p 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
L A 0 C 0 0 N : 
 
 THE LIMITS OF PAINTING AND POETRY. 
 
 TRANSLATED 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM LESSING, 
 
 \ 
 
 BY 
 
 E. C. BEASLEY, 
 
 ONE OF THE TUTORS OF LEAMINGTON COLLEGE. 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 BY THE BEY. T. BUBBIDGE, L.L.H. 
 
 MASTER OF LEAMINGTON COLLEGE. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS. 
 EDINBURGH : BLACKWOOD AND SONS. 
 
 OXFORD : F. MACPIIERSON. 
 
 RUGBY: CROSSLEY AND BILLINGTON, 
 M.DCCC.LIII. 
 

 
 REREARCH LIBRARY 
 
The Translator cannot 
 allow the present opportunity 
 to pass without returning his 
 sincere thanks to his friend and 
 principal, Dr. Burbidge, not 
 only for the preface he has 
 written, but also for very kind 
 assistance received in the re- 
 vision and correction of the 
 
 text. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 https://archive.org/details/laocoonessayonliOOIess 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The poles between which ./Esthetic criticism has 
 always oscillated, and will continue to oscillate, are 
 Eorm and Expression, — the objective and the subjec- 
 tive truths involved in Art, as in every other produc- 
 tion of the human mind. A very ingenious and 
 eloquent writer of the present day has had weight 
 enough (between his reason and his passion) to bring 
 the balance far down in the latter direction : the more 
 need therefore to bring forward an older writer, 
 whose learning is as decidedly, though less vehe- 
 mently, the other way. 
 
 There is a use, however, to be served, by 
 drawing notice, in the present state of things, to a 
 writer of the former school, greater than the mere 
 momentary dressing of a balance, never fated to 
 maintain more than a momentary equilibrium. These 
 
vm 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 variations,, referring as they do to permanent distinc- 
 tions, must be expected to continue. Nor, however 
 far the study of art may be carried, can we expect 
 that it will reach a point at which it will become an 
 exact science, independent of the bias in the direc- 
 tion of objective or subjective truth existing in the 
 critic’s own mind. It is not, therefore, as contesting 
 the views of Mr. Buskin, that I venture to call at- 
 tention to this treatise of Lessing. 
 
 But a true purpose may be served by simply 
 bringing the converse truth into the same field with 
 that on which our eyes are at present almost ex- 
 clusively fixed. The caricatures of the Pre- 
 Baphaelites have already done some intentional and 
 also some unintended service to Art. By exhibiting 
 the reigning doctrine in its full and almost unmiti- 
 gated results, while they have clearly shewn (as I 
 frankly admit them to have done) the truth on which 
 it is founded, they have as distinctly, and it may be 
 feared to the general public more impressively, ex- 
 hibited its inability to fulfil the mind’s requirements 
 of Art without the aid of a counter and modifying 
 principle. It is therefore no undesirable thing to 
 supply so fair and acute an exponent of that counter 
 truth as Lessing is, even if it were only to give an 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 IX 
 
 expression and satisfaction to the revolted feelings 
 of those whom the miserable meannesses alluded to 
 have disgusted, and prevent them from disbelieving 
 in the existence of Art as a subject of rational en- 
 quiry altogether. 
 
 But the advantage I meant was less this than 
 the service which is always done to any imper- 
 fectly ascertained science by suggesting its his- 
 torical aspect. 
 
 If Aristotle both began and completed the science 
 of Logic, it is the single instance of such an achieve- 
 ment. In general a long tentative process, passing 
 through the hands of many individuals, precedes the 
 consummation of so great a work : there must be 
 hewing of wood and drawing of water before the 
 very foundations are laid, and the building itself 
 shall be conceived by David and built by Solomon. 
 The human mind will be seen (represented by a long 
 succession of individuals) to climb from truth to 
 truth (as we should more correctly say, speaking of 
 nature, from fact to fact) toward the distant summit 
 whence the whole subject is to become visible. It is 
 its natural tendency when any new station is gained, 
 to be occupied with the novelty of its actual position 
 or in the ardour of its ambition to turn its gaze 
 
X 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 only in the direction of its object. But if this be 
 the wisely ordained necessity of those whose mission 
 is to be themselves the active instruments of the 
 achievement, undoubtedly it is equally the wisdom 
 of the mere observer less to look forward than back- 
 ward, less to divine what our future path may be 
 than to compare our present position with our pre- 
 vious course. A complete result is by supposition at 
 present unattainable ; all we can do, therefore, is to 
 grasp as many of the elements which will go to form 
 that future result as possible. Every distinct impres- 
 sion of ^Esthetic truth found to have been made either 
 upon the general sense of men or upon our human 
 nature represented by individuals of superior facul- 
 ties, shews a reality, either subjective or objective, 
 bearing upon the science, and so long as the science 
 remains confessedly imperfect, the possession of 
 more or less of such data becomes the closer or more 
 distant approximation to the possession of the whole 
 truth, seeing that when these data are sufficient they 
 must contain the whole truth, whether the generaliza- 
 tion which is to convert it into a science shall have 
 actually taken place or not. 
 
 Now it is as representing a class of such data 
 which Buskin (although fully admitting their exist- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 XI 
 
 ence) does not seem sufficiently to keep in view that 
 I think a work belonging to an earlier stage of the 
 enquiry may at present be usefully studied. In his 
 way, though scarcely as eloquent or poetical, Lessing 
 was as acute an observer as Buskin, and his percep- 
 tions on the objective side were as clear, and it seems 
 to me (possibly from the more limited and exact 
 character of objective truth) firmer and truer than 
 those of Buskin on the subjective. I wish, however, 
 to enter into no comparisons : either has been a true 
 and able labourer in this field, and we must be 
 grateful to both. A due regard to the results which 
 both have elicited is our present wisdom as tending 
 to keep our minds in that balanced and suspended 
 state which alone profits the student of ^Esthetics in 
 the present condition of that science. Bor a by- 
 stander like myself it would be presumptuous to 
 pretend to support either side, but I trust it is no 
 offence against modesty to avow my own conviction 
 to be that a substantive truth exists on either side, 
 and that the object of the ^Esthetic Philosopher 
 henceforth ought to be less the demonstration of 
 facts which may be considered now to be fairly as- 
 certained than the discovery of the law which will 
 harmonise them. 
 
Xll 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 My friend, tlie Translator, having done me the 
 honour of consulting me with regard to bringing 
 forward this work in an English form, and having 
 been partly influenced perhaps by my encouragement, 
 I have not felt able to refuse his request that I 
 should state here the grounds on which I advised 
 the publication. 
 
 T. BUEBIDGE. 
 
 Leamington College, 
 
 April 23, 1853. 
 
Xlll 
 
 AUTHOR’S PREFACE. 
 
 The first person who compared painting and 
 poetry with one another was a man of fine feeling, 
 who may be supposed to have been conscious that 
 both produced a similar effect upon himself. He felt 
 that through both what is absent seems as if it were 
 present, and appearance takes the form of reality. 
 He felt that both deceive, and that the deception 
 is, in either case, pleasing. 
 
 A second observer sought to penetrate below the 
 surface of this pleasure, and discovered that in both 
 painting and poetry it flowed from the same source ; 
 for beauty, the idea of which we first abstract from 
 bodily objects, possesses general laws, applicable 
 to more than one class of things, to actions and 
 thoughts as well as to forms. 
 
 A third reflected upon the value and distribution 
 of these general laws ; and discovered that some are 
 
XIV 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 of greater force when applied to painting, others 
 when applied to poetry. In the case of the latter 
 laws, poetry will help to explain and illustrate paint- 
 ing, in that of the former, painting will do the same 
 office for poetry. 
 
 The first was the amateur, the second the phi- 
 losopher, and the third the critic. 
 
 The two first could not easily make a wrong use 
 of either their sensations, or conclusions. Qn the 
 contrary, the value of the critic’s observations mainly 
 depends upon the justice of their application to in- 
 dividual cases ; and since the number of ingenious 
 has always exceeded that of sound critics, it would 
 have been a wonder if their strictures had always 
 been applied with that caution, which is required to 
 hold the balance equally between the two arts. 
 
 If Apelles and Protogenes, in their lost writings 
 on painting, confined and illustrated its laws by the 
 previously established rules of poetry, we may feel 
 sure that they did it with that moderation and ac- 
 curacy, with which we now see, in the works of 
 Aristotle, Cicero, Horace, and Quintilian, the prin- 
 ciples and experience of painting applied to eloquence 
 and poetry. It was the happy privilege of the 
 ancients never to pass beyond or stop short of the 
 proper limit. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XV 
 
 But in many points we moderns imagine that we 
 have advanced far beyond them, merely because we 
 have changed their paths into highways; although 
 by this very change, the highways, in spite of being 
 shorter and safer, are again contracted into paths, 
 as little trodden as though they led through deserts. 
 
 It is probable that the dazzling antithesis of the 
 Greek Voltaire : “ Painting is dumb poetry, and 
 “ poetry speaking painting,” would never have been 
 found in any systematic work ; but like several of 
 the ideas of Simonides, the truth it contains is so 
 striking that we feel compelled to overlook the indis- 
 tinctness and error which accompany it. 
 
 This error and indistinctness did not, however, 
 mislead the ancients. They confined the expression 
 of Simonides to the effect of either art, and forgot 
 not to inculcate that, notwithstanding their complete 
 similarity in this respect, the two totally differed in 
 the objects which they imitated, and in their manner 
 of imitating them. ( yXy kcu rpo7roLs p.ipr)o-ea>s .) 
 
 But, as though no such difference existed, many re- 
 cent critics have drawn from this harmony of poetry 
 and painting the most ill-digested conclusions. At 
 one time they compress poetry into the narrower limits 
 of painting, at another they allow painting to occupy 
 
XVI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 the whole wide sphere of poetry. Everything, say 
 they, that the one is entitled to, should be conceded 
 to the other ; everything that pleases or displeases 
 in the one is necessarily pleasing or displeasing in 
 the other. Eull of this idea, they constantly give 
 utterance to the most shallow decisions; when, 
 criticising the works of a poet and painter upon the 
 same subject, they set down as faults every differ- 
 ence they may observe, laying the blame upon the 
 one or other, as it may happen to be the taste 
 for poetry, or the taste for painting, which prepon- 
 derates in themselves. 
 
 Further, this false criticism has misled in some 
 degree even the connoisseurs. It produced the love of 
 description in poetry, and allegory in painting : while 
 the critics strove to reduce poetry to a speaking paint- 
 ing without properly knowing what it could and 
 ought to paint; and painting to a dumb poem, 
 without having considered in what degree it could 
 express general ideas, without alienating itself from 
 its destiny, and degenerating into nothing more 
 than an arbitrary method of writing. 
 
 The counteraction of this false taste and these 
 groundless judgments, is the principal aim of the 
 following essay. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XVII 
 
 It originated casually, and has grown up rather 
 in consequence of my reading, than through the 
 systematic development of general principles. It is 
 accordingly rather to be regarded as unarranged 
 collectanea for a book, than as a book itself. 
 
 Still I flatter myself that even as such it will not 
 be altogether deserving of contempt. We Germans 
 have in general no want of systematic books. At 
 deducing everything we wish, in the most beautiful 
 order, from a couple of adopted explanations of 
 words, we are the most complete adepts, the equals 
 of any nation in the world. 
 
 Baumgarten acknowledged that he was indebted 
 to Gesner’s Dictionary for a great part of the ex- 
 amples in his work on ^Esthetics. If my reasoning 
 is not so conclusive as his, my illustrations will at 
 least have the advantage of tasting more freshly of 
 the spring. 
 
 As I, as it were, set out from the Laocoon, and 
 several times return to it, I wished to give it a share 
 also in the title. Other little digressions on different 
 points in the ancient history of art contribute but 
 little to my end, and only stand where they do, 
 because I can never hope to find a more suitable 
 place for them. 
 
XV111 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 I would remind my reader, that as I comprehend 
 under the term Painting, the plastic arts generally, 
 so I give no pledge, that under the name of Poetry 
 I shall not extend my inquiries to those arts, in 
 which the imitation is also progressive. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 r INKELMAN has pronounced a noble simplicity 
 
 and quiet grandeur, displayed in the posture, no 
 less than in the expression, to be the characteristic 
 features common to all the Greek masterpieces of 
 Painting and Sculpture. “As,” says he, a “the 
 “ depths of the sea always remain calm, however 
 “ much the surface may be raging, so the expression 
 “ in the figures of the Greeks, under every form of 
 “passion, shows a great and self-collected soul. 
 
 “ This spirit is portrayed in the countenance of 
 “ Laocoon, but not in the countenance alone ; even 
 “ under the most violent suffering, the pain discovers 
 “ itself in every muscle and sinew of his body, and 
 “ the beholder, whilst looking at the agonized con- 
 “ traction of the stomach, without viewing the face 
 “ and the other parts, believes that he almost feels 
 
 a On the Imitation of Greek works in Painting and 
 Sculpture, p. 21, 22, 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 “ the pain himself. This pain expresses itself with- 
 “ out any violence, both in the features and in the 
 “ whole posture. He raises no terrible shriek, such as 
 “ Yirgil makes his Laocoon utter, for the opening of 
 “ the mouth does not admit it ; it is rather an anxious 
 “ and suppressed sigh, as described by Sadolet. The 
 “ pain of body and grandeur of soul are, as it were, 
 “ weighed out, and distributed with equal strength, 
 “ through the whole frame of the figure. Laocoon 
 “ suffers, but he suffers as the Philoctetes of Sopho- 
 “ cles ; his misery pierces us to the very soul, but 
 “ inspires us with a wish that we could endure misery 
 “ like that great man. 
 
 “ The expressing of so great a soul is far higher 
 “ than the painting of beautiful nature. The artist 
 “ must feel within himself that strength of spirit 
 “ which he would imprint upon his marble. Greece 
 “had philosophers and artists in one person, and 
 “ more than one Metrodorus. b Philosophy gave her 
 “ hand to art, and inspired its figures with no ordinary 
 “ souls.” 
 
 The observation on which the foregoing remarks 
 are founded, “ that the pain in the face of Laocoon 
 does not shew itself with that force which its intensity 
 would have led us to expect,” is perfectly correct. 
 Moreover, it is indisputable, that it is in this very 
 point, where the half connoisseur would have decided 
 that the artist had fallen short of Nature, and had 
 b Plinius, xxxv. 40. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 3 
 
 not reached the true pathos of pain, that his wisdom 
 is particularly conspicuous. 
 
 But I confess I differ from Winkelman as to what 
 is in his opinion the basis of this wisdom, and as to 
 the universality of the rule which he deduces from it. 
 
 I acknowledge that I was startled, first by the 
 glance of disapproval which he casts upon Virgil, 
 and secondly by the comparison with Philoctetes. 
 From this point then I shall set out, and write 
 down my thoughts as they were developed in me. 
 
 “ Laocoon suffers as Sophocles’ Philoctetes.” But 
 how does this last suffer? It is curious that his 
 sufferings should leave such a different impression 
 behind them. The cries, the shriek, the wild impre- 
 cations, with which he filled the camp, and interrupted 
 all the sacrifices and holy rites, resound no less hor- 
 ribly through his desert island, and were the cause 
 of his being banished to it. The same sounds of 
 despondency, sorrow, and despair, fill the theatre in 
 the poet’s imitation. It has been observed that the 
 third act of this piece is shorter than the others : 
 from this it may be gathered, say the critics, 0 that the 
 ancients took little pains to preserve an uniformity of 
 length in the different acts. I quite agree with them, 
 but I should rather ground my opinion upon other 
 examples than this. The sorrowful exclamations, 
 the moanings, the interrupted d, d ! (pev/ dvruvuT ! 
 to 1.101 fioi / the whole lines full of nunu nun a / of 
 c Brumoy Theatre des Grecs. T. ii. p. 89. 
 
4 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 which this act consists, must be pronounced with 
 tensions and breakings off, altogether different from 
 those required in a continuous speech, and doubtless 
 made this act last quite as long in the representation, 
 as the others. It appears much shorter to the reader, 
 when seen on paper, than it would to the audience in 
 a theatre. 
 
 A cry is the natural expression of bodily pain. 
 Homer’s wounded heroes frequently fall with cries to 
 the ground. He makes Yenus, when merely scratched, 
 shriek aloud ; d not that he may thereby paint the 
 effeminacy of the goddess of pleasure, but rather 
 that he may give suffering nature her due ; for even 
 the iron Mars, when he feels the lance of Diomede, 
 shrieks so horribly, that his cries are like those of 
 ten thousand furious warriors, and fill both armies 
 with horror.® Though Homer, in other respects, raises 
 his heroes above human nature, they always remain 
 faithful to it in matters connected with the feeling of 
 pain and insult, or its expression through cries, tears, 
 or reproaches. In their actions they are beings of a 
 higher order, in tfreir feelings true men. 
 
 I know that we more refined Europeans, of a wiser 
 and later age, know how to keep our mouths and eyes 
 under closer restraint. We are forbidden by courtesy 
 and propriety to cry and weep ; and with us the active 
 bravery of the first rough age of the world has been 
 
 d Iliad, E. 343, 'H 8e fiiya la^ovcra — 
 e Iliad, E. 859. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 5 
 
 changed into a passive. Yet even our own ancestors, 
 though barbarians, were greater in the latter than in 
 the former. To suppress all pain, to meet the stroke 
 of death with unflinching eye, to die laughing un- 
 der the bites of adders, to lament neither their own 
 faults, nor the loss of their dearest friends : these 
 were the characteristics of the old heroic courage of 
 the north/ Palnatoko forbade his Jomsburghers 
 either to fear, or so much as to mention the name 
 of fear. 
 
 Not so the Greek. He felt and feared. He gave 
 utterance to his pain and sorrow. He was ashamed of 
 no human weaknesses ; only none of them must hold 
 him back from the path of honour, or impede him in 
 the fulfilment of his duty. What in the barbarian 
 sprang from habit and ferocity, arose from principle 
 in the Greek. With him heroism was as the spark 
 concealed in flint, which, so long as no external force 
 awakens it, sleeps in quiet, nor robs the stone either 
 of its clearness or its coldness. With the barbarian 
 it was a bright consuming flame, w T hich was ever 
 roaring, and devoured, or at least blackened, every 
 other good quality. Thus when Homer makes the 
 Trojans march to the combat with wild cries, the 
 Greeks, on the contrary, in resolute silence, the critics 
 justly observe that the poet intended to depict the 
 one as barbarians, the other as a civilized people. 
 
 f Th. Bartholinus de causis contemptse a Danis adhuc 
 gentilibus mortis Cap. I. 
 
6 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 I wonder that they have not remarked a similar con- 
 trast of character in another passage. 5 The hostile 
 armies have made a truce ; they are busied with 
 burning their dead ; and these rites are accompanied 
 on both sides with the warm flow of tears, (ddxQva 
 OeQpd yaovveg). But Priam forbids the Trojans 
 to weep, (oud’ tia xXafeiv UQia^og fie^ag). He 
 forbad them to weep, says Dacier, because he feared 
 the effect would be too softening, and that on the 
 morrow they would go with less courage to the battle. 
 True ! But why, I ask, should Priam only fear this 
 result ? Why does not Agamemnon also lay the same 
 prohibition on the Greeks P The poet has a deeper 
 meaning ; he wishes to teach us that the civilized 
 Greek could be brave at the same time that he wept, 
 while in the uncivilized Trojan all human feelings 
 were to be previously stifled. NepeGGcopou' ye fxev 
 dud iv v.Xdieiv, is the remark which, elsewhere,** 
 Homer puts in the mouth of the intelligent son of 
 Nestor. 
 
 It is worth observing that among the few tragedies 
 which have come down to us from antiquity, two are 
 found in which bodily pain constitutes not the lightest 
 part of the misfortune, which befalls the suffering 
 heroes, — The Philoctetes and the dying Hercules. 
 Sophocles paints the last also, as moaning, and 
 shrieking, weeping, and crying. Thanks to our 
 polite neighbours, those masters of propriety, no 
 § Iliad, H. 421. 11 Odyss. A. 195. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 7 
 
 such ridiculous and intolerable characters as a moan- 
 ing Philoctetes or a shrieking Hercules, will ever 
 again appear upon the stage. One of their latest 
 poets 1 has indeed ventured upon a Philoctetes, but 
 would he have dared to exhibit the true one ? 
 
 Even a Laocoon is found among the lost plays of 
 Sophocles. Would that Eate had spared it to us ! 
 The slight mention which an old grammarian has 
 made of it affords us no ground for concluding how 
 the poet had handled his subject ; but of this I feel 
 certain that Laocoon would not have been drawn 
 more stoically than Philoctetes and Hercules. All 
 stoicism is undramatical ; and our sympathy is always 
 proportioned to the suffering expressed by the object 
 which interests us. It is true if we see him bear 
 his misery with a great soul, this grandeur of soul 
 excites our admiration ; but admiration is only a cold 
 sentiment, and its inactive astonishment excludes 
 every warmer feeling as well as every distinct idea. 
 
 I now come to my inference : if it be true, that a 
 cry at the sensation of bodily pain, particularly ac- 
 cording to the old Greek way of thinking, is quite 
 compatible with greatness of soul, it cannot have 
 been for the sake of expressing such greatness that 
 the artist avoided imitating this shriek in marble. 
 Another reason therefore must be found for his here 
 deviating from his rival, the poet, who has expressed 
 it with the happiest results. 
 
 1 Chataubrun. 
 
8 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Re it fable or history, that Love made the first 
 essay in the plastic arts, it is certain that it never 
 wearied of guiding the hands of the masters of old. 
 Painting, as now carried out in its whole compass, 
 may be defined generally as “ the imitation of bodies 
 or matter on a level surface but the wise Greek 
 allotted it far narrower limits, and confined it to the 
 imitation of the beautiful only; his artist painted 
 nothing else. Even the commonly beautiful, the 
 beautiful of a lower order, was only his accidental 
 subject, his exercise, his relaxation. It was the per- 
 fection of his object that absorbed him in his work ; 
 and he was too great to ask his spectators to be sa- 
 tisfied with the mere cold pleasure which arises from 
 a striking resemblance, or the consideration of an 
 artist’s ability. In his art nothing was dearer, 
 nothing seemed nobler to him than its proper end. 
 
 “ Who would paint you when nobody will look at 
 you?” asks an old epigrammatist(l) of an exceed- 
 ingly deformed man. Many modern artists would say, 
 “ However misshapen you are, I will paint you ; and 
 although no one could look at you with pleasure, they 
 will look with pleasure at my picture ; not because 
 it is your likeness, but because it will be an evidence 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 9 
 
 of my skill in knowing how to delineate such an 
 horror so faithfully.” 
 
 It is true the propensity to this wanton boasting, 
 united to abilities, tolerable in themselves, but un- 
 ennobled by an exalted subject, is too natural for 
 even the Greeks not to have had their Pauson and their 
 Pyricus. They had them, but they rendered them 
 strict justice. Pauson, who kept below the beautiful 
 of common nature, whose low taste loved to portray 
 all that is faulty and ugly in the human form(2), lived 
 in the most contemptible poverty. a And Pyricus, 
 who painted barber’s rooms, dirty workshops, apes, 
 and kitchen herbs, with all the industry of a Dutch 
 Artist, (as though things of that kind possessed an ex- 
 treme charm in Nature, or could but rarely be seen) 
 acquired the surname of Bhypographer, b or “Dirt- 
 Painter !” although the luxurious rich man paid for 
 his works with their weight in gold, as if to assist 
 their intrinsic worthlessness by this imaginary value. 
 
 The state itself did not deem it beneath its dignity 
 to confine the artist within his proper sphere by 
 an exercise of its power. The law of the Thebans 
 recommending him to use imitation as a means 
 of arriving at ideal beauty ; and prohibiting, on pain 
 of punishment, its use for the attainment of ideal 
 ugliness, is well known. This was no law against 
 bunglers, as most writers, and among them even 
 
 a Aristophanes Plut. 602, Aeharnenses, 854. 
 b Plinius, xxxv. 37, (Ed. Tauch). 
 
10 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 Junius, 0 have supposed. It was in condemnation of 
 the Greek Ghezis, and of that unworthy device 
 which enables an artist to obtain a likeness by the 
 exaggeration of the uglier parts of his original, i. e. 
 by caricature. 
 
 From the selfsame spirit of the beautiful sprang 
 the following regulation of the Olympic judges, 
 (lllavod Uai). Every winner obtained a statue, but 
 only to him, who had been thrice a conqueror, was a 
 portrait statue (a'7 aXfict Ily.mvlv.6v) erected. d Too 
 many indifferent portraits were not allowed to find a 
 place among the productions of art ; for although a 
 portrait admits of the ideal, this last must be subor- 
 dinate to the likeness, it is the ideal of an individual 
 man, and not the ideal of man in the abstract. 
 
 We laugh when we hear that among the ancients 
 even the arts were subjected to municipal laws, but 
 we are not always in the right when we laugh. Un- 
 questionably law must not assume the power of 
 laying any constraint on knowledge ; for the aim of 
 knowledge is truth ; truth is necessary to the soul, 
 and it would be tyranny to do it the smallest violence 
 in the gratification of this essential need. The aim 
 of art, on the contrary, is pleasure, which is not indis- 
 pensable ; and it might therefore depend upon the 
 lawgiver to decide what kind of pleasure, and what 
 degree of every kind, he would allow. 
 
 c De Pictura vet. Lib. II. cap. iv. 
 d Plinius, xxxiv. 9. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 11 
 
 The plastic arts especially, besides the infallible 
 influence which they exercise upon the national cha- 
 racter, are capable of an effect which demands the 
 closest inspection of the law. As beautiful men 
 produced beautiful statues, so the latter reacted upon 
 the former, and the state became indebted to beautiful 
 statues for beautiful men. But with us the tender 
 imaginative power of the mother is supposed to shew 
 itself only in the production of monsters. 
 
 In this point of view I think I can detect some 
 truth in certain stories, which are generally rejected 
 as pure inventions. The mothers of Aristodemus, 
 Alexander the Great, Scipio, and Augustus, all 
 dreamed, during their pregnancy, that they had in- 
 tercourse with a serpent. The serpent was a token 
 of divinity(3), and the beautiful statues and paintings 
 of Bacchus, Apollo, Mercury, or Hercules, were sel- 
 dom without one. These honourable wives had by 
 day feasted their eyes upon the God, and the con- 
 fusing dream recalled the reptile’s form. Thus I at 
 the same time establish the truth of the vision, and 
 expose the real value of the interpretation, which the 
 pride of their sons, and the shamelessness of flatterers 
 put upon it : for there must have been a reason why 
 the adulterous phantasy should always have been a 
 serpent. 
 
 But I am digressing ; all I want to establish is, 
 that, among the ancients, beauty was the highest law 
 of the plastic arts. And this once proved, it is a 
 
12 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 necessary consequence that everything else over which 
 their range could be at the same time extended, if 
 incompatible with beauty, gave way entirely to it, 
 if compatible, was at least subordinate. I will abide 
 by my expression. There are passions, and degrees 
 of passion, which are expressed by the ugliest possi- 
 ble contortions of countenance, and throw the whole 
 body into such a forced position, that all the beauti- 
 ful lines, which cover its surface in a quiet attitude, 
 are lost. From all such emotions the ancient masters 
 either abstained entirely, or reduced them to that 
 lower degree, in which they are capable of a certain 
 measure of beauty. 
 
 Eage and despair disgrace none of their produc- 
 tions ; I dare maintain that they have never painted 
 a Fury (4). 
 
 Indignation was softened down to seriousness. In 
 poetry it was the indignant Jupiter who hurled the 
 lightning, in art it was only the serious. Grief was 
 lessened into mournfulness ; and where this softening 
 could find no place, where mere grief would have been 
 as lowering as disfiguring, what did Timanthes ? All 
 know his painting of the sacrifice of Iphigenia, 
 in which he has imparted to all the bystanders that 
 peculiar degree of sorrow which becomes them, but 
 has concealed the face of the father, who should have 
 shown it more than all. On this many clever criticisms 
 have been passed. He had, says one, 6 so exhausted 
 e Plinius, xxxv. 35, 7. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 13 
 
 his powers in the sorrowful faces of the bystanders 
 that he despaired of giving a more sorrowful one to the 
 father. By so doing he confessed, says another, that 
 the pain of a father under such circumstances, is 
 beyond all expression/ Bor my part, I see no in- 
 capacity either of artist or art in it. With the degree 
 of passion the correspondent lines of countenance 
 are also strengthened; in the highest degree they 
 are most decided, and nothing in art is easier than 
 their expression. But Timanthes knew the limits 
 within which the graces had confined his art. He 
 knew that the grief which became Agamemnon, as a 
 father, must have been expressed by contortions, at 
 all times ugly; but so far as dignity and beauty 
 could be combined with the expression of such a 
 feeling, so far he pushed it. True, he would fain 
 have passed over the ugly, fain have softened it ; but 
 since his piece did not admit either of its omission 
 or diminution, what was left him but its concealment ? 
 He left to conjecture, what he might not paint. In 
 short, this concealment is a sacrifice, which the artist 
 made to beauty ; and is an instance, not how ex- 
 pression may exceed the capacity of art, but how it 
 should be subjected to art’s first law, the law of 
 beauty. 
 
 And now, if we apply this to Laocoon, the prin- 
 ciple for which I am searching is clear. The master 
 
 f Summi meeroris acerbitatem arte exprimi non posse con- 
 fessus est. Valerius Maximus viii. 11. 
 
14 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 aimed at the highest beauty compatible with the 
 adopted circumstances of bodily pain. The latter, in 
 all its disfiguring violence, could not be combined 
 with the former ; therefore he must reduce it ; he must 
 soften shrieks into sighs, not because a shriek would 
 have betrayed an ignoble soul, but because it would 
 have produced the most hideous contortions of the 
 countenance. Tor only imagine the mouth of Laocoon 
 to be forced open, and then judge ! Let him shriek, 
 and look at him ! It was a form which inspired 
 compassion, for it displayed beauty and pain at once. 
 It has grown into an ugly and horrible shape from 
 which we gladly avert our eyes ; for the sight of pain 
 excites annoyance, unless the beauty of the suffering 
 object change that annoyance into the sweet feeling 
 of compassion. 
 
 The mere wide opening of the mouth, setting 
 aside the forced and disagreeable manner in which 
 the other parts of the face are displaced and distorted 
 by it, is in painting a spot, and in sculpture a cavity ; 
 both which produce the worst possible effect. Mont- 
 faucon displayed little taste, when he pronounced an 
 old bearded head with a gaping mouth to be a bust 
 of Jupiter, uttering oracles. g Is a god obliged to 
 shout when he divulges the future ? Would a pleas- 
 ing outline of the mouth have made his answers 
 suspected? Neither do I believe Valerius, when he 
 says that in that picture of Timanthes, (which now 
 s Antiquit. Expl. T. 1. p. 50. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 15 
 
 alas our imaginations are left to draw), Ajax was 
 represented as slirieking(5). Far worse masters, in a 
 period when art was already degenerate, did not once 
 allow the wildest barbarians, though fallen beneath 
 the sword of the conqueror, filled with affright, and 
 seized by the terrors of death, to open their mouths 
 and shriek. h 
 
 It is certain that this softening down of extreme 
 bodily pain to a lower degree of feeling is perceptible 
 in several productions of ancient art. The suffering 
 Hercules in the poisoned garment, the work of an 
 unknown old master, was not the Hercules of Sopho- 
 cles, whose shrieks are so horrible that the rocks of 
 Locris, and headlands of Eubsea resound therewith. 
 Jt was gloomy rather than wild. 1 The Philoctetes of 
 Pythagoras of Leontini appeared to impart his pain 
 to the beholder, yet this effect would have been 
 destroyed by the least ugliness of feature. I may be 
 asked how I know that this master executed a statue 
 of Philoctetes ? Prom a passage in Pliny, so mani- 
 festly either interpolated or mutilated, that it ought 
 not to have awaited my amendment(6). 
 
 h Bellorii Admiranda, Tab. 11, 12, 
 1 Plinius, xxxiv. 19. 36. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 16 
 
 CHAPTEB III. 
 
 But, as has been already mentioned, art has in 
 modern times been allotted a far wider sphere. 44 Its 
 44 imitations, it is said, extend over the whole of 
 44 visible nature, of which the beautiful is but a small 
 44 part : and as nature herself is ever ready to sacri- 
 44 fice beauty to higher aims, so likewise the artist 
 44 must render it subordinate to his general design, 
 44 and not pursue it farther than truth and expression 
 44 permit. Enough that, through these two, what 
 44 is most ugly in nature has been changed into a 
 44 beauty of art. 5 ’ 
 
 But even if we should leave this idea, whatever 
 its value, for the present undisputed ; would there 
 not arise other considerations independent of it, 
 which would compel the artist to put certain limits 
 to expression, and prevent him from ever drawing it 
 at its highest intensity ? 
 
 I believe the fact, that it is to a single moment 
 that the material limits of art confine all its imita- 
 tions, will lead us to similar views. 
 
 If the artist, out of ever- varying nature, can only 
 make use of a’ single moment, and the painter es- 
 pecially can only use this moment from one point of 
 view, whilst their works are intended to stand the 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 17 
 
 test not only of a passing glance, but of long and 
 repeated contemplation, it is clear that this moment, 
 and the point from which this moment is viewed, 
 cannot be chosen too happily. Now that only is a 
 happy choice, which allows the imagination free scope. 
 The longer we gaze, the more must our imagination 
 add ; and the more our imagination adds, the more 
 we must believe we see. In the whole course of a 
 feeling there is no moment which possesses this ad- 
 vantage so little as its highest stage. There is 
 nothing beyond this ; and the presentation of ex- 
 tremes to the eye clips the wings of fancy, prevents 
 her from soaring beyond the impression of the senses, 
 and compels her to occupy herself with weaker 
 images ; further than these she ventures not, but 
 shrinks from the visible fulness of expression as her 
 limit. Thus, if Laocoon sighs, the imagination can 
 hear him shriek ; but if he shrieks, it can neither 
 rise above nor descend below this representation, 
 without seeing him in a condition which, as it will 
 be more endurable, becomes less interesting. It either 
 hears him merely moaning, or sees him already dead. 
 
 Furthermore, this single moment receives through 
 art an unchangeable duration ; therefore it must not 
 express anything, of which we can only think as 
 transitory. All appearances, to whose very being, 
 according to our ideas, it is essential, that they sud- 
 denly break forth, and as suddenly vanish, that they 
 can be what they are, but for a moment ; all such 
 c 
 
18 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 appearances, be they pleasing or be they horrible, 
 receive, through the prolongation which art gives 
 them, such an unnatural character, that at every re- 
 peated glance the impression they make grows weaker 
 and weaker, and at last fills us with dislike or disgust 
 of the whole object. La Mettrie, who had himself 
 painted and engraved as a second Democritus, laughs 
 only the first time we look at him. Look at him 
 oftener, and he grows from a philosopher into a fool. 
 His laugh becomes a grin. So it is with shrieks ; 
 the violent pain which compels their utterance soon 
 either subsides, or destroys its suffering subject alto- 
 gether. If, therefore, even the most patient and 
 resolute man shrieks, he does not do so unremittingly; 
 and it is only the seeming continuance of his cries in 
 art, which turns them into effeminate impotence or 
 childish petulance. These last, at least, the artist 
 of Laocoon would have avoided, even if beauty were 
 not injured by a shriek, and were not an essential 
 condition of art. 
 
 Among the ancient painters, Timomaclius seems 
 to have delighted in selecting subjects suited to the 
 display of extreme passion. His raving Ajax, and 
 infanticide Medea were celebrated paintings ; but, 
 from the descriptions we possess of them, it is plain 
 that he thoroughly understood and judiciously com- 
 bined that point, at which the beholder is rather led 
 to the conception of the extreme than actually sees 
 it, with that appearance with which we do not asso- 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 19 
 
 ciate the idea of transitoriness so inseparably, as to 
 be displeased by its continuance in art. He did not 
 paint Medea at the instant when she was actually 
 murdering her children, but a few moments before, 
 whilst her motherly love was still struggling with 
 her jealousy. We see the end of the contest before- 
 hand ; we tremble in the anticipation of soon recog- 
 nising her as simply cruel, and our imagination carries 
 us far beyond anything, which the painter could have 
 portrayed in that terrible moment itself. But, for 
 that very reason, the irresolution of Medea, which art 
 has made perpetual, is so far from giving offence, 
 that we are rather inclined to wish that it could have 
 remained the same in nature, that the contest of 
 passions had never been decided, or, at least, had 
 continued so long that time and reflection had gained 
 the mastery over fury, and assured the victory to the 
 feelings of the mother. This wisdom of Timoma- 
 chus has called forth great and frequent praise, and 
 raised him far above another unknown painter, who 
 was foolish enough to draw Medea at the very height 
 of her frenzy, and thus to impart to this fleeting, 
 transient moment of extreme madness, a duration 
 that disgusts all nature. The poet, a who censures 
 him, says very sensibly, whilst addressing the figure 
 
 a Philippus, Anthol. Lib. IV. Cap. ix. Ep. 10. — 
 
 ’Aiet yap Sixfsas (3pe(f)e ojv (fiovov . rj tls ’irjcroiv 
 
 A €VTepo$, 77 TXavurj tls naXi croi npocpairis ; 
 
 "Eppe Kal iv Krjpw, naL^oKTove 
 
20 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 itself : — “ Thirstedst thou then ever for the blood of 
 thy children? Is there ever a new Jason, a new 
 Crensa there to exasperate thee unceasingly ? ,? 
 “ Away with thee, even in painting !” he adds, in a 
 tone of vexation. 
 
