Progressu Schismatis Anglicani_. Stillingfleet refers to the passage, l. i. p. 11.

[100] Page 15.

[101] Page 10.

[102] Page 18.

[103] Acworth. c. Sander. l. 2. c. 14, 17.

[104] Page 22.

[105] History of Hen. VIII. p. 216.

[106] _Servi Fidelis Responsio, &c._

[107] Lord Herbert, p. 219.

[108] Apology for the Oath of Allegiance.

[109] Defence, p. 243.

[110] Ibid.

[111] Conference, § 24. p. 156.

THE ART OF PAINTING;

BY C. A. DU FRESNOY.

WITH REMARKS.

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH; WITH AN ORIGINAL PREFACE, CONTAINING A PARALLEL BETWEEN PAINTING AND POETRY. FIRST PRINTED IN QUARTO IN 1695.

ART OF PAINTING, &c.

Charles Alphonse Du Fresnoy, as we learn from his life by Mason, was born in Paris in the year 1611. He studied the art of painting in Rome and Venice, and afterwards practised it in France with great reputation. Meanwhile, he did not neglect the sister pursuit of poetry; and combining it with the studies of an artist, he composed his poem on the Art of Painting. It did not appear till after the author’s death, in 1658, when it was published with the French version, and remarks of De Piles. The first edition was printed in 1661. This poem, as containing, in elegant and perspicuous language, the most just rules for artists and amateurs, has been always held in esteem by the admirers of the art which it professes to teach.

The version of Dryden first appeared in 4to, in 1695, and was republished by Richard Graham in 1716, by whom it is inscribed to Lord Burlington. The editor of 1716, informs us, that Mr Jervas had undertaken to correct such passages of the translation as Dryden had erred in by following, too closely, the French version of De Piles. To Graham’s edition is prefixed the epistle from Pope to Jervas, with Dryden’s version; an honourable and beautiful testimony from the living to the dead poet, which I have retained with pleasure, as also the epistle from Mason to Sir Joshua Reynolds, which contains some remarks on Dryden’s version.

The late Mr Mason, as a juvenile exercise, executed a poetical version of Fresnoy’s poem, which has had the honour to be admitted into the works of Sir Joshua Reynolds, vol. iii. and might have superseded the necessity of here reprinting the prose of Dryden. But there is something so singular in a great poet undertaking to render into prose the admired poem of a foreign bard, that, as a specimen of such an uncommon task, as well as on account of its brevity, I have retained this translation.

Being no judge of the art to which the poem refers, I follow the readings of Jervas, as published by Graham in 1716.

Mason has retained the Parallel between Painting and Poetry, in his edition of Fresnoy, with the following note:

“It was thought proper to insert in this place the pleasing preface, which Mr Dryden printed before his translation of M. Du Fresnoy’s poem. There is a charm in that great writer’s prose, peculiar to itself; and though, perhaps, the parallel between the two arts, which he has here drawn, be too superficial to stand the test of strict criticism, yet it will always give pleasure to readers of taste, even when it fails to satisfy their judgment.”

TO MR JERVAS, WITH FRESNOY’S ART OF PAINTING, TRANSLATED BY MR DRYDEN.

