too, when he informed against a worthy and loyal member, whom he caused to be expelled the House, and sent prisoner to the Tower:* But that which was then accounted a disgrace to him, will make him be remembered with honour to posterity. I will trouble the reader but with one observation more, and that shall be to show how dully and pedantically they have copied even the false steps of the League in politics, and those very maxims which ruined the heads of it. The Duke of Guise was always ostentatious of his power in the states, where he carried all things in opposition to the king; but, by relying too much on the power he had there, and not using arms when he had them in his hand, I mean by not prosecuting his victory to the uttermost, when he had the king enclosed in the Louvre, he missed his opportunity, and fortune never gave it him again. The late Earl of Shaftesbury, who was the undoubted head and soul of that party, went upon the same maxims; being (as we may reasonably conclude) fearful of hazarding his fortunes, and observing, that the late rebellion, under the former king, though successful in war, yet ended in the restoration of his present majesty, his aim was to have excluded his royal highness by an act of parliament; and to have forced such concessions from the king, by pressing the chimerical dangers of a popish plot, as would not only have destroyed the succession, but have subverted the monarchy; for he presumed he ventured nothing, if he could have executed his designs by form of law, and in a parliamentary way. In the mean time, he made notorious mistakes; first, in imagining that his pretensions would have passed in the House of Peers, and afterwards by the king. When the death of Sir Edmondbury Godfrey had fermented the eople; when the city had taken the alarm of a popish plot, and the government of it was in fanatic hands; when a body of White Boys was already appearing in the west, and many other counties waited but the word to rise-then was the time to have pushed his business: but Almighty God, who had otherwise disposed of the event, infatuated his counsels, and made him slip his opportunity; which he himself observed too Sir Robert Peyton was expelled the House, and committed to the Tower, on account of expressing some hesitation as to the credibility of Oates. White was the dress affected by those who crowded to see Monmouth in his western tour. Mr. Trenchard undertook to raise 1500 men in and about Taunton alone. See Lord Grey's Account of the Rye-house Plot, p. 18; where the plan of the city insurrection is also distinctly detailed, Pp. 32 40. late, and would have redressed by an insurrec tion, which was to have begun at Wapping, after the king had been murdered at the Rye. And now, it will be but justice, before I conclude, to say a word or two of my author.* He was formerly a Jesuit. He has, amongst others of his works, written the history of Arianism, of Lutheranism, of Calvinism, the Holy War, and the Fall of the Western Empire. In all his writings, he has supported the temporal power of sovereigns, and especially of his master the French King, against the usurpations and encroachments of the papacy. For which reason, being in disgrace at Rome, he was in a manner forced to quit his order, and, from Father Maimbourg, is now become Monsieur Maimbourg. The great king, his patron, has provided plentifully for him by a large salary, and indeed he has deserved it from him. As for his style, it is rather Ciceronian, copious, florid, and figurative, than succinct: He is esteemed in the French court equal to their best writers, which has procured him the envy of some who set up for critics. Being a professed enemy of the Calvinists, he is particularly hated by them; so that their testimonies against him stand suspected of prejudice. This history of the League is generally allowed to be one of his best pieces. He has quoted everywhere his authors in the margin, to show his impartiality; in which, if I have not followed him, it is because the chiefest of them are unknown to us, as not being hitherto translated into English. His particular commendations of men and families, is all which I think superfluous in his book; but that, too, is pardonable in a man, who, having created himself many enemies, has need of the support of friends. This particular work was written by express order of the French King, and is now translated by our king's command. I hope the effect of it in this nation will be, to make the well-meaning men of the other party sensible of their past errors, the worst of them ashamed, and prevent posterity from the like unlawful and impious design. 'Louis Maimbourg was born at Nanci in 1610, and became a Jesuit in 1626. But he was degraded from that order by the general, because he espoused, in some of his writings, the cause of the Gallican church against the claims of the Roman see. He retired to the Abbey of St. Victor, where he died in 1686. His his. torical writings, which are numerous, are now held in little esteem, being all composed in the spirit of a partisan, and without even the affectation of impartiality. They are, however, lively and interesting during the perusal; which led an Italian to say, that Maimbourg was among the historians, what Momus was among the deities. Maimbourg's History of the League was first published at Paris in 1883. 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. 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.** P TO MR. JARVIS, WITH FRESNOY'S ART OF PAINTING.. TRANSLATED BY MR. DRYDen. THIS verso be thine, my friend; nor thou refuse Smit with the love of sister-arts we came, How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day, What flattering scenes our wandering fancy wrought, Rome's pompous glories rising to our thought! Caracci's strength, Correggio's softer line, This small well-polish'd gem, the work of years! * Yet still how faint by precept is exprest, Muse! at that name thy sacred sorrows shed gage; Her modest cheek shall warm a future age. 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 con strains; And finish'd more through happiness than pains. Fresnoy employed above twenty years in finishing this poem, TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. WHEN Dryden, worn with sickness, bow'd with years, Was doom'd (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 oppress'd, 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 employ'd his studious hour; But niggard there of that melodious power, His pen in haste the hireling task to close, Transform'd the studied strain to careless prose, Which, fondly lending faith to French pretence, Mistook its ineaning, 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, indignan error's base alloy The sterling lustre of his praise destroy, Which no 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 prou to come, And buy of him a thousand years of bloom. And oh, if aught thy poet can pretend { 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 Raphael, Titian, Correggio, Michael Angelo, and >thers. But to return to my own undertaking of this translation. I freely own that I thought myself incapable of performing it, either to their satis faction 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 tole rable 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,* 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 a 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, ifĮ copy from Bellori, (a most ingenious author ye! preceding year, 1694.—Malone. |