 Of the frenzied Ajax of Timomachus, we can form 
 some judgment from the account of Philostratus. b 
 Ajax does not appear raging among the herds, and 
 slaughtering and binding cattle instead of men ; but 
 the master exhibits him sitting wearied with these 
 heroic deeds of insanity, and conceiving the design 
 of suicide ; and that is really the raging Ajax : not 
 because he is just then raging, but because we see 
 that he has been; because we can form the most 
 lively idea of the extremity of his frenzy, from the 
 shame and despair, which he himself feels at the 
 thoughts of it. We see the storm in the wrecks and 
 corpses with which it has strewn the beach. 
 
 b Vita Apoll. Lib. II. Cap. xxii. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 21 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 I have passed under review the reasons alleged 
 for the artist of the Laocoon being obliged to set 
 certain bounds to the expression of bodily pain ; and 
 I find that they are altogether derived from the pe- 
 culiar conditions of his art, and its necessary limits 
 and wants. Perhaps hardly any of them would be 
 found equally applicable to poetry. 
 
 We will not here examine how far the poet can 
 succeed in painting typical beauty . a It is undeni- 
 able, that the whole realm of the perfectly excellent 
 lies open to his imitation, whereas that excellence of 
 material and outward form, through which the per- 
 fectly excellent finds an expression, and which we 
 call beauty, is only one of the least of the means 
 by which he can interest us in his characters. Often 
 he neglects this means entirely, feeling certain, if his 
 hero has once won our regard, of so pre-occupying 
 our minds with his nobler qualities, that we shall 
 not bestow a thought upon his bodily form ; or that 
 if we do think of it, it will be with such favourable 
 
 a I have adopted this expression, which is used in nearly 
 the same sense by Ruskin, to denote what we generally term 
 “ Beauty,” i. e. beauty of form and line. — Trans. 
 
22 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 prepossessions, that we shall, of ourselves, attribute 
 to him an exterior, if not handsome, at least not 
 unpleasing ; at any rate he will not permit himself 
 to pay any regard to the sense of sight, in any trait, 
 which is not expressly intended to appeal to it. 
 When Virgil’s Laocoon shrieks, does it occur to any 
 one that a widely opened mouth is the necessary ac- 
 companiment of a shriek, and that this open mouth 
 is ugly P It is enough that “ clam ores horrendos ad 
 sidera tollit,” whatever it may be to the eyes, is a 
 powerful appeal to the ears. If any one here feels 
 the want of a beautiful picture, the poet has failed to 
 make a due impression on him. 
 
 Moreover, the poet is not compelled to concen- 
 trate his picture into the space of a single moment. 
 He has it in his power to take up every action of his 
 hero at its source, and pursue it to its issue, through 
 all possible variations. Each of these, which would 
 cost the artist a separate work, costs the poet but a 
 single trait ; and should this trait, if viewed by 
 itself, offend the imagination of the hearer, either 
 such preparation has been made for it by what has 
 preceded, or it will be so softened and compensated 
 by what follows, that its solitary impression is lost, 
 and the combination produces the best possible effect. 
 Thus, were it really unbecoming a man to shriek 
 under the violence of bodily pain, what prejudice 
 could this slight and transitory impropriety excite 
 in us against one, in whose favour we are already 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 23 
 
 prepossessed by his other virtues ? Yirgil’s Laocoon 
 shrieks, but this shrieking Laocoon is the same man, 
 whom we already respect as a far-sighted patriot and 
 affectionate father. We attribute his cries not to 
 his character, but solely to his intolerable suffering. 
 It is this alone that we hear in them, and by them 
 alone could the poet have brought it home to us. 
 
 Who, then, still censures him ? Who is not rather 
 forced to own, that whilst the artist has done well in 
 not allowing him to shriek, the poet has done equally 
 well in causing him to do so ? 
 
 But Virgil is here merely a narrative poet : will 
 his justification include the dramatic poet also ? One 
 impression is produced by the relation of a person’s 
 shriek, another by the shriek itself. The drama, 
 which is intended to be actually represented by the 
 comedian, should, perhaps, for that very reason, be 
 compelled to confine itself narrowly within the limits 
 of material art. In it we do not merely believe 
 that we see and hear a shrieking Philoctetes, we ac- 
 tually do see and hear him. It is indisputable that 
 such loud and violent expressions of pain are in 
 accordance with nature; the nearer, therefore, the 
 actor approaches to it, the more will our eyes and 
 ears be offended. Besides, bodily pain generally is 
 not capable of exciting that sympathy which other 
 evils awaken. Our imagination can discern too 
 little in it for the mere sight of it to arouse in us 
 anything of a similar feeling. Sophocles, therefore, 
 
24 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 in making Pliiloctetes and Hercules moan and cry, 
 shriek and howl, to such an excess, has not simply 
 offended a merely conventional sense of propriety, 
 but one grounded upon the very existence of our 
 feelings. It is impossible that the co-actors in the 
 scene should share his sufferings in the high degree, 
 that these unmeasured outbreaks seem to demand. 
 These co-actors would appear to us, even as their 
 spectators, comparatively cold ; and yet we cannot 
 but regard their sympathies as the measure of our 
 own. If we add, that it is with difficulty, if at all, 
 that the actor can succeed in carrying the represen- 
 tation of bodily pain as far as positive illusion, it be- 
 comes a question whether the modern dramatic poets 
 should not rather be praised than blamed for having 
 completely, or at least partially, avoided this rock. 
 
 How many things would have appeared incon- 
 testable in theory, if genius had not succeeded in 
 proving them to be the contrary by practice ! None 
 of the above considerations are groundless, and still 
 the Philoctetes remains one of the masterpieces of 
 the stage : for a part of them are not applicable to 
 Sophocles, and only by rising superior to the rest, 
 has he attained to that beauty, of which the timid 
 critic, without this example, would never have dreamt. 
 The following remarks will demonstrate this more 
 exactly. 
 
 1. What wonderful skill has the poet shown in 
 strengthening and enlarging the idea of bodily pain. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 25 
 
 He chose a wound, (for the circumstances of the story 
 may also be considered as depending on his choice, 
 inasmuch as he selected the whole legend for the 
 sake of the circumstances favourable to him, which 
 it contained) ; he chose, I say, a wound, and not an 
 internal malady; because the former admits of a 
 more lively representation than the latter, however 
 painful it may be. For this reason, the inward sym- 
 pathetic fire, which consumes Meleager, as his mother 
 sacrifices him to her sisterly fury by means of the 
 fatal brand, would be less dramatic than a wound. 
 This wound, moreover, was a punishment divinely 
 decreed. It is true the more violent attacks of 
 pain endured but for an appointed time, at the 
 expiration of which the unhappy man always fell 
 into a benumbing sleep, during which exhausted na- 
 ture recovered strength to tread again the same path 
 of suffering ; yet a more than natural poison was 
 ever raging in the foot. Chataubrun makes him 
 wounded merely by the poisoned arrow of a Trojan. 
 What extraordinary issue was to be expected from 
 so ordinary an occurrence? In the ancient wars 
 every one was exposed to it : how came it, then, that 
 in Philoctetes’ case only, it was followed by such 
 dreadful consequences ? Besides, is not a natural 
 poison, that works for nine whole years, far more 
 improbable than all the fabled wonders, with which 
 the Greek has adorned his piece ? 
 
 2. Sophocles felt full well that, however great 
 
26 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 and terrible he made the bodily pain of his hero, 
 it would not be sufficient, by itself, to excite any 
 remarkable degree of sympathy. He therefore com- 
 bined it noth other evils, which likewise could not 
 greatly move us of themselves, but which, from this 
 combination, receive the same melancholy colouring, 
 which they in their turn impart to the bodily pain. 
 These evils were a complete absence of human society, 
 hunger, and all the hardships of life, to which a man 
 under such privations, and an inclement climate, is 
 exposed (7). Imagine a man in these circumstances, 
 but give him health, strength, and industry, and he 
 becomes a Eobinson Crusoe, whose lot, though not 
 indifferent to ns, has certainly no great claim upon 
 our sympathy. For we are seldom so contented 
 with human society, that the quiet we enjoy when 
 secluded from it, seems without a charm for us ; 
 especially in a representation which flatters every in- 
 dividual by leading him to believe that he could gra- 
 dually become independent of all external aid. On 
 the other hand, imagine a man afflicted by the most 
 painful and incurable disease, but at the same time 
 surrounded by kind friends, who take care that, as 
 far as it lies in their power to prevent it, he wants 
 nothing which could alleviate his calamity, and before 
 whom he may freely vent his complaints and sor- 
 rows, — for such an one we should undoubtedly feel 
 sympathy ; but this sympathy would not endure 
 throughout ; and at last we should shrug our shoul- 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 27 
 
 ders and recommend patience. Only when both cases 
 are combined, — when the solitary one possesses no 
 controul over his own body, when the sick man re- 
 ceives as little assistance from others, as he can render 
 himself, and his complaints are wafted away on the 
 desert winds ; then, and then only, do we see every 
 misery, that can afflict human nature, close over the 
 head of the unfortunate one ; and then only does 
 every fleeting thought, in which we picture ourselves 
 in his situation, excite our amazement and horror. 
 We see nothing save despair in the horrible form 
 before us ; and no sympathy is so strong, none melts 
 our whole soul so much as that, which entwines itself 
 with the idea of despair. Of this kind is the sym- 
 pathy that we feel for Philoctetes, and feel most 
 strongly at the moment when we see him deprived of 
 his bow, the only means he still possessed of prolong- 
 ing his mournful existence. 0, the Frenchman who 
 had no understanding to consider this, no heart to 
 feel it ; or if he had, was mean enough to sacrifice it 
 all to the wretched taste of his nation ! b Chataubrun 
 gives Philoctetes society. He makes a young princess 
 come to him in his desert island ; and even she does 
 not come alone, but is accompanied by her maid of 
 honour, whom I know not whether princess or poet 
 needed most. He has left out the whole of the scene 
 where Philoctetes plays with his bow ; and in its 
 
 b The reader must remember that this essay was written 
 in 1766 . — Tbans. 
 
28 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 stead has introduced the play of beautiful eyes. 
 Bows and arrows, I suppose, would have appeared 
 but a merry sport to the hero youth of France ; 
 nothing, on the contrary, more serious than the 
 scorn of beautiful eyes. The Greek racks us with 
 the shocking apprehension that the miserable Philoc- 
 tetes will be left on the island without his bow, and 
 pitiably perish. The Frenchman knew a surer road 
 to our hearts : he fills us with fear that the son of 
 Achilles should tear him away without his princess. 
 This the Parisian critics called triumphing over the 
 ancients ; and one of them proposed to name Cha- 
 taubrun’s piece “La difficult^ vaincue.” 0 
 
 3. After considering the effect of the whole 
 piece, we must pass on to the single scenes, in which 
 Philoctetes no longer appears as the abandoned sick 
 man, but is cheered by a hope of soon again reach- 
 ing his kingdom ; in which, therefore, the whole of 
 his misfortune centres in his painful wound. He 
 moans, he shrieks, he falls into the most horrible 
 convulsions. Against this, the objection of offended 
 propriety is properly urged. It is an Englishman 
 who raises it; a man therefore not lightly to be 
 suspected of a false delicacy : and, as already hinted, 
 he adduces very good reasons for his opinion. All 
 feelings and passions, he says, with which others can 
 but little sympathize, become offensive, if expressed 
 with too much violence. “ It is for the same reason 
 c Mercure tie France, April, 1755, p. 177. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 29 
 
 “ that to cry out with bodily pain, how intolerable 
 “ soever, appears always unmanly, and unbecoming, 
 
 6( There is, however, a good deal of sympathy even 
 “ with bodily pain. If I see a stroke aimed, and 
 “just ready to fall upon the leg or arm of another 
 “ person, I naturally shriek, and draw back my own 
 “ leg or my own arm ; and when it does fall, I feel 
 “ it in some measure, and am hurt by it, as well as 
 “ the sufferer. My hurt, however, is no doubt ex- 
 “ cessively slight, and upon that account, if he 
 “makes any violent outcry, as I cannot go along 
 “with him, I never fail to despise him”(8). 
 Nothing is more deceitful than laying down general 
 laws for our feelings. Their web is so fine and 
 complicated, that it is scarcely possible even for the 
 most cautious speculation to take up clearly a single 
 thread and follow it amidst all those which cross it. 
 But if speculation does succeed, is any advantage 
 gained P There are in nature no simple unmodified 
 feelings ; together with each a thousand others arise, 
 the least of which is sufficient entirely to change the 
 original sensation, so that exceptions multiply upon 
 exceptions, until at last a supposed general law is 
 reduced to a mere experience in some single cases. 
 We despise a man, says the Englishman, if we hear 
 him cry out violently under bodily pain. But not 
 always ; not for the first time ; not when we see that 
 the sufferer makes every possible effort to suppress 
 it ; not when we know that he is in other respects a 
 
30 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 man of firmness ; still less when we see him even in 
 the midst of his distress afford proofs of his con- 
 stancy ; when we see that his pain can indeed compel 
 him to shriek, but cannot force him a step further ; 
 when we see that he had rather subject himself to a 
 prolongation of this pain, than suffer his mode of 
 thought or resolution to undergo the slightest altera- 
 tion, even though he has reason to hope that by this 
 change his pain would be brought altogether to an 
 end. All this is found in the case of Philoctetes. 
 Moral greatness consisted, among the Greeks, in an 
 unalterable love of their friends, and undying hatred 
 of their foes ; and this greatness Philoctetes pre- 
 served through all his troubles. His eyes were not 
 so dried up with pain that they had no tears to 
 bestow upon the fate of his former friends ; neither 
 was his spirit so subdued by it, that to obtain a 
 release from it, he could forgive his enemies and 
 willingly lend himself to all their selfish ends. And 
 were the Athenians to despise this rock of a man, 
 because the woes which were powerless to shake him, 
 could at least wring from him some expression of 
 his misery ? I confess I think that Cicero generally 
 displays but little taste in his philosophy, and least 
 of all in that part of the second book of the 
 Tusculan Questions, where he puffs off the en- 
 durance of bodily pain. One would think he 
 wanted to train a gladiator, so hot is his zeal against 
 any expression of it ; in which alone he appears to 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 31 
 
 conceive the want of endurance consists ; without 
 reflecting that it is often anything but voluntary, 
 while true bravery can be exhibited in voluntary 
 actions only. In Sophocles’ play, he hears nothing 
 but Philoctetes’ complaints and shrieks, and entirely 
 overlooks his steadfast bearing in other respects. 
 How else would he have found occasion for his 
 rhetorical sally against the poets ? “ Their object 
 
 “ surely is to render us effeminate, when they intro - 
 “ duce the bravest men complaining.” They must 
 let them complain, for the theatre is no arena. It 
 became the condemned or venal gladiator to do 
 and suffer all with propriety. Prom him no sound 
 of complaint was to be heard, in him no painful 
 convulsions seen ; for since his wounds and death 
 were intended to afford delight to the spectators, it 
 was part of his art to conceal all pain. The least 
 expression of it would have awakened sympathy; 
 and sympathy, frequently awakened, would soon have 
 put an end to these cold revolting spectacles. But to 
 awaken the sensation, which was there forbidden, is 
 the sole aim of the tragic stage. Its heroes must 
 exhibit feeling, must express their pain, and freely 
 permit the workings of simple nature. If they 
 betray training and constraint, they leave our 
 hearts cold, and like gladiators in a cothurnus, at 
 the most do but excite our wonder. Yet this 
 epithet is merited by all the characters in the so- 
 called tragedies of Seneca ; and I am firmly 
 
32 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 convinced, that the gladiatorial shows were the 
 principal cause, why the Romans always remained 
 so far below mediocrity in the tragic art. The 
 spectators learnt to misapprehend all nature at the 
 bloody spectacles of the amphitheatre, where perhaps 
 a Ctesias might have studied his art, but a Sophocles 
 never could. The most truly tragic genius ac- 
 customed to these artificial scenes of death, could 
 not have failed to degenerate into bombast and 
 rhodomontade ; but such rhodomontade is as little 
 capable of inspiring true heroism, as Philoctetes’ 
 complaints of producing effeminacy. The com- 
 plaints are those of a man, the actions those of a 
 hero. The two combined, constitute the human 
 hero, who is neither effeminate nor hard, but 
 now the one, now the other, as now nature, now 
 principle and duty require. He is the noblest 
 production of wisdom, the highest object for the 
 imitation of art. 
 
 4. Sophocles was not contented with having 
 secured his sensitive Philoctetes from all contempt, 
 but has wisely forestalled every objection, which 
 Adam Smith’s remarks would warrant being raised 
 against him. Por although we do not always 
 despise a man for crying out at bodily pain, it is 
 indisputable that we do not feel so much sympathy 
 for him as his cry appears to demand. How 
 then ought the actors, who are on the stage with 
 the shrieking Philoctetes, to demean themselves ? 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 33 
 
 Should they appear deeply moved, it would be con- 
 trary to nature ; should they show themselves as 
 cold and embarrassed, as we are actually wont to 
 be in such cases, an effect in the highest degree 
 inharmonious would be produced upon the spec- 
 tators. But, as it has been said, Sophocles has 
 provided against this also ; he has imparted to the 
 bystanders an interest of their own ; the impression, 
 which Philoctetes’ cry makes upon them, is not the 
 only thing which occupies them : the attention of 
 the spectators, therefore, is not so much arrested by 
 the disproportion of their sympathy with this cry, 
 as by the alterations, which, through this sympathy, 
 be it weak or strong, have taken, or will take place 
 in the sentiments and designs of these bystanders. 
 Neoptolemus and the chorus have deceived the 
 unfortunate Philoctetes. They see into what despair 
 their deceit may plunge him; then his terrible 
 malady assails him before their very eyes. Though 
 this calamity may not be capable of exciting any 
 remarkable degree of sympathy in them, it may 
 induce them to look into their own conduct, to pay 
 some regard to so much misery, and to feel reluct- 
 ance to heighten it by their treachery. This the 
 spectator expects, and his expectations are not 
 deceived by the noble-spirited Neoptolemus. Phi- 
 loctetes, if he had been master of his pain, would 
 have confirmed Neoptolemus in his dissimulation : 
 Philoctetes, rendered by pain incapable of all dis- 
 
34 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 simulation, however necessary it may seem to 
 prevent his fellow travellers from too soon repent- 
 ing of their promise to take him home with them, 
 by his naturalness brings back Neopt olernus to 
 his nature. The revolution is excellent, and 
 the more moving, because it is brought about 
 by mere humanity. In the frenchman’s drama, the 
 beautiful eyes again play their part in it. c But 
 I will think no more of this parody. In the 
 Trachinise, Sophocles has resorted to the same 
 artifice of uniting some other emotion in the 
 bystanders w r ith the sympathy, which should be 
 called out by hearing a cry of pain. The pain of 
 Hercules is not merely a wearing one. It drives 
 him to madness, in which he pants after nothing but 
 revenge. Already he has in this fury seized Lichas, 
 and dashed him to pieces against the rocks, The 
 chorus is composed of women, and for that reason 
 is naturally filled with amazement and terror. 
 These, and the suspense, arising from the doubt 
 whether a God will yet hasten to the aid of 
 Hercules, or whether he will be left to sink under 
 his misfortunes, here create that proper universal 
 interest, to wdiich sympathy imparts but a light 
 shading. As soon as the event is decided by the 
 assistance of the oracle, Hercules becomes quiet, 
 and astonishment at the resolution he has finally 
 
 c Act ii. Sc, 3. “ De mes deguisemens, que penseroit 
 Sophie?” says the son of Achilles. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 35 
 
 displayed, occupies the place of all other emotions. 
 But, in the general comparison of the suffering 
 Hercules with the suffering Philoctetes, we must not 
 forget that the one is a demi-god, the other only a 
 man. The man is ashamed of no complaints, while 
 the demi-god is indignant at finding that his mortal 
 part has such power over his immortal, that it can 
 compel him to weep and moan like a girl. d We 
 moderns do not believe in demi-gods, and yet expect 
 that the commonest hero should act and feel like 
 one. 
 
 That an actor can carry imitation of the shrieks 
 and convulsions of pain as far as illusion I do not 
 venture either positively to deny or assert. If I 
 found that our actors could not, I should first 
 inquire whether Garrick also found it impossible ; 
 and if my question were answered in the affirma- 
 tive, I should still be at liberty to suppose that the 
 acting and declamation of the ancients attained a 
 perfection, of which we can at this day form no 
 conception. 
 
 d Trach. v, 1071. o(ttls cocrre 7 rapdevos 
 (3e(3pvxa K.\ai a>v. 
 
36 
 
 LAOCOON, 
 
 CHAPTEB Y. 
 
 There are critics of antiquity, who, on the 
 ground that Virgil’s description must have served 
 as a model for the group of the Laocoon, main- 
 tain that the latter was indeed the work of a Greek 
 master, but of one, w T ho flourished in the time 
 of the emperors. Of the ancient scholars who 
 supported this opinion, I will now mention only 
 Bartholomseus Marliani, and of the modern, Mont- 
 faucon(9). They found, without doubt, an agree- 
 ment so peculiar, between the work of art and the 
 description of the poet, that they believed it 
 impossible that both should by chance have lighted 
 upon the same circumstances ; circumstances too, of 
 such a nature, that they would be the last to force 
 themselves upon the mind. They therefore assume 
 that, if the question of originality and priority of 
 invention is raised, there is a stronger presumption 
 in favour of the poet than of the artist. 
 
 Only they appear to have forgotten that a third 
 alternative is left : that the poet may have copied as 
 little from the artist, as the artist from the poet, 
 and both have drawn from a common, ancient 
 source, which, according to Macrobius was probably 
 Pisander(lO). For when the works of this Greek 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 37 
 
 poet were extant, it was a piece of mere schoolboy 
 knowledge (pueris decantatum), that the Roman 
 poet not only imitated, but, as might be said with 
 more truth still, faithfully translated from him, the 
 entire account of the conquest and destruction of 
 Ilium, which constitutes the whole of the second 
 book. Thus, if Yirgil had followed Pisander in the 
 story of Laocoon also, the Greek artists would have 
 had no need to seek the guidance of a Latin poet ; 
 and the conjecture as to the period to which the 
 work belongs, is without foundation. 
 
 But if I were compelled to maintain the opinion 
 of Marliani and Montfaucon, I should like to lend 
 them the following means of escaping from this 
 difficulty. Pisander 5 s poems are lost, and we can- 
 not say with certainty what was his version of the 
 story of Laocoon ; but it is probable that it was the 
 same as that of which we still find traces in the 
 Greek authors. This, however, has as little as 
 possible in common with the narrative of Yirgil, 
 who must, therefore, have entirely recast the Greek 
 tradition, according to his own ideas. On this 
 supposition his account of the misfortune of 
 Laocoon is his own invention; and consequently, 
 if the artists in their representation are in harmony 
 with him, it is natural to suppose that they lived 
 after his time, and executed their group after his 
 model. 
 
 Quintus Calaber agrees with Yirgil in making 
 
38 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 Laocoon exhibit a suspicion of the wooden horse ; 
 but the anger of Minerva, drawn upon the priest for 
 so doing, is wreaked upon him in a completely dif- 
 ferent manner. The ground trembles beneath the feet 
 of the warning Trojan ; terror and anguish take pos- 
 session of him; a burning pain rages in his eyes ; his 
 brain suffers ; he goes mad ; he is struck with 
 blindness. Then, when, in spite of his blindness, 
 he ceases not to counsel the burning of the wooden 
 horse, Minerva at length sends tAvo terrible serpents, 
 which, however, seize upon his children only. In 
 vain they stretch out their hands towards their 
 father. The poor blind man can afford them no 
 aid ; they are dreadfully mangled, and the serpents 
 disappear under the earth. Laocoon himself, how- 
 ever, suffers no injury from them; and that this 
 version is not peculiar to Quintus, a but on the 
 contrary, was commonly received, is proved by a 
 passage from Lycophron, in which he bestows on 
 the serpents b the epithet of “child eaters.” 
 
 But, if this had been the version commonly 
 adopted by the Greeks, Greek artists would hardly 
 have ventured to deviate from it ; or, if they had, 
 could scarcely have chanced to do so in exactly the 
 same manner as a Boman poet, unless they had been 
 previously acquainted with him, or perhaps had 
 
 a Paralip. xii. 383. 
 
 b Or rather on the serpent; for Lycophron mentions one only, 
 Kai 7rcudo(3p(bTos 7 vopKeoos vr]crovs diir\as. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 39 
 
 received an express commission to take his de- 
 scription as their model. On this point, I think, 
 a defender of Montfaucon and Marliani cannot 
 insist too strongly. Virgil is the first and only 
 author who makes the serpents kill the father as 
 well as children(l 1). The sculptors do this like- 
 wise; which, seeing that they were Greeks, it 
 would have been unnatural to expect they should ; 
 Virgil’s description, therefore, was probably their 
 inducement. 
 
 I am fully conscious how far this probability falls 
 short of historical certainty. But, though I intend 
 to draw no further historical conclusion from it, I 
 think it is, at the least, admissible as an hypothesis, 
 on which a critic may be allowed to rest his obser- 
 vations. Whether then it is proved, or not, that the 
 sculptors took Virgil’s description for their model, 
 I shall merely assume it for the sake of inquiring- 
 how they would in that case have executed their 
 task. I have already clearly expressed my opinions 
 upon the subject of the shriek ; and perhaps a 
 further comparison may lead to no less instructive 
 observations. 
 
 The idea of connecting the father and his two 
 sons in one knot, by means of. the murderous 
 serpents, is undeniably a happy one, and evinces an 
 artistic imagination of no ordinary power. To 
 whom is the credit of it due? To the poet, or 
 the artists? Montfaucon pretends that he cannot 
 
40 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 find the least allusion to it in the former(12) ; but I 
 think he has not read him with sufficient attention. 
 
 Illi agmine certo 
 
 Laocoonta petunt, et primum parva duorum 
 Corpora natorum serpens amplexus uterque 
 Implicat, et miseros morsu depascitur artus. 
 
 Post ipsum, auxilio subeuntem et tela ferentem 
 Corripiunt, spirisque ligant ingentibus. 
 
 The poet has described the serpents as of wonderful 
 length. They have wound their folds round the 
 boys, and, when the father comes to the aid of 
 his sons, they seize upon him also (corripiunt). 
 Owing to the size, they are represented as being, 
 they could not at once have unwound themselves 
 from the sons. There must, therefore, have been 
 a moment when they had already attacked the 
 father with their heads and fore parts, while the 
 folds of their tails still encircled his children. This 
 moment is necessary to the progress of the poetical 
 picture ; and the poet allowed us to become com- 
 pletely conscious of it, but wanted time to paint 
 it in detail. That the old commentators actually felt 
 it, seems to be shown by a passage in Donatus (13). 
 How much less likely, then, would it be to escape 
 the notice of artists, upon whose penetrating sight 
 everything, that can be of advantage to them, bursts 
 with such speed and significance. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 41 
 
 Though the poet describes Laocoon as fettered 
 by so many serpent coils, he carefully avoids men- 
 tioning the arms, and thus leaves his hands in 
 perfect freedom. 
 
 Ille simul manibus tendit divellere nodos. 
 
 In this the artists necessarily followed his example. 
 Nothing adds so much expression and life to a figure 
 as the movement of the hands ; in the case of the 
 passions, especially, the most speaking face is mean- 
 ingless without it. Had the arms been fast locked 
 to the bodies by the folds of the serpents, they 
 would have spread torpor and death over the whole 
 group. They are therefore seen in full play, both in 
 the principal figure and in those next it ; and their 
 activity is greatest where the pain is most violent. 
 
 But this freedom of the hands was the only point 
 in the coiling of the serpents, that the artist could 
 have borrowed with advantage from the poet. Yirgil 
 tells us that the monsters wound themselves twice 
 round both the body and neck of their victim, while 
 their heads towered high above him. 
 
 Bis medium amplexi, bis collo squamea circum 
 Terga dati, superant capite et cervicibus altis. 
 
 Now this picture satisfies the imagination excellently ; 
 the noblest parts of the body are compressed to suffo- 
 
42 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 cation, and the poison flows directly up to the face ; 
 yet, in spite of this, it was no picture for the artist, 
 whose object was to exhibit in the body the pain and 
 workings of the poison. Now to enable us to per- 
 ceive these, the upper parts of the frame had to be 
 left as free as possible, and all external pressure 
 avoided, by which the play of the suffering nerves 
 and working muscles might be weakened and di- 
 verted. The twofold coils of the serpents would 
 have concealed the whole body and left that painful 
 contraction of the stomach, which is so expressive, 
 altogether invisible. Those parts of the body, which 
 would have been still exposed above, below, or be- 
 tween the folds, would have been seen amidst com- 
 pressions and distentions, the effect not of inward 
 pain, but of external pressure. Again, by the neck 
 being twice encircled, that pyramidal pointing of the 
 group, which is so pleasing to the eye, would have 
 been entirely destroyed ; and the pointed heads of 
 the serpents, projecting from the mass and shooting 
 into the air, would have produced such a sudden 
 falling off in proportion, that the form of the whole 
 would have become offensive in the extreme. There 
 are designers who have been foolish enough, in spite 
 of this, to adhere closely to the poet. To take one 
 example among several, we may learn, to our horror, 
 the effect of such an imitation from a drawing by 
 Trank Cleyn(14). The ancient sculptors saw at a 
 glance that in this case their art required an 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 43 
 
 absolute difference ; they removed all the coils from 
 the body and neck to the thighs and feet. Here 
 they could conceal and squeeze as much as was 
 necessary, without causing any detriment to the ex- 
 pression. Here, moreover, they awakened the idea of 
 suddenly checked flight, and of a kind of immobility, 
 which is of the greatest advantage to the artificial 
 prolongation of the same attitude. 
 
 I know not how it has happened that this obvious 
 difference in the coiling of the serpents, between 
 the work of art and the description of the poet, has 
 been passed over in complete silence by the critics. 
 It exalts the wisdom of the artists just as much as 
 the other difference, which they have all remarked, 
 but have sought to justify, rather than ventured to 
 approve. I mean the difference in respect to drapery. 
 The Laocoon of Virgil is arrayed in his priestly 
 garments ; while in the group, both he and his sons 
 appear entirely naked. There are some who have 
 detected a gross absurdity in a king’s son and a 
 priest, officiating at a sacrifice, being thus represented. 
 And to these objectors the critics of art answer, in 
 all seriousness, that, to be sure, it is an error against 
 conventionality; but that the artists were forced 
 into it, because they could not attire their figures in 
 becoming robes. Sculpture, say they, cannot imitate 
 any stuffs ; thick folds produce a bad effect ; out of 
 two evils therefore we must choose the least, and 
 rather offend against truth itself, than be exposed to 
 
44 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 censure on account of the drapery. If the ancient 
 artists would have smiled at the objection, I know 
 not what they would have said to the reply. Art 
 could not be reduced to a lower level than it is by 
 this defence. For, supposing that sculpture could 
 have imitated the difference of texture as well as 
 painting, would it have been necessary for the 
 Laocoon to have been draped P Should we have lost 
 nothing beneath this drapery ? Has a garment, the 
 work of a slavish hand, as much beauty as an or- 
 ganized body, the work of everlasting wisdom? 
 Does it demand the same powers P Is it of the same 
 merit ? Is it equally honourable to imitate the 
 one as the other ? Is deception all that our eyes 
 require ? Is it of no importance to them by what 
 they are deceived ? 
 
 In poetry a garment is no garment ; it conceals 
 nothing. Our imagination sees everything beneath 
 it. Whether Laocoon has robes or not in Yirgil, 
 his sufferings are as visible to the imagination in 
 one part of the body as in the other. It sees indeed 
 the priestly fillet encircle his brow, but the brow is 
 not hidden. Nay, this fillet is not only no hin- 
 drance to, it even strengthens the idea which we 
 form of the calamity of the sufferer : 
 
 Perfusus sanie vittas atroque veneno. 
 
 His priestly dignity avails him not, even its emblem, 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 45 
 
 that which, above everything, wins him respect and 
 honour, is drenched and polluted by the poisoned 
 foam. But the artist must resign these subordinate 
 ideas, if his main object does not admit them. Had 
 he left Laocoon only this fillet, he would in a great 
 degree have weakened the expression ; for the brow, 
 which is the seat of it, would have been in part con- 
 cealed. Thus, as formerly, in the case of the shriek, 
 he sacrificed expression to beauty, he here offers up 
 conventionality to expression. The former was 
 generally but lightly esteemed by the ancients. 
 They felt that the highest aim of their art led to 
 its complete rejection. Beauty is that highest aim : 
 necessity invented garments, and what has art in 
 common with necessity P I grant that there is also 
 a beauty in drapery, but can it be compared wutli 
 that of the human form? And shall he, who can 
 attain to the greater, rest content with the less ? I 
 much fear that the most perfect master in drapery 
 shows by that very talent wherein his weakness lies. 
 
46 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 My hypothesis, that the artists have imitated the 
 poet, is not pushed far enough to be any disparage- 
 ment to the former. Nay, through this imitation, 
 their wisdom is shown in the most favourable light. 
 They follow the poet, without suffering themselves to 
 be misled by him even in the merest trifles. They 
 were indeed furnished with their design, but, since 
 this design had to be transferred from one art to 
 another, they found ample opportunity for the exer- 
 cise of original thought. And the original ideas, dis- 
 played in their deviations from their model, are a 
 proof that they excelled in their own art as much as 
 the poet in his. 
 
 I will now invert my hypothesis, and assume that 
 the poet has copied the artists. There are scholars 
 who maintain that this is the truth( 16 ) ; but I can- 
 not discover that they have any historical grounds 
 for such a belief. They probably looked upon the 
 group as so supremely beautiful that they could not 
 persuade themselves it belonged to the late period, 
 to which it is usually ascribed ; it must, they thought, 
 have belonged to the age when art was in its fullest 
 bloom, since that alone seemed worthy of it. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 47 
 
 It has been shown that, excellent as Virgil’s des- 
 cription is, there are several features in it, of which 
 the artist could make no use. This conclusion limits 
 the general principle, “ that a good poetical picture 
 will necessarily produce an equally good material 
 painting ; and that a poet’s description is only so far 
 good, as the artist can follow it in all its details.” 
 This limitation w r e shall be inclined to assume, even 
 before we see it confirmed by examples, if we simply 
 consider the wide sphere of poetry, the boundless 
 field of our imagination, and the spirituality of 
 its images ; a great and various throng of which can 
 be placed in the closest juxtaposition, without con- 
 cealing or disfiguring each other, which perhaps 
 would be the effect that the object itself, or its 
 natural representative signs, would produce in the 
 narrow limits of space and time. 
 
 But if the less cannot contain the greater, still it 
 can be contained in it. I mean, although each trait, 
 of which the descriptive poet avails himself, need not 
 necessarily have as good effect upon canvass, or in 
 marble ; yet ought not every detail, from which the 
 artist reaps advantage, to produce the same result in 
 the work of the poet ? Indisputably ! for that, which 
 is beautiful in a work of art, is beautiful, not to our 
 eyes, but to our imagination, affected through their 
 means. Thus, as the same image may be raised 
 afresh in our imagination, either through a conven- 
 tional or natural representation, so the same plea- 
 
48 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 sure, though not the same degree of it, must, on each 
 occasion, Be again excited. 
 
 But admitting this, I must acknowledge that, to 
 me, the supposition that Yirgil imitated the artists, 
 appears far more incomprehensible than its converse. 
 If the artists have copied the poet, I can account 
 and answer for all their deviations from him ; they 
 were compelled to deviate, for the very details, 
 which would have offended against harmony in them, 
 found harmonious expression in the other. But there 
 is no cause for the deviation of the poet. If, in each 
 and every point, he had faithfully followed the group, 
 he would still have transmitted to us a most excellent 
 picture(l7). I well understand how his imagination, 
 working before itself, could lead him to this or that 
 particular; but I cannot conceive any reason why 
 his judgment should feel itself compelled to change 
 the beautiful details, which were already before his 
 eyes, for others. I think too, that if Yirgil had had 
 the group of Laoeoon for a model, he would hardly 
 have been able to put such restraint upon himself, as 
 to have left, as it were, to mere conjecture, the 
 entanglement of all three bodies in a single knot ; 
 It would have struck his eyes too vividly, he would 
 have experienced from it an effect too' excellent not 
 to have brought it more prominently forward in his 
 description. 
 
 I admitted that then was not the moment for 
 developing this idea of entanglement; but the ad- 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 49 
 
 dition of a single word might easily, we may conceive, 
 have distinctly expressed this idea, without removing 
 it from that background, in which the poet was 
 obliged to leave it. The trait, which the artist could 
 express without this word, would not have been left 
 unrepresented by the poet, had he already seen it put 
 forward in the sculpture of the former. 
 