This verse be thine, my friend; nor thou refuse This from no venal or ungrateful muse. Whether thy hand strike out some free design, Where life awakes, and dawns at every line; Or blend in beauteous tints the coloured mass, And from the canvas call the mimic face; Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire Fresnoy’s close art, and Dryden’s native fire; And reading wish, like theirs, our fate and fame, So mixed our studies, and so joined our name; Like them to shine through long succeeding age, So just thy skill, so regular my rage. Smit with the love of sister-arts we came, And met congenial, mingling flame with flame; Like friendly colours found our arts unite, And each from each contract new strength and light. How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day, While summer suns roll unperceived away? How oft our slowly growing works impart, While images reflect from art to art? How oft review; each finding like a friend Something to blame, and something to commend? What flattering scenes our wandering fancy wrought, Rome’s pompous glories rising to our thought! Together o’er the Alps methinks we fly, Fired with ideas of fair Italy. With thee, on Raphael’s monument I mourn, Or wait inspiring dreams at Maro’s urn; With thee repose where Tully once was laid, Or seek some ruin’s formidable shade; While fancy brings the vanished piles to view, And builds imaginary Rome anew. Here thy well studied marbles fix our eye; A fading Fresco here demands a sigh; Each heavenly piece unwearied we compare, Match Raphael’s grace, with thy loved Guido’s air, Caracci’s strength, Correggio’s softer line, Paulo’s free stroke, and Titian’s warmth divine. How finished with illustrious toil appears, This small well polished gem, the work of years![112] Yet still how faint by precept is exprest, The living image in the painter’s breast? Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow, Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow; Thence beauty, waking all her forms, supplies An angel’s sweetness, or Bridgewater’s eyes. Muse! at that name thy sacred sorrows shed, Those tears eternal that embalm the dead; Call round her tomb each object of desire, Each purer frame informed with purer fire; Bid her be all that chears or softens life, The tender sister, daughter, friend, and wife! Bid her be all that makes mankind adore; Then view this marble, and be vain no more! Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage; Her modest cheek shall warm a future age. Beauty, frail flower, that every season fears, Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years. Thus Churchil’s race shall other hearts surprise, And other beauties envy Wortley’s eyes; Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles bestow, And soft Belinda’s blush for ever glow. Oh! lasting as those colours may they shine, Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line! New graces yearly, like thy works, display; Soft without weakness, without glaring gay; Led by some rule, that guides, but not constrains; And finished more through happiness than pains! The kindred arts shall in their praise conspire, One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. Yet should the Graces all thy figures place, And breath an air divine on every face; Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll, Strong as their charms, and gentle as their soul; With Zeuxis’ Helen thy Bridgewater vie, And these be sung till Granville’s Myra die; Alas! how little from the grave we claim? Thou but preservest a Form, and I a Name.

A. POPE.

TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

When Dryden, worn with sickness, bowed with years, Was doomed (my friend, let pity warm thy tears,) The galling pang of penury to feel, For ill-placed loyalty, and courtly zeal; To see that laurel which his brows o’erspread, Transplanted droop on Shadwell’s barren head, The bard oppressed, yet not subdued by fate, For very bread descended to translate; And he, whose fancy, copious as his phrase, Could light at will expression’s brightest blaze, On Fresnoy’s lay employed his studious hour; But niggard there of that melodious power, His pen in haste the hireling task to close, Transformed the studied strain to careless prose, Which, fondly lending faith to French pretence, Mistook its meaning, or obscured its sense. Yet still he pleased, for Dryden still must please, Whether with artless elegance and ease He glides in prose, or from its tinkling chime, } By varied pauses, purifies his rhyme, } And mounts on Maro’s plumes, and soars his heights sublime. } This artless elegance, this native fire, Provoked his tuneful heir to strike the lyre, Who, proud his numbers with that prose to join, Wove an illustrious wreath for friendship’s shrine. How oft, on that fair shrine when poets bind The flowers of song, does partial passion blind Their judgment’s eye! How oft does truth disclaim The deed, and scorn to call it genuine fame! How did she here, when Jervas was the theme, Waft through the ivory gate the poet’s dream! How view, indignant, error’s base alloy The sterling lustre of his praise destroy, Which now, if praise like his my muse could coin, Current through ages, she would stamp for thine! Let friendship, as she caused, excuse the deed; With thee, and such as thee, she must succeed. But what if fashion tempted Pope astray? The witch has spells, and Jervas knew a day, When mode-struck belles and beaux were proud to come, And buy of him a thousand years of bloom. Even then I deem it but a venal crime; Perish alone that selfish sordid rhyme, Which flatters lawless sway, or tinsel pride; Let black oblivion plunge it in her tide. From fate like this my truth-supported lays, Even if aspiring to thy pencil’s praise, Would flow secure; but humbler aims are mine; Know, when to thee I consecrate the line, ’Tis but to thank thy genius for the ray, Which pours on Fresnoy’s rules a fuller day; Those candid strictures, those reflections new, Refined by taste, yet still as nature true, Which, blended here with his instructive strains, Shall bid thy art inherit new domains; Give her in Albion as in Greece to rule, And guide (what thou hast formed) a British school. And O, if aught thy poet can pretend Beyond his favourite wish to call thee friend, Be it that here his tuneful toil has drest The muse of Fresnoy in a modern vest; And, with what skill his fancy could bestow, Taught the close folds to take an easier flow; Be it, that here thy partial smile approved, The pains he lavished on the art he loved.