 The artist had the most urgent reasons for not 
 allowing the suffering of Laocoon to break forth into 
 a cry ; but if the poet had had before him in a work 
 of art so moving an union of pain and beauty, 
 there was nothing to oblige him to pass by, without 
 an allusion, the manly bearing, and high-souled 
 patience which this union suggests, and induce 
 him to shock us at once with the horrible shriek of 
 his Laocoon. Bichardson says, “Virgil’s Laocoon 
 was obliged to shriek, because it was the poet’s aim 
 not so much to excite compassion for him, as alarm 
 and horror among the Trojans.” I will allow it, 
 although Bichardson does not appear to have re- 
 flected that the poet does not give this narrative in 
 his own person, but represents iEneas as relating it, 
 and that too in the presence of Dido, upon whose 
 sympathy he could not work too strongly. However, 
 it is not the shriek which surprises me, but the ab- 
 sence of all that gradation in introducing it, to 
 which the poet must have been led, had he, as we 
 are assuming, had the work of art for his model. 
 Bichardson adds(18), “ The story of Laocoon is only 
 E 
 
50 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 intended as a prelude to ttie pathetic description of 
 the final destruction of the city ; the poet, therefore, 
 abstained from making it more interesting, that our 
 attention, which this last horrible night fully de- 
 mands, might not be previously engrossed by the 
 misfortune of a single citizen.” But that is being 
 willing to look at the whole scene from the pic- 
 turesque point of view, from which it cannot possibly 
 be viewed. The misfortune of Laocoon, and the 
 destruction of the city, are not, with the poet, con- 
 nected pictures. The two form no whole, that our 
 eyes either can, or ought to, take in both at a glance ; 
 in which case only, would there be a fear that our 
 mind should dwell more upon Laocoon than upon 
 the burning town. The description of the one follows 
 upon that of the other, and however affecting the first 
 may be, I do not see what disparagement it can 
 bring upon its successor ; unless it be allowed that, 
 in itself, the second is not sufficiently pathetic. 
 
 The poet would have had less reason still for 
 altering the folds of the serpents, which, in the work 
 of art, occupy the hands and entangle the feet of 
 their victims. This arrangement is most pleasing to 
 the eyes ; and the image of it, which is left upon 
 the imagination, most lively; indeed it is so ex- 
 pressive and clear, that the representation of it 
 by words is but little weaker than its material- 
 representation. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 51 
 
 Micat alter, et ip sum 
 
 Laocoonta petit, totumque infraque supraque 
 
 Implicat, et rabido tandem ferit ilia morsu. 
 
 *%*%*%*%: 
 
 At serpens lapsu crebro redeunte subintrat 
 
 Lubricus, intortoque ligat genua infima nodo. 
 
 These are the lines of Sadolet, which, without doubt, 
 would have come more graphically from Yirgil, if a 
 visible model had fired his imagination ; and which, 
 then, would certainly have been better than those, he 
 has now left us in their place : 
 
 Bis medium amplexi, bis collo squamea circum 
 
 Terga dati, superant capite et cervicibus altis. 
 
 These traits certainly fill our imagination, but it 
 must not be allowed to dwell upon them, it must 
 not attempt to realize them, it must look at one 
 time only on the serpents, at another only on 
 Laocoon; it must not seek to image to itself the 
 group, which the two produce together ; as soon as 
 it thinks on this, it begins to be otf ended by Virgil’s 
 picture, and finds it highly inartistic. 
 
 But even if the alterations, which Virgil has 
 made in his borrowed model, were not unhappy, still 
 they would be merely arbitrary. Imitation is an 
 effort to produce a resemblance ; but can a person 
 be said to aim at this, whose changes overstep the 
 line of necessity P Further, when a man thus exceeds, 
 
52 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 it is clear that it is not his design to produce re- 
 semblance ; that, therefore, he has not imitated. 
 
 Not the whole, it might be answered, but perhaps 
 this or that part. Suppose it so : still, which are 
 these single parts, in which the harmony between 
 the description and the work of art is so close that 
 the poet can be said to have borrowed them from it ? 
 The father, the children, the serpents, all these tra- 
 dition transmitted to the poet, no less than to the 
 artist. Setting aside what was traditional, they do 
 not agree in anything, except in this, that both 
 entangle father and children in a single serpent- 
 knot. But the idea of this arose from the altered 
 circumstance of the father’s being smitten with 
 exactly the same calamity as his children. This 
 alteration, however, as was mentioned above, appears 
 to have been made by Yirgil ; for the Greek tra- 
 dition gives an entirely different account. Con- 
 sequently, if, in consideration of this entanglement 
 being common to both, we must assume an imitation 
 on the one side or the other, it is more natural to 
 do so on the side of the artist, than on that of the 
 poet. In every other respect the one differs from 
 the other, only with this distinction, that if it is the 
 artist who has made these changes, they are still 
 compatible with an intention of imitating the poet, 
 because the destination, and limits of his art com- 
 pelled him to them ; if, on the contrary, the poet 
 should be thought to have imitated the artist, all 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 53 
 
 the above-mentioned deviations are proofs against 
 this pretended imitation ; and those, who, in spite of 
 them, continue to support it, can only mean that 
 they believe the work of art must be of greater 
 antiquity than the description of the poet. 
 
54 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 When it is said that the artist imitates the poet, 
 or the poet the artist, a double meaning may be con- 
 veyed. Either the one makes the work of the other 
 the actual object of his imitation, or, the two have 
 the same object, and the one borrows from the other 
 the way and manner of imitating it. 
 
 When Virgil describes the shield of HOneas, he 
 imitates the artist, who made it, according to the 
 first signification of the term. The work of art, 
 not what is represented upon it, is the object of 
 his imitation ; and even though he does describe the 
 latter with the former, he describes it as a part of 
 the shield, and not as the thing itself. If Virgil, on 
 the contrary, had imitated the group of Laocoon, 
 this would have been an imitation of the second 
 kind, for he would not have imitated the group itself, 
 but what that group represented ; borrowing from the 
 former the features only of his imitation. 
 
 In the first kind of imitation the poet is original, 
 in the second he is a plagiarist. The first is a part 
 of that universal imitation, of which the essence of 
 his art consists, and he works as a genius ; his sub- 
 ject may be the work either of another art, or of 
 nature herself. The second, on the contrary, de- 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 55 
 
 grades him altogether from his dignity; instead of 
 the thing itself, he imitates imitations of it, and offers 
 us cold reminiscences of the traits of another man’s 
 genius, for the original features of his own. 
 
 If, however, the poet and the artist cannot help 
 frequently contemplating those objects, which are 
 common to both, from the same point of view, it 
 must happen that in many cases their imitations har- 
 monize, without the least copying or rivalry between 
 the two having taken place. These coincidences be- 
 tween contemporary artists and poets, in the case of 
 things which are no longer present to us, may lead 
 to mutual illustrations. But to push this kind of 
 illustration to such refinements that coincidence is 
 converted into design ; and to impute to the poet, 
 especially in every trifle, a reference to this statue or 
 that painting, is to render him a very doubtful ser- 
 vice ; and not him alone, but the reader also, to 
 whom the most beautiful passages are by these means 
 rendered full of meaning, at the risk, perhaps, of de- 
 stroying their effect. 
 
 This is at once the aim and the error of a well- 
 known English writer. Spence wrote his “Poly- 
 metis ” 21 with a great deal of classical learning, and an 
 
 a The first edition is of 1747, the second of 1755, 
 and bears the title £s Polymetis,” or “ An inquiry concerning 
 the agreement between the works of the Roman poets and the 
 remains of the ancient artists, being an attempt to illustrate 
 them mutually from one another.” 
 
56 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 intimate acquaintance with the extant works of an- 
 cient art. In his design of illustrating by these, 
 the Homan poets, and of extracting from them, in 
 return, a solution of the ancient works of art, still 
 unexplained, he has often happily succeeded. But, 
 in spite of this, I maintain that his book must be 
 absolutely intolerable to every reader of taste. It is 
 natural, when Valerius Flaccus describes the winged 
 lightning upon the Homan shields, 
 
 (Nec primus radios, miles Homane, corusci 
 
 Fulminis et rutilas scutis diffuderis alas.) 
 
 that this description should appear far more full of 
 meaning, if I see the representation of such a shield 
 upon an old monument. b It is quite possible that 
 the ancient armourers may, on their helmets and 
 shields, have represented Mars in that hovering pos- 
 ture above Hhea, in which Addison believed he saw 
 him on a coin(19) ; and that Juvenal had such a 
 helmet or shield in his mind, when he alluded to it 
 by a word, which, up to the time of Addison, had 
 been a riddle to all commentators. I myself seem 
 to feel the passage in Ovid, where the wearied 
 Cephalus calls upon the cooling breeze : 
 
 “Aura venias 
 
 Meque juves, intresque sinus, gratissima, nostros!” 
 
 b Val. Flaccus, Lib. iv. 55. — Polymetis, Dial. vi. p. 50. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 57 
 
 and his mistress Procris takes this “ Anra ” to be 
 the name of a rival — I seem, I say, to feel this pas- 
 sage more natural when I see, upon the works of 
 art of the ancients, that they actually personified 
 the gentle breezes, and under the name of “ Aurse,” 
 worshipped a kind of female sylph(2Q). I admit 
 that, when Juvenal compares an empty fellow of 
 rank with a Hermes, we should have great difficulty 
 in finding the similarity in this comparison, unless 
 we had seen such a Hermes, and had known it to be a 
 trumpery column, which only bears the head, or, at 
 most, the trunk of the god, and which, from the ab- 
 sence of hands and feet on it, calls up the idea of 
 inactivity (2 1). Illustrations of this kind are by no 
 means to be despised, even though they should not 
 be always necessary, or always satisfactory. The 
 poet had the work of art before his eyes, not as an 
 imitation, but as a thing independently existing, or 
 else artist and poet had adopted the same con- 
 ceptions, and consequently, in their representations, 
 there must have been exhibited a harmony, from 
 which, in turn, conclusions as to the universality of 
 those conceptions might have been deduced. 
 
 But when Tibullus paints the form of Apollo, as 
 he appeared to him in a dream, “the beautiful 
 youth, the temples encircled by the chaste bay ; the 
 Syrian odours exhaling from the golden locks, which 
 floated about his slender neek ; the gleaming white, 
 and rosy redness, mingled over the whole body, as 
 
58 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 upon the tender cheeks of a bride, first being led to 
 her beloved,” — there is no reason why these traits 
 should have been borrowed from celebrated old 
 paintings. The “nova nupta verecundia notabilis” 
 of Echion may have been in Rome, may have been 
 copied a thousand, and a thousand times ; but does 
 that prove that bridal modesty itself had vanished 
 from the world ? Because the painter had seen it, 
 was no poet ever to see it more, save in the painter’s 
 imitation ? c Or, when another poet describes Yulcan 
 as wearied, and his face, scorched by the furnace, as 
 red and burning, must he have first learnt, from the 
 work of a painter, that toil wearies, and heat red- 
 dens ? d Or, when Lucretius describes the changes of 
 the seasons, and in natural succession conducts them 
 past us, with the whole train of their effects in earth 
 and air, are we to suppose that he was an ephemeral, 
 who had never lived through an whole year, had 
 never experienced these changes in his own person ? 
 Are we to assume his picture to have been drawn 
 after an ancient procession, in which the statues of 
 the seasons were carried about ? Did he, necessarily, 
 first learn from these statues the old poetic power, 
 by which such abstractions are converted into 
 realities ?(22). Does not the “ Pontem indignatus 
 Araxes” of Virgil, that excellent and poetical pic- 
 ture of a flooded river, as it tears away the bridge 
 
 c Tibullus Eleg. IV. lib. iii. Polymetis, Dial. viii. page 84. 
 d Statius Sylv. lib. v. 8. Polymetis, Dial. viii. page 81. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 59 
 
 which had spanned it, lose its whole beauty, when 
 the poet is said to be alluding by it to a work of art, 
 in which this river god is represented in the act of 
 breaking a bridge in pieces? 6 What profit can we 
 derive from such illustrations as these, that deprive 
 the poet of any share of honour in the clearest 
 passages, in order to admit but the glimmer of some 
 artist’s idea ? 
 
 I regret that so useful a book, as the Polymetis 
 might have been, should, through this tasteless 
 caprice for attributing to the ancient poets, in place 
 of their own genius, familiarity with some other 
 man’s, have become repulsive, and far more preju- 
 dicial to the classic authors, than the watery com- 
 mentaries of insipid etymologists could ever have 
 been. Still more do I regret that in this Spence 
 should have been preceded by Addison, who, in the 
 desire of elevating an acquaintance with works of 
 art to a means of interpreting the classics, has 
 been as little successful as his successor, in distin- 
 guishing where the imitation of an artist is becoming, 
 where derogatory, to a poet. f 
 
 e iEneid. Lib. viii. 728. — Polymetis, Dial. xiv. page 230. 
 
 f In various passages of his travels; and in his conver- 
 sations on ancient coins. 
 
60 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 CHAPTEB VIII. 
 
 Of the similarity which exists between poetry 
 and painting, Spence forms the most curious con- 
 ceptions possible. He believes that the two arts 
 were, among the ancients, so closely united that they 
 constantly went hand in hand, the poet never suffer- 
 ing himself to lose sight of the painter, nor the 
 painter of the poet. That poetry is the more 
 comprehensive art, that beauties wait on its bidding, 
 which painting would in vain attempt to attain ; 
 that it often has good reasons for preferring in- 
 artistic beauties to artistic ; of all this he seems 
 never once to have thought ; and, therefore, the most 
 trifling differences, that he may observe between the 
 ancient poets and artists, involve him in an em- 
 barassment, by which he is driven to the use of the 
 most surprising subterfuges. 
 
 The ancient poets, for the most part, attributed 
 horns to Bacchus. “ Therefore it is surprising,” says 
 Spence, “that these horns are not more commonly 
 seen upon his statues. ” a He advances first one 
 reason, then another, now the ignorance of anti- 
 quarians, now the smallness of the h@rns themselves, 
 which, he thinks, might have been hidden under the 
 
 a Polymetis, Dial.ix. page 129. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 61 
 
 grape clusters and ivy leaves, which were the con- 
 stant head-dress of the god. He hovers around the 
 true cause, without for a moment suspecting it. 
 The horns of Bacchus were not natural horns, as 
 were those of Fauns and Satyrs. They were an 
 ornament of the brow, which he could put on, or 
 lay aside, at his pleasure. 
 
 Tibi cum sine cornibus adstas 
 
 Yirgineum caput est, 
 
 is Ovid’s festive invocation of Bacchus ; b so that 
 he could shew himself without horns, and did so, 
 whenever he wished to appear in his maiden beauty, 
 in which the artist would naturally represent him, 
 and would therefore be compelled to avoid every 
 addition, which might produce a bad effect. Such 
 an addition would these horns have been, which 
 were fastened on the chaplet in the manner they are 
 seen to be on a head in the Boyal Cabinet of Berlin. 0 
 Such an addition was the chaplet itself, which con- 
 cealed his beautiful forehead, and therefore occurs in 
 the statues of Bacchus, as rarely as the horns 
 themselves; while the poets are, as continually, 
 attributing it to him as its inventor. The horns and 
 the chaplet furnished the poet with his allusions to 
 the actions and character of the god. To the artist, 
 on the contrary, they were impediments, preventing 
 
 b Metamorph. Lib. iv. 19. 
 
 c Begeri Thes. Brandenb. Vol. iii. page 242. 
 
62 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 the display of higher beauties ; and if Bacchus, as 
 I believe, obtained the name of “Biformis, Atpopcfios” 
 for this very reason, viz. that he could manifest 
 himself in beauty as well as in terror, it is perfectly 
 natural, that the artists, from his two forms, should 
 have selected that, which best corresponded with 
 the purpose of their art. 
 
 In Homan poetry, Minerva and Juno often hurl 
 the thunderbolt. Why, asks Spence, do they not do 
 it in their statues also ? d He answers, “ this power 
 “was the privilege of these two goddesses, the 
 “ reason of which was, perhaps, first learnt in the 
 “ Samothracian mysteries. But since, among the 
 “ ancient Homans, the artists would be considered as 
 “ of inferior rank, and would therefore be rarely 
 “imitated in them, they would doubtless know 
 “ nothing of it, and what they knew not of, they clearly 
 “ could not represent.” There are several questions 
 which I might ask Spence in turn. Did these com- 
 mon persons work on their own account ; or at the 
 bidding of some patron of higher rank, who might 
 possibly be instructed in these mysteries P Did 
 artists occupy such an inferior position in Greece 
 also? Were not the Homan artists for the most 
 part born Greeks ? and so forth. 
 
 Statius and Valerius Flaccus describe an irritated 
 Venus, and that too in such terrible traits, that at 
 this moment she might be taken for a fury rather 
 d Polymetis, Dial. vi. page 63, 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 63 
 
 than the goddess of love. Spence looks around 
 among the ancient works of art for such a statue, 
 but in vain. What is the conclusion he draws ? Is 
 it that the poet has greater liberty allowed him than 
 the sculptor and painter ? This is the conclusion he 
 should have drawn, but he had, once for all, adopted, 
 as fundamental, the principle that, “ scarce anything 
 “ can be good in a poetical description, which would 
 “ appear absurd, if represented in a statue or picture.” 6 
 Consequently, the poets must have committed an 
 error. " Statius and Valerius belong to an age when 
 “ Roman poetry was already in its decline. In this 
 “ very passage they display their bad judgment and 
 “ corrupted taste. Among the poets of a better age, 
 “ such a repudiation of the laws of artistic expression 
 “ will never be found. ” f 
 
 To pronounce such criticisms, as these, needs but 
 small powers of discernment. I will not, however, 
 in this instance, take up the defence either of Statius 
 or Valerius, but confine myself for the present to a 
 general observation. The gods and spiritual beings, 
 as they are represented by the artists, are not pre- 
 cisely such as to fulfil the requisitions of the poet. 
 With the artist they are personified abstractions, 
 which, in order to be at once recognised, must 
 perpetually retain their appropriate characteristics. 
 With the poet, on the contrary, they are real, acting 
 
 6 Polymetis, Dial. xx. page 311. 
 
 f Polymetis, Dial. vii. page 74. 
 
64 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 beings, which, in addition to their general character, 
 profess other qualities and feelings, which stand out 
 in darker or lighter relief, according to the circum- 
 stances of the moment. In the eyes of the sculptor 
 Yenus is only “love.” He must, therefore, attribute 
 to her all the modest, bashful beauty, all the graceful 
 charm, which are the attractions in a beloved object ; 
 and which, therefore, we include in our abstract idea 
 of love. If there is the least deviation from this 
 ideal, we can no longer recognise her form. Beauty, 
 but clothed with majesty rather than bashfulness, 
 becomes at once, not a Yenus, but a Juno. Charms, 
 but charms commanding, and rather manly than 
 graceful, give us, instead of a Yenus, a Minerva. 
 An irritated Yenus, a Yenus impelled by revenge 
 and fury, is a positive contradiction to the sculptor ; 
 for love, as such, is never angry or revengeful. To 
 the poet, on the contrary, Yenus is indeed “ love,” 
 but she is also the goddess of love, who, in addition 
 to this character, has her peculiar personality, and 
 consequently must be just as capable of the impulses 
 of aversion, as she is of those of affection. What 
 wonder, then, if he paints her as inflamed with in- 
 dignation and fury, especially when it is an affront 
 offered to love itself, that has kindled these feelings 
 in her ? It is quite true, that in groups, the artist, 
 as well as the poet, can introduce Yenus, or any 
 other divinity, as, in addition to her peculiar charac- 
 ter, a real and acting being. But, in that case, their 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 65 
 
 actions must, at least, be in conformity with their 
 character, even though not the immediate conse- 
 quences of it. Venus bestows on her son divine 
 armour. This action the artist can represent as well 
 as the poet. Here, there is nothing to prevent him 
 from giving Venus all the charm and beauty, which 
 are her attributes as the goddess of love; nay 
 rather, in his work, she will be by these very attri- 
 butes the more easily recognised. But when Venus 
 wishes to take vengeance upon her contemners, the 
 people of Lemnos, “with wild dilated form, with 
 “ flushed cheeks, dishevelled hair, and torch in hand, 
 “she wraps a sable robe around her, and, in a 
 “ storm, descends upon a gloomy cloud;” this is no 
 moment for the artist, since, at this moment, there 
 is no feature, by which he could render her capable of 
 being recognised. It is a moment for the poet, 
 because he only has the privilege of combining with 
 it another, in which the goddess is wholly Venus, so 
 nearly and so closely, that she is never lost -sight of 
 in the fury. This Flaccus does — 
 
 Neque enim alma videri 
 J am tumet ; aut tereti crinem subnectitur auro, 
 Sidereos diffusa sinus. Eadem effera et ingens 
 Et maculis suffecta genas ; pinumque sonantem 
 Virginibus Stygiis, nigramque simillima pallarn. 5 
 
 g Argonaut. Lib. ii. 102. 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 Statius does the same — 
 
 Ilia Paphon veterem centumque altaria linquens, 
 Nec vultu nee crine prior, solvisse jugalem 
 Ceston, et Idalias procul ablegasse volucres 
 Pertur. Erant certe, media qui noctis in umbra 
 Divam alios ignes majoraque tela gerentem, 
 Tartarias inter thalamis volitasse sorores 
 Vulgarent : utque implicitis arcana domorum 
 Anguibus, et sseva formidine cuncta replerit 
 Limina. h 
 
 But it may be said, the poet alone possesses the 
 power of painting with negative traits, and, by mix- 
 ing the negative and positive together, of uniting two 
 appearances in one. No longer is she the graceful 
 Venus ; no longer are her locks bound with golden 
 clasps ; no azure robes are floating round her ; her 
 girdle is laid aside ; she is armed with other torches, 
 and larger arrows than her own ; furies, like herself, 
 bear her company. But there is no reason, because 
 the artist is compelled to abstain from the exercise 
 of this power, that the poet should do the same. If 
 painting must needs be the sister of poetry, let her 
 not be a jealous sister ; and let not the younger 
 forbid the elder every ornament that does not sit 
 well upon herself. 
 
 h r 
 
 Tliebaid. Lib. v. 61. 
 
IAOCOOX. 
 
 67 
 
 CHAPTEB IX. 
 
 If we wish to compare the painter and poet 
 together in single instances, we must first inquire, 
 whether they both enjoyed entire freedom, whether, 
 uninfluenced by any external pressure, they could 
 labour at producing the highest effect of their 
 respective arts. 
 
 Such an external influence was often exercised by 
 religion over the ancient artist. His work, destined 
 for worship and devotion, could not always be as 
 perfect as if the pleasure of the beholders had been 
 his sole aim. The gods were overburdened with 
 allegorical emblems by superstition, and the most 
 beautiful of them were not everywhere worshipped 
 as such. 
 
 Bacchus, in his temple at Lemnos, out of which 
 the pious Hypsipyle, in the form of the god(’23), 
 rescued her father, was represented with horns, and 
 so, without doubt, he appeared in all his temples ; 
 for these horns were allegorical, and one of the 
 emblematic components of his being. But the un- 
 fettered artist, who executed his Bacchus for no 
 temple, omitted this emblem; and if we, among 
 the extant statues of this god, find none in which he 
 
68 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 is represented with horns(24), it is perhaps a proof 
 that none of the consecrated images, under which he 
 was actually worshipped, are remaining. Besides, it 
 is exceedingly probable that upon these latter, prin- 
 cipally, fell the fury of the pious iconoclasts of the 
 first centuries of Christianity ; by whom here and 
 there a work of art, if polluted by no adoration, 
 was sometimes spared. 
 
 As, however, among the excavated antiques, 
 pieces of both kinds are to be found, it were to be 
 wished that the title of works of art was confined 
 to those alone, in which the artist had the power of 
 really shewing himself to be such, in which beauty 
 was his primary and ultimate object. None of the 
 others, in which unmistakeable traces testify to an 
 obligatory conformity to the service of religion, 
 deserve this name, because, in their case, art did not 
 labour on its own account, but was a mere helpmate 
 to religion, which, in the material representation 
 that it allotted to it for execution, looked rather to 
 significance than to beauty. Tet, for all that, I do 
 not mean to maintain that it has not frequently 
 either embodied all this significance in the beautiful, 
 or, at least, out of indulgence to the art and the 
 fine taste of the age, retained so much beauty that 
 the latter seems to hold an undoubted rule. 
 
 But no such distinction is drawn, and, in con- 
 sequence, connoisseurs and antiquarians are con- 
 stantly coming into collision, because they do not 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 69 
 
 understand one another. If the former, from his 
 insight into the intention of art, maintains that the 
 ancient artists could not have produced this or that 
 work, i. e., not as artists, not voluntarily ; the latter 
 extends this into an assertion that neither religion 
 nor any other external cause, lying outside the region 
 of art, could have had it executed by an artist, i. e., 
 not as an artist, but as a mere artisan. Thus he 
 believes he can refute the connoisseur with the first 
 statue that comes to hand, but which the latter, 
 without the least scruple, though to the great scan- 
 dal of the learned world, condemns again to the heap 
 of rubbish from which it had been extracted (25). 
 
 On the other hand, too much importance may be 
 attributed to the influence, exercised by religion upon 
 aid. Spence affords us a curious example of this. 
 He found in Ovid that Vesta was not worshipped 
 in her temple under any personal image ; and this 
 seemed to him a sufficient ground for concluding 
 that, as an universal rule, there were no statues of 
 this goddess, and that all, which had hitherto been 
 considered such, represent, not Vesta, but one of her 
 priestesses. a A curious conclusion ! Had the artist 
 lost his right to personify a being, to whom the poets 
 give so definite a personality that they represent her 
 as the daughter of Saturn and Ops, and as being in 
 danger of falling under the brutality of Priapus, 
 besides relating several other myths concerning 
 a Pol}’metis, Dial. vii. page 81. 
 
70 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 her? Had, I say, the artist lost his right to per- 
 sonify, in his own manner, this being, because, in a 
 single temple, she was only worshipped under the 
 symbol of fire? For Spence here further commits 
 the error of extending what Ovid states only of one 
 particular temple of Vesta, viz. the one at Home(26), 
 to all her temples without distinction, and to her 
 worship universally. It does not necessarily follow 
 that she was worshipped everywhere, as she was in 
 this temple at Home ; nay, before Numa built it, 
 she was not thus worshipped, even in Italy. Numa 
 did not wish to have any divinity represented by 
 either the human or the brutish form ; and the 
 improvement, which he effected in the worship of 
 Vesta, without doubt, consisted in the rejection of all 
 personal representation of her. Ovid himself in- 
 forms us that, before the time of Numa, there were 
 statues of Vesta in her temple, which, from shame, 
 when her priestess became a mother, covered their eyes 
 with maiden hands(27). That even in the temples, 
 which the goddess possessed, outside the city, in the 
 Homan provinces, her worship was not precisely that 
 established by Numa appears to be proved by several 
 old inscriptions, in which mention is made of a 
 Pontifex of Vesta. b At Corinth, too, there was a 
 temple of Vesta, without any image at all, but with 
 a simple altar, upon which sacrifices were offered to 
 
 b Lipsius de Vesta et Vestalibus, cap. 13. 
 
LAOCOO^N . 
 
 71 
 
 lier. c But does this shew that the Greeks had no 
 statues of Yesta? At Athens there was one in the 
 Prytaneum near the statue of peace/ The people 
 of Iasos boasted that they possessed one, upon which, 
 although it stood in the open air, neither snow nor 
 rain ever fell. 6 Pliny mentions one, in a sitting pos- 
 ture, from the hand of Scopas, which, in his time, 
 might be seen in the Servilian garden, at Bome(28). 
 And, allowing that it is not easy for us to dis- 
 tinguish a mere Vestal priestess from the goddess 
 herself, does this prove that the ancients could not, 
 much more did not wish to, draw this distinction P 
 Certain emblems of art are manifestly more in favour 
 of the one than of the other. The sceptre, the 
 torch, the palladium can only be presumed to be 
 in the hand of a goddess. The cymbal, which 
 Codinus attributes to her, might perhaps belong to 
 her, only as the Earth ; or Codinus may not have 
 really known what it was he saw(29). 
 
 c Pausanias Corinth, Lib. ii. cap. 35. sect. 1. 
 
 d Pausanias Attic, Lib. i. cap. 18. sect. 3. 
 e Polyb. Hist. Lib.xvi. ii. Oper. vol. ii. p. 443, Edit. Ernesti. 
 
72 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 I go on to notice an expression of surprise in 
 Spence, which most significantly proves how little 
 reflection he can have bestowed upon the nature of 
 the limits of Art and Painting. 
 
 “As to the muses in general, he says, it is re- 
 " markable that the poets say but little of them in 
 “ a descriptive way ; much less than might indeed 
 “ be expected for deities, to whom they were so 
 “ particularly obliged. ” a 
 
 What does this mean, if not that he feels sur- 
 prised that, when the poet speaks of the deities, he 
 does not do it in the dumb speech of the painter ? 
 Urania, with the poets, is the muse of astronomy ; 
 from her name and her performances we at once re- 
 cognise her office. The artist, in order to render it 
 palpable, represents her pointing with a wand to a 
 globe of the heavens. This wand, this celestial 
 globe, and this posture, are, as it were, his type, 
 from which he leaves us to collect the name Urania. 
 But when the poet wishes to say that “ Urania had 
 
 Polymetis, Dial viii. p. 91. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 73 
 
 long ago foreseen his death in the aspect of the 
 stars, — 
 
 Ipsa diu positis lethum prsedixerat astris 
 
 Uranie. b 
 
 why should he, out of respect to the painter, 
 subjoin, “ Urania, wand in hand, and heavenly 
 globe before her ? ” Would it not be as though a 
 man, who could and might speak clearly, should 
 still make use of those signs, upon which the mutes 
 in the Seraglios of the Turks, from an inability 
 to articulate, have agreed among themselves ? 
 
 Spence again expresses the same surprise at 
 the moral beings, or those divinities, to whom the 
 ancients allotted the superintendence of virtues, or 
 whom they supposed to preside c over the conduct 
 and events of human life. “ It is observable,” he 
 says, “ that the Roman poets say less of the best 
 “ of these moral beings, than might be expected. 
 “ The artists are much fuller on this head ; and 
 “ one, who would settle what appearances each of 
 “ them made, should go to the medals of the Roman 
 “ emperors. d The poets, in fact, speak of them 
 “ very often as persons ; but of their attributes, 
 “ their dress, and the rest of their figure they 
 “ generally say but little.” 
 
 b Statius, Theb. viii. 551. c Polymetis, Dial. x. p. 137. 
 d Polymetis, Dial. x. p. 134. 
 
74 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 When the poet personifies abstractions, they are 
 sufficiently characterised by their names, and the 
 actions, which he represents them as performing. 
 
 The artist does not command these means. He is 
 therefore compelled to add to his personified ab- 
 stractions some emblems, by which they may be 
 easily recognised. These emblems, since they are 
 different and have different significations, constitute 
 them allegorical figures. 
 
 A female form, with a bridle in her hand, 
 another, leaning against a pillar, are, in art, allegorical 
 beings. On the contrary, with the poets, temper- 
 ance and constancy are not allegorical beings, but 
 personified abstractions. 
 
 The invention of these emblems was forced upon 
 artists by necessity. For thus only could they 
 make it understood what this or that figure was 
 intended to signify. But why should the poet allow 
 that to be forced upon him, to which the artists 
 have only been driven by a necessity, in which he 
 himself has no share ? 
 
 What causes Spence so much surprise deserves 
 to be prescribed, as a general law, to poets. They 
 must not convert the necessities of painting into a 
 part of their own wealth. They must not look upon 
 the instruments, which art has invented for the sake 
 of following poetry, as perfections, of which they 
 have any cause to be envious. When an artist 
 clothes an image with symbols, he exalts a mere 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 75 
 
 statue to a higher being. But, if the poet makes 
 use of these artistic decorations, he degrades a 
 higher being into a puppet. 
 
 This rule is as invariably confirmed by the 
 practice of the ancients ; as its intentional violation 
 is invariably the favourite fault of modern poets. 
 Ml their imaginary beings appear masqued, and the 
 artists, who are most familiar with the details of 
 this masquerade, generally understand least of the 
 principal work, viz. how to make their beings act 
 in such a way, that their actions indicate their 
 character. 
 
 Still, among the emblems with which the artists 
 characterise their abstractions, there is a class, which 
 is more capable, and more deserving, of being adopted 
 by the poets. I mean those, which possess nothing 
 properly allegorical, but are to be considered less as 
 emblems than as instruments, of which the beings, to 
 whom they are attributed, should they be called upon 
 to act as real persons, would or could make use. The 
 bridle in the hand of Temperance, the pillar, against 
 which Constancy is leaning, are entirely allegorical, 
 and therefore of no use whatever to the poet. The 
 scales in the hand of Justice are somewhat less so ; 
 because the right use of the scales is really a part 
 of justice. But the lyre or flute in the hand of a 
 Muse, the lance in the hand of Mars, the hammer 
 and tongs in the hands of Vulcan, are in reality not 
 symbols, but simply instruments, without which 
 
76 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 these beings could not produce the results, which we 
 ascribe to them. Of this class are those attributes, 
 which the ancient poets sometimes introduce in 
 their descriptions, and which, on that account, I 
 might, in contradistinction to the allegorical, term 
 the poetical. The latter signify the thing itself, the 
 former only something similar to it(30). 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 77 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 Count Caylus also appears to desire that the poet 
 should clothe his imaginary beings with allegorical 
 symbols(31). The Count understood painting far 
 better than he did poetry. 
 
 Nevertheless, in the work in which he expresses 
 this desire, I have found occasion for some weighty 
 reflections, the most important of which I am now 
 going to notice, in order to afford it a maturer 
 consideration. 
 
 The artist, according to the Count’s view, should 
 make himself more closely acquainted with Homer, 
 the greatest of descriptive poets, and a second nature. 
 He shews him what rich and hitherto unemployed 
 materials for the most excellent pictures the story 
 written by the Greek affords, and that the more 
 closely he adheres even to the most trifling circum- 
 stances mentioned by the poet, the more likely he 
 is to succeed in the execution of his work. 
 
 In this proposition, the two kinds of imitation, 
 which I distinguished above, are again confounded. 
 The painter shall not only represent what the poet 
 has represented, but the details of his representation 
 shall be the same. He shall make use of the poet, 
 not only as a chronicler, but as a poet. 
 
78 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 But why is not this second kind of imitation, 
 which is so degrading to a poet, equally so to an 
 artist? If a series of such paintings, as Count 
 Caylus has adduced from Homer, had existed in the 
 poet’s time, and we knew that he had derived his 
 work from them, would he not be immeasurably 
 lowered in our admiration? How then does it 
 happen that we withdraw none of our high esteem 
 from the artist, when he really does nothing more 
 than express the words of the poet in form and 
 colour ? 
 
 The following seems to be the cause. In the 
 artist’s case the execution appears to be more diffi- 
 cult than the invention; in the poet’s this is re- 
 versed, and execution seems easier to him than 
 invention. If Virgil had borrowed the connection 
 of the father with the children, by the serpent-folds, 
 from the group of statuary, the merit, which we now 
 esteem the greatest and most difficult of attainment 
 in the whole description, would at once fall to the 
 ground, and only the more trifling one be left. 
 Bor the first creation of this connection in the 
 imagination is far greater than the expression of it 
 in words. On the contrary, had the artist borrowed 
 this invention from the poet, he would still have 
 always retained sufficient merit in our eyes, although 
 he would have been entirely deprived of the credit 
 of invention. Bor expression in marble is far more 
 difficult than expression in words ; and, when we 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 79 
 
 weigh - invention and representation against one 
 another, we are always inclined to yield to the mas- 
 ter on one side, just as much as we think we have 
 received in excess on the other. 
 
 There are even cases where it is a greater merit 
 for artists to have imitated nature through the 
 medium of the imitation of the poet, than without 
 it. The painter, who executes a beautiful landscape 
 after the description of a Thompson, has done more 
 than he, who takes it directly from nature. This 
 latter sees his original before him, while the former 
 must exert his imagination until he believes he 
 has it before him. The latter produces something 
 beautiful from a lively and sensible impression, the 
 former from the indefinite and weak representation of 
 arbitrary signs. 
 
 But, as a consequence of this natural readiness 
 in us to dispense with the merit of invention 
 in the artist, there arose on his part an equally 
 natural indifference to it. Tor, when he saw that 
 invention could not be his strong point, but that his 
 highest merit depended on execution, it became of no 
 importance to him whether his original matter were 
 old or new, used once, or a thousand times, whether 
 it belonged to himself or another. He confined 
 himself, therefore, within the narrow circle of a few 
 subjects, already become familiar to himself and the 
 public, and expended his whole inventive power upon 
 variations of materials already known, upon fresh 
 
80 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 combinations of old objects. That is in fact the 
 idea, which most of the elementary books on paint- 
 ing attach to the word invention ; for, although they 
 divide it into the artistic and poetical, the latter does 
 not extend to the creation of objects themselves, but 
 is solely confined to arrangement and expression.* 
 It is invention, yet not the invention of a whole, but 
 of single parts, and of their position in respect to 
 one another ; it is invention, but of that lower kind 
 which Horace recommends to his tragic poet ! 
 
 Tuque 
 
 Rectius Iliacum carmen deducis in actus, 
 
 Quam si proferres ignota indictaque primus. b 
 
 Recommends, I repeat, not enjoins. Recommends 
 as more easy, convenient, and advantageous, but does 
 not prescribe as better and nobler in itself. 
 
 In fact, the poet, who treats a well-known story 
 or a well-known character, has already made con- 
 siderable progress towards his object. He can afford 
 to pass over a hundred cold details, which would 
 otherwise be indispensable to the comprehensibility 
 of his whole ; and the more quickly his audience 
 comprehends this, the sooner their interest will be 
 awakened. This advantage the painter also enjoys, 
 when his subject is not new to us, and we recog- 
 a Reflections on Painting, p. 159. 
 b Ars Poetica, 128. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 81 
 
 nise, at the first glance, the intention and meaning 
 of his whole composition ; at once, not only see that 
 his characters are speaking, bat hear what they are 
 saying. The most important effect depends on the 
 first glance, and, if this involves ns in laborious 
 thought and reflection, our longing to have our feel- 
 ings roused cools down, and, in order to avenge our- 
 selves on the unintelligible artist, we harden ourselves 
 against the expression, to which, as we have shewn, 
 beauty must never be sacrificed. We find nothing 
 to induce us to linger before his work. What we 
 see does not please us ; nor, even whilst gazing, can 
 we form any conclusion as to the design of it. 
 
 Let us now consider these two propositions to- 
 gether. First, That invention and novelty in 
 his subjects are far from being the 'principal 
 things we look for in an artist. Secondly , 
 
 That through the subjects being well known , the 
 effect of his art is furthered and rendered more 
 easy. And I think that we shall not look, with 
 Count Caylus, for the reasons why the artist so 
 seldom determines upon a new subject, either in 
 his indolence, in his ignorance, or in the difficulty 
 of the mechanical part of his art, which demands all 
 his industry and all his time ; but we shall find 
 them more deeply founded, and shall perhaps be 
 inclined to praise as an act of self-restraint, wise, 
 and useful to ourselves, what at first sight ap- 
 peared the commencement of the limitation of art, 
 
 a 
 
82 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 and the destruction of our pleasure. I do not 
 fear that experience will contradict me ; the painters 
 will thank the Count for his good intentions, but 
 will scarcely make such general use of him as he 
 seems to expect. But even if they should, still 
 in another hundred years a fresh Caylus would 
 be necessary to bring the ancient subjects again 
 into remembrance, and lead back the artist into that 
 field, where others before him had already gained 
 such undying laurels. Or do we desire that the 
 public should be as learned, as is the connoisseur with 
 his books ; that it should be well acquainted and 
 familiar with every scene of history and of fable, 
 which can yield materials for a beautiful picture ? I 
 quite allow that the artists would have done better, 
 if, since the time of Raphael, they had made Homer 
 their text book, instead of Ovid. But since it has 
 happened otherwise, let them not attempt to divert 
 the public from its old track, nor surround its enjoy- 
 ment with greater difficulties than those, which, in 
 order to constitute it such, are its necessary accom- 
 paniments. 
 
 Protogenes painted the mother of Aristotle. I 
 do not know how much the philosopher paid him for 
 the portrait. But whether it was instead of pay- 
 ment, or in addition to it, he imparted to him a 
 piece of advice, more valuable than the price itself. 
 Por I cannot imagine that it could have been intended 
 for mere flattery, but believe, that it was out of an 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 83 
 
 especial regard to that necessity of art, which obliges 
 it to be intelligible to all, that he counselled him to 
 paint the exploits of Alexander ; exploits, with the 
 fame of which, at that time, the whole world was 
 ringing; and which he could well foresee would 
 never be erased from the memory of future genera- 
 tions. But Protogenes had not sufficient steadiness 
 to act upon this advice. “ Impetus animi, ” says Pliny, 
 “et quadaem artis libido.” 0 Too great a buoyancy of 
 spirits (as it were) in art, and a kind of craving after 
 the curious and unknown, impelled him towards an 
 entirely different class of subjects. He chose rather 
 to paint the story of an Ialysus(32), or a Oydippe ; 
 and, in consequence, we can do little more than form 
 conjectures, as to what his pictures were intended to 
 represent. 
 
 c Plinius xxxv. 36. 20. 
 
84 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Homer elaborates two kinds of beings and ac- 
 tions, visible and invisible. This distinction cannot 
 be indicated by painting : in it everything is visible, 
 and visible in but one way. 
 
 When, therefore, Count Caylus continues the 
 pictures of invisible actions in an unbroken series 
 with those of the visible ; and when, in those of 
 mixed actions, in which both visible and invisible 
 beings take part, he does not, and perhaps cannot, 
 specify how these last, (which we only, who are 
 contemplating the picture, ought to see in it), are to 
 be introduced, so that the persons in the painting 
 itself should not see them, or, at least, should not 
 appear as if they necessarily did so. When, I say, 
 Caylus does this, the whole series, as well as many 
 single pieces, necessarily becomes in the highest de- 
 gree confused, incomprehensible, and contradictory. 
 
 Still, ultimately, it would be possible, with book 
 in hand, to remedy this fault. The following evil is 
 the greatest ; when painting wipes away the distinc- 
 tion between visible and invisible beings, it at the 
 same time destroys all those characteristic traits, by 
 which the higher order is elevated above the lower. 
 
LA.OCOON. 
 
 85 
 
 For instance ; when the gods, after disputing 
 over the destiny of the Trojans, at length appeal to 
 arms, the whole of this contest is waged invisibly 
 in the poet ; and this invisibility permits the 
 imagination to magnify the scene, and allows it free 
 scope for picturing to itself, as it ever will, the per- 
 sons and actions of the gods, as far greater and far 
 more exalted than those of ordinary humanity. But 
 painting must adopt a visible scene, the different 
 necessary parts of which become the standard for the 
 persons who act in it. A standard, which the eye 
 has ever before it, and by whose want of proportion 
 to the higher beings, these last, which in the poet 
 were great, are, upon the artist’s canvass, converted 
 into monsters. 
 
 Minerva, against whom, in this contest, Mars assays 
 the first assault, steps backwards, and, with mighty 
 hand, seizes from the ground, a large, black, rough, 
 stone, which in olden times the united hands of men 
 had rolled there for a landmark. — Iliad, O. xxi. 493. 
 
 rj 8’ avaxacraapevr] \l Oov elXero X eL P L ‘ na X e ' L Tl> 
 
 Kelpevov ev Treble p, fieXava, rprjxyv re, peyav re, 
 rov p avbpes nporepoi 6ecrav, eppevai ovpov apovprjs. 
 
 In order fully to realize the size of this stone, we 
 must recollect, that, though Homer describes his 
 heroes as being as strong again as the strongest men 
 of his own time, he tells us that even they were still 
 
86 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 further surpassed by the men, whom Nestor had 
 known in his youth. Now, I ask, if Minerva hurls a 
 stone, which no single man, even of the younger days 
 of Nestor, could set up for a landmark, — if, I ask, 
 Minerva hurls such a stone as this at Mars, of what 
 stature ought the goddess herself to be represented ? 
 If her stature is proportioned to the size of the 
 stone, the marvellous disappears at once. A man, 
 who is three times the size that I am, naturally can 
 hurl a stone three times as great as I can. On the 
 other hand, should the stature of the goddess not 
 be proportionate to the size of the stone, there arises 
 in the painting an evident improbability, the offen- 
 siveness of which will not be removed by the cold 
 reflection, that a goddess must be possessed of super- 
 human strength. Where I see a greater effect, 
 there I expect to see more powerful causes. 
 
 And Mars, overthrown by this mighty stone, 
 
 inra eVrecr^e 7 reXeOpa, 
 
 covered seven hides. It is impossible for the painter 
 to invest the god with this extraordinary size ; but, 
 if he does not, then it is not Mars who is lying on 
 the ground ; at least, not the Mars of Homer, but a 
 common warrior(33). 
 
 Longinus says, that, while reading Homer, he 
 often felt, that the poet appeared to raise his men 
 to gods, and reduce his gods to men ; painting effects 
 this reduction. In it everything, that, in the poet. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 87 
 
 raises the gods above god-like men, utterly vanishes. 
 The strength, size, and swiftness, of which Homer 
 always bestowed upon his deities a much higher, and 
 more extraordinary degree than he ever attributes 
 to his most eminent heroes(34), must sink, in the 
 painting, to the common level of humanity; and 
 Jupiter and Agamemnon, Apollo and Achilles, Ajax 
 and Mars, become exactly the same beings ; and can 
 be recognised by nothing, but their outward conven- 
 tional symbols. 
 
 The means, used by painters, of giving us to 
 understand, that this or that object in their com- 
 positions must be considered as invisible, is a thin 
 cloud, with which they surround it on the side, that 
 is turned towards the other persons in the scene. 
 This cloud also appears to have been borrowed from 
 Homer. For if, in the tumult of the fight, one of 
 the more important heroes falls into a danger, from 
 which none but divine power can save him, the poet 
 represents him, as being enveloped by the rescuing 
 divinity in a thick cloud, or in night, and so carried 
 off, — e. g. as Paris is by Yenus, a Idaeus by Nep- 
 tune, 5 and Hector by Apollo. c And Caylus, when 
 he sketches paintings of such occurrences, never fails 
 to recommend to the poet the introduction of this 
 mist and cloud. Yet, surely, it is manifest to all, 
 that, in the poet, concealment in mist and night is 
 
 1 Iliad, r. iii. 381. b Iliad, E. v. 23. 
 
 c Iliad Y. xx. 444. 
 
88 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 not intended to be anything more than a poetical 
 expression for rendering invisible. I have always, 
 therefore, been much astonished to find it realized, 
 and an actual cloud introduced into the painting, 
 behind which, as behind a screen, the hero stands 
 concealed from his enemy. Such, assuredly, was not 
 the intention of the poet. It is stepping beyond 
 the limits of painting. For the cloud is here a real 
 hieroglyphic, a mere symbolical token, which does not 
 make the rescued hero invisible, but points out to 
 you, that you must represent him to yourself as 
 such. It is here no better than the labels with in- 
 scriptions, which are placed in the mouths of the 
 figures in old gothic paintings. 
 
 It is true, that when Hector is being carried off 
 by Apollo, Homer represents Achilles as making 
 three thrusts with his lance into the thick mist at 
 him — r p\s S’ rjepa rv\j/e fia6<fiav. A But, in the lan- 
 guage of the poet, this means nothing more than that 
 Achilles had become so furious, that he made three 
 thrusts with his lance, before he perceived that his 
 enemy was no longer in his presence. Achilles saw 
 no actual mist ; and the power, which the gods pos- 
 sessed of rendering the objects of their protection 
 invisible, lay not in a mist, but in the rapidity with 
 which they bore them away. But, in order to express, 
 at the same time, that this abduction was performed 
 with such celerity, that no human eye could follow 
 d Iliad, Y. xx. 446, 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 89 
 
 the body so disappearing, the poet previously con- 
 ceals it in a mist. Not that a mist appeared in the 
 place of the body which had been carried off, but 
 because we think of what is enveloped in a mist as 
 invisible. Accordingly, Homer sometimes inverts 
 the case, and, instead of describing the object as 
 rendered invisible, makes the subject struck with 
 blindness. Thus Neptune darkens the eyes of 
 Achilles, when he rescues iEneas from his murderous 
 hand, and, snatching him out of the midst of the mel£e, 
 places him at once in the rear. 6 In fact, however, 
 the eyes of Achilles are here no more blinded, than, 
 in the former passage, the rescued heroes were con- 
 cealed in a cloud. But, in both cases, the poet has 
 made these additions, in order to render more palpable 
 to our senses that extreme swiftness of disappear- 
 ance, which we call vanishing. 
 
 But painters have appropriated the Homeric mist, 
 not only in those cases where Homer has or would 
 have used it, viz. when persons become invisible, or 
 disappear ; but, also, in all those, where it is intended 
 that the spectator should be able to perceive, in a 
 painting, anything, which the characters themselves, 
 either all or part of them, cannot see. Minerva was 
 visible to Achilles alone, when she prevented him 
 from coming to actual blows with Agamemnon. I 
 know no other way, says Caylus, to express this, than 
 by concealing her, on the side nearest to the rest of 
 6 Iliad Y- XX. 321. 
 
90 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 the council, by a cloud. This is in complete op- 
 position to the spirit of the poet. Invisibility is the 
 natural condition of his divinities. There was needed 
 no dazzling to render them invisible, — no cutting off 
 of the ordinary beams of light(35) ; while, on the 
 contrary, to render them visible, an enlightenment 
 and enlargement of mortal vision was required. 
 Thus it is not enough, that in painting the cloud is 
 an arbitrary, and not a natural sign ; this arbitrary 
 symbol has not even a single, defined, meaning, which, 
 as such, it is bound to have ; for it is used indis- 
 criminately, either to represent the visible as invisible, 
 or the invisible as visible. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 91 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 If Homer’s works were entirely lost, and nothing 
 remained to us of the Iliad and Odyssey, but a 
 series of paintings similar to those, of which Caylus 
 has sketched the outlines from them, should we be 
 able, from these pictures, to form the idea we now 
 possess, I do not say, of the whole poet, but merely 
 of his descriptive talent P Let us put it to the test 
 with the first piece we chance upon. Suppose it is 
 the painting of the plague. a What do we see upon 
 the artist’s canvass ? Dead corpses, burning funeral 
 piles, the dying busied with the dead, while the 
 angered god is seated upon a cloud, and discharging 
 his arrows. The great richness of this painting is 
 poverty to the poet. Eor, if we were to restore 
 Homer from it, what could we make him say? 
 “ Hereupon Apollo grew angry, and shot his arrows 
 “among the army of the Greeks, of whom many 
 cc died, and their bodies were consumed.” Now let 
 us read Homer himself. 
 
 a Iliad, A. i. 44 — 53. Tableaux tire's de 1’ Iliade, p. 70. 
 
92 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 fir} be kcit 'OvXvpnoio Kaprjvcov oopevos Kr]p, 
 to£ copoKTLV e%i ov, dp(f)r)pe(fiea re (paperpijv. 
 etekay^av S’ dp oiaro l eV copcov oopevoio, 
 durov KivrjOevros . 6 S’ ffie vvkt\ eoLKcos' 
 
 e£er eneir dnavevOe vecbu, p era (? lov erjKev* 
 beivrj be KXayyrj yever apyvpeoio Plow. 
 ovprjas pev npcorov eVw^ero, /cal Kvvas apyovs * 
 dvrap eiretr avroicn (3eXos e^enevKes ecjneis 
 ftaXX' diet Se Trvpai veKvcov Kaiovro BapetaL 
 
 The poet is as far above the painter, as life is 
 above the painting. Angered, armed with bow and 
 quiver, Apollo descends from the peaks of Olympus. 
 I not only see him coming down, I hear him. 
 At every step of the indignant god, the arrows rattle 
 upon his shoulders. He strides on, like the night ; 
 now he sits over against the ships, and shoots — fear- 
 fully clangs the silver bow — his first arrow at the 
 mules and the hounds. Next with his poisonous 
 dart he strikes the men themselves ; and the funeral 
 piles with their dead are everywhere ceaselessly blaz- 
 ing. The musical picture, which the words of the 
 poet at the same time present, cannot be translated 
 into another language. It is equally impossible even 
 to guess at it from the material painting, although 
 this is the least superiority, which the poetical des- 
 cription has over the latter. The principal one is 
 this, that the poet conducts us to his last scene, the 
 only part of his description, which the material 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 93 
 
 painting exhibits, through a whole gallery of pictures. 
 
 But perhaps the plague is not an advantageous 
 subject for painting. Here is another, which pos- 
 sesses a greater charm for the eyes. The gods are 
 engaged at what is, at once, a council, and a drinking 
 festival . 13 In an open, golden, palace, are seen arbitrary 
 groups of the most beautiful and adorable forms, cup 
 in hand, unto whom Hebe, the personification of 
 eternal youth, is ministering. What architecture, 
 what masses of light and shade, what contrasts, 
 what variety of expression ! Where am I to begin, 
 and where to cease, feasting my eyes ? If the painter 
 thus charms me, how much more will the poet ? I 
 open him, and I find — myself deceived. I find 
 four good but simple verses, which might serve very 
 well for a motto, at the bottom of a painting ; 
 but which, though they contain the materials for a 
 picture, are no picture themselves. 
 
 'Oi de 6eo\ Trap Zrjvl Ka6r]pevoi rj-yopo'ovro 
 Xpvcreco iv danedco ixera de acpiai norvia r 'H(3r) 
 veKrap ewvoxoer roi 8e dendecraiv' 
 
 deibexar aXkrjkovs > Tpdxov iroXiv iio’opocovTeS' 
 
 Apollonius, or even a still more indifferent poet, 
 could have said all this, as well as Homer, who here 
 remains as far below the artist, as, in the former 
 passage, the artist falls short of him. 
 
 b Iliad A, iv, 1 — 4, Tableaux tires del* Iliade, p. 30. 
 
94 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 But, except in these four lines, Caylus cannot 
 find a single picture in the whole fourth book of the 
 Iliad. “ So greatly,” says he, “ is the fourth book 
 “ distinguished by the numerous exhortations to the 
 “ combat, by the abundance of brilliant and strongly 
 “ marked characters, and by the art, with which the 
 “poet brings before us the multitude, which he is 
 “ about to set in motion. It is, however, quite use- 
 “ less for the purposes of the artist.” He might 
 have added, “ So rich is it in everything, that is held 
 “to constitute a poetical picture.” Such pictures, in 
 reality, occur in greater frequency and perfection 
 throughout the fourth book, than in any other. 
 Where is to be found a more elaborate, or a more illu- 
 sive description, than that of Pandarus, when, at the 
 instigation of Minerva, he violates the truce, and 
 discharges his arrow at Menelaus ? Than that of 
 the advance of the Grecian army P Than that of the 
 mutual charge ? Than that of the deed of Ulysses, by 
 which he takes vengeance for the death of his 
 friend Leucus ? 
 
 But, what conclusion is to be drawn from this ? 
 That not a few of the most beautiful descriptions of 
 Homer furnish no picture for the artist. That the 
 artist can derive pictures from him, where he himself 
 has none. That those, which he has, and the artist 
 can use, would be but meagre descriptions, if they 
 shewed us no more than the artist does. The 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 95 
 
 answer negatives the question, I asked above. 
 Prom material paintings, therefore, of which the 
 poems of Homer had furnished the subjects, even 
 though they were ever so numerous, or ever so excel- 
 lent, we could come to no fair decision upon the 
 descriptive talents of the poet. 
 
96 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 But if this be the case, and a poem may be very 
 productive of pictures, and still not be descriptive 
 itself, while, on the contrary, another may be highly 
 descriptive and yet yield little to the artist, there is 
 an end of the theory of Count Caylus ; which would 
 make their usefulness to the painters the touch-stone 
 of poets, and allot them their rank, according to the 
 number of pictures with which they furnish him(36). 
 
 Ear be it from us, even by our silence, to suffer 
 this theory to obtain the appearance of an established 
 law. Milton would be the first to fall an innocent 
 victim to it. Eor it appears, that the contemptuous 
 judgment, which Caylus expresses of him, should 
 really be considered, less as the national taste, than 
 as the logical consequence of his assumed rule. The 
 loss of sight, he says, is the strongest point of simi- 
 larity between Milton and Homer. It is true, Milton 
 cannot fill galleries. But, if the sphere of my bodily 
 eyes, so long as I enjoy them, must needs also be 
 that of my inner eye, great indeed would be the value 
 I should put upon their loss, since it freed me from 
 this confinement. 
 
LAOCOGN. 
 
 97 
 
 Paradise Lost is no more prevented from being 
 tlie first epic after Homer’s, because it offers but few 
 subjects for painting, than tbe history of the Passion 
 of Christ is converted into a poem, because we can 
 scarcely lay the point of a pin upon it, without 
 lighting on some passage, which has called forth the 
 exertions of a number of the greatest masters. The 
 Evangelists recount the fact, with the most concise 
 simplicity possible ; and the artist makes use of its 
 numerous parts, without their having shown, on 
 their side, the slightest spark of descriptive genius 
 in relating it. There are both facts suitable, and 
 facts unsuitable, to the artist ; and the historian can 
 narrate those suitable artistically, just as the poet 
 has the power of producing a graphic representation 
 of those unsuitable. 
 
 To believe it to be otherwise, is to suffer ourselves 
 to be misled by the twofold meaning of a word. A 
 poetical picture is not necessarily convertible into a 
 material painting ; but every feature, every combina- 
 tion of several features, by which the poet makes his 
 object so palpable to us, that we become more con- 
 scious of this object, than of his words, is a graphic 
 picture, because it brings us nearer to that de- 
 gree of illusion, of which material painting is 
 especially capable, and which is most readily called 
 forth by the contemplation of such painting(37). 
 
 ii 
 
98 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Now the poet, as experience shows, can raise 
 this degree of illusion in us, by the representation of 
 other than visible objects. Consequently, artists are 
 excluded from whole classes of pictures, which the 
 poet has ,at his command. Dryden’s “Ode upon 
 Cecilia’s day,” is full of musical sketches, which 
 afford no occupation to the brush ; but I will not 
 waste more time in such instances, from which we 
 can only learn at best, that colours are not sounds, 
 and ears not eyes. 
 
 I will still keep to the pictures of visible objects ; 
 for these are common to both artist and poet. Why 
 is it that many poetical descriptions of this kind are 
 useless to the artist ; and, on the contrary, many 
 actual paintings, when treated by a poet, lose the 
 principal part of their effect ? 
 
 An example might serve us as a guide. I repeat 
 it; the picture of Pandarus, in the fourth book of 
 the Iliad, is one of the most minute, and illusive, in 
 the whole of Homer. Erom the grasping of the 
 bow, to the flight of the arrow, every moment is 
 painted ; and all these momentary periods follow one 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 99 
 
 another so closely, and yet are so distinctly entered 
 upon, that a person, who did not know how a bow 
 was managed, might learn it merely from this 
 picture(38). Pandarus takes out his bow; bends it; 
 opens the quiver ; chooses an arrow well feathered, 
 and still unused ; draws the string and the notch of 
 the arrow back together ; the string is close to the 
 breast ; the iron point of the arrow to the bow ; the 
 great, round-shaped bow, clanging, parts asunder; 
 the arrow speeds away ; and eagerly flies towards 
 its destination. 
 
 It is impossible that Caylus can have overlooked 
 this excellent picture. What then did he find there, 
 to make him esteem it incapable of affording em- 
 ployment to his artists ? And why was it, that the 
 assembly of the gods, drinking in council, seemed to 
 him more suitable for that purpose ? In the one, 
 as well as in the other, there are visible objects; 
 and what more has the artist need of, to occupy 
 his canvass? 
 
 The difficulty must be this ; although both 
 objects, as visible, are alike capable of being subjects 
 of painting in its strict sense ; still, there is this im- 
 portant difference between them, that the action of 
 one is visible and progressive, its different parts hap- 
 pening one after another, in the sequence of time; 
 while the action of the other is visible and stationary, 
 its different parts developing themselves near one 
 another, in space. But, if painting, owing to its signs, 
 
100 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 or means of imitation, which it can combine in space 
 only, is compelled entirely to renounce time, pro- 
 gressive actions, as such, cannot be classed among 
 its subjects, but it must be content with simultaneous 
 actions, or with mere figures, which, by their posture, 
 lead us to conjecture an action. Poetry, on the 
 contrary . 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 101 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Still, I will endeavour to deduce our conclu- 
 sions from their first principles. 
 
 I reason thus : if it is true that painting and 
 
 poetry, in their imitations, make use of entirely 
 different media of expression, or signs — the first, 
 namely, of form and colour in space, the second 
 of articulated sounds in time ; — if these signs indis- 
 putably require a suitable relation to the thing 
 betokened, then it is clear, that signs arranged near 
 to one another, can only express objects, of which 
 the wholes or parts exist near one another ; while 
 consecutive signs can only express objects, of which 
 the wholes or parts are themselves consecutive. 
 
 Objects, whose wholes or parts exist near one 
 another, are called bodies. Consequently, bodies, 
 with their visible properties, are the peculiar objects 
 of painting. 
 
 Objects, whose wholes or parts are consecutive, 
 are called actions. Consequently, actions are the 
 peculiar subject of poetry. 
 
 Still, all bodies do not exist in space only, but 
 also in time. They endure, and, in each moment 
 of their duration, may assume a different appearance, 
 
102 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 or stand in a different combination. Each of these 
 momentary appearances and combinations is the 
 effect of a preceding action, may be the cause of a 
 subsequent one, and is therefore, as it were, the 
 centre of an action. Consequently, painting too 
 can imitate actions, but only indicatively, by means 
 of bodies. 
 
 On the other hand* actions cannot exist by them- 
 selves, they must depend on certain beings. So far, 
 therefore, as these beings are bodies, or are treated 
 as such, poetry paints bodies, but only indicatively, 
 by means of actions. 
 
 In its coexisting compositions, painting can only 
 make use of a single instant of an action, and must 
 therefore choose the one, which is most pregnant, and 
 from which what has already taken place, and what 
 is about to follow, can be most easily gathered. 
 
 In like manner, poetry, in its progressive imita- 
 tions, is confined to the use of a single property of 
 a body, and must, therefore, choose that which calls 
 up the most sensible image of that body, in the 
 aspect in which he makes use of it. 
 
 Erom this flows the rule, that there should never 
 be more than one epithet ; and from it too has arisen 
 the scarcity of descriptions of bodily objects. 
 
 I should put but little confidence in this dry 
 chain of reasoning, did I not find it completely 
 confirmed by the practice of Homer; or, I might 
 even say, had it not been Homer himself who led 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 103 
 
 me to it. It is only on these principles that the sub- 
 lime style of the Greek poet can be determined, and 
 explained, in such a manner, as to expose in its full 
 absurdity the directly opposite style of so many 
 modern poets, who have endeavoured to rival the 
 painter in a department, in which he must necessarily 
 vanquish them. 
 
 I find that Homer describes nothing but pro- 
 gressive actions ; and that, when he paints bodies, 
 and single objects, he does it only as contributary 
 to such, and, then, only by a single touch. It is 
 no wonder then, that the artist finds least to 
 employ his pencil, where Homer paints, and that 
 his harvest is only to be found, where the story 
 assembles a number of beautiful bodies, in beautiful 
 attitudes, and in a space advantageous to art ; 
 though the poet himself may paint these forms, 
 these attitudes, and this space, as little as he 
 pleases. If we go through the whole series of 
 paintings, as Caylus proposes them, piece by piece, 
 we shall find in each a proof of the foregoing 
 observation. 
 
 I here quit the Count, who would make the 
 pallet of the artist the touchstone of the poet, in 
 order to explain the style of Homer more closely. 
 
 Homer, I say, generally describes an object by 
 a single characteristic ; with him it is at one time 
 the black, at another the hollow, at another the 
 swift ship, at most the well-rowed black ship. 
 
104 
 
 LAGCOON. 
 
 farther than this, he does not enter into any des- 
 cription of it. But still, of the sailing, the setting 
 out, and hauling up, of the ship he draws a detailed 
 picture. If the artist wished to transfer the whole 
 of this to his canvass, he would be compelled to 
 divide it into live or six different paintings. 
 
 It is true that, in particular cases, Homer .detains 
 our attention upon a single object longer than is 
 usual with him. Yet, in so doing, he creates no 
 picture, which could be an object of imitation to an 
 artist ; by innumerable devices he contrives to set 
 before our eyes a single object, as it would appear at 
 distinct and successive instants, in each of which it 
 is in a different stage, and in the last of which the 
 artist must await the poet, in order to shew us, as 
 already formed, that which, in his rival, we have 
 seen forming. To take an instance of this : when 
 Homer wants to shew us the chariot of Juno, Hebe 
 puts it together, piece by piece, before our eyes. We 
 see the wheels, the axle, the seat, the pole, the traces 
 and straps, not as they are when all fitted together, 
 but as they are being separately put together under 
 the hands of Hebe. Of the wheel alone does the 
 poet give us more than a single feature ; there he 
 points out, one by one, the eight bronze spokes, the 
 golden felloes, the tire of bronze, and the silver 
 nave. One might almost say, that, because there 
 was more than one wheel, he felt bound to spend as 
 
LAOCOGN, 
 
 105 
 
 much time in its description, as the putting on of 
 the others would have taken in the actual operation. 3, 
 
 c H/377 S’ ap(}) o^eWt 6oS)s (3d\e KapnvXa KVKka, 
 xdXicea, OKTaKvrjfia, crtdrjpico a^ovi dpfpts' 
 
 Tail* rjroL xpvcrer) ’ltvs a(j)diTO$, avrap vnepdav 
 XaXice inlo’crarpa, Trpoaaprjpora . davpa Idiadai- 
 nXrjpvat d'apyvpov iurl 7 repldpopot dptfiorepoods v> 
 dicfopos di xP v(T * OL(TL KaL dpyvpeoiatv tpdoriv 
 ivrerara t‘ dotal di neptdpopot dvrvyos itcrtv' 
 rod S’ e£ apyvpeos pvpos neXev’ avrap in aicpa) 
 drjcre ^pu(reto v aaXov £vyov, iv di Xinadva 
 KaX’ e/3 aXe, ^pucreta- 
 
 Again, when he would show us how Agamem- 
 non was clad, the king dons each article of his dress, 
 separately, in our presence ; his soft under coat, his 
 great mantle, his beautiful half-boots, and his sword. 
 Now he is ready, and grasps his sceptre. We see the 
 garments, whilst the poet is describing the operation 
 of putting them on ; but another would have des- 
 cribed the robes themselves, down to the smallest 
 fringe, and we should have seen nothing whatever 
 of the action. b 
 
 M aXaKov S’ evdvve x^oova, 
 kclKov, vrjyareov, nepl di piya /SdXXero (f)apos • 
 noacrl d' vno Xinapolcnv idrjaaro KaXa nidtXa’ 
 ap(j)l d' dp copotertv /3 aXero £[(f)os apyvporjXov. 
 eiXero di aKrjnrpov narpmov, dtfidtrov diet. 
 
 This sceptre is here styled “ the paternal,” “ the 
 imperishable,” as, elsewhere, one like it is described 
 a Iliad, E. v. 722, b Iliad, B ii. 42, 
 
106 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 merely as xpvo-eois fjXoLo-L Trenappevov, “ golden stud- 
 ded.” But when a closer and more complete picture 
 of this important sceptre is required, what does 
 Homer do then ? In addition to the golden studs, 
 does he describe the wood, and the carved head? 
 He might have done so, if he had intended to draw 
 an heraldic description, from which, in after times, 
 another sceptre, like it, could be executed. And I 
 am sure that many a modern poet would have given 
 us such details, fit for a king at arms, in the confi- 
 dent belief that he himself had painted the sceptre, 
 because he had supplied the artist with the materials 
 for so doing. But what does Homer care how far 
 he leaves the painter in his rear ? Instead of the 
 appearance, he gives us the history of the sceptre ; 
 first, it is being formed by the labour of Vulcan ; 
 next, it glitters in the hands of Jupiter ; now, it 
 betokens the dignity of Mercury ; now, it is the 
 imperial wand of the royal Pelops ; now the shep- 
 herd’s staff of the peaceful Atreus. 6 
 
 ( TKrjTvrpov , to pev '' H(j)ai(TTOS nape rev^cov' 
 r/ H (f)cu(TTOS pev 8coKe Au K povicovi avcucri . 
 avTap dpa Z evs 8c o/ce dia/iropcp ApyeLcfoovrrj' 
 'Eppetas 8e ava£ 8coKev IleXom TrXrj^tmrcp, 
 dvrap 6 dvre IIeXo\fr 8 cok A rpei, Troipevc Xad>v‘ 
 
 ’ Arpevs 8e Svtjctkcov eXnrev noXvapvL QvecrTrj' 
 nvrdp 6 avre Ovecrr Ayapepvovi Xelne cfyopr/vai, 
 TroXXfjai vrjaroLai kcli ” Apyei navrl avacrcreiv. 
 
 c Iliad, B. ii. 101. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 107 
 
 Now I am better acquainted with this sceptre 
 than if a painter were to place it before my eyes, or 
 a second Vulcan give it into my hands. I should 
 not be surprised to find that one of the old commen- 
 tators of Homer had admired this passage, as the 
 most perfect allegory of the origin, progress, esta- 
 blishment, and final hereditary succession of kingly 
 power among men. I should indeed smile, if I read 
 that Vulcan, who made the sceptre, represented fire, 
 which is indispensable to man’s support, and that 
 alleviation of his wants generally, which persuaded 
 the men of early times to submit themselves to 
 the authority of an individual ; that the first king, 
 a son of Time ( Zevs K poviav) was a venerable pa- 
 triarch ; who shared his power with a man remark- 
 able for his eloquence and ability, with a Hermes, 
 (AiaKTopco ’ApyeKpovrr]) or, entirely delivered it over 
 to him ; that, in course of time, the clever orator, as 
 the young state was threatened by foreign enemies, 
 resigned his power into the hands of the bravest 
 warrior (IIeXo7ri ^X^Wm) ; that the brave warrior, 
 after he had exterminated his foes and assured the 
 safety of the kingdom, artfully contrived to establish 
 his son in his place ; who, as a peace-loving ruler, and 
 benevolent shepherd of his people, first rendered them 
 familiar with a life of pleasure and superfluity ; at 
 his death, therefore, the way was paved for the rich- 
 est of his connections (noXvapvi Gvearp) to acquire by 
 gifts and bribery, and afterwards secure to his family, 
 
108 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 as a purchased possession, that power, which hitherto 
 confidence only had bestowed, and merit had esteemed 
 a burden rather than a dignity ; I should smile, I 
 repeat, but I should be strengthened in my esteem for 
 the poet, to whom so much meaning could be lent. 
 All this, however, is a digression from my subject ; 
 and I merely view the history of the sceptre, as a 
 device of art, by which the poet causes us to linger 
 over a single object, without entering into a cold des- 
 cription of its parts. Even when Achilles swears by 
 his sceptre to revenge the neglect, with which Aga- 
 memnon has treated him, Homer gives us the history 
 of it. We see it green upon the hill ; the steel di- 
 vides it from the stem, strips it of its leaves and 
 bark, and renders it fit to serve the judges of the 
 people, as an emblem of their godlike dignity . d 
 
 vat pa rode erKrjTrrpov, to pev ovnore (pvWa kcli o£ovs 
 (pvcrei, inetdr] Trpoora roprjv iv opecrai \e\017rev, 
 ovS’ dvaBrjXrjcrei' 7 tep\ yap pa e eXe^rev 
 
 (fivXXa re Kal (})Xoi6v‘ vvv avre pev vies ’Axaieov 
 iv TraXeiprjs (popeovdi diKaa-TroXoi, otre 6 e pier r as 
 7 rpos Aios elpvarai • 
 
 It was not so much Homer’s desire to describe two 
 sceptres of different material and shape, as to convey 
 to our minds by a clear and comprehensive image 
 that difference of power, of which they were the em- 
 blems. The one the work of Yulcan ; the other cut 
 
 d Iliad A t i. 234 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 109 
 
 by some unknown hand upon the hill ; the one an 
 ancient possession of a noble house ; the other des- 
 tined for the hand of any, to whom it might chance 
 to fall. The one extended by a monarch over many 
 isles, and the whole of Argos ; the other borne by 
 one from the midst of the Greeks, to whom, with 
 many others, the guardianship of the law had been 
 entrusted. This was the real difference, which ex- 
 isted between Agamemnon and Achilles: and which 
 Achilles, in spite of all his blind rage, could not 
 avoid admitting. 
 
 But it is not only where he combines such further 
 aims with his descriptions, that Homer disperses the 
 picture of the object over a kind of history of it ; 
 he follows the same course, where the picture itself is 
 the only end in view, in order that its parts, which, 
 naturally, are seen beside each other, may, by following 
 upon one another, be seen as naturally in his descrip- 
 tion, and, as it were, keep pace with the progress of 
 the narrative ; e, g . he wishes to paint us the bow 
 of Pandarus ; a bow of horn, of such and such a 
 length, well polished, and tipped with gold at either 
 end. What does he P Enumerate all these dry de- 
 tails one after the other ? Not at all : that might be 
 giving a minute description of such a bow, but could 
 never be called painting it. He begins with the 
 chace of the wild goat, out of whose horns the bow 
 was made. Pandarus himself had laid in wait for 
 and killed it among the rocks ; its horns were of an 
 
110 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 extraordinary size, and, for that reason, were des- 
 tined to be turned into a bow. Then comes their 
 manufacture ; the artist joins them, polishes them, 
 and tips them. And thus, as I said before, in the 
 poet we see the origin and formation of that, which 
 we only see as a completed object in painting.® 
 
 Tof~ov iv^oov i£a\ov aiyos 
 dypiov , ov pd 7 tot’ avros vtto crreppoio TV^r/vas, 
 
 7rerpr)S ixficdvovTa bebeypevos iv 7tpodoKfjcnv 
 ^e(3\rjK€l TTpOS (TTY] 6 OS' 6 S’ V7TTLOS €p7T€(T£ TTtTpr)' 
 rod Kepa e’/c K€(f>aXrjs e/cKaiSeKaScopa necfivK ei* 
 
 Kcu ra pev a(TKr)<ras Kepao^oos rjpap€ tcktcov, 
 
 7i av S’ ev \eirjms » xp v(r * r l v Kopwvrjv. 
 
 I should become intolerable, if I were to transcribe 
 all the examples of this kind. They will occur, with- 
 out number, to every one who is familiar with Homer. 
 
 Iliad, A. iv. 105. 
 
LAOCCKXN. 
 
 Ill 
 
 CHAPTEB XVII. 
 
 But, it will be answered, the signs, which the poet 
 used, viz. language, not only render his description 
 necessarily progressive, but are also arbitrary ; and, 
 as arbitraiy signs, are certainly capable of represent- 
 ing bodies, as they exist in space. Examples of this 
 are cited from Homer himself; whose shield of 
 Achilles, say they, furnishes us with the most 
 decisive instance, how circumstantially, and yet 
 poetically, a single object may be described by its 
 parts, placed near one another. 
 
 I will reply to this two-fold objection. I call it 
 two-fold; because a justly drawn conclusion must 
 stand even without an example ; and, on the other 
 hand, an example of Homer would be of great weight 
 with me, even if I did not know any argument by 
 which to justify it. 
 