A. MASON.

A PARALLEL OF POETRY AND PAINTING.

It may be reasonably expected that I should say something on my own behalf, in respect to my present undertaking. First, then, the reader may be pleased to know, that it was not of my own choice that I undertook this work. Many of our most skilful painters, and other artists, were pleased to recommend this author to me, as one who perfectly understood the rules of painting; who gave the best and most concise instructions for performance, and the surest to inform the judgment of all who loved this noble art: that they who before, were rather fond of it, than knowingly admired it, might defend their inclination by their reason; that they might understand those excellencies which they blindly valued, so as not to be farther imposed on by bad pieces, and to know when nature was well imitated by the most able masters. It is true indeed, and they acknowledge it, that beside the rules which are given in this treatise, or which can be given in any other, to make a perfect judgment of good pictures, and to value them more or less, when compared with one another, there is farther required a long conversation with the best pieces, which are not very frequent either in France or England; yet some we have, not only from the hands of Holbein, Rubens, and Vandyck, (one of them admirable for history-painting, and the other two for portraits,) but of many Flemish masters, and those not inconsiderable, though for design not equal to the Italians. And of these latter also, we are not unfurnished with some pieces of Raphaell, Titian, Correggio, Michael Angelo, and others.

But to return to my own undertaking of this translation. I freely own that I thought myself incapable of performing it, either to their satisfaction, or my own credit. Not but that I understood the original Latin, and the French author, perhaps as well as most Englishmen; but I was not sufficiently versed in the terms of art; and therefore thought that many of those persons who put this honourable task on me, were more able to perform it themselves,—as undoubtedly they were. But they, assuring me of their assistance in correcting my faults where I spoke improperly, I was encouraged to attempt it, that I might not be wanting in what I could, to satisfy the desires of so many gentlemen, who were willing to give the world this useful work. They have effectually performed their promise to me, and I have been as careful, on my side, to take their advice in all things; so that the reader may assure himself of a tolerable translation,—not elegant, for I proposed not that to myself, but familiar, clear, and instructive: in any of which parts if I have failed, the fault lies wholly at my door. In this one particular only, I must beg the reader’s pardon. The prose translation of this poem is not free from poetical expressions, and I dare not promise that some of them are not fustian, or at least highly metaphorical; but this being a fault in the first digestion, (that is, the original Latin,) was not to be remedied in the second, viz. the translation. And I may confidently say, that whoever had attempted it must have fallen into the same inconvenience, or a much greater, that of a false version.

When I undertook this work, I was already engaged in the translation of Virgil,[113] from whom I have borrowed only two months; and am now returning to that which I ought to understand better. In the mean time I beg the reader’s pardon, for entertaining him so long with myself: it is an usual part of ill manners in all authors, and almost in all mankind, to trouble others with their business; and I was so sensible of it beforehand, that I had not now committed it, unless some concernments of the reader’s had been interwoven with my own. But I know not, while I am atoning for one error, if I am not falling into another; for I have been importuned to say something farther of this art; and to make some observations on it, in relation to the likeness and agreement which it has with poetry, its sister. But before I proceed, it will not be amiss, if I copy from Bellori, (a most ingenious author yet living,) some part of his idea of a painter,[114] which cannot be unpleasing, at least to such who are conversant in the philosophy of Plato; and, to avoid tediousness, I will not translate the whole discourse, but take and leave as I find occasion.

“God Almighty, in the fabric of the universe, first contemplated himself, and reflected on his own excellencies; from which he drew and constituted those first forms which are called ideas; so that every species which was afterwards expressed, was produced from that first idea, forming that wonderful contexture of all created beings. But the celestial bodies above the moon being incorruptible, and not subject to change, remained for ever fair, and in perpetual order. On the contrary, all things which are sublunary are subject to change, to deformity, and to decay. And though nature always intends a consummate beauty in her productions, yet through the inequality of the matter, the forms are altered; and in particular, human beauty suffers alteration for the worse, as we see to our mortification, in the deformities and disproportions which are in us. For which reason, the artful painter and the sculptor, imitating the Divine Maker, form to themselves, as well as they are able, a model of the superior beauties; and reflecting on them, endeavour to correct and amend the common nature, and to represent it as it was at first created, without fault, either in colour, or in lineament.