 It is true that, since language is arbitrary, it is 
 quite possible, that by it the parts of a body may be 
 made to follow upon one another just as easily and 
 perfectly, as they stand near one another in Nature. 
 But this is a peculiarity of language and its signs 
 generally, and not in so far forth, as they are most 
 adapted to the aim of Poetry. The poet does not 
 
112 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 merely wish to be intelligible ; the prose writer indeed 
 is contented with simply rendering his descriptions 
 clear and distinct, but the poet has a higher aim. 
 He must awaken in us conceptions so lively, that, 
 from the rapidity with which they arise, the same 
 impression should be made upon our senses, which 
 the sight of the material objects, that these concep- 
 tions represent, would produce. In this moment of 
 illusion, we should cease to be conscious of the in- 
 struments, by which this effect is obtained, — I mean 
 words. This is the substance of the above explana- 
 tion of poetical description or painting. But a poet 
 should always produce a picture ; and we will now 
 proceed to enquire how far bodies, according to their 
 parts near one another, are adapted for this painting. 
 
 How do we attain to a distinct conception of an 
 object in space ? First, we look at its parts singly ; 
 then at their combination ; and, lastly, at the whole. 
 The different operations are performed by our senses 
 with such astonishing rapidity, that they appear but 
 one ; and this rapidity is indispensable, if we are to 
 form an idea of the whole, which is nothing more 
 than the result of the parts and their combination. 
 Supposing, therefore, that the poet could lead us, in 
 the most beautiful order, from one part of the object to 
 another ; supposing that he knew how to make the 
 combination of these parts ever so clear to us ; still 
 much time would be spent in the process. The eye 
 takes in at a glance, what he enumerates slowly and 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 113 
 
 by degrees ; and it often happens that we have already 
 forgotten the first traits, before we come to the last ; 
 yet from these traits we are to form our idea of the 
 whole. To the eye the parts once seen are continually 
 present ; it can run over them time after time, at its 
 will ; while the ear, on the contrary, entirely loses 
 those parts it has heard, if they are not retained in 
 the thought. And even if they are thus retained, 
 what trouble and effort it costs us, to renew their 
 whole impression in the same order, and with the 
 same liveliness, as we at first received it ; or to pass 
 them at one time under review with but moderate 
 rapidity, in order to attain anything that can be 
 called an idea of the whole ! 
 
 I will illustrate this position by an example, which 
 is deservedly thought a masterpiece of its kind. a 
 
 “ There towers the noble gentian’s lofty head, 
 
 The lower herd of vulgar herbs above, 
 
 A whole flower people ’neath its standard serves, 
 
 E’en its blue brother bows and worships it. 
 
 The flower’s clear gold, in beamed curvature, 
 
 Towers on the stem, and crowns its garments grey ; 
 
 The leaves’ smooth white, with deepest green 
 bestreaked, 
 
 Gleams with the watery diamond’s varied light. 
 
 O law most just ! that might with grace should 
 wed, 
 
 And body fair a fairer soul contain ! 
 
 a Haller’s Alps. ^ 
 
 i ■/-»- 
 
114 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 Here, like the grey mist, creeps a lowly herb, 
 
 Its leaf by nature shaped into a cross ; 
 
 The lovely flower two golden bills displays, 
 
 Borne by a bird of brightest amethyst. 
 
 There throws a gleaming leaf, like fingers carved, 
 Its green reflection on a crystal brook ; 
 
 A striped star with rays of white surrounds 
 The flower’s soft snow, of faintly purpled tint. 
 
 On trodden heath the rose and emerald bloom, 
 And, purple-clad, the rocks themselves are gay.” 
 
 These are herbs and flowers, which the learned poet 
 describes with great art, and faithfulness to nature ; 
 paints, but paints without illusion. I will not say 
 that any one who had never seen these herbs and 
 flowers could not possibly form an adequate concep- 
 tion of them from his description ; for it may be that 
 all poetical descriptions require a previous acquaint- 
 ance with their object ; nor will I deny that, if any 
 one has the advantage of this acquaintance, the poet 
 might awaken in him a more lively idea of some of 
 the parts. The question at issue is, what is the 
 case with respect to the conception of the whole ? If 
 this also is to be vivid, no individual prominence 
 must be given to single parts, but the higher light 
 must seem distributed to all ; and our imagination 
 must have the power of running over all with the 
 same speed, that it may at once frame out of them 
 that which can be at once seen in nature. Is this the 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 115 
 
 case here? And if it is not, how can it be said, 
 “that the most faithful delineation of a painter, 
 would prove weak, and obscure, in comparison with 
 this poetical description ?” b It is far below the ex- 
 pression, which lines and colours upon a surface are 
 capable of producing ; and the critic, who bestowed 
 this exaggerated praise upon it, must have contem- 
 plated it from an entirely false point of view ; he 
 must have looked to the foreign ornaments, which 
 the poet has interwoven with it, to its elevation 
 above vegetable life, and to the development of those 
 inner perfections, for which external beauty serves 
 merely as the shell, more than to this beauty itself, 
 and the degree of liveliness and faithfulness in the 
 representation of it, which the painter and poet can 
 respectively produce. Yet it is the last only that is 
 important here ; and any one who would say, that 
 the mere lines, 
 
 The flower’s clear gold, in beamed curvature, 
 
 Towers on the stem, and crowns its garments grey ; 
 
 The leaves’ smooth white, with deepest green 
 bestreaked 
 
 Gleams with the watery diamond’s varied light. 
 
 Any one, I say, who could assert, that these lines, 
 in point of the impression they create, can vie with 
 the imitation of an Huy sum, must either have never 
 
 b Breitinger’s Art ot Criticism, Vol. ii. page, 807. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 116 
 
 questioned his feelings, or be deliberately prepared 
 to deny them. They are verses that might be very 
 beautiful, recited with the flower before us, but which 
 by themselves express little or nothing. In each 
 word I hear the elaborating poet, but I am very far 
 from seeing the object itself. 
 
 Once more, therefore, I do not deny to language 
 generally the power of painting a corporeal whole 
 according to its parts. It can do so, because its 
 signs, although consecutive, are still arbitrary ; but I 
 do deny that language, as the means of poetry, pos- 
 sesses this power, because such verbal descriptions 
 are; entirely deficient in that illusion, which is the 
 poet’s principal aim. And this illusion, I repeat, 
 cannot fail to be wanting, because, in the recomposi- 
 tion of the parts, the coexistence of the body comes 
 into collision with the consecutiveness of language. 
 Though, during the solution of the former into the 
 latter, the division of the whole into its parts cer- 
 tainly relieves us, the final recomposition of these 
 parts into their whole is rendered extremely difficult, 
 and often impossible. 
 
 Everywhere, therefore, where illusion is of no im- 
 portance, where the writer appeals only to the under- 
 standing of his reader, and merely aims at conveying 
 a distinct, and, as far as it is possible, a complete 
 idea, these descriptions of bodies, so justly excluded 
 from poetry, are quite in place ; and not only the 
 prose writer, but even the didactic poet, (for where 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 117 
 
 he is didactic he ceases to be a poet) may make 
 use of them with great advantage. Thus, for instance, 
 in his Greorgics, Yirgil describes a cow fit for 
 breeding — 
 
 Optima torvse 
 
 Forma bovis, cui turpe caput, cui plurima cervix, 
 
 Et crurum tenus a mento palearia pendent, 
 
 Turn longo nullus lateri modus : ofnnia magna, 
 
 Pes etiam ; et camuris hirtse sub cornibus aures. 
 Nee mihi displiceat maculis insignis et albo, 
 
 Aut juga detractans, interdumque aspera cornu, 
 
 Et faciem tauro propior, quseque ardua tota, 
 
 Et gradiens ima verrit vestigia cauda. 
 
 Or a beautiful colt : 
 
 Illi ardua cervix, 
 
 Argutumque caput, brevis alvus obesaque terga ; 
 Luxuriatque toris animosum pectus &e. c 
 
 Here it is plain that the poet thought more about 
 the explanation of the different parts, than about the 
 whole. His object is to enumerate the good points 
 of a beautiful colt, or useful cow, in such a manner, 
 that, on meeting with one or more of them, we 
 should be enabled to form a fair judgment of their 
 respective value. But whether or not these good 
 points can be recomposed into an animated picture, 
 is a matter of perfect indifference to him. 
 
 c Georg, lib. iii, 51, and 79. 
 
118 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 With the exception of this use of it, the detailed 
 description of corporeal objects, without the above- 
 mentioned device of Homer for changing what is 
 coexisting in them into what is really successive, 
 has always been acknowledged, by the finest judges, 
 to be mere cold and trifling trash, to which little or 
 no genius can be attributed. When the poetaster, 
 says Horace, can do nothing more, he at once begins 
 to paint a grove, an altar, a brook meandering through 
 pleasant meads, a rapid stream, or a rainbow : 
 
 Lucus et ara Hianse, 
 
 Et properantis aquee per amcenos ambitus agros, 
 Aut fluinen Khenum, ant pluvius describitur arcus. d 
 
 Pope, when a man, looked back with great contempt 
 upon the descriptive efforts of his poetic childhood. 
 Pie expressly desires that he, who would worthily 
 bear the name of poet, should renounce description 
 as early as possible; and declares that a purely 
 descriptive poem is like a banquet consisting of 
 nothing but broths(39). On Von Kleist’s own au- 
 thority I can assert that he took little pride in his 
 “ Spring.” Plad he lived longer, he would have 
 thrown it into a totally different form. He intended 
 to methodise it, and reflected upon the means of 
 causing the multitude of images, which he appears 
 to have taken at random, now here, now there, from 
 revivified creation, to arise and follow one another 
 
 De Art. Poet. 16. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 119 
 
 in a natural order before his eyes. He would at the 
 same time have followed the advice, which Marmontel, 
 doubtlessly referring to his eclogues, had bestowed 
 on several German poets. He would have converted 
 a series of images, thinly interspersed with feelings, 
 into a succession of feelings but sparingly interwoven 
 with images(40). 
 
120 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 But supposing Homer himself should be found 
 to have fallen into this cold description of material 
 objects ? 
 
 I venture to hope, that there are few passages, 
 which will justify his being cited as an authority in 
 its favour ; and I feel assured that these will prove to 
 be of such a kind as to confirm the rule, from which 
 they appear to be exceptions. 
 
 We conclude, then, that succession of time is the 
 department of the poet, as space is that of the painter. 
 
 To introduce two necessarily distant points of 
 time into one and the same painting, as Er. Mazzuoli 
 has the rape of the Sabine women and their subse- 
 quent reconciliation of their husbands and relations, 
 or, as Titian has the whole history of the prodigal 
 son, his disorderly life, his misery, and his repent- 
 ance, is an encroachment upon the sphere of the 
 poet, which good taste could never justify. 
 
 To enumerate one by one to the reader, in order 
 to afford him an idea of the whole, several parts or 
 things, which, if they are to produce a whole in na- 
 ture, I must necessarily take in at one glance, is an 
 encroachment of the poet upon the sphere of the 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 121 
 
 painter, whereby he squanders much imagination to 
 no purpose. 
 
 The connection between painting and poetry may 
 be compared to that of two equitable neighbouring 
 powers, who permit not that the one should presume 
 to take unbecoming freedom within the heart of the 
 dominions of the other, yet on their frontiers practise 
 a mutual forbearance, by which both sides render a 
 peaceful compensation for those slight aggressions, 
 which, in haste or from the force of circumstances, 
 they have found themselves compelled to make on 
 one another’s privileges. 
 
 In support of this view I will not cite the fact, 
 that in great historical pictures, the single moment is 
 almost always extended ; and that perhaps there is 
 scarcely any piece, very rich in figures, in hich every 
 one of them is in the same motion and altitude, in 
 which he would have been at the moment of the main 
 action, some being represented in the posture of a little 
 earlier, others in that of a little later period. This free- 
 dom the master must rectify by a certain refinement 
 in the arrangement, by bringing his several characters 
 either prominently forwards, or placing them in the 
 back ground, which has the effect of making the part 
 they take in what is passing appear more or less 
 transitory. This, I say, I do not quote in my sup- 
 port, but will merely avail myself of some remarks, 
 which Herr Mengs has made upon Raphael’s drapery. 
 “ There is a cause,” he says, “ for all his folds, either 
 
122 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 “ in their own weight, or in the motion of the limbs. 
 “We can often tell from the former, what has been 
 “the previous attitude of the latter. Baphael has 
 “ even sought to give significance to these folds. We 
 “ can see from them whether a leg or arm, previously 
 “ to its movement, was in a backward or forward pos- 
 “ ture ; whether a limb had been, or was in the act 
 “of being, straightened; or whether it had been 
 “ straight, and was being contracted.” 3, It is indis- 
 putable that in this case the artist combines two 
 different moments in one. Tor, as that part of the 
 drapery, which rested upon the hinder foot, would, 
 unless the material were very thick and entirely un- 
 suitable for painting, immediately follow it in its 
 motion forwards, there is no moment, at which the 
 garment -pan form any other folds, than those, which 
 the pres frit attitude of the limb requires ; and, if it 
 is made, to fall in other folds, the limb is represented 
 at the present moment, and the drapery at the one 
 previous to it. Yet who could censure the artist for 
 having presented us with both these moments at 
 once ? Who would not sooner praise him for having 
 had the understanding and courage to fall into a 
 slight error for the sake of attaining great perfection 
 of expression ? 
 
 The poet deserves similar indulgence. His pro- 
 gressive imitation properly permits him to deal with 
 only one side, one property of his material object, at 
 a Reflections on Beauty and Taste in Painting, p. 69. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 123 
 
 a time. But, when the happy arrangement of his lan- 
 guage enables him to do this with a single word, why 
 should he not now and then venture to subjoin a se- 
 cond ? Why not, if it requites the trouble, a third, 
 or even a fourth ? I have already remarked that in 
 Homer, for example, a ship is only the black ship, or 
 the hollow ship, or the swift ship ; at the very most, 
 the well-manned black ship. I wish, however, to 
 be understood as speaking of his style generally; 
 here and there a passage may be found, where he 
 adds the third descriptive epithet. KafnrvXa kCkKu, x«k- 
 Kea, oK.TaKvrjiia,b round, bronze, eight-spoked wheels. 
 Also where the fourth aa-Triba ndvroo-e itcrrjv. KaXrjv, 
 Xa\<€LT]u, e^rjkarov , 0 “ a beautiful, brazen, wrought, 
 all-even shield.” Who would censure him for 
 it ? who is not rather grateful to him for this little 
 luxuriancy, when he feels what a good effect it may 
 produce in some few suitable passages. 
 
 But I will not allow the peculiar justification either 
 of the poet or the painter to rest upon the above- 
 mentioned analogy of two friendly neighbours. A 
 mere analogy proves and justifies nothing. Their 
 real justification is the fact, that in the work of the 
 painter the two different moments border so closely 
 upon one another, that, without hesitating, we count 
 them as one ; and that in the poetry the several fea- 
 tures, representing the various parts and properties 
 in space, follow one another with such speed and 
 b Iliad, E. v. 722. c Iliad, M. xii. 294. 
 
124 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 condensed brevity, that we fancy that we hear all 
 at once. 
 
 In the attainment of this result Homer has been 
 materially aided by the excellence of his language. 
 It not only allows him all possible freedom in the 
 accumulation and combination of adjectives, but its 
 arrangement of these epithets is so happy, that we 
 are relieved from the prejudicial delay of the noun 
 to which they refer. In one or other of these ad- 
 vantages the modern languages fail entirely. Some, 
 which, as the French, for instance, must convert the 
 Ka/ATrvXa KVKXa, ^dX/cea, oKTaKvrjfACh into such a peri- 
 phrasis as, et the round wheels, which were made of 
 brass, and had eight spokes,” express the sense, but 
 annihilate the picture ; yet, here the picture is every- 
 thing, and the sense nothing : and the one without 
 the other turns a very lively poet into a most tedious 
 twaddler. This fate has often befallen Homer under 
 the pen of the conscientious Dacier. Our German 
 tongue, on the other hand, though it can replace 
 the epithets by equivalent adjectives quite as short, 
 has not the power of imitating the happy arrange- 
 ment of the Greek. We say, indeed, the round, 
 brazen, eight-spoked, (die runden ehernen, acht- 
 speichigten), but Kader drags behind. It is felt at 
 once that three distinct predicates, before we learn 
 the subject, can only produce a weak and confused 
 image. The Greek joins the subject at once to the 
 first predicate, and leaves the others to follow. He 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 125 
 
 says, “ round wheels, brazen, eight-spoked.” Thus 
 we know at once what he is speaking of, and become 
 acquainted, conformably with the natural order of 
 thought, first with the thing of which he speaks, 
 and afterwards with its accidents. This advantage 
 our language has not, or, perhaps, I should rather say 
 possesses, but can rarely use without being equivocal. 
 It is all one. Tor, if we place the adjectives after 
 the substantives, they must stand absolutely; we 
 must say, “round wheels, brazen, eight-spoked,” 
 (Bunde rader, ehern und achtspeichigt.) Now, in 
 this absolute position, our adjectives are just the 
 same as adverbs ; and, if we construe them as such 
 with the next verb that is predicated of the subject, 
 must produce, if not a completely false, a very in- 
 direct meaning. 
 
 But I am wasting my time on trifles, and appear 
 to have forgotten Homer’s shield ; that famous pic- 
 ture of the shield of Achilles, in respect of which 
 especially, the Greek poet, in ancient times, was 
 regarded as a master of painting.* 1 A shield, at any 
 rate, it will be said, is a single material object, which 
 a poet cannot be allowed to describe according to 
 its parts near one another. And yet Homer, in more 
 than a hundred splendid lines, has described its 
 material, its form, and all the figures which fill its 
 monstrous surface, so circumstantially and closely, 
 
 d Dionysius Halicarnassi in Vita Homeri apud Th. Gale 
 in Opusc. Mytliol. p. 401 
 
126 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 that modem artists have found no difficulty in pro- 
 ducing a drawing of it, exactly corresponding in all 
 points. 
 
 My reply to this particular objection is, that I 
 have already answered it. Homer does not describe 
 the shield as finished and complete, but, as it is 
 being wrought. Thus, he here also makes use of that 
 knack of art, which I have already commended; by 
 which he changes that, which, in his subject, is co- 
 existent, into what is consecutive, and thereby con- 
 verts a tedious painting of a body into a vivid picture 
 of an action. We see not the shield itself, but the 
 divine craftsman who executes it. He steps with 
 hammer and tongs before his anvil, and, after he has 
 forged the plates out of the raw material, the figures, 
 which he destines for the ornament of the shield, 
 grow, one after another, out of the bronze, under 
 our eyes, beneath the finer strokes of his hammer. 
 We never lose sight of him, until all is ready ; and 
 when it is complete, we feel indeed astonishment 
 at the work, but it is the confident astonishment of 
 an eye witness, who has seen it produced. 
 
 This cannot be said of the shield of iEneas in 
 Yirgil. The Roman poet either did not here feel 
 the refinement of his pattern, or the objects, which 
 he wished to introduce upon his shield, appeared of 
 such a kind, as not quite to admit of being executed 
 before our eyes. They were prophecies, which it 
 would certainly have been unbecoming for the god to 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 127 
 
 have uttered in our presence as distinctly, as the 
 poet has afterwards explained them. Prophecies, as 
 such, require a darker language, in which the real 
 names of the persons of futurity, of whom they 
 speak, are out of place; yet, apparently, these real 
 names were all important to the courtier poet(41). 
 But if this defence justifies him, it does not do away 
 with the bad effect, which his deviation from Homer’s 
 style here produces. All readers of refined taste 
 will allow that I am right. The preparations, 
 which Vulcan makes for his work, are nearly the 
 same in Virgil as in Homer. But, whilst in Homer 
 not only the preparations for labour, but the labour 
 itself is seen, Virgil, after he has given us a general 
 view of Vulcan and his Cyclops busied together — 
 
 Ingentem clypeum informant 
 
 Alii ventosis follibus auras 
 
 Accipiunt, redduntque ; alii stridentia tingunt 
 iEra lacu ; gemit impositis incudibus antrum ; 
 
 Illi inter sese multa vi brachia tollunt 
 In numerum, versantque tenaci forcipe massam. 6 
 
 lets the curtain fall at once, and transports us to 
 quite a different scene, whence he gradually conducts 
 us to the valley, in which Venus comes to iEneas 
 with the arms, that have been, in the mean time, 
 completed. She sets them against the trunk of an 
 oak, and, whilst the hero gazes at and admires, feels, 
 
 e iEneid, viii. 447. 
 
128 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 and handles them, the description, or rather the 
 painting of the shield begins, and through the con- 
 stant recurrence of such phrases as, “ Illic fecerat,” 
 “ Nec procul hinc addiderat,” “ baud procul inde,” 
 &c. &c. grows so tedious, that all the poetic or- 
 nament, which a Virgil could bestow on it, is 
 required to prevent its becoming intolerable. For 
 this picture represents iEneas as being amused with 
 the mere form, and as not knowing anything about 
 their meaning : 
 
 Rerumque ignarus imagine gaudet. 
 
 Nor does Venus speak ; although she probably knew 
 just as much of the future destinies of her dear 
 grandchild, as did her pliable husband ; the explana- 
 tion is given by the poet himself, and therefore the 
 action of the poem is at a stand still whilst it lasts. 
 Not one of his characters takes any part in it ; nor 
 is the sequel of the plot to be at all affected by what 
 is represented on the shield ; the finesse of a courtier, 
 who adorns his subject with every kind of flattering 
 allusion, is transparent in it all, but not the great 
 genius, which relies entirely upon the intrinsic merit 
 of his work, and rejects all external means of ren- 
 dering it interesting. The shield of iEneas is, in 
 consequence, really an interpolation, solely designed 
 to flatter the national pride of the Eoman people. 
 It is a foreign stream turned by the poet into his main 
 river to make the latter more stirring. The shield 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 129 
 
 of Achilles, on the contrary, is the growth of its own 
 fruitful soil : for a shield was to be made ; and, since 
 nothing that is necessary comes from the hand of the 
 divinity without grace also, it must needs have orna- 
 ment. But the art lay in treating these decorations 
 merely as such, in interweaving them into the main 
 subject, and making it furnish the opportunity of 
 showing them to us : all this could only be accom- 
 plished in the style of Homer. Homer makes Yulcan 
 expend his skill upon the shield, that he may pro- 
 duce one which should be worthy of him. Yirgil, 
 on the other hand, appears to make him forge the 
 shield for the sake of its decorations, since he con- 
 siders them of sufficient importance to be described 
 particularly, after the shield has been long completed. 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 CHAPTEB XIX. 
 
 The objections, which the elder Scaliger, Per- 
 rault, Terasson, and others, have raised against 
 Homer’s shield, as well as the replies made to them 
 by Eacier, Boivin, and Pope, are well known. To 
 me these last appear to have committed themselves 
 too far ; and, from a confidence in the goodness of 
 their cause, to have maintained opinions incorrect in 
 themselves, and contributing nothing to the justifi- 
 cation of the poet. 
 
 To meet the main objection, that Homer fills the 
 shield with such a number of figures, that they can- 
 not possibly be contained within its circumference, 
 Boivin undertook to have it drawn, and to point out 
 the required measurement. His idea of dividing 
 the surface into several concentric circles is very in- 
 genious, although the words of the poet do not 
 afford any ground for it, and there are no traces of 
 the ancients having employed such compartments on 
 their shields. I should rather, since Homer calls it 
 craKOs Tvavrocre dedaiXoojJievoVf cc a shield artistically 
 wrought on all sides,” obtain a larger surface by 
 calling in the concave side to my assistance : for 
 that the ancients did not leave this side unornamented 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 131 
 
 is proved from Phidias’ shield of Miner va. a But it 
 was not enough that Boivin neglected to avail him- 
 self of this advantage : he unnecessarily increased 
 the number of the representations for which he was 
 obliged to find room in a space thus diminished by 
 one half, when he broke up into two or three distinct 
 pictures what the poet manifestly intends for only 
 one. I know very well what was his inducement to 
 do so, but he ought not to have been influenced by 
 it. Instead of labouring to satisfy all the require- 
 ments of his opponents, he should have shewn them 
 that their demands were unreasonable. 
 
 I shall make myself more clearly comprehended 
 by giving an example. When Homer says of a 
 town b — 
 
 Xaol S’ iiv dyoprj euav adpooL' ev6a 8e veiKos 
 (opcbper 8vo S’ av8pes ivemeov eiveKa noLpr/s 
 av8pos dnocjiBipevov' 6 pev iv^ero, ndvr dno8dvvai , 
 8r]pco 7n<j)av(rK(oi >' 6 8'dvdivero, prj8e v iXeadai. 
 ap<fi co S’ lecrOrjV ini IcrropL neipap eXicrdai. 
 
 Xaol S’ dpcfioTepoiaiv inrjnvov ap(pls dpooyoi , . 
 
 KrjpvKes 8' apa Xaov iprjrvow oi 8e yepovres 
 eiar ini ^€(Ttol(tl XlBols, ivl kvkXco' 
 
 (TKrj7TTpa 8e KrjpvKcov iv ;^ep<x e X 0V V e P°4 )( ^ vcol/ ' 
 toktiv 67 reiT rjiaaov, apoi[3r]8ls 8b 8 lku^ov. 
 
 Keiro 8' ap iv piacrouri 8vu> xP V(J dLO raXavra • 
 
 a Scuto ejus in quo Amazonum preeliurn caelavit intume- 
 scente ambitu parmee; ejusdem concava parte deorura et 
 gigantum dimicationem. Plinius, lib. xxxvi. 4. 4. 
 
 b Iliad, 2. xviii. 497. 
 
132 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 I do not believe that he intended to draw more than 
 one picture, that of a public trial about the contested 
 payment of an important sum for a manslaughter 
 that had been committed. An artist who wished 
 to execute this subject could not make use of more 
 than one moment of it at once : he would have to 
 choose either the accusation, the examination of 
 witnesses, or the giving judgment, or any other 
 moment, before, after, or between these points, that 
 seemed most suitable to him. This moment he 
 would render as pregnant as possible, and would 
 execute with all the illusion, which constitutes the 
 great superiority of art over poetry in the represen- 
 tation of visible objects. The poet is infinitely 
 surpassed in this respect, and, if he wishes to paint 
 the same object in words without complete failure, 
 he must have recourse to his own peculiar advan- 
 tages. And these are, the liberty to extend his 
 description over the time, preceding and subsequent 
 to the single instant which is the subject of the 
 picture ; and the power of showing us not onty what 
 the artist shows us, but also that, which the latter can 
 only leave to our conjecture. Through this liberty 
 and this power alone is the poet enabled to rival the 
 artist. Their works will appear most similar, when 
 their effects are equally lively, not when the onefim- 
 parts to the soul, through the ear, neither more nor 
 less than the other presents to the eyes. If Boivin 
 had judged the passage of Homer according to this 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 133 
 
 principle, he would not have divided it into as many 
 pictures, as he thought he perceived distinct periods of 
 time in it. It is true that all Homer’s circumstances 
 could not have been combined in a single picture. 
 The accusation and defence, the production of wit- 
 nesses, the clamours of the crowd, the endeavours 
 of the herald to still the tumult, and the decision 
 of the arbitrator, must follow after one another, and 
 cannot be represented existing beside one another. 
 Still what is not actually contained in the painting 
 is virtually ; and the only method of imitating a 
 material picture by words, is that, which combines 
 what is virtually implied in it with what is actually 
 visible, and does not confine itself within the limits 
 of art ; within which the poet indeed finds the data 
 for a painting, but from which he can never produce 
 a picture itself. 
 
 In the same manner Boivin divides the picture of 
 the beleaguered town 0 into three different paintings. 
 He might just as well have divided it into a dozen 
 parts as three. For when he had once failed to 
 seize upon the spirit of the poet, and had required 
 him to submit to the unities of material painting, 
 he might have found so many transgressions of these 
 unities, that it would have been almost necessary to 
 allot a separate compartment on the shield to every 
 trait of the poet. But, in my opinion, Homer has 
 not drawn more than ten distinct pictures ; each of 
 c Iliad, 2. xviii. 509. 
 
134 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 which begins with iv fiev erevge, or iv bi Trolrja-e, or 
 iv b ’ iri6e t, or iv be noi/aWe ’AjU^>tyv^ets , (42). Where 
 there are not these introductory words, there is no 
 ground for assuming a distinct picture. On the con- 
 trary, every picture they enclose must be considered 
 as a single one, if no stronger reasons can be adduced 
 to the contrary, than that they fail in that arbitrary 
 concentration into a single point of time, which, as a 
 poet, he was in no way bound to observe. I should 
 rather say, that, had he maintained and rigidly com- 
 plied with it, had he abstained from introducing 
 the smallest feature, which could not have been 
 combined with it in a material representation of his 
 picture, in a word, had he so acted, as his critics 
 would have desired him, he would not, it is true, 
 have laid himself open to their censure, but he 
 would not have won the admiration of any man of 
 taste. 
 
 Pope approved of the divisions and designs of 
 Boivin ; but thought that he had made an extraor- 
 dinary discovery, when he further argued that each 
 of these sub-divided pictures could be indicated ac- 
 cording to the most rigid rules of painting in vogue 
 at the present day. Pie found contrast, perspective, 
 and the three unities, all strictly adhered to in them. 
 Pie knew quite well that, on the authority of good 
 and trustworthy evidence, painting at the time of 
 the Trojan war was still in its cradle. Homer there- 
 fore must either, by virtue of his divine genius, have 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 135 
 
 paid regard not so much to what painting had accom- 
 plished at the time of the war, or in his own day, 
 as to what he foresaw it would be enabled to attain 
 in its highest perfection ; or the evidence itself cannot 
 be of so authoritative a nature, as to outweigh the pal- 
 pable testimony of the skilfully wrought shield. He 
 who will may adopt the former hypothesis ; of the 
 last, at least, no one will be persuaded who knows 
 anything more of the history of art, than the mere 
 data of the historians. For the belief that painting 
 in Homer’s time was still in its infancy is not only 
 supported by the authority of Pliny and other writers, 
 but is grounded upon the decisive proof, afforded by 
 the works of art enumerated by the ancients, that, 
 many centuries later, art had not advanced much far- 
 ther, and that the paintings of a Polygnotus, for in- 
 stance, would be far from able to sustain the test, 
 which Pope believes the pictures in Homer’s shield 
 are capable of undergoing. The two large pieces of 
 this master at Delphi, of which Pausanias lias left 
 us so minute a description, d are plainly devoid of all 
 perspective. It is undeniable that the ancients pos- 
 sessed no knowledge of this branch of art, and what 
 Pope adduces to show that Homer had some idea of 
 it, only proves that his own conceptions as regards it 
 were of the most imperfect nature(43). “ That 
 Homer,” he says, '‘was not a stranger to aerial per- 
 “ spective appears in his expressly marking the dis- 
 d Phocie. cap. xxv — xxxi. 
 
136 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 “ tance of object from object : lie tells us, for instance, 
 “ that the two spies lay a little remote from the other 
 “ figures ; and that the oak, under which was spread 
 “ the banquet of the reapers, stood apart ; what he 
 “ says of the valley sprinkled all over with cottages 
 “ and flocks, appears to be a description of a large 
 “ country in perspective. And indeed a general ar- 
 “ gument for this may be drawn from the number of 
 “ figures on the shield ; which could not be all ex- 
 pressed in their full magnitude; and this is there- 
 “ fore a sort of proof that the art of lessening them 
 “ according to perspective was known at that time.” 6 
 Mere observance of the law, derived from optical ex- 
 perience, that a distant object appears less than a 
 neighbouring one, does not constitute perspective in 
 a picture. Perspective requires a single point of view, 
 a definite, natural, horizon ; and in this the ancient 
 paintings were wholly deficient. The ground in the 
 pictures of Polygnotus was not horizontal, but was 
 so excessively raised at the back, that the figures, 
 which ought to have stood behind, appeared to be 
 above one another. That this was the general posi- 
 tion of their single figures and groups seems to be 
 shown by the ancient bas-reliefs, where the hindmost 
 figures always stand higher than, and overlook, the 
 foremost ; it is therefore natural to assume that it is 
 
 e Observations on the shield of Achilles, Pope’s Iliad, 
 
 B. XVIII. vol. v. p. 1 69, edited by Gilbert Wakefield, B. A. 
 
 (London, T. Longman, and B. Lawse, 1796.) 
 
LAO CO ON. 
 
 137 
 
 employed in Homer’s description ; and those of his 
 pictures, which, in accordance with this practice, can 
 be combined in a single painting, ought not to be un- 
 necessarily separated. Consequently the twofold scene 
 in the peaceful town, through the streets of which a 
 joyous wedding procession moves, whilst a weighty 
 lawsuit is being decided in the market place, does 
 not necessarily involve two paintings ; Homer, cer- 
 tainly, might easily think of them as one, since in his 
 imagination he would look at the whole town from 
 so high a point of view, that he could obtain an un- 
 interrupted view of the streets and market-place at 
 the same time. 
 
 It is my opinion that real perspective in paint- 
 ing was discovered, as it were, experimentally, by 
 means of scene painting ; and, even when this last 
 had reached perfection, there still remained the far 
 from easy task of applying its rules to a picture 
 painted on a single surface. At any rate, in the 
 paintings of a later period, among the antiquities of 
 Herculaneum, such numerous and manifold offences 
 against perspective are to be found, as would not be 
 pardoned even in a beginner/ 
 
 But I will spare myself the trouble of collecting 
 my scattered observations on a question, which I hope 
 to find satisfactorily solved in the history of art pro- 
 mised us by Winkelman. 5 
 
 f Reflections on Painting, p. 185, 
 
 s Written in the year 1763. 
 
138 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 But I return to my old path, if indeed, one who 
 is rambling only for his own pleasure, can be said 
 to have any. 
 
 What I have asserted of bodily objects generally 
 is doubly true, when applied to beautiful bodily 
 objects. 
 
 Typical beauty arises from the harmonious effect 
 of numerous parts, all of which the sight is capa- 
 ble of comprehending at the same time. It requires 
 therefore, that these parts should lie near each other ; 
 and since things, whose parts lie near each other, are 
 the peculiar objects of the plastic arts, these it is, 
 and these only, which can imitate typical beauty. 
 
 The poet, since he can only exhibit in succession 
 its component parts, entirely abstains from the des- 
 cription of typical beauty, as beauty. He feels that 
 these parts, ranged one after another, cannot possibly 
 have the effect that they produce, when closely ar- 
 ranged together; that the concentrating glance, 
 which, after their enumeration, we try to cast back 
 upon them, imparts to us no harmonious image ; 
 that it surpasses the power of human imagination 
 to represent to oneself what effect such and such a 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 139 
 
 mouth, nose, and eyes, will produce together, unless 
 we can call to mind, from nature or art, a similar 
 composition of like parts. 
 
 And in this respect Homer is the pattern of 
 patterns. He says Nireus was beautiful ; Achilles 
 was still more so ; Helen was endowed with a godlike 
 beauty. But nowhere does he enter upon a detailed 
 description of these beauties ; and yet the whole 
 poem is based upon the loveliness of Helen. How a 
 more modern poet would have dilated upon it ! 
 
 A certain Constantinus Manasses has attempted to 
 adorn his cold chronicles with a description of 
 Helen. I have to thank him for his attempt. Bor 
 I really do not know where else I could have ex- 
 tracted an example, from which it would have been 
 so palpably clear how foolish it may prove to ven- 
 ture upon that, which Homer, in his wisdom, has 
 left unattempted. When I read there(44) : 
 
 t] v fj yvvr] 7 repiKaWrjs, ivo(fipvs ev^povardrr], 
 iv7 rapeios, evTrpoacoTros, fiocoiTLs, \iovoxpovs, 
 £\iKo(3\<E(papos, aft pa yepov a Acre S', 
 
 AevKo^pa^tcov, rpv(J)epd, KaWos avriKpvs eprrvovv, 
 to npocroonov KaraAevKOv, t] 7 rapeia po86^povs> 
 to nporratTiOv ent^api, to (3\e(papov copalov, 
 
 KaWos dveTnrrjbevTov, dftaTrTicrTov, dvTo^povv, 
 efianTe ttjv AevKorrjTa poSo^pta nvpLvrj , 
 cos et tis to v e\e<fiai na (3d\f/€i Aapnpa nopcfivpq. 
 beiprj paKpa , KUTaXevKos, odev epvOovpyrjdrj 
 KVKVoyevr/ ttjv ivonTOv 'EA evqv xpi’jpaTLfcw- 
 
140 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 I seem to see stones being rolled up a mountain, 
 upon whose summit a magnificent structure is to be 
 raised out of them, but which all, of their own 
 accord, roll down on the other side. What image 
 does this throng of words leave behind it? What 
 was the appearance of Helen ? If a thousand per- 
 sons were to read this description, would not every 
 one of them form a different idea of her ? 
 
 Still, it is true, the political verses of a monk 
 are not poetry. Let us listen to Ariosto, whilst he 
 describes his charming Alcina : a 
 
 Di persona era tanto ben formata, 
 
 Quanto mai finger san Pittori industri : 
 
 Con bionda chioma, lunga ed annodata, 
 
 Oro non e, che piu risplenda, e lustri. 
 
 Spargeasi per la guancia delieata 
 Misto color di rose e di ligustri. 
 
 Di terso avorio era la fronte beta, 
 
 Che lo spazio finia con giusta meta. 
 
 Sotto duo negri, e sottilissimi archi 
 Son duo negri occhi, anzi duo chiari soli, 
 
 Pietosi a riguardare, a mover parchi, 
 
 Intorno cui par ch’ Amor scherzi, e voli, 
 
 E ch’ indi tutta la faretra scarchi, 
 
 E che visibilmente i cori in voli. 
 
 Quindi il naso per mezzo il viso scende, 
 
 Che non trova l’invidia ove l’emende. 
 
 a Orlando Furioso. Canto, vii. St, 11 — 15. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 141 
 
 Sotto quel sta, quasi fra due vallette, 
 
 La bocca sparsa di natio cinabro ; 
 
 Quivi due filze son di perle elette, 
 
 Che chiude ed apre un bello e dolce labro ; 
 
 Quindi escon le cortesi parolette 
 Da render molle ogni cor rozzo e scabro ; 
 
 Quivi si forma quel suave riso, 
 
 Ch’ apre a sua posta in terra il paradiso. 
 
 Bianca neve e il bel collo, e’l petto latte : 
 
 II collo & tondo, il petto colrno e largo. 
 
 Due pome acerb e, e pur d’avorio fatte, 
 
 Vengono e van, come onda al primo margo, 
 Quando piacevole aura il mar combatte. 
 
 Non potria 1’ altre parti veder Argo : 
 
 Ben si puo giudicar che corrisponde, 
 
 A quel ch’ appar di fuor, quel che s’ asconde. 
 
 Mostran le braccia sua misura giusta ; 
 
 Et la Candida man spesso si vede, 
 
 Lunghetta alquanto, e di larghezza angusta, 
 
 Dove n& nodo appar, n£ vena eccede. 
 
 Si vede al fin della persona augusta 
 Il breve, asciutto, e ritondetto piede. 
 
 Gli Angelici sembianti nati in cielo 
 Non si ponno celar sotto alcun velo. 
 
 IMilton, when speaking of the Pandemonium, says, 
 “ The work some praise, and some the architect.” 
 
142 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 The praise of the one, therefore, does not always 
 imply the praise of the other. A work of art 
 may deserve all possible approbation, without in- 
 volving any great acquisition of renown by the 
 artist. On the other hand, an artist may justly 
 demand our admiration, even though his work do 
 not afford us full satisfaction. This principle should 
 never be forgotten, and it will often enable us to 
 reconcile entirely conflicting judgments. This is the 
 case here. Dolce in his dialogues on painting makes 
 Aretino speak in the most exaggerated terms of the 
 stanzas I have just quoted(45). I, on the contrary, 
 have selected it as an instance of painting without 
 picture. We are both in the right. Dolce’s admira- 
 tion is called forth by the knowledge of the beauty of 
 the human form which the poet displays in it ; whilst 
 I look merely to the effect which this knowledge, when 
 expressed in words, can produce upon my imagin- 
 ative powers. Dolce concludes from this know- 
 ledge that good poets are no less good painters ; 
 and I from this effect, that what is most readily 
 expressed by the painter through lines and colours, 
 is most difficult to be expressed by words. Dolce 
 recommends Ariosto’s description to all artists as 
 the most perfect image of a beautiful woman, whilst 
 I hold it up to all poets, as a most instructive 
 warning. It may be that when he says, 
 
 Di persona era tanto ben formata, 
 
 Quanto mai finger san Pittori industri , 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 143 
 
 he proves that he thoroughly understood the rules 
 of proportion, as they have been deduced by the 
 study of the most industrious masters from nature 
 and the antiques. It may be, that in the mere 
 words(46), 
 
 Spargeasi per la guancia delicata 
 
 Misto color di rose e di ligustri. 
 
 he shows himself to be a complete master of colour- 
 ing, a very Titian. We may, from the fact that he 
 only compares the hair of Alcina to gold, but does 
 not call it golden, conclude, with equal significance, 
 that he disapproved of the use of an actually golden 
 tint. We may even, in the descending nose, 
 
 Quindi il naso per mezzo il viso scende, 
 
 discover the profile of those ancient Greek noses, 
 which were afterwards borrowed from the Grecian 
 artists by the Romans. But what is the use of all 
 this learning and observation to us readers, whose 
 only desire is to believe that we see a beautiful 
 woman, and to feel at that belief some of those soft 
 emotions of the blood, which accompany the actual 
 sight of beauty ? If the poet does know by what 
 proportions a beautiful form is produced, does that 
 prove that we know it too ? And even if we do 
 know it, does he cause us to see these proportions 
 here ? or does he make the difficulty of remember- 
 
144 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 ing them in a lively and comprehensible manner in 
 the least degree lighter ? 
 
 A forehead confined within the proper limits, 
 
 la fronte, 
 
 Che lo spazio finia con giusta meta ; 
 
 A nose, in which envy itself finds nothing to improve, 
 Che non trova l’invidia, ove l’emende ; 
 
 A hand, somewhat long, and narrow, 
 
 Lnnghetta alquanto, e di larghezza angusta ; 
 
 What image do all these general phrases call up ? In 
 the mouth of a drawing master, who wished to call 
 the attention of his scholars to the beauties of the 
 classical model, they might mean something ; for let 
 his pupils have but one look at his model, and they 
 see the proper limits of the joyous forehead, they see 
 the beautiful contour of the nose, the narrowness 
 of the delicate hand. But in the poet I see nothing, 
 and perceive with vexation the uselessness of my 
 most strenuous etforts to see something. 
 
 In this point, in which he can imitate Homer 
 merely by doing nothing, Virgil also has been 
 tolerably happy. His heroine Dido, too, is never any- 
 thing more than “ pulcherrima Dido.” When he 
 wishes to be more circumstantial about her, he is so 
 in the description of her rich dress and magnificent 
 appearance — 
 
 Tandem progreditur * * * 
 
 Sidoniam picto chlamydem circumdata limbo : 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 145 
 
 Cui pharetra ex auro, crines nodantur in aurum, 
 Aurea purpnream subnectit fibula vestem. b 
 
 If therefore, on this account, any one were to apply 
 to him, what an old artist said to a pupil who had 
 painted a Helen covered with ornaments, “ Since 
 you could not paint her beautiful, you have at least 
 made her fine,” Yirgil would reply, “ It was not my 
 fault that I could not paint her beautiful ; the blame 
 falls upon the limits of my art ; be it my praise to 
 have restrained myself within these limits. 
 
 I must not here forget the two songs of Anacreon, 
 in which he analyses for us the beauty of his mis- 
 tress, and of Bathyllus. 0 The manner of doing it, 
 which he employs, is just what it should be. He 
 imagines that he has a painter before him, who is 
 working under his eye. Thus, says he, paint me the 
 hair ; thus the brow, the eyes, the mouth ; thus the 
 neck and bosom ; thus the hip and hands. What the 
 artist could only put together part by part, the poet 
 could only give directions for part by part. It is not 
 his intention that in these oral directions to the 
 painter we should feel and acknowledge the whole 
 beauty of the beloved object ; he himself perceives the 
 incapability of words to express it, and for that very 
 reason summons to his aid the expression of art, the 
 illusion of which he so highly extols, that the whole 
 song appears to be an ode in the praise of art, rather 
 
 b iEneid, iv. 136. c Od. xxviii. xxix. 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 than of his mistress. He sees not her image, but 
 herself, and fancies that she is on the point of opening 
 her mouth to speak. 
 
 ane^er (3\e7rco yap dvrrjv. 
 ra^a, Krjpe, Kal XaXrjaeis. 
 
 In his sketch of Bathyllus also the praise of the 
 beautiful boy is so interwoven with that of the art 
 and the artist, that it becomes doubtful in whose 
 especial honour Anacreon composed the song. He 
 combines the most beautiful parts, whose preemi- 
 nent loveliness was the characteristic of the various 
 pictures from which he takes them. The neck is 
 borrowed from an Adonis, the breast and hands from 
 a Mercury, the thighs from a Pollux, the belly from 
 a Bacchus ; and at last he sees the whole of Bathyllus 
 in a finished Apollo of the artist. 
 
 pera 8e 7rp6(rco7ro v ecrra>, 
 tov 3 A8covl8os irape\6(bv 
 eXecftavTivos Tpa^r)Xos> 
 perapa^iov 8e iroiei 
 8i8vpas re ^eipas * Eppov > 
 
 IIoXvSeiAeos 8e p-qpovs > 
 
 Aiovvo-irjv 8e vr]8vv- 
 % * * * * 
 tov ’A7 ToXXcova 8e tovtov 
 Kadekwv, 7 toUi BaOvWov- 
 
 Lucian also was too acute to attempt to convey any 
 idea of the beauty of Panthea, otherwise than by a 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 147 
 
 reference to the most lovely female statues of the old 
 artists. d Yet what is this but an acknowledgment, 
 that language by itself is here without power ; that 
 poetry falters and eloquence grows speechless, 
 unless art, in some measure, serve them as an in- 
 terpreter. 
 
 d EiKoves, vol. ii. p. 461. Edit. Reitz. 
 
148 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 But, it will be said, does not poetry lose too much, 
 if we deprive her of all objects of typical beauty ? 
 Who would deprive her of them ? Because we endea- 
 vour to inspire her with a dislike of a single path, in 
 which she indeed hopes to attain such forms, but, in 
 reality, is searching after and wandering among the 
 footsteps of her sister art, without ever reaching the 
 same goal as she : because, I say, we would debar 
 her from such a path as this, do we exclude her 
 from every other, where art in her turn must gaze 
 after her steps with fruitless longings ? 
 
 Even Homer, who so pointedly abstains from all 
 detailed descriptions of typical beauties, from whom 
 we but just learn by a passing notice that Helen had 
 white arms a and beautiful hair ; b even he, for all 
 this, knew how to convey to us an idea of her beauty, 
 which far exceeds anything that art with this aim is 
 able to accomplish. Let us call to mind the passage 
 where Helen steps into an assembly of the elders 
 of the Trojan people. The venerable elders see 
 her, and say to one another — 
 
 * Iliad, r. iii. 121 . b Iliad, T. iii. 329. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 149 
 
 Ov vepevis, T pacts kcu evKvrjpubas *A xcuovs 
 TOILS’ apcf)\ yvvaiKi ttoXvv xpovov dXyea Tvaa-^LV. 
 divas d6avaTrj(Ti Oerjs its air a eoiKev. c 
 
 What can impart a more lively idea of beauty, than 
 that cold old age should confess it to be worthy of 
 that war, which had cost so much blood and so 
 many tears. 
 
 What Homer could not describe by its con- 
 stituent parts, he forces us to acknowledge in its 
 effect. Let the poet paint us the delight, the affec- 
 tion, love, and rapture, which beauty produces, and 
 he has painted beauty itself. Who can image to 
 himself as ugly the beloved object, at whose sight 
 Sappho confesses she is deprived of all sense and 
 thought? Who does not believe that he sees the 
 most perfectly beautiful form, as soon as he sympa- 
 thises with the feelings, which only such a form can 
 awaken? We believe we enjoy the sight that Ovid 
 enjoyed d , not because he exhibits to us the beautiful 
 form of his Corinna part by part, but because he 
 does it with that licentious intoxication, by which 
 our longings are so easily aroused. 
 
 Again, another means which poetry possesses 
 of rivalling art in the description of typical beauty, 
 is the change of beauty into charm. Charm is 
 beauty in motion, and is, for this very reason, less 
 
 c Iliad, r. iii. 156. 
 d Ovid. Amor. lib. I. eleg. v. 18. 
 
150 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 suitable to the painter than to the poet. The painter 
 can only leave motion to conjecture, while, in fact, 
 his figures are motionless. Consequently, with him, 
 charm becomes grimace. But in poetry it remains 
 what it is, a transitory beauty that we would gladly 
 see repeated. It comes and goes ; and since we can 
 generally recall to our minds a movement more 
 easily and vividly than mere forms or colours ; 
 charm necessarily, in the same circumstances, pro- 
 duces a stronger effect upon us than beauty. All 
 that is pleasing and stirring in the description of 
 Alcina, is charm. Her eyes make an impression 
 upon us, not because they are black and fiery, but 
 because, 
 
 Pietosi a riguardar, a mover parchi, 
 
 they look gracefully around her, with a slow move- 
 ment of the orbs ; so that love hovers over them, 
 and empties his whole quiver from them. Her 
 mouth enraptures, not because two rows of choice 
 pearls are enclosed by the native vermillion of her 
 lips ; but Because here is formed that lovely smile, 
 which in itself already opens a paradise upon earth ; 
 because from it proceeds the sound of those friendly 
 words, by which every rude heart is softened. Pier 
 bosom charms, less because the images of milk, and 
 ivory, and apples, are called up by its whiteness and 
 delicate shape, than because we see it softly swell 
 and fall, as the waves upon the extreme edge of the 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 151 
 
 shore, when the zephyr playfully contends with 
 the ocean. 
 
 Due pome acerbe, e pur d’avorio fatte, 
 
 Yengono e van, come onda al primo margo, 
 Quando piacevole aura il mar combatte. 
 
 I am convinced that a few such traits as these, com- 
 pressed in one or two stanzas, would produce a far 
 higher effect than a long description like Ariosto’s ; 
 which extends over forty lines, is full of the cold 
 features of a beautiful form, and is far too learned 
 to affect our feelings. 
 
 Anacreon himself chose to fall into the seeming 
 impropriety of requiring an impossibility of the 
 painter, rather than to leave the form of his mistress 
 unenlivened by charm. 
 
 rpv(f)epov S’ ecrco yeveiov 
 7rep\ \vy$Lvcp rpa^jfKcp 
 Xapnes neroiVTO n atrai. 
 
 He bids the artist make all the graces hover around 
 her soft chin, her marble neck ! How so ? Accord- 
 ing to the closest interpretation of the words, his 
 command was incapable of being executed in paint- 
 ing. The painter might impart to the chin the 
 most beautiful rounding and the sweetest dimple, 
 Amoris digitulo impressum, (for the eVco appears to 
 me to allude to a dimple). He might impart the 
 loveliest carnation to the neck, but further he could 
 
152 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 not go. The turnings of this beauteous neck, the 
 play of the muscles, by which that dimple became 
 now more, now less visible, all that is properly 
 charm lay beyond his power. The poet said all his 
 art could say to make beauty palpable to us, in order 
 that, in imitation of him, the painter also should aim 
 at the highest expression of it in his. It is a fresh 
 example of the observation I made above, that the 
 poet, even when speaking of works of art, is not 
 bound to restrain himself in his description within 
 the limits of art. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 153 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Zeuxis painted a Helen, and had the courage to 
 write below the picture those renowned lines of 
 Homer, in which the enraptured elders confess 
 their sensations. Never have painting and poetry 
 been engaged in another such contest. The victory 
 remained undecided, and both deserved a crown. 
 
 Eor just as the wise poet shewed us the beauty, 
 which he felt he could not paint according to its 
 constituent parts, merely in its effect ; so the no less 
 wise painter shewed us that beauty by nothing but 
 those parts, and held it unbecoming for his art to 
 have recourse to any other means of help. His 
 picture consisted of a single, undraped, standing 
 figure of Helen. Eor it is probable that it was the 
 same that he painted for the people of Cortona. a 
 
 Let us compare with this, for curiosity’s sake, 
 the picture, which Caylus sketches for the modern 
 artist from these lines of Homer. “ Helen, covered 
 “ with a white veil, appears in the midst of several 
 “ old men, Priam among the number, who should 
 “be at once recognisable by the emblems of his 
 
 a Val. Maximus Lib. iii. cap. 7. Dionysius Halicarnass. 
 Art Rhet. cap. 12. 7repi \oycov i^raaecos. 
 
154 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 “royal dignity. The artist must especially exert 
 “ his skill, to make us feel the triumph of beauty in 
 “the eager glances and expressions of astonished 
 “ admiration, depicted on the countenances of the 
 “ old men. The scene is over one of the gates 
 “ of the town. The back-ground of the painting 
 “ may be lost either in the open sky, or against the 
 “ higher buildings of the town. The first would be 
 “the boldest, but the one would be as suitable as 
 “ the other.” 
 
 But let us suppose this picture executed by one 
 of the first masters of our time, and compare it with 
 the work of Zeuxis. Which will show the real 
 triumph of beauty? This last, in which I feel it 
 itself, or the first, in which I am obliged to gather it 
 from the grimaces of excited gray-beards ? “ Turpe 
 senilis amor !” an expression of eagerness makes the 
 most venerable face ridiculous, and an old man, who 
 betrays youthful desires, is even a disgusting object. 
 This objection cannot be applied to Homer’s elders ; 
 for the passion which they feel is but a momentary 
 spark, which their wisdom at once extinguishes ; 
 and is intended to conduce to the honour of Helen, 
 but not to put themselves to shame. They confess 
 their feelings and immediately add — 
 
 aXXa Kai cos tolt] nep iovcr , iv vrjvcrl veecrdoi, 
 
 fir /S’ rffiiv TOteecTL t ott ter a (d nrjpa \lttolto. 
 
 Without this resolution, they would have been old 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 155 
 
 fools ; which is, in fact, what they appear in Caylus’ 
 picture. And to what is it they are directing their 
 eager glances ? To a masked, veiled figure. Is that 
 Helen? It is incomprehensible to me how Caylus 
 could here leave her the veil. It is true Homer ex- 
 pressly gives her one : 
 
 civTiKa S’ apyevvrjai KaXv^rapivr) odovrjcrLV , 
 
 coppar SaXapoio. 
 
 But it was in order to pass along the streets in it ; 
 and, even if the elders do express their admiration 
 before she appears to have taken off or thrown back 
 her veil, it was not the first time they had seen her. 
 Their confession need not, therefore, arise from the 
 present momentary view of her, but they may have 
 often experienced before the feelings, which on this 
 occasion they for the first time acknowledged. In 
 the painting, however, it is nothing of the kind. 
 When I see old men in raptures, I naturally expect 
 to see what it is that has produced them ; and I am 
 exceedingly surprised, if, as before said, I perceive 
 nothing but a masked and veiled figure, at which 
 they are fervently gazing. How much of Helen is 
 there in this figure ? Her white veil, and part of her 
 well proportioned outline, as far as outline can be 
 visible beneath drapery. But perhaps it was not the 
 intention of the count that her face should be 
 covered, and he merely mentions the veil as a part 
 of her dress. If this is the case, (his words, 
 
1 56 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 Helene couverte d’un voile blanc, are scarcely cap- 
 able of such an interpretation,) I find another cause 
 for astonishment. He gives the artist the most careful 
 directions about the expression in the faces of the 
 old men ; but upon the beauty in the countenance 
 of Helen he does not condescend to waste a single 
 word. Upon the countenance, I repeat, of a beauty 
 so rare as this, timidly approaching with the glitter 
 of a repentant tear in her eye. What ? Is the 
 highest beauty so familiar to our artists that they 
 require no instruction respecting it ? Or is expres- 
 sion more than beauty ? And in painting, as upon the 
 stage, does the plainest actress already pass for a 
 charming princess, if her prince does but make a 
 passionate declaration of love to her ? 
 
 In truth the painting of Caylus would bear the 
 same relation to that of Zeuxis, as pantomime does 
 to the most exalted poetry. 
 
 Homer was incontestably more industriously 
 studied by the ancients than at present by us. Ac- 
 cordingly, we find many paintings not mentioned by 
 Caylus, which ancient artists had drawn from him. b 
 But they appear to have made industrious use only 
 of the hints of the poet at extraordinary beauties ; 
 these they painted, and fully felt that it was in these 
 objects alone that they were capable of really rival- 
 ling the poet. Besides a Helen, Zeuxis has also 
 painted a Penelope ; and the Diana of Apelles re- 
 
 b Fabricii Bibliothec. Grsec. Lib. II. cap. vi. p. 345. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 157 
 
 sembled Homer’s in the accompanying train of her 
 nymphs. I will take this occasion to mention, that 
 the passage of Pliny, in which this last is spoken of, 
 stands in need of an emendation (4 7). The ancient 
 artists do not appear to have had any taste for 
 painting actions taken from Homer, simply because 
 they offer a rich composition, distinct contrast, and 
 artistical chiaroscuro ; nor could they have indulged 
 such a taste, so long as art restrained itself within 
 the narrow limits of its highest destination. They 
 fed themselves, therefore, upon the spirit of the poet ; 
 they filled their imagination with his most exalted 
 features ; the flame of his enthusiasm enkindled their 
 own. They saw and felt as he ; and so their works 
 bore the stamp of Homer, not as a portrait that of 
 its original, but as a son that of his father ; alike, 
 but different. The similarity often lay in one single 
 feature. Tor the rest the picture and description had 
 nothing in common, except that in the one, as well 
 as in the other, everything harmonised with that one 
 resembling feature. 
 
 Besides, since the Homeric masterpieces of poetry 
 were older than any masterpieces of art ; since that 
 poet had contemplated nature with an artistic eye 
 before Phidias and Apelles, it is no wonder that the 
 latter found various observations very useful to them 
 already made in Homer, while, as yet, they had had 
 no time to take them from nature herself. These 
 they eagerly seized upon in order to imitate Nature 
 
158 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 through Homer. Phidias acknowledged that the 
 lines : c 
 
 kcu Kvaverjaiv in dcppvcn veixre Kpovtcov' 
 apfipocnai S’ apa ^curai ineppcoaavro avaKros 
 Kparos an aOavaroio' pceyav S’ i\e\t^ev ’'0\vp.7 rov. 
 
 served him as a model for his Olympian Jupiter, and 
 that it was only by their help that he succeeded in 
 producing a godlike countenance, “ propemodum ex 
 ipso ccelo petitum.” If any one takes this to mean 
 anything more than that the imagination of the 
 artist was tired by the exalted image of the poet, 
 and rendered capable of producing equally elevated 
 representations, he seems to me to overlook that which 
 is most essential, and to content himself with draw- 
 ing a conclusion altogether general, where he has it 
 in his power to draw a particular one, on far more 
 satisfactory grounds. Thus much I allow, that 
 Phidias here confessed that in this passage he first 
 remarked how much expression lay in the eyebrows, 
 “ quanta pars animi ” shewed itself in them. Per- 
 haps it also incited him to bestow more labour upon 
 the hair, in order, in some measure, to express what 
 Homer calls ambrosial locks ; for it is certain that 
 the ancient artists, before the time of Phidias, but 
 little understood the language and meaning of the 
 features, and that they had treated the hair especially 
 
 c Iliad A. I. 528. Valerius Maximus, lib. Ill, cap. vii. sect. 4. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 159 
 
 with the greatest neglect. Still, Myron, as Pliny 
 remarks, (48) was censurable in both points ; and 
 according to the same authority, Pythagoras Leon- 
 tinus was the first, who distinguished himself by an 
 elegant execution of the hair. d What Phidias learnt 
 from the poet, the other artists learnt from Phidias. 
 
 I will quote an example of this kind, which has 
 always very much pleased me. I would recal to my 
 readers the observations which Hogarth has made 
 upon the Apollo Belvidere : e “ These two master- 
 “ pieces of art, the Apollo and Antinous, are seen 
 “ together in the same palace at Rome, where the 
 “ Antinous fills the spectator with admiration only, 
 “ whilst the Apollo strikes him with surprise, and, 
 “ as travellers express themselves, with an appearance 
 “ of something more than human ; which they of 
 “ course are always at a loss to describe ; and, this 
 “ effect, they say, is the more astonishing, as upon 
 “ examination its disproportion is evident even to a 
 “ common eye. One of the best sculptors we have 
 “ in England, who lately went to see them, con- 
 “ firmed to me what has been now said, particularly 
 “ as to the legs and thighs being too long, and too 
 “ large for the upper parts. And Andrea Sacchi, 
 “ one of the great Italian painters, seems to have 
 “ been of the same opinion, or he would hardly 
 
 d Plinius, xxxiv. 19. 4. Hie primus nervos et venas ex- 
 pressit ; capillumque diligentius. 
 
 e Hogarth’s Analysis of Beauty, chap. xi. 
 
160 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 ce have given his Apollo, crowning Pasquilini the 
 “ musician, the exact proportion of the Antinous, (in 
 “ a famous picture of his now in England,) as other- 
 “ wise it seems to be a direct copy from the Apollo. 
 
 “ Although in very great works we often see an 
 “ inferior part neglected, yet here it cannot be the 
 “ case, because in a fine statue, just proportion is 
 “one of its essential beauties; therefore it stands 
 “ to reason, that these limbs must have been length- 
 “ ened on purpose, otherwise it might easily have 
 “ been avoided. 
 
 “So that if we examine the beauties of this 
 “ figure thoroughly, we may reasonably conclude, 
 “ that what has been hitherto thought so unaccount- 
 “ ably excellent in its general appearance, hath been 
 “ owing to what hath seemed a blemish in a part of 
 “ it.” All this is very striking; and already Homer, 
 I may add, had felt and indicated, that there is an 
 exalted appearance, which springs merely from this 
 addition of size in the proportions of the feet and 
 thighs ; for when Antenor compares the form of 
 Ulysses, with that of Menelaus, he says f — 
 
 Sravrcov pev, MeWXao? vneipex^v evpeas copovs , 
 
 apcjxo S’ e£opeva>, yepapcorepos r] ev ’Obvcrcrevs. 
 
 “ When both stood, Menelaus towered above the 
 “ other with his broad shoulders ; but when both 
 “ sat, Ulysses had the nobler presence.” Since, 
 
 f Iliad, r. iii. 210. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 161 
 
 therefore, he gained when sitting the presence which 
 Menelaus lost in that position, it is easy to deter- 
 mine what proportion the upper parts of each bore 
 to their feet and thighs. The former were of a dis- 
 proportionate size in Ulysses, the latter in Menelaus. 
 
162 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 In beauty, a single unbecoming part may disturb 
 the harmonious effect of many, without the object 
 necessarily becoming ugly ; for ugliness too requires 
 several unbecoming parts, all of which we must be 
 able to comprehend at the same view, before we ex- 
 perience sensations the opposite of those which beauty 
 produces. 
 
 According to this, therefore, ugliness, in its es- 
 sence, could be no subject of poetry ; yet Homer 
 has painted extreme ugliness in Thersites ; and this 
 ugliness is described according to its parts near one 
 another. Why in the case of ugliness did he allow 
 himself a licence from which he had so judiciously 
 abstained in that of beauty ? It has been shown that 
 a successive enumeration of its elements will annihi- 
 late the effect of the latter ; will not a similar cause 
 produce a similar effect in the case of the former ? 
 
 Undoubtedly it will ; but it is in this very fact 
 that the justification of Homer lies. The poet can 
 only take advantage of ugliness, so far as it is re- 
 duced in his description into a less repugnant appear- 
 ance of bodily imperfection ; and ceases, as it were, 
 in point of effect, to be ugliness. Thus, what he 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 163 
 
 cannot make use of by itself, he can as an ingredient 
 for the purpose of producing and strengthening cer- 
 tain mixed sensations, with which he must entertain 
 us in the want of those purely agreeable. 
 
 These mixed feelings are the ridiculous and the 
 horrible. 
 
 Homer makes Thersites ugly in order to make him 
 ridiculous. He is not made so, however, merely by 
 his ugliness ; for ugliness is an imperfection ; and a 
 contrast of perfections with imperfections is required 
 to produce the ridiculous. a This is the explanation 
 of my friend, to which I might add, that this con- 
 trast must not be too sharp and glaring ; and that 
 the contrasts, to continue in the language of the ar- 
 tist, must be of such a kind, that they are capable 
 of blending into one another. The wise and virtuous 
 iEsop does not become ridiculous, because the ugli- 
 ness of Thersites has been attributed to him. (The 
 story of his deformity is an awkward monkish fabri- 
 cation, which arose from a wish that the ytXoiov in 
 his moral instructive fables should be illustrated by 
 the deformity in his own person). For a misshapen 
 body, and a beautiful mind are as oil and vinegar ; 
 however much you may shake them together, they 
 always remain distinct to the taste. They will not 
 amalgamate and produce a third quality. The body 
 produces annoyance, the soul pleasure ; each its own 
 effect. It is only when the deformed body is also 
 a Philosophical Works of Moses Mendelssohn, vol. ii. p. 23. 
 
164 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 fragile and sickly, when it impedes the soul in its 
 operations, and is the occasion of prejudicial judg- 
 ments concerning it, that annoyance and pleasure 
 melt into one another. The new result is not ridi- 
 cule, but sympathy ; and its object, who without this 
 would only have been esteemed, becomes interesting. 
 The misshapen sickly Pope must have been far more 
 interesting to his friends, than the handsome and 
 healthy Wycherly to his. But though it is not 
 through mere ugliness that Thersites is made ridi- 
 culous, yet without it he would at once cease to be 
 so. His ugliness, the harmony of this ugliness with 
 his character, the contrast which both form with the 
 idea which he cherishes of his own importance, the 
 harmless effect of his malicious chattering, which 
 mortifies himself only, all combine to produce this 
 result. The last circumstance is the 6v (p6apriK6v, h 
 which Aristotle considers indispensable to the ridi- 
 culous ; as my friend makes it also a necessary con- 
 dition that the contrast should not be of great 
 importance, or inspire us with too much interest. 
 Por let us only assume that even Thersites paid more 
 dearly than he did for his malicious depreciation of 
 Agamemnon, and atoned for it with his life, instead 
 of a pair of bloody wheals, and we should at once 
 cease to laugh at him. Por this horror of a man is 
 still a man, whose annihilation must always appear a 
 greater evil to us, than all his defects and vices. In 
 b De Poetica, cap. v. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 165 
 
 order to experience this, let any one read the account 
 of his end in Quintus Calaber. 0 Achilles is grieved 
 at having slain Penthesilea ; the beauty, bathed in 
 her own blood so bravely shed, demands the esteem 
 and compassion of the hero ; and esteem and com- 
 passion beget love. But the slanderous Tliersites 
 imputes this to him as a crime. He grows zealous 
 against the lust which can lead even the most noble 
 of men to madness : 
 
 rjr cl(f)pova (poora tlOtjctl 
 
 KCll TVIVVTOV 7Tep eOVTCL. 
 
 Achilles is angered, and, without adding a word, 
 strikes him so heavily between the cheek and ear, 
 that his teeth and blood and life issue together from 
 his mouth. It is too horrible ! The passionate and 
 murderous Achilles becomes more hateful to us than 
 the malicious and snarling Thersites. The shout of 
 applause, which the Greeks raise at this, offends us ; 
 We step to the side of Diomede, who already draws 
 his sword, to take vengeance on the murderer of his 
 relation ; for we feel that Thersites is our relation too, 
 a man. 
 
 But let us suppose that the instigations of Ther- 
 sites had resulted in a mutiny ; that the rebellious 
 people had really embarked in their ships, and trea- 
 cherously left their leaders behind them ; that these 
 leaders had fallen into the hands of a revengeful 
 c Paralipomena, lib. i. 720. 
 
166 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 enemy ; and that thereupon a divine decree of pun- 
 ishment had wreaked utter destruction on the fleet 
 and people. How would the ugliness of Thersites 
 appear then? If ugliness, when harmless, may be 
 ridiculous ; when hurtful it is always horrible. I do 
 not know how I can better illustrate this than by 
 citing a couple of excellent passages from Shakspeare. 
 Edmund, the bastard of the count of Gloucester, in 
 King Lear, is no less a villain than Richard Duke of 
 Gloucester, who paved his path to the throne by the 
 most horrible crimes, and mounted it under the title 
 of Richard the Third. How is it then that the first 
 excites our loathing and horror so much less than 
 the second ? When I hear the bastard say, d 
 Thou, nature, art my goddess ; to thy law 
 My services are bound ; wherefore should I 
 Stand in the plague of custom ; and permit 
 The curiosity of nations to deprive me, 
 
 Eor that I am some twelve or fourteen moon-shines 
 Lag of a brother ? Why bastard ? wherefore base ? 
 When my dimensions are as well compact. 
 
 My mind as generous, and my shape as true 
 As honest Madam’s issue ? Why brand they thus 
 With base ? with baseness ? bastardy ? base, base ? 
 Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take 
 More composition and fierce quality, 
 
 Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed, 
 
 Go to the creating a whole tribe of fops. 
 
 Got ’tween asleep and wake ? 
 
 d King Lear, Act i. sc. 2. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 167 
 
 I am listening to a devil, but see him in the form of 
 an angel of light. When, on the contrary, I hear 
 the Duke of Gloucester : e 
 
 But I, — that am not shaped for sportive tricks, 
 Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass ; 
 
 I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty-.; 
 To strut before a wanton ambling nymph ; 
 
 I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, 
 Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, 
 Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time 
 Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, 
 And that so lamely and unfashionably, 
 
 That dogs bark at me, as I halt by them ; 
 
 Why I, in this weak piping time of peace, 
 
 Have no delight to pass away the time ; 
 
 Unless to spy my shadow in the sun, 
 
 And descant on mine own deformity ; 
 
 And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover, 
 
 To entertain these fair, well-spoken days, — 
 
 I am determined to prove a villain ! 
 
 I hear a fiend, and I see a fiend ; and in a form which 
 a fiend alone could possess. 
 
 e King Richard, the 7'hird, Act i. sc. 1 . 
 
168 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 It is thus that the poet turns ugliness of form to 
 account. We will now inquire what use the artist 
 may be allowed to make of it ? 
 
 Painting, as an imitative power, can express 
 ugliness ; but painting as a fine art refuses to do 
 so ; as in the first capacity, all visible objects may 
 be subjects for it ; in the second, it is confined 
 to those only by which pleasing sensations are 
 awakened. 
 
 But do not even disagreeable sensations become 
 pleasing, when imitated ? Not all. An acute critic* 
 has already made the following remarks upon aver- 
 sion. “The representations,” he says, “of fear, 
 “ sorrow, alarm, compassion, &c., can only so far 
 “ awaken dislike, as we believe the evil to be real. 
 “These, therefore, might, through the recollection 
 “ that it is nothing but an artificial illusion, dissolve 
 “ into sensations of pleasure. But the disagreeable 
 “ sensation of disgust follows, owing to the in- 
 “ fluence which a mere representation, operating 
 “ on the imagination, exercises over the soul, 
 “ whether the object be considered real or not. 
 a Letters on Modern Literature, vol. v. p. J02. 
 
LAQCOON. 
 
 169 
 
 £C What consolation is it to the offended mind, that 
 “art has so grossly betrayed itself to imitation? 
 
 “ Its aversion arose not from the presumption that 
 “ the evil was real, but from the mere representation 
 “ of it, and that is real. The feeling of disgust 
 “ therefore, if felt at all, must be felt in reality, not x 
 “ in imagination.” 
 
 All this is equally applicable to ugliness of form. 
 This ugliness offends our sight, contradicts our taste 
 for arrangement and harmony, and awakens disgust, 
 without any reference to the actual existence of the 
 object, in which we perceive it. We may see 
 Thersites either in nature or in a picture ; and if the 
 picture should be the least displeasing of the two, 
 this does not result from the ugliness of his form 
 ceasing to be such in imitation, but from our pos- 
 sessing the power of withdrawing attention from 
 this ugliness, and deriving our pleasure exclusively 
 from the art of the painter. But even this pleasure 
 will every moment be interrupted by the reflection, 
 how bad has been the application of the art, and this 
 reflection seldom fails of drawing with it disre- 
 gard, or contempt, for the artist. 
 
 Aristotle adduces another cause, b why objects 
 which we view with displeasure in nature, may im- 
 part enjoyment even when most faithfully represented, 
 viz. the general thirst for knowledge among men. 
 W e are pleased when we can learn from the imitation, 
 b De Poetica. cap. iv. 
 
170 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 tl € Kaurov } what each thing is, or when we can con- 
 clude from it on ovros eKeivos that it represents 
 an object which we remember to have seen before ; 
 but no inference can be diffwn from this in favour of 
 ugliness in imitation. The pleasure which arises 
 from the satisfaction of our thirst for knowledge is 
 momentary, and merely accidental to the object 
 which affords it ; while the feeling of annoyance, 
 which accompanies the sight of ugliness is perma- 
 nent, and essential to the object which awakes it. 
 How then can this last be counterbalanced by the 
 first ? Still less can the trifling degree of pleasurable 
 interest, afforded by the observation of the simili- 
 tude, overcome its displeasing effect. The more 
 closely I compare the ugly picture with the ugly 
 original, the more I expose myself to this effect, so 
 that the pleasure of comparison presently vanishes, 
 and nothing remains but the disagreeable impression 
 of a double ugliness. To judge from the examples 
 which Aristotle gives us, it appears that he had no 
 intention of classing simple ugliness of form among 
 those displeasing objects, which are capable of 
 affording pleasure when imitated. These examples 
 are wild beasts and corpses. Wild beasts awaken 
 terror, although they are not ugly; and it is this 
 terror, and not their ugliness, which by imitation is 
 resolved into pleasurable sensations. So too it is 
 with corpses. It is the acuter feelings of pity, 
 and the terrible thought of our future annihilation, 
 that render a corpse a repulsive object to us in 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 171 
 
 nature; but in the imitation, this pity loses its 
 most painful part, through our consciousness of 
 illusion ; and an addition of soothing circumstances 
 may either entirely withdraw our thoughts from 
 this fatal recollection, or unite itself so inseparably 
 with it, that we believe we can perceive therein more 
 to look forward to with desire, than to shrink from ^ 
 with horror. 
 
 Ugliness of form, then, cannot in itself be a sub- 
 ject for painting, as a tine art; for the feelings, 
 which it arouses, are not only displeasing, but are 
 not even of that class in which the disagreeable, 
 when imitated, is changed into the pleasurable. Still 
 it remains a question, whether, as an ingredient for 
 strengthening other sensations, it may not be ser- 
 viceable to art as well as to poetry P 
 
 May painting, to attain the ridiculous and the 
 horrible, make use of ugly forms ? 
 
 I will not venture to answer directly in the nega- 
 tive. It is undeniable that harmless ugliness can be 
 made ridiculous in painting as well as in poetry ; 
 especially if an affected assumption of charm and 
 beauty is combined with it ; but it is just as indisput- 
 able, that harmful ugliness excites the same horror 
 in painting as in nature; and that the ridiculous 
 and the horrible, both of which are, in themselves, 
 mixed sensations, attain by imitation, the former a 
 higher degree of attraction, the latter of offen- 
 
 siveness. 
 
172 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 I must, however, call attention to the fact that, 
 in spite of this, painting and poetry do not stand in 
 precisely the same position. In poetry, as I ob- 
 served, ugliness of form, through its parts being 
 changed from coexisting into successive, almost 
 entirely loses its repulsive effect; in this point of 
 view therefore ceasing, as it were, to be ugliness, 
 it can therefore, the more cordially combine with other 
 appearances, to produce a new and peculiar effect. 
 In painting, on the contrary, ugliness exerts all its 
 powers at once, and affects us but little less deeply 
 than in nature. Harmless ugliness, consequently, 
 cannot long remain ridiculous ; the unpleasant sen- 
 sation gains the upper hand, and what at first was 
 comic becomes in the course of time simply repul- 
 sive. It is just the same with hurtful ugliness ; 
 the horrible disappears by degrees, and the dispro- 
 portion is left behind alone and unchangeable. 
 
 On these considerations, Count Caylus was per- 
 fectly right in omitting the episode of Thersites in 
 his series of Homeric paintings, but does it there- 
 fore follow that we should be justified in wishing 
 that it had been altogether left out of the poem ? I 
 am sorry to find that a scholar of, otherwise, just 
 and refined taste, is of this opinion ; c but I reserve 
 for another opportunity the fuller explanation of 
 my views upon this point. 
 
 c Klotzii Epistolse Homericse, p. 33. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 173 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 The second distinction, which the critic I have 
 just quoted draws between disgust and the other 
 disagreeable passions of the soul, is also shown by 
 the displeasure, which ugliness of form excites in us. 
 
 “ Other disagreeable passions, he says, a may, even 
 “ in nature, setting aside imitation, find frequent 
 “ opportunities of flattering the mind ; because they 
 “ never excite pure aversion, but always temper their 
 “ bitterness with gratification. Our fear is seldom 
 “ deprived of all hope. Terror animates all our 
 “ powers to provide us with an escape from the 
 “ danger : anger is commingled with the desire of 
 “ revenge, and sorrow with the soothing recollection 
 “ of former happiness ; while compassion is insepar- 
 “ able from the tender feelings of love and affection. 
 “ The soul has the power of dwelling at one time 
 “ upon the pleasing, at another upon the repulsive 
 “ parts of a passion, and of creating for itself a 
 “ mixture of pleasure and sorrow, which is far more 
 “ seductive than the purest gratification. It requires 
 “ but little attention to the workings of our own 
 “ mind, to have observed this times without number. 
 a Klotzii Epistol® Homeric®, p. 103. 
 
174 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 “ Whence comes it else, that to the angry man, his 
 “ anger, and to the sorrowing his sorrow, are dearer 
 “ than all the cheerful representations, with which 
 “ we vainly think to calm him ? But it is very dif- 
 <c ferent in the case of disgust and the feelings allied 
 “ to it. In these the soul recognises no admixture 
 “ of enjoyment. Dissatisfaction gains the upper 
 “ hand, and it is impossible to think of any situa- 
 “ tion, either in nature or in imitation, in which the 
 “ mind w 7 ould not recoil from the representation of 
 “ them.” 
 
 Perfectly true ; but since the critic himself ac- 
 knowledges that there are sensations allied to disgust, 
 which likewise can produce nothing but annoyance ; 
 what, I ask, can be more closely allied to it, than 
 the perception of ugliness in form ? This too in 
 nature is without the smallest admixture of pleasure ; 
 and since it is equally incapable of admitting any 
 through imitation, it is likewise impossible to con- 
 ceive any condition of it, in which the mind would 
 not recoil from it with disgust. 
 
 This repugnance, if I have investigated my own 
 feelings with sufficient care, is altogether of the 
 nature of disgust. The sensation, which is excited by 
 ugliness of form, is disgust, though only a low degree 
 of it. This, I allow, is at variance with another re- 
 mark of the critic, from which it would appear that 
 he considers that only the less acute of our senses, 
 taste, smell, and touch, are exposed to disgust. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 175 
 
 cc The two first,” he says, “ through an excessive 
 “ sweetness ; and the last, through the oversoftness 
 “ of any matter which does not afford sufficient re- 
 ,e sistance to the nerves which touch it. These objects 
 “ then become intolerable to the sight also, but only 
 “ through the association of ideas, and our recollec- 
 “ tion of the repugnance, which our taste, smell, and 
 <c feeling experienced at them ; for, strictly speaking, 
 “ there is no such thing as an object of disgust to 
 ee the sight.” Still, it appears to me, that instances 
 of this last might be named. A liver spot in the 
 face, a hare-lip, a flattened nose with prominent 
 nostrils, an entire want of eyebrows, are uglinesses, 
 which are repugnant neither to the smell, or taste, 
 or touch ; yet, it is certain that there is a sensation 
 experienced at them, which approaches much more 
 closely to disgust, than any which is produced by 
 other deformities of body, such as a crooked foot, 
 or hump-back ; and the more delicate the tempera- 
 ment, the more certainly will those sensations, which 
 precede nausea be felt at the sight of them ; these, 
 however, quickly subside, and it is rarely that this 
 last effect follows ; the reason for which may be 
 found in this alone, that, being objects of sight, 
 sight in them, and at the same time with them, per- 
 ceives a multitude of realities, through whose agree- 
 able representations the disagreeable one is so 
 weakened and obscured, that it can rarely produce 
 any traceable influence upon the body. Our less 
 
176 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 acute senses, on the contrary, the taste, smell, and 
 touch, cannot observe such realities, though they are 
 affected with what is repulsive ; this last, conse- 
 quently, is left to work alone, and in its full strength, 
 and is naturally therefore accompanied by a far more 
 violent bodily effect. 
 
 In every other respect, the disgusting can be imi- 
 tated in the same degree, as to imitation, as the ugly. 
 But since its unpleasant effects are more violent, it 
 is in itself still less capable than the latter of 
 becoming a subject either of poetry or painting. 
 Yet, as it too is greatly softened by being expressed 
 in words, I can assert with confidence, that poets 
 have employed disgusting traits as an ingredient to 
 produce the same mixed sensations, which he has so 
 successfully strengthened by the use of ugliness. 
 
 The disgusting can increase the ridiculous ; and 
 representations of propriety and dignity may be 
 rendered laughable by being placed in close contrast 
 with it. Numerous examples of this may be found 
 in Aristophanes. The first that occurs to me is the 
 weasel, which interrupted the good Socrates in his 
 astronomical contemplations . 15 
 MA0. npcorjv Se ye yvaprjv fxeyaXrjv acfrypeOrj 
 
 vi r dcrKa\afta>Tov. 2TP. riva rponov ; Kareme pot. 
 MA0. £r)TOWTOS avrov rrjs creXrjvrjs ras odovs 
 kcu ras nepL<popds, eir avco Ke^r/voros 
 and rrjs opo(jpr]S vvKrcop yaXedoTrjs Kare^eaev. 
 
 2TP. rjadrjv yaXecorp Kara^eoravTL ^coKpdrovs- 
 b Nubes. 170. 
 
LAOCOON . 
 
 177 
 
 We have only to suppose that what fell into his 
 open month was not disgusting, and the ridiculous 
 disappears altogether. Some very comic traits of 
 this kind are to be found in the Hottentot history of 
 Tquassouw and Knonmquaiha, which appeared in 
 the “ Connoisseur,” an English weekly periodical, 
 abounding in humour, and ascribed to Lord Chester- 
 field. We all know how dirty the Hottentots are, 
 and how many things are esteemed beautiful, becom- 
 ing, and holy, among them, which excite nothing 
 but disgust and loathing in us. Let us picture to 
 ourselves the cartilage of the nose flattened, breasts 
 flaccidly descending to the navel, the whole body 
 stained with a colouring of goat’s fat and soot, and 
 glistening in the sun ; the hair dripping with grease, 
 the feet and arms entwined with fresh entrails. Let 
 us think of all this, I say, as the object of a fervent, 
 venerating, tender love ; let us hear the passion 
 expressed in the noble language of seriousness 
 and admiration, and refrain from laughing, if we 
 can(49). 
 
 But with the terrible the disgusting seems capa- 
 ble of being associated more closely still. What 
 we call the horrible is nothing more than the terrible 
 rendered disgusting. Longinus 0 indeed is offended 
 with the Trjs it pev pivav pv^aL peov, in Hesiod’s 4 
 picture of Sorrow ; not so much, I think, because it 
 TIepi Y\f/ovs, rprjpa 17. p- 15. Edit. T. Fabri. 
 d Scut. Hercul. 266. 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 is a disgusting trait, as because it is one simply so, 
 and does not, in any way, contribute to the terrible ; 
 for he appears to raise no objections against the long 
 nails, projecting beyond the fingers, (paKpol S’ 
 xelpeoro-iv virrjcrav ) ; and yet, long nails are at the 
 least as disgusting as the former feature ; but they 
 are also terrible ; for it is they which tear the cheeks, 
 till the blood streams from them to the ground : 
 
 eK 8e napeicov 
 
 alp cnreXeifier epa£e 
 
 The other feature, on the contrary, is simply dis- 
 gusting. I also should advise a closed mouth for 
 sorrow. Let the reader turn to the description of 
 the desolate cave of the unfortunate Philoctetes in 
 Sophocles. None of the necessaries and conveni- 
 ences of life are to be seen, except a bed of 
 trampled dry leaves, a shapeless wooden bowl, and 
 the means of lighting a fire, the whole wealth of the 
 sick and deserted hero. How does the poet com- 
 plete this sorrowful and fearful picture ? He adds 
 a touch of disgust. 6 
 
 NE. op(b K6vr)v oacrjcriv avOpannov di^a. 
 
 OA. ovS’ evbov 6 iko7tolos icrr'i ns Tpofprj ; 
 
 NE* crrenTTr) ye (pvWas evavXi^ovTL rep. 
 
 OA* ra S’ aXA* eprjpa , Kovdev eo'd’ vTvocrTeyov ; 
 
 NE. avTO^vXov y eKnapa, (j)av\ovpyov tlvos 
 Texyhpar avdpos, K.a\ TvvpeC opov Ta.de> 
 
 6 Philoct* 31. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 179 
 
 OA> Kelvov to Orjo-avpicrfia crrjpaiveis rode' 
 
 NE. lov ! lov ! Kai ravra y aWa BaXirerat 
 pa<r], fiapeLas rov voarjXelcts TrXea • 
 
 So too in Homer : Hector, when dragged along, his 
 face disfigured with blood and dust, and his hair 
 matted, 
 
 Squalentem barbam et concretos sanguine crines, 
 
 (as Yirgil expresses it) f becomes a disgusting object, 
 but for that very reason more horrible and moving. 
 Who can think of the punishment of Marsyas, in 
 Ovid, without a sensation of disgust ? g 
 
 Clamanti cutis est summos direpta per artus : 
 
 Nec quidquam nisi vulnus erat ; cruor undique 
 manat : 
 
 Detectique patent nervi : trepidseque sine ulla 
 Pelle micant venae : salientia viscera possis, 
 
 Et perlucentes numerare in pectore fibras. 
 
 We all feel however that the disgusting is here in 
 its proper place. It renders the terrible horrible; 
 and the horrible is not altogether displeasing even 
 in nature, if our compassion is interested in it : how 
 much less then in imitation ? I do not wish to mul- 
 tiply instances ; yet I must observe that there is one 
 species of the horrible to which the poet has hardly 
 any other means of access than the disgusting. It is 
 the horrors of hunger. Even in common life we can 
 f iEneid, lib. ii. 277. s Metamorph. vi. 397. 
 
180 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 only express the extreme necessity of starvation by 
 an enumeration of all the innutritious, unwholesome, 
 and, particularly, disgusting things, with which the 
 stomach must needs be satisfied; since imitation 
 cannot excite in us any actual sensation of hunger, 
 it takes refuge in another disagreeable feeling, which 
 in the case of the most painful cravings we acknow- 
 ledge to be the lighter evil. This sensation it seeks 
 to awaken in us, that we may conclude, from our aver- 
 sion to it, how strong that aversion must be, under 
 the influence of which we are glad to make the loath- 
 some of no account. Ovid says of the Oread, whom 
 Ceres sent to meet Famine 11 — 
 
 Hanc (Famem) procul ut vidit * * 
 
 * refert mandata dese ; paulumque morata, 
 Quanquam aberat longe, quanquam modo venerat 
 illuc, 
 
 Visa tamen sensisse famem. 
 
 This is an unnatural exaggeration. The sight of a 
 famishing person, even though it be Famine herself, 
 does not possess this contagious power; pity, and 
 horror, and disgust, it might awaken, but not hunger. 
 Ovid has not been sparing of horror in his picture of 
 Fames ; and in his description of Erisicthon’s starva- 
 tion, as well as in that of Callimachus, 1 the disgust- 
 ing traits are the strongest. After Erisicthon has 
 consumed everything, and has not spared even the 
 h Metamorph. viii. 809, 1 Hym. in Cererem. 111. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 181 
 
 sacrificial cow wfiich his mother had reared for Vesta, 
 Callimachus represents him as falling upon the horses 
 and cats, and begging in the streets for the fragments 
 and filthy relics from strangers’ tables : 
 
 kciI rav ficov e(f)ayev, rav 'Ecrrta erpe(j)e pdrrjp, 
 
 Kai top deOXocjpopop kcu top 7 ToXeprpop Imrop, 
 
 Kcu rav aCXovpop > rav erpepe drjpLa puacd — 
 teal roff 6 ra> fiao'iXrjos ept rpiodoun KaOrjcrro 
 dirifav aKoXcas re kcu eKfSoXa Xvpara dairos- 
 
 And Ovid makes him, in his extremity, fix his teeth 
 in his limbs, that from his own body he might obtain 
 nourishment for itself : 
 
 Vis tamen ilia mali postquam consumpserat omnem 
 Materiam . 
 
 Ipse suos artus lacero divellere morsu 
 Ccepit ; et infelix minuendo corpus alebat. 
 
 The only reason that the harpies were represented as 
 so noisome and disgusting, was that the hunger 
 caused by their carrying off the provisions might 
 appear more horrible. Let us listen to the complaint 
 of Phineus, in Apollonius : k 
 
 tvt 6 op S ’ rjv apa drj 7 tot edrjTvos ctppi XiTraxri , 
 ttvc'l rode pvdaXeop re kcu ov rXrjTOP pepos odprjs. 
 ov Ke tls ovde plvvvOa ( 3 poroap av(Tx olTO TreXacrcras, 
 ovd’ ei 61 adapavTos eXrjXapepop Keap eirj. 
 aXXa pe TriKpr) dr/ra Ke dcuros inicrxei dpdyKrj 
 ulppeip, Kai pipvovra KaKrj iv yaarepi OeaOai- 
 K Argonaut, lib. ii. 228. 
 
182 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 I should be glad to justify from this point of view 
 the disgusting introduction of the harpies in Yirgil ; 
 but the hunger there spoken of is not an actual and 
 present famine which they occasion, but only an im- 
 pending one which they foretell ; and, to crown all, 
 the whole prophecy finds its fulfilment in a mere 
 verbal equivocation. Dante too not only prepares 
 us for the starvation of Ugolino, by placing him and 
 his former persecutors in the most loathsome and 
 horrible situation in hell ; but also in the account of 
 the starvation itself mingles some disgusting features; 
 as, to take the instance which is especially startling, 
 where the son offers himself to his father as food. 
 In the note I quote a passage from a play of Beau- 
 mont and Fletcher, which might serve instead of all 
 other examples, did I not feel obliged to acknowledge 
 that it is somewhat exaggerated. (50). 
 
 I now come to disgusting objects in painting. 
 Even if it were altogether indisputable, that there is 
 strictly speaking no such thing as an object dis- 
 gusting to the sight, which painting, as a fine art, 
 would naturally renounce, it would still be compelled 
 to avoid disgusting objects generally, because the 
 association of ideas renders them disgusting to the 
 sight, as well as to the other senses. Pordenone, in 
 a painting of the burial of Christ, represents one of 
 the bystanders as compressing his nose. Bichardson 1 
 disapproves of this upon the ground that Christ had 
 1 Richardson de la Peinture. T. i. p. 74. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 183 
 
 not yet been dead long enough for his body to have 
 passed into corruption. At the resurrection of La- 
 zarus, on the contrary, he is of opinion that an artist 
 might be permitted to draw one of the spectators in 
 this attitude, because history expressly affirms that 
 his body already stank. To me such a representation 
 would there also be intolerable, because it is not only 
 actual stench, but the very idea of it, that awakens 
 disgust. We avoid stinking objects, even though 
 our sense of smell may be for a time destroyed. But 
 it will be replied, painting requires the disgusting, 
 not for its own sake, but, as poetry, to strengthen 
 thereby the ridiculous and the horrible. At its peril ! 
 All my observations in the case of ugliness are of 
 still greater force in that of the disgusting. It loses 
 incomparably less of its effect in an imitation which 
 appeals to the eyes, than in one which appeals to 
 the ears. In the former, therefore, it cannot become 
 so closely mixed with the constituent parts of the 
 ridiculous and the horrible as in the latter ; as soon 
 as our first surprise is over, and our first eager look 
 satisfied, it again becomes altogether distinct, and 
 stands before us in its original and unmodified form. 
 
184 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXVI. 
 
 Winkelmann’s “History of Ancient Art” lias 
 appeared, and I cannot venture a step further before 
 I have read it. To refine upon art from merely 
 general ideas, may mislead us into the adoption of 
 whimsical theories, which sooner or later we find, to 
 our shame, are contradicted in the works of art. 
 The ancients also well knew the ties by which 
 painting and poetry are bound together, and it will 
 be found that they have never drawn them more 
 tightly than was conducive to the advantage of each. 
 What their artists did will teach me what artists 
 generally should do, and where such a man as 
 Winkelmann bears the torch of history before, specu- 
 lation need not hesitate to follow. 
 
 People generally dip into an important work 
 before they commence seriously reading it. My chief 
 curiosity was to learn the opinion of the author upon 
 the Laocoon, not upon the art displayed in its exe- 
 cution, for with regard to that he has already 
 explained himself elsewhere ; but upon its antiquity. 
 Whose side does he take ? Theirs, to whom Virgil 
 appears to have had the group before his eyes P or 
 theirs, who believe that the artists took the poet’s 
 description as their model ? 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 185 
 
 My taste is much gratified to find that he does 
 not even allude to the possibility of imitation having 
 taken place either on the one side or the other. 
 Where is the absolute necessity for it P It is not,, 
 after all, impossible that the similarities between the 
 poetical description and the work of art, to which I 
 have called attention above, may be accidental, and 
 not designed ; and that, so far from one having 
 served as the model of the other, the two were not 
 even executed after the same. Nevertheless, had he 
 been dazzled by the brilliancy of this idea of imita- 
 tion, it is plain that he would have decked himself 
 in favour of the first supposition ; for he assumes 
 that the Laocoon is the production of an age, when 
 art among the Greeks had reached the highest 
 summit of perfection ; i. e. the age of Alexander 
 the Great. 
 
 “ That good destiny,” he says, a “ which watched 
 “ over art, even at its destruction, has preserved for 
 “ the admiration of the whole world a work of this 
 “ period, as a proof of the reality of that excellence, 
 “ ascribed by history to the numberless masterpieces 
 “ that have disappeared. Laocoon, together with his 
 “ two sons, executed by Agesander, Apollodorus(51), 
 “ and Athenodorus, of Ehodes, belongs in all proba- 
 “ bility to this time ; although it is impossible to 
 “ determine its age precisely, or to give, as some 
 “have done, the exact Olympiad, in which these 
 “ artists flourished.” 
 
 a History of Art, p. 347. 
 
186 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 In a note he adds, “ Pliny does not mention the 
 “ age in which Agesander and his assistants at his 
 “work lived; but Maffei in his explanation of 
 “ ancient statues pretends to know that these artists 
 “ flourished in the 88th Olympiad ; and Bichardson 
 “and others have copied this statement, in reliance 
 “ on his authority. The former has, I think, mis- 
 “ taken an Athenodorus among the pupils of Polycle- 
 “ tus for one of the artists in question, and, since 
 “ Polycletus flourished in the eighty-seventh, he has 
 “placed his assumed scholar an Olympiad later: 
 “ Maffei could have had no other grounds.” 
 
 He certainly could not have had any other. But 
 why is Winkelmann satisfied with merely quoting 
 this argument of Maffei? Does it contradict itself? 
 Not at all ! Although it were corroborated by no 
 other evidence, it would of itself constitute a slight 
 probability, unless there is some evidence to prove 
 that it is impossible that Athenodorus the pupil of 
 Polycletus, and Athenodorus the associate of 
 Agesander, were one and the same persons. For- 
 tunately this can be shewn, and that too by their 
 different countries. The first Athenodorus came, 
 according to the express testimony of Pausanias, b 
 from Clitor in Arcadia; while the second, on the 
 authority of Pliny, was a native of Ehodes. 
 
 Winkelmann can have had no object for wishing 
 
 b ’ AOrjvoBeopos Be kcu Aapias • . . ovtol Be 'ApieaBes 
 
 iicnv eK K Xetropo?* Phoc. cap. ix. p. 819. Edit. Kuh. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 187 
 
 that Maffei’s assertion should not be incontrovertibly 
 disproved by the production of this circumstance. 
 It must rather be, that the grounds, which, with his 
 undeniable insight, he derived from the art displayed 
 in the execution of the group, appeared to him of 
 such importance, that it mattered little whether the 
 opinion of Maffei still retained some probability or 
 not. He recognises without doubt in the Laocoon 
 too many of those “ argutiae” c which were peculiar 
 to Lysippus, and with which he was the first to 
 enrich art, to conceive it possible that it should be 
 the production of an age preceding him. 
 
 But supposing it proved that the Laocoon cannot 
 be of greater antiquity than the age of Lysippus, 
 does it necessarily follow that it must belong to that 
 period, or the next, or that it is impossible it should 
 be the work of a far later age? To pass over the 
 time preceding the establishment of the Roman 
 monarchy, during which art in Greece now lifted, 
 and now drooped its head ; why may not the Laocoon 
 have been the happy fruit of that rivalry, which the 
 lavish magnificence of the first Caesars must have 
 enkindled among the artists, and Agesander and his 
 helpmates have been contemporaries of a Strongylion, 
 an Archesilaus, a Pasiteles, a Posidonius, or a Dioge- 
 nes ? Were not some of the works of these masters 
 valued as highly as any that art ever produced ? Let 
 us suppose that pieces, unquestionably theirs, were 
 c Plinius, lib. xxxiv. sect. 19. 6. 
 
188 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 still extant, but that the antiquity of their authors 
 was unknown, and could only be inferred from the 
 art displayed in their execution ; would not an in- 
 spiration almost divine be required to guard the 
 critic against a belief that he ought to attribute 
 them also to that age, which alone Winkelmann deems 
 capable of having produced the Laocoon ? 
 
 It is true that Pliny does not expressly state the 
 time, at which the artists of the Laocoon flourished. 
 Still, if I were to draw any inference from the con- 
 nection of the whole passage, as to whether he 
 intended to rank them among the ancient or modern 
 artists, I confess that the probability seems to me 
 to be in favour of the latter supposition; but let 
 the reader judge for himself. 
 
 After Pliny has spoken, somewhat at length, of 
 the most ancient and greatest masters in sculpture, 
 Phidias, Praxiteles, and Scopas ; and has after- 
 wards given, without any chronological order, the 
 names of the rest, and especially of those, any of 
 whose works were still extant at Pome, he continues 
 as follows. 6 “ Nee multo plurium fama est, quorun- 
 cc dam claritati in operibus eximiis obstante numero 
 cc artificum, quoniam nec unus occupat gloriam, nec 
 “ plures pariter nuncupari possunt, sicut in Laocoonte, 
 “ qui est in Titi imperatoris domo, opus omnibus et 
 “ picturse et statuarise artis prseponendum. Ex uno 
 “ lapide eum et liberos draconumque mirabiles 
 6 Lib. xxxvi. 4. 11. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 189 
 
 “ nexus de consilii sententia fecere summi artifices, 
 " Agesander et Polydorus et Athenodorus Rhodii. 
 ** Similiter Palatinas domus Caesarum replevere 
 “ probatissimis signis Craterus cum Pythodoro, Poly- 
 “ dectes cum Hermolao, Pythodorus alius cum Ar- 
 ec temone, et singularis Aphrodisius Trallianus. 
 ec Agrippae Pantbeum decoravit Diogenes Athenien- 
 “ sis; et Caryatides in columnis templi ejus probantur 
 “ inter pauca operum : sicut in fastigio posita signa, 
 <c sed propter altitudinem loci minus celebrata.” 
 
 Of all tbe artists mentioned in this passage, 
 Diogenes of Athens is the only one, whose era is in- 
 contestably determined. He decorated the Pantheon 
 of Agrippa; and must therefore have lived during 
 the reign of Augustus. Still, if we weigh the words 
 of Pliny a little more closely, I think we shall find 
 that the age of Craterus and Pythodorus, of Poly- 
 dectes and Hermolaus, of the second Pythodorus 
 and Artemon, as well as of Aphrodisius of Tralle, 
 are just as unquestionably settled. He says of them, 
 “ Palatinas domus Caesarum replevere probatissimis 
 “ signis.” Now I ask, is it possible this should 
 only mean that the palaces of the Caesars were filled 
 with their masterpieces ; in the sense, namely, that 
 the Caesars had had them collected everywhere, 
 transported to Rome, and placed in their palaces ? 
 Certainly not. It implies that they expressly executed 
 their statues for them, and that they flourished dur- 
 ing their time. That these were later artists, whose 
 
190 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 labours were exclusively confined to Italy, may be 
 clearly inferred from the fact that we find no mention 
 of them elsewhere. Had they laboured in Greece 
 in early times, Pausanias would have seen one or 
 other of their works, and have handed the memory 
 of them down to us. A Pythodorus, to be sure, 
 does occur in him, 6 but Hardouin is quite wrong in 
 taking him for the same as that mentioned in the 
 above quoted passage of Pliny ; for Pausanias calls 
 one of his pieces, a statue of Juno which he saw at 
 Coronaea in Bootia, ayaXfxa apxaiov , an epithet he 
 only applies to the works of those masters, who had 
 flourished in the more ancient and ruder days of art, 
 long before the age of Phidias and Praxiteles. With 
 works of this kind we may be quite sure the Caesars 
 did not decorate their palaces. Still less attention 
 can be paid to another conjecture of Hardouin, that 
 Artemon is perhaps the painter of the same name, 
 whom Pliny mentions in another place. Correspond- 
 ence of names is not a probability sufficiently 
 strong to authorize us, on its account, in doing vio- 
 lence to the natural interpretation of an uncorrupted 
 passage. 
 
 According to this, there is no doubt that Craterus 
 Pythodorus, Polydectes, Hermolaus, &c., lived under 
 the Caesars, whose palaces they filled with the most 
 approved statues ; and it seems to me, that no 
 other age can be reasonably attributed to those ar- 
 e Boeotic. cap. xxxiv. p. 778. Edit. Kuhn, 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 191 
 
 tists, from whom Pliny passes on to them by a 
 “ similiter.” Now these are the authors of the 
 Laocoon. Let my reader only reflect, supposing 
 Agesander Polydectes and Athenodorus were as old 
 masters as Winkelmann believes them to be, how un- 
 natural it would appear for an author, in whom 
 accuracy of expression is of considerable importance, 
 when he is forced to pass abruptly from them to the 
 most modern artists, to make this transition by 
 means of an, “ In like manner.” 
 
 Still it will be answered that this “ similiter ” 
 does not refer to a connection in respect of age, but 
 to another quality, which these artists, so different 
 in point of antiquity, possessed in common. Pliny, 
 it will be said, is speaking of those artists, who exe- 
 cuted works together, and on this account remained 
 less celebrated than they deserved to be. For since 
 no one can lay an undivided claim to the honour of 
 a work executed in common, and always to mention 
 by name every one who took part in it would have 
 been too tedious : (quoniam nec unus occupat glori- 
 am, nec plures pariter nuncupari possunt) their 
 united names became neglected. This was the lot of 
 the authors of the Laocoon, and of so many other 
 artists, whom the Caesars employed in the decoration 
 of their palaces. 
 
 I grant all this ; but still the probability that 
 Pliny is only speaking of the modern artists, who 
 laboured in conjunction, is very great. For if he 
 
192 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 were alluding to tlie more ancient, why did he only 
 mention the authors of Laocoon P Why not others 
 also P Onatas and Kalliteles ? Timoldes and Tim- 
 archides ? or the sons of this Timarchides : there 
 was in Eome at the time a Jupiter/ the joint pro- 
 duction of these last. Winkelmann himself says, that 
 a long list might be given of ancient works, which 
 had more than one father f and would Pliny have 
 only recollected Agesander, Polydorus, and Atheno- 
 dorus, if he had not expressly confined himself to 
 the latest times ? 
 
 If the probability of a supposition increases in 
 proportion to the number of incomprehensible cir- 
 cumstances, which are explained by it, the assump- 
 tion that the sculptors of Laocoon flourished under 
 the first Csesars, is in a very high degree confirmed ; 
 for if they had laboured in Greece at the period to 
 which Winkelmann attributes them ; if the Laocoon 
 itself had ever been in that country ; the silence, 
 observed by the Greeks upon such a work, (opere 
 omnibus et picturse et statuarise artis prseponendo) 
 would be a just ground for extreme astonishment. 
 It would surprise us, that such great masters should 
 have executed nothing else, or that Pausanias had 
 the misfortune to see as little of the rest of their 
 works in Greece, as he did of the Laocoon. In 
 Eome, on the contrary, the great masterpiece might 
 
 f Plinius xxxvi. 4, 10. 
 s History of Art, vol. ii. p, 331. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 193 
 
 long remain in obscurity, and even if it were exe- 
 cuted in the time of Augustus, there would be 
 nothing wonderful in Pliny’s having been the first 
 and only man to mention it. Let us only call to 
 mind the expressions he uses with reference to a 
 statue of Yenus by Scopas, h which stood at Pome, 
 in a temple of Mars ; * * * * “ quemcumque 
 
 “ alium locum nobilitatura. Pomse quidem magni- 
 “tudo operum earn obliterat, ac magni officiorum 
 “ negotiorumque acervi omnes a contemplatione 
 cc talium abducunt : quoniam otiosorum et in magno 
 “ loci silentio apta admiratio talis est.” 
 
 Those who are desirous of recognising in the 
 group of the Laocoon an imitation of Virgil’s descrip- 
 tion will accept the remarks I have made hitherto 
 with pleasure. Another conjecture occurs to me, 
 which I also hope will not call forth their serious 
 disapproval. Perhaps they may think that it was 
 Asinius Pollio who had the poet’s description exe- 
 cuted by Greek artists. Pollio was a particular friend 
 of Virgil, outlived him, and appears even to have 
 composed a work upon the iEneid ; for where could 
 the isolated remarks upon this poem, which Servius 
 quotes from him(52), have found a place so easily, 
 as in a work devoted to it? At the same time he 
 was an amateur and connoisseur of art, possessed a 
 very rich collection of the most excellent antique 
 pieces, and commissioned the artists of his day to 
 h Plinius, xxxvi, 4. 8. 
 
 O 
 
194 
 
 LAO CO ON. 
 
 execute new ones for him. Besides so bold a group 
 as the Laocoon was admirably suited to the taste, 
 which he displayed in his selection ; 1 “ut fuit acris 
 vehementise sic quoque spectari monumenta sua 
 voluit.” Still, as the cabinet of Pollio at the time 
 of Pliny, when the Laocoon stood in the palace of 
 Titus, was not at all broken up, and appears to have 
 had a place especially allotted to it, this supposition 
 loses a good deal of its probability. Yet after all 
 I do not see why Titus himself should not have 
 done what we are so anxious to ascribe to Pollio. 
 
 1 Plinius, xxxvi. 4. 10. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 195 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 I am confirmed in my opinion, that the sculptors 
 of the Laocoon flourished under the first Csesars, or 
 at any rate cannot be of such antiquity as Winkel- 
 mann believes, by a piece of information which he 
 himself has been the first to make known. 
 It is this : a 
 
 “At Nettuno, formerly Antium, Cardinal Alex- 
 ander Albani, in the year 1717, discovered in a 
 “ great vault, which had been buried beneath the sea, 
 “ a vase of greyish black marble, now called bigio, 
 “in which the group of the Laocoon was inlaid; 
 , “ upon it was the following inscription : 
 
 “ A© ANO A£2P02 ArHSANAPOY 
 P0AI02 EnOIHSE. 
 
 “ Athanodoeus, the son of Agesandee, of 
 “ Rhodes, made it. We gather from this inscrip- 
 “ tion, that father and son executed the Laocoon, and 
 “ probably Apollodorus, (Polydorus) was also a son 
 “ of Agesander ; for there can be no doubt that this 
 “Athanodorus is identical with the one mentioned 
 “by Pliny. This inscription further proves that 
 a History of Art, vol. ii. page 347. 
 
196 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 “ other Works of art, besides the three Pliny names, 
 “ have been found, on which the artists have in- 
 “ scribed the word made in the perfect and definite 
 “ tense, enol-qae, fecit ; where he informs us that all 
 “ the rest out of modesty expressed it in the 
 “ indefinite, iiroiei, faciebat.” 
 
 Winkelmann will find few to gainsay his assertion, 
 that the Athanodorus in this inscription can be no 
 other than the Athenodorus mentioned by Pliny as 
 one of the sculptors of the Laocoon. Athanodorus 
 and Athenodorus are doubtless the same name ; for 
 the Ehodians spoke the Doric dialect. But upon the 
 other conclusions, which Winkelmann draws from 
 this inscription, I must beg leave to offer a few 
 remarks. 
 
 His first inference that Athenodorus was a son 
 of Agesander, may pass. It is very probable, but 
 not indisputable ; for it is well known that many 
 ancient artists abandoned the name of their father, 
 and adopted that of their master. At least what 
 Pliny says of the brothers Apollonius and Tauriscus 
 hardly admits of any other interpretation.* 
 
 But how ! Does this inscription really contradict 
 the assertion of Pliny, that only three works of art 
 were to be found on which the artists had acknow- 
 ledged their productions in a completed tense, (by 
 eTToiTjcre, instead of enoUi) ? This inscription indeed ! 
 Why should we first learn from this inscription 
 b Lib. xxxvi. 4. 10. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 197 
 
 what we might have long ago learnt from many 
 others P Had not K \eofievrjs iiroirjo-e been already 
 found upon the statue of Germanicus ? ’A pxe'kaos 
 inoirjo-e upon the so-called deification of Homer? 
 And SaXmav iiroiTjae upon the famous vase at 
 Caieta?(53). 
 
 Winkelmann can truly say, “who knows this 
 better than I?” But will he also add? “So much 
 “the worse for Pliny; the oftener his assertion is 
 “ contradicted, the more undeniably it is refuted.” 
 
 Not at all. What if Winkelmann makes Pliny say 
 more than he really does ? If therefore the examples 
 I adduced refute not the assertion of Pliny, but 
 the addition which Winkelmann has made to it? 
 Now this is really the case. I must quote the whole 
 passage. Pliny, in his dedication to Titus, wishes 
 to speak of his work with the modesty of a man, 
 who himself best knows how far it falls short of 
 perfection. He discovers a remarkable example of 
 such modesty among the Greeks, in the boastful 
 promises of whose title pages, (inscriptiones, propter 
 quas vadimonium deseri possit) he has for a short 
 while found entertainment ; and goes on to say 
 “ Et ne in totum videar Grsecos insectari, ex illis nos 
 “ velim intelligi pingendi fingendique conditoribus, 
 “ quos in libellis his invenies, absoluta opera, et ilia 
 “ quoque quse mirando non satiamur, pendenti titulo 
 “ inscripsisse : ut Apelles eaciebat, aut Poly- 
 c Lib. i. 
 
198 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 “ cletus : tanquam inchoata semper arte et imper- 
 “ fecta : ut contra judiciorum varietates superesset 
 “ artifici regressus ad veniam, velnt emendaturo 
 “ quidquid desideraretur, si non esset interceptus. 
 “ Quare plenum verecundise illud est, quod omnia 
 “opera tanquam novissima inscripsere, et tanquam 
 tc singulis fato adempti. Tria, non amplius, ut 
 “ opinor, absolute traduntur inscripta, Ille Fecit, 
 “ quse suis locis reddam : quo apparuit, summam 
 “ artis securitatem auctori placuisse, et ob id magna 
 “invidia fuere omnia ea.” I beg the reader to pay 
 attention to Pliny’s expression, “ pingendi fingendi- 
 que conditoribus.” Pliny does not say that the 
 custom of acknowledging their productions in the 
 imperfect tense was universal among artists, or that 
 all in every age had observed it; he expressly 
 states that only the earliest masters, the creators of 
 the plastic arts, pingendi jingendique conditores, 
 Apelles, Polycletus, and their contemporaries, had 
 made use of this modest conceit ; and since he only 
 names these, he intimates quietly, but distinctly 
 enough, that their successors, especially in later 
 times, expressed greater confidence in themselves. 
 
 But if we allow this, as I think every one must, 
 the inscription of one of the three artists of Laocoon, 
 which has been discovered may be perfectly correct, 
 without involving any untruth in Pliny’s assertion 
 that only three works were extant, in the inscriptions 
 on which their authors made use of a perfect tense, 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 199 
 
 i. e. among the ancient works of the periods of 
 Apelles, Polycletus, Nicias or Lysippus. But if so, 
 the statement which Winkelmann maintains, that 
 Athenodorus and his fellow sculptors were contem- 
 poraries of Apelles and Lysippus must be incorrect. 
 At this conclusion we are compelled to arrive; for 
 if it is true that among the works of the ancient 
 artists, of Apelles, and Polycletus, and the rest of 
 this class, only three were to be found, in the in- 
 scriptions on which a perfect tense was used; if 
 again it is true that Pliny himself has mentioned 
 these three works by name(54) ; it necessarily follows 
 that Athanadorus, to whom neither of these three 
 pieces is attributed, and who yet uses a perfect 
 tense in the inscription on his work, could not 
 have belonged to these ancient artists. He could 
 not have been a contemporary of Apelles or 
 Lysippus, but must have lived at a later period. 
 
 In short, I believe it may be admitted as a very 
 safe criterion, that all artists who have made use of 
 the iiroiTjae flourished long after the time of Alex- 
 ander the Great, shortly before, or under, the Caesars. 
 Of Cleomenes it is indisputable ; of Archelaus it is 
 highly probable; and of Salpion the contrary at 
 any rate cannot in any way be proved. The 
 same may be said of the rest, without excepting 
 Athenodorus. 
 
 Winkelmann himself may act as judge in this 
 question, but I protest in anticipation against the 
 
200 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 converse of my position. If all the artists who 
 have made use of eiroirjtre belonged to a late period, 
 it does not follow that all who used eVot« belonged 
 to an early one. Even among the later artists there 
 may have been some who really felt this modesty so 
 becoming to a great man, and more still who 
 affected it. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 201 
 
 CHAPTEE XXVIII. 
 
 Next to the Laocoon, I was most curious to see 
 what Winkelmann would say of the so-called Borghese 
 gladiator. I believe that I have made a discovery 
 about this statue, to which I attach all the importance 
 we usually attribute to such discoveries. 
 
 I was afraid that Winkelmann might have antici- 
 pated me. I do not however find any intimation 
 of it in his work ; and if anything could render me 
 distrustful of the correctness of my conjectures, it 
 would be the fact that my fears are not realised. 
 
 “ Some,” says Winkelmann, 3, “ take this to be the 
 “ statue of a discobolus, i. e. of one who is throwing 
 “ a discus, or round plate of metal ; and this was 
 “ the opinion expressed by the celebrated Von Stosch, 
 “ in a letter to me, but formed, I think, without suf- 
 “ ficient consideration of the attitude in which such a 
 “ figure would stand. Eor a man, who is just going 
 “ to throw, draws his body backwards, and lets the 
 “ whole of his weight fall upon his right leg, while 
 “ the left remains idle ; but here it is just the reverse ; 
 “ the whole frame is thrown forwards, and leans upon 
 “ the left leg, whilst the right is extended backwards 
 a History of Art, vol. ii. p. 394. 
 
202 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 “ as far as it can be. The right arm is new, and a 
 “ piece of a lance has been placed in its hand ; on 
 “ the left arm may be seen the strap of the shield 
 “which he bore. If they are closely observed, it 
 “ will be found that the head and the eyes are di- 
 “ rected upwards, and that the figure appears to be 
 “ guarding with the shield against something which 
 “ threatens it from above ; and so this statue might 
 “ with more justice be taken to represent a soldier 
 “ who had especially distinguished himself in a situa- 
 tion of danger. It is probable that among the 
 “ Greeks a statue was never erected in honour of a 
 “ gladiator at the public shows ; and, besides, this 
 “ work seems older than the introduction of such 
 “ spectacles into Greece. 5 ’ 
 
 No decision can be juster. This statue is no more 
 that of a gladiator than of a discobolus ; it really re- 
 presents a warrior, who in such a posture distin- 
 guished himself at some perilous crisis. But since 
 Winkelmann divined this so happily, how came he to 
 stop short at that period? How was it that the 
 warrior did not occur to his mind, who in precisely 
 this posture averted the overthrow of an entire army, 
 and to whom his grateful country had a statue erected 
 in a similar attitude ? 
 
 In a word, the statue is Chabrias. 
 
 This is proved by the following passage from Ne- 
 pos 5 life of this general . 15 “ Hie quoque in summis 
 b Gap. i. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 203 
 
 “ habitus est ducibus ; resque multas memoria dignas 
 “ gessit. Sed ex his elucet maxime, inventum ejus in 
 “proelio, quod apud Thebas fecit quum Boeotiis 
 cc subsidio venisset. Namque in eo victories fidente 
 {C summo duce Agesilao, fugatis jam ab eo conduc- 
 cc titiis catervis,reliquam phalangem loco vetuit cedere, 
 “ obnixoque genu scuto, projectaque hasta impetum 
 “ excipere hostium docuit. Id novum Agesilaus con- 
 “ tuens, progredi non est ausus, suosque jam incurren- 
 “ tes tuba revocavit. Hoc usque eo tota Greecia fama 
 “ celebratum est, ut illo statu Chabrias sibi statuam 
 “ fieri voluerit quae publice ei ab Atheniensibus in foro 
 constituta est. Ex quo factum est, ut postea ath- 
 “ letae, ceterique artifices his statibus in statuis ponen- 
 <c dis uterentur, in quibus victoriam essent adepti.” 
 
 I know the reader will pause an instant before he 
 bestows his applause, but I hope it will only be for an 
 instant. The attitude of Chabrias does not appear 
 to have been precisely the same as that of the Bor- 
 ghese statue. The lance thrown forwards, (projecta 
 hasta) is common to both ; but commentators explain 
 “ obnixo genu scuto” by “ obnixo in scutum” — “ ob- 
 firmato genu ad scutum Chabrias shewed his men 
 how to lean with their knees against their shields, 
 and await the enemy behind them ; the statue, on the 
 contrary, raises its shield on high. But is it not pos- 
 sible that the commentators may be wrong ? Is it 
 not possible that the words “ obnixo genu scuto,” 
 ought not to be connected, but that “ obnixo genu,” 
 
204 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 and “ scuto” should be taken separately, or the 
 last read with the following words, “ project aque 
 hasta ?” If we only insert a single comma the cor- 
 respondence between the statue and description is 
 complete. The statue is that of a soldier, “ qui ob- 
 nixo genu, (55) scuto projectaque hasta impetum hos- 
 tis excipit.” It represents Chabrias’ action ; and is 
 the statue of Chabrias. That the comma is really 
 wanting is proved by the que affixed to the projecta, 
 which is superfluous if “obnixo genu scuto,” are 
 connected ; and in fact some editions have omitted 
 it on that account. 
 
 The form of the characters in the artist’s inscrip- 
 tion upon the statue coincides exactly with the great 
 antiquity which, under this supposition, must be ac- 
 corded to the statue ; and indeed Winkelmann has 
 himself inferred from them that it is the most ancient 
 of the statues now in Home, on which the masters 
 have recorded their names. I leave it to his acute 
 glance to determine whether he observes anything in 
 its style which is in contradiction to my opinion. 
 Should he honour my suggestion with his approval, 
 I shall flatter myself that I have produced a better 
 instance how happily the classical authors may be 
 illustrated by the ancient works of art, and these last 
 in their turn by the first, than can be found in the 
 whole folio of Spence. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 205 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 With all the boundless reading, and most ex- 
 tensive and refined knowledge of art which Win- 
 kelmann has applied to his task, he has worked in 
 the noble confidence of the ancient artists, who 
 expended all their industry upon the main object, 
 and either executed the parts of less importance 
 with, as it were, intentional negligence, or left them 
 to the hands of any chance artist. 
 
 It is no small merit, to have only fallen into 
 faults that any one might have avoided ; faults 
 which are seen at the first cursory reading ; and 
 which if I notice at all it is only to remind certain 
 people, who think that they alone have eyes, that 
 they are not worth remarking. 
 
 Already, in his writings upon the imitation of 
 Grecian Works of Art, Winkelmann has been several 
 times misled by Junius. Junius is a very insidious 
 author. His whole work is a cento, and though he 
 always uses the words of the ancients, he is con- 
 stantly applying passages to painting, which in their 
 original context bear no reference whatever to it. 
 When e. g. Winkelmann desires to teach us that 
 perfection can no more be reached by the mere imi- 
 
206 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 tation of nature in art, than it can in poetry, and that 
 the painter as well as poet must prefer the impossible, 
 which is probable, to the merely possible : he adds, 
 “ the possibility and truth, which Longinus requires 
 “ of a painter, as opposed to the incredible in poetry, 
 “ is perfectly consistent with it.” But this addition 
 had much better have been omitted ; for it exhibits 
 a seeming contradiction in the two greatest critics 
 on art, which is altogether without foundation. It 
 is not true that Longinus ever said anything of the 
 kind. He makes a somewhat similar remark upon 
 eloquence and the art of poetry, but in no way upon 
 poetry and painting. Q,s d'erepov tl rj prjTopuer] <pav- 
 racria fiovXercu, /cat erepov rj 7 rapa TTOL-qrais, ovk av \a601 
 are, he writes to his friend Terentian a ; 3 Ov pr/v dXXd 
 ra pev 7 rapa rocs 7 rocjjracs pvdcKcorepav e^ei rrjv vnep- 
 
 €K7TT(0(TLV, KCll TTCLVTJ) TO TTMTTOV VnepalpOVCTaV TYjS §€ 
 
 prjTopiKrjs (pavrao-cas, KaWiarov del to epirpaKTOv /cat 
 ivaXrjOes. Only Junius substitutes painting for 
 oratory : and it was in him and not in Longinus 
 that Winkelmann read, b “ Prsesertim cum poeticse 
 “ phantasice finis sit eKTrXrjgcs, pictorise vero, ivapyela , 
 ££ /cat ra pev Trapd rocs ttolijtcus , ut loquitur idem 
 ec Longinus.” True, they are Longinus 5 words, 
 but not Longinus’ meaning. 
 
 The same must have been the case with the 
 following observation: “All actions , 55 he says , 0 
 
 a Tvepi Y’ypovs, Tprjpa t§’» Edit. T. Fabri, p. 36 — 39. 
 b De Pictura Vet. lib. I. cap. iv. p. 33. 
 c On the Imitation of Greek Works, p. 23. 
 
LAOCOON. 
 
 207 
 
 “and attitudes of Greek figures, which are not 
 “marked by the character of wisdom, but are 
 “too vehement and wild, fell into a fault, which 
 “ the ancient artists called parenthyrsus .” The 
 ancient artists? That can only be proved out 
 of Junius; for parenthyrsus was a technical 
 term in rhetoric, and perhaps, as the passage in 
 Longinus appears to intimate, used only by Theo- 
 doi'US. Tovtco TrapaKelrai rplrov tl KaKias eiBos iv rois 
 7ra6r)TLKols, onep 6 QeoBcopos TvapivOvpcrov iicaher eVrt Be 
 TvaOos aKcupov Kai Kevou, ev6a prj Set 7 raOovs' rj aperpov 
 evda ptTpiov Set. d I even doubt whether generally 
 this word can be transferred to painting. For in 
 eloquence and poetry there is a pathos which may be 
 carried to its extreme point, without becoming iraph- 
 6vporos. It is the deepest pathos out of place 
 that is parenthyrsus ; while in the painting extreme 
 pathos is always parenthyrsus, even if it can be per- 
 fectly justified by the circumstances of the person 
 who expresses it. 
 
 According to all appearance therefore the vari- 
 ous inaccuracies in the history of art have arisen 
 merely from Winkelmann having in haste consulted 
 Junius instead of the originals, e. g. when he is prov- 
 ing by examples that among the Greeks all excellence 
 in every art and craft was especially valued, and 
 that the best artizan even in the most trifling manu- 
 factures might succeed in immortalizing his name. 
 
 d Tprjpa, B. 
 
208 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 He quotes the following instance among others : e 
 “We know the name of the maker of a particularly 
 ec accurate balance, or pair of scales : it is Parthe- 
 “nius.” Winkelmann can only have read the words 
 of Juvenal to which he is here referring, “Lances 
 Parthenio factas,” in the list of Junius ; for if he 
 had referred to Juvenal himself, he would not have 
 been misled by the equivocal meaning of the word 
 “lanx,” but would have seen at once that the poet 
 was speaking not of a balance and scales, but of 
 plates and dishes. Juvenal is praising Catullus 
 because in a perilous storm at sea he had thrown 
 all his valuable baggage overboard, in order that he 
 and the ship might not go down together. These 
 valuables he describes, and says : 
 
 Ille nee argentum dubitabat mittere, lances 
 Parthenio factas, urnse cratera capacem 
 Et dignum sitiente Pholo, vel conjuge Tusci. 
 Adde et bascaudas et mille escaria, multum 
 Cselati, biberet quo callidus emptor Olynthi. 
 
 What can lances mean here, joined as it is with 
 goblets and urns, but “ plates and dishes ? ” and all 
 Juvenal intends to say is, that Catullus threw over- 
 board his whole service of plate, among which were 
 some embossed dishes of the workmanship of Par- 
 thenius. “ Parthenius coelatoris nomen,” says an old 
 scholiast. But when Grangaus in his commentary 
 e History of Art, i. p. 136. 
 
LAO CO ON. 
 
 209 
 
 adds to this name, “ sculptor, de quo Plinius,” he 
 must have written at hap hazard; for Pliny does 
 not mention any artist of this name. 
 
 “ Even,” continues Winkelmann, “ the name of 
 “ the saddler, as we should call him, who made Ajax’s 
 “ leather shield has been preserved.” But he can- 
 not have derived this statement from the authority 
 to which he refers his reader, viz. from Herodotus’ 
 life of Homer. Certainly two lines of the Iliad are 
 there quoted, in which the poet applies the name of 
 Tychius to this worker in leather ; but it is expressly 
 stated that properly a leather worker of Homer’s 
 acquaintance was so called, and that his name was 
 inserted as a proof of friendship and gratitude/ 
 
 'AnedwKe de ^ apiv kcu Tu^tis) r <5 (TKvrei ■ os ede^aro avrov 
 iv tco New rer ^ et , Tvpo<re\6ovTa npbs to (TKoreiov , iv to\s 
 errecTL Kara^ev^as iv rrj ’i Arndt rois de : 
 
 ’A las d iyyvdev (pep cov craKOs rjvre nvpyov, 
 
 X<x\Keov enrafioeiov' o 61 Kape Tev% oov 
 
 2 <vTOTopcov dpurros/ YArj evi ouaa vdioov • 
 
 This quotation favours a position therefore exactly 
 opposite to that which Winkelmann intended to con- 
 firm. The name of the saddler who made Ajax’s 
 shield was in Homer’s time already so entirely for- 
 gotten that the poet used the license of substituting 
 a completely strange name in its stead. 
 
 Various other trifling faults are mere errors of 
 r Herodotus de vita Homeri, p. 756. Edit. Wessel. 
 
 P 
 
210 
 
 LAOCOON. 
 
 memory, or refer to subjects which he only intro- 
 duces cursorily as illustrations, e. g. 
 
 It was Hercules, and not Bacchus that Parrhasius 
 boasted had appeared to him in a vision in the same 
 form in which he had painted him. g 
 
 Tauriscus w r as not a native of Rhodes but of 
 Tralles in Lydia. h 
 
 The Antigone was not the first of Sophocles’ 
 tragedies(56). 
 
 But I must desist, lest I should seem to be mul- 
 tiplying such trifles. For censure it could not be 
 taken ; but to those who know my high esteem for 
 Winkelmann it might appear trifling. 
 
 g History of Art, vol. i. p. 176. Plinius, lib. xxxv. 
 sect, 36. Athenseus, lib. xii. p. 543. 
 
 h History of Art, vol. ii. p. 353. Plinius, lib. xxxvi. 
 4, 10. “ Taurisci, non coelatoris illius, sed Tralliani.” 
 
NOTES TO THE LAOCOON. 
 

 
 
 
 
NOTES TO THE LAOCOON 
 
 Note (1) page 8. 
 
 Antiochus ( Antholog. lib.ii. cap. 4). Hardouin,inhis commentary on 
 Pliny (lib. xxxv. sect. 36.) attributes this epigram to a certain Piso ; 
 but no such name is to be found in the catalogue of Greek epigram- 
 matists. 
 
 Note (2) p. 9. 
 
 It is for this reason that Aristotle forbids his pictures to be shown 
 to young people, viz., that their imaginations may be preserved from 
 any acquaintance with ugly forms, (Polit. lib. viii. cap 5) Boden 
 proposes to read Pausanias, instead of Pauson, in this passage, because 
 he is well known to) have painted licentious pictures ; (de umbra 
 poetica, Comment, i. p. 13.) as though a philosophical lawgiver were 
 required to teach us, that such voluptuous allurements were to be 
 kept out of the reach of young people. Had he but referred to the 
 well known passage in the Poetics, (cap. 11), he would never have put 
 forward his hypothesis. Some commentators {e.g. Kttlm in iElian. 
 Var. Hist. lib. iv. cap. 3.) maintain that the distinction which 
 Aristotle there draws between Polygnotus, Dionysius, and Pauson, 
 consisted in Polygnotus having painted gods and heroes, whilst 
 Dionysius painted men, and Pauson beasts. They all, however, 
 painted the human figure ; and Pauson’s having once painted a 
 horse does not prove that he was an animal painter, as Boden 
 supposes him to have been. Their rank was decided by the degrees 
 of beauty with which they endowed their human forms. Dionysius 
 could paint nothing but men, and was called, par excellence as it were, 
 the “ Anthropographus,” or “ Man-painter,” because he copied na- 
 ture too slavishly, and was unable to rise to the ideal ; while to have 
 painted gods and heroes under meaner influences than this, would 
 have been a profanity. 
 
214 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note (3) p. 11. 
 
 It is an error to suppose that the serpent was exclusively the sym- 
 bol of the healing deities. Justin Martyr ( Apolog, ii. p. 55, Edit. Syl- 
 burgh) says expressly:— 7 rapa Travri rcov vopu^opevoov Trap 
 vpiv Secbv, o(pis avp(3o\ov peya <a\ pvo-rrjpiov dvaypa(p€- 
 rcu : and it would be easy to quote a whole series of monuments, 
 where the serpent accompanies deities who had no connection what- 
 ever with the healing art. 
 
 Note (4) p. 12. 
 
 Though we were to review all the works of Art mentioned by 
 Pliny, Pausanias, and others, or search among the ancient statues, 
 bas reliefs, and paintings still extant, we should nowhere find a fury. 
 I except such figures as belong to the language of symbols, rather 
 than to Art, and are principally to be found upon coins. Meantime 
 Spence, since he was determined to discover furies, would have done 
 much better if he had borrowed them from the coins, (Seguini 
 Numis. p. 178. Spanheim de Prasst. Numism. Dissert, xiii. p. 639. 
 Les Cesars de Julien, par Spanheim, p. 48.) than he has in intro- 
 ducing them by an ingenious idea into a work, in which there is cer- 
 tainly no trace of them. He says in his Polymetis, (Dial. xvi. p. 272), 
 “Though furies are very uncommon in the works of the ancient 
 “artists, yet there is one subject in which they are generally intro- 
 “duced by them. What I mean is the death of Meleager; in the 
 “ relievos of which they are often represented, as encouraging, or 
 “urging Althasa, to burn the fatal brand; on which the life of her 
 “only son depended. Even a woman’s resentment, you see, could not 
 “ go so far, without a little help of the devil. In a copy of one of 
 “these relievos, published in the Admiranda, there are two women 
 “ standing by the altar with Althsea, who are probably meant for 
 “furies in the original; (for who but furies would assist at such a 
 “ sacrifice ?) though the copy scarce represents them horrid enough 
 “for that character: but what is most to be observed in that piece 
 “ is a round, or medallion, about the midst of it, with the evident 
 “ head of a fury upon it. This might be what Althtea addressed 
 “her prayers to, whenever she wished ill to her neighbours; or 
 “ whenever she was going to do any very evil action. Ovid introduces 
 “ her as invoking the furies on this occasion, in particular ; and makes 
 “her give more than one reason for her doing so.” (Metamorph. viii. 
 479). By such tortuous logic as this anything might be proved. 
 Who else but the furies, asks Spence, would have been present at 
 
NOTES. 
 
 215 
 
 such an action ? I answer, the maidservant of Althaea, who had to 
 light and keep up the fire. Ovid says, (Metamorph. viii. 460), 
 
 Protulit hunc (stipitem) genetrix, tasdasque in fragmina poni 
 Imperat, et positis inimicos admovet ignes. 
 
 Both persons, in fact, have in their hands such “ tasdas,” or long 
 pieces of resinous fir as the ancients used for torches, and one 
 of them has just broken one of these pieces of fir, as her attitude 
 proves. I am as far from recognising a fury on the disk near the 
 middle of the work. It is a face which expresses violent pain : and 
 without doubt is meant to be the head of Meleager himself. (Meta- 
 morph. viii. 515), 
 
 Inscius atque absens flamma Meleagros in ilia 
 Uritur ; et caecis torreri viscera sentit 
 Ignibus et magnos superat virtute dolores. 
 
 The Artist used it as a means of transition into the subsequent scene 
 of the same story, which directly after exhibits Meleager as dying. 
 The figures, which Spence considers furies, Montfaucon takes to be 
 Parcae, (Antiq. Exp. Yol. i. p. 162) except the head upon the disk, 
 which he also decides to be a fury. Even Bellori ( Admiranda, Tab. 77) 
 leaves it undecided whether they are Parcas, or furies. An “or,” 
 which is sufficient evidence that they are neither the one nor the 
 other. The rest of Montfaucon’s explanation is also deficient in 
 accuracy. The female figure, who is leaning upon her elbows against 
 the bed, should have been called Cassandra, and not Atalanta. 
 Atalanta is the one, who is sitting in a mournful attitude with her 
 back turned towards the bed. The Artist has shown great intelligence 
 in separating her from the family, inasmuch as she was only the 
 mistress and not the wife of Meleager, and her sorrow therefore at 
 a misfortune of which she had been the innocent cause could only 
 have exasperated his relations. 
 
 Note (5) p. 15. 
 
 He thus specifies the degrees of sorrow actually expressed by 
 Timanthes. Calchantem tristem, maastum Ulyssem, clamantem 
 Ajacem, lamentantem Menelaum. The shrieking Ajax could not 
 but have been an ugly figure ; and since neither Cicero nor Quintilian 
 mention it in their descriptions of this painting, I am the more in- 
 clined to believe it an addition originating only in Valerius’ desire of 
 enriching the picture. 
 
216 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note (6) p. 15. 
 
 Eundem, (namely Myro,) we read in Pliny, (lib. xxxiv. sect. 19. 4) 
 vicit et (Pythagoras) Leontinus, qui fecit stadiodromon Astylon, qui 
 Olympias ostenditur : et Libyn puerum tenentem tabulam, eodem 
 loco, et mala ferentem nudum. Syracusis autem claudicantem ; cujus 
 ulceris dolorem sentire etiam spectantes videntur. Let us consider the 
 last sentence a little more closely. Manifestly some one is spoken of, 
 who is known by all on account of a painful ulcer. Cujus ulceris, &c. 
 This “ cujus ’’might refer to “ claudicantem,” and this “ claudicantem” 
 might possibly agree with a “ puerum,” supplied from the foregoing 
 clause. No one, however, had more right to be celebrated on account 
 of such an ulcer than Philoctetes. I therefore read “ Philoctetem” in. 
 stead of “ claudicantem,” or at least consider that the former of the 
 two words has slipped out of the manuscripts, owing to its resemblance 
 to the latter; and that the proper reading would be “Philoctetem 
 claudicantem.” Sophocles speaks of his “ (tti(3ov Kar avayKav 
 epneiv : and he’must have limped, since he could not set his diseased 
 foot firmly to the ground. 
 
 Note (7) p. 26. 
 
 When the Chorus views the misery of Philoctetes in this combina- 
 tion, it appears to be deeply moved by the considerationof his helpless 
 isolation. We hear the sociable Greek in every word they utter. 
 About one of these passages I entertain, however, some doubts ; it is 
 the following, (v. 691. 695. Dind) : 
 
 "iv avros rjv 7 rpoaovpos, ovk e'xav fiaariv, 
 ovbe Tiv’ eyx&>p<*>Vy 
 KaKoyeirova 7 Tap o) cttovov uvtltvtvov 
 pcipvfipcoT aTTOKXav — 
 
 (T6L€V aipaTrjpov • 
 
 The common translation of Winshem renders it thus : 
 
 Ventis expositus et pedibus captus 
 Nullum cohabitatorem 
 
 Nec vicinum ullum saltern malum habens, apud quern 
 gemitum mutuum 
 Gravemque ac cruentum 
 Ederet. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 217 
 
 The translation of Thomas Johnson only differs from the foregoing 
 verbally : 
 
 Ubi ipse ventis erat expositus, firmuin gradum non habens, 
 Nec quenquam indigenarum, 
 
 Nec malum vicinum, apud quem ploraret 
 
 Vehementer edacem 
 
 Sanguineum morbum, mutuo gemitu. 
 
 One would fancy that he had borrowed this variation of words from 
 the translation of Thomas Naogeorgus. In his work, (which is very 
 scarce, and seems to have been known to Fabricius only through 
 Operin’s Catalogue), he thus renders the passage in question : 
 
 Ubi expositus fuit 
 
 Ventis ipse, gradum firmum haud habens, 
 
 Nec quenquam indigenam, nec vel malum 
 Vicinum, ploraret apud quem 
 Vehementer edacem atque cruentum 
 Morbum mutuo. 
 
 If these translations are right, the praise which the chorus bestows 
 upon the society of our fellow men is the strongest that can be ima- 
 gined. The miserable one has no one with him ; he knows of no 
 friendly neighbour ; he would have felt too happy had he been blessed 
 with even a bad man for a neighbour! Thomson, perhaps, had this 
 passage in his thoughts, when he represented Melisander, who like- 
 wise had been exposed in a desert island by villains, as saying : 
 
 Cast on the wildest of the Cyclad isles. 
 
 Where never human foot had marked the shore, 
 
 These ruffians left me, — yet, believe me, Areas, 
 
 Such is the rooted love we bear mankind, 
 
 All ruffians as they were, I never heard 
 A sound so dismal as their parting oars. 
 
 He also preferred the society of villains to none at all. A great and 
 excellent meaning, if it were only certain that it was the one which 
 Sophocles intended to convey ; but I must unwillingly confess that I 
 canndt extract any sense of the kind from him. It may be that I 
 would rather see with the eyes of the old scholiast, who para- 
 phrases the passage as follows, than with my own : 
 
 ’Ov povov 07 rov KaXov ovk eL%e rum twv ey^copiav yti- 
 rova, aX\a ov8e kcik.6v, nap 6v apoiftaTov \6yov arevafav 
 
 a/covaeie. 
 
218 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 This interpretation has been followed by Brumoy, and by our latest 
 German translator, as well as by those mentioned above. The first 
 says, “sans society, meme importune;” the second, “yeder Gesell- 
 schaft, auch der beschwerlichsten beraubet.” Deprived of all society, 
 even the most troublesome. My reasons for differing from them are 
 the following. In the first place it is plain that if KaKoyeirova 
 is separated from tlv ey^6)poov, and constitutes a distinct clause, the 
 particle ovde must necessarily be repeated before it. Since it is 
 not, KaKoyeirova must clearly be taken with riva, and the comma 
 after ey^oopcov must be omitted. This comma has crept in in con- 
 sequence of the translation, for I actually find that several simply 
 Greek editions, (e. g • one in 8vo. published at Wittenbergh, 1585, 
 which was altogether unknown to Fabricius) are without it, and place 
 the first comma after KaKoyeirova. In the second place, can he be 
 justly said to be a bad neighbour, from whom we have reason to ex- 
 pect the crrovov avrirvTVOV ap.oifia'iov, as explained by the 
 scholiast ? It is the office of a friend to share our sighs, but not of a 
 foe. In short, the word KOKoyeirova has been misunderstood. It 
 has been rendered as if it were compounded of the adjective kclkos, 
 whereas it is compounded of the substantive to kclkov • It has 
 
 thus been translated “a bad neighbour,” whilst the real meaning is 
 “a neighbour in misfortune.” In the same manner KdKopavriS 
 does not signify a “ bad,” i. e. a “ false, untrue prophet,” but a “pro- 
 phet of evil; ” nor KaKore^vos a “bad, unskilful artist,” but one 
 who used bad arts. By a companion in misfortune the poet intends 
 either “one who is visited with the same calamities as ourselves,” or 
 “ one who, through friendship, shares them with us; ” the whole sen- 
 tence ovft e^eov tlv ’ ey\d>p(ov KaKoyeirova, therefore, should 
 be translated, “ neque quenquam indigenarum mall socium habens.” 
 Thomas Franklin, the last English translator of Sophocles is evidently 
 of my opinion, since he translates KaKoyeirova not by “bad neigh- 
 bour,” but by “fellow mourner,” — 
 
 Exposed to the inclement skies. 
 
 Deserted and forlorn he lies. 
 
 No friend nor fellow mourner there, 
 
 To sooth his sorrow and divide his care. 
 
 Note (8) p. 29. 
 
 The Translator hopes that the following additional quotation from 
 Adam Smith will not be unacceptable to the reader: 
 
NOTES. 
 
 219 
 
 “ In some of the Greek tragedies there is an attempt to excite 
 compassion, by the representation of the agencies of bodily pain. 
 Philoctetes cries out and faints from the extremities of his sufferings. 
 Hippolytus and Hercules are both introduced as expiring under the 
 severest tortures, which, it seems, even the fortitude of Hercules was 
 incapable of supporting. In all these cases, however, it is not the 
 pain, which interests us, but some other circumstance. It is not 
 the sore foot, but the solitude, of Philoctetes which affects us, and 
 diffuses over that charming tragedy that romantic wildness, which 
 is so agreeable to the imagination. The agonies of Hercules and 
 Hippolytus are interesting only because we foresee that death is 
 to be the consequence. If those heroes were to recover, we should 
 think the representation of their sufferings perfectly ridiculous. What 
 a tragedy would that be, of which the distress consisted in a colic! 
 Yet no pain is more exquisite. These attempts to excite compassion 
 by the representation of bodily pain, may be regarded as among the 
 greatest breaches of decorum, of which the Greek theatre has set 
 the example.” — (The Theory of Moral Sentiments, vol. i. p. 63, 
 London, 1790.) 
 
 Note (9) p. 36- 
 
 Topographic Urbis Rome, lib. iv. cap. 14. Et quanquam hi (Ages- 
 ander et Polydorus et Athenodorus Rhodii) ex Virgilii descriptione 
 statuam hanc formavisse videntur, &c. 
 
 Suppl. aux Ant. Expliq. vol. i. p. 242. II semble qu’ Agesandre, 
 Polydore et Athenodore, qui en furent les ouvriers, ayent travaillk 
 comme a l’envie, pour laisser un monument, qui repondoit a P incom- 
 parable description qu’ a fait Virgile de Laocoon, &c. 
 
 Note (10) p. 36. 
 
 Saturnal, lib. v. cap. 2. Non parva sunt alia, que Virgilius 
 traxit a Grccis, et carmini suo tanquam illic nata inseruit. Dicturumne 
 me-putatis quae vulgo nota sunt ? quod Theocritum sibi fecerit pasto- 
 ralis operis autorem, ruralis Hesiodum ? et quod in ipsis Georgicis 
 tempestatis serenitatisque signa de Arati phaenomenis traxerit ? 
 vel quod eversionem Trojae, cum Sinone suo, et equo ligneo, ceterisque 
 omnibus que librum secundum faciunt, a Pisandro pcene ad verbum 
 transcripserit ? qui inter Grecos poetas eminet opere, quod a nuptiis 
 Jovis et Junonis incipiens universas historias, quae mediis omnibus 
 saeculis, usque ad aetatem ipsius Pisandri contigerunt, in unam seriem 
 
220 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 coactas redegerit, et unum ex diversis hiatibus temporum corpus 
 effecerit ? In quo opere inter historias cameras interitus quoque 
 Trojee in hunc modum relatus est. Quae fideliter Maro interpretando, 
 fabricatus est sibi Iliacae urbis ruinam. Sed et haec et talia ut pueris 
 decantata praetereo. 
 
 Note (11) p. 39. 
 
 I do not forget that the picture, on which Eumolpus expatiates in 
 Petronius, might be cited on the opposite side of the question. It 
 represented the destruction of Troy, and particularly the story of 
 Laocoon, under precisely the same circumstances which Virgil has 
 recounted: and since it stood in the same gallery at Naples, in which 
 were some other ancient pictures by Zeuxis, Protogenes, and Apelles, 
 it also may reasonably be supposed to have been an old Greek paint- 
 ing. Only I must be permitted to suggest that a novel writer is no 
 historian. This gallery, this picture, this Eumolpus, seem never to 
 have existed anywhere, save in the imagination of Petronius. No- 
 thing betrays the entire fiction more plainly than the manifest traces 
 of an almost schoolboy imitation of Virgil’s description. It is worth 
 while instituting the comparison. The following passage is from 
 Virgil, (iEneid. 11. 199) — 
 
 Hie aliud majus miseris multoque tremendum 
 Objicitur magis, atque improvida pectora turbat. 
 
 Laocoon, ductus Neptuno sorte sacerdos, 
 
 Sollemnis taurum ingentem mactabat ad aras. 
 
 Ecce autem gemini a Tenedo tranquilla per alta — 
 
 Horresco referens — immensis orbibus angues 
 Incumbunt pelago, pariterque ad litora tendunt ; 
 
 Pectora quorum inter fluctus ar recta jubseque 
 Sanguineoe superant undas, pars cetera pontum 
 Pone legit, sinuatque immensa volumine terga. 
 
 Fit sonitus, spumante salo. Jamque arva tenebant, 
 Ardentesque oculos suffecti sanguine et igni 
 Sibila lambebant linguis vibrantibus ora. 
 
 Diffugimus visu exsangues: illi agmine certo 
 Laocoonta petunt. Et primum parva duorum 
 Corpora natorum serpens amplexus uterque 
 Implicat, et miseros morsu depascitur artus ; 
 
 Post ipsum, auxilio subeuntem et tela ferentem 
 Corripiunt, spirisque ligant ingentibus ; et jam 
 Bis medium amplexi, bis collo squamea circum 
 
NOTES. 
 
 22 i 
 
 Terga dati, superant capite et cervicibus altis. 
 
 Ille simul manibus tendit divellere nodes, 
 
 Perfusus sanie vittas atroque veneno, 
 
 Clamores simul horrendos ad sidera tollit ; 
 
 Qualis mugitus, fugit cum saucius aram 
 Taurus, et incertam excussit cervice securim. 
 
 Eumolpus’ version is not very different ; for we may say of him, 
 as of all other improvisatori, that they are at least as much indebted 
 to their memory for their verses, as to their imagination : 
 
 Ecce alia monstra. Celsa qua Tenedos mare 
 Dorso repellit, tumida consurgunt freta, 
 
 Undaque resultat scissa tranquillo minor. 
 
 Qualis silenti nocte remorum sonus 
 Longe refertur, cum premunt classes mare, 
 
 Pulsumque marmor abiete imposita gemit. 
 
 Respicimus, angues orbibus geminis ferunt 
 Ad saxa fluctus : tumida quorum pectora 
 Rates ut alta?, lateribus spumas agunt : 
 
 Dat cauda sonitum ; liberee ponto jubas 
 Coruscant luminibus, fulmineum jubar 
 Incendit aequor, sibilisque undae tremunt. 
 
 Stupuere mentes. Infulis stabant sacri 
 Phrygioque cultu gemina nati pignora 
 Laocoonte, quos repente tergoribus ligant 
 Angues corusci : parvulas illi manus 
 Ad ora referunt : neuter auxilio sibi, 
 
 Uterque fratri transtulit pias vices, 
 
 Morsque ipsa miseros mutuo perdit metu. 
 
 Accumulat ecce liberum funus parens, 
 
 Infirmus auxiliator : invadunt virum 
 
 Jam morte pasti, membraque ad terram trahunt 
 
 Jacet sacerdos inter aras victima. 
 
 The principal features in both passages are the same, and different 
 ideas are expressed in similar words. But these are trifles which strike 
 the eye at once; there are other signs of imitation which, though 
 less palpable, are no less certain. If the imitator is a man who has 
 any confidence in himself, he rarely imitates without attempting to 
 beautify; and if this endeavour is, in his opinion, successful, he, fox 
 like, sweeps out the footsteps which might betray the path by which 
 he had come with his brush. But even this vain desire to beautify, 
 and this caution taken to appear original, discover him ; for the beau- 
 
222 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 tifying results in exaggeration and unnatural refinement : Virgil says 
 “sanguineas jubze;” Petronius, “ liber* jubas luminibus coruscant.” 
 Virgil has “ ardentes oculos suffecti sanguine et igni Petronius, 
 “fulmineum jubar incendit aequor;” Virgil, “fit sonitus spumante 
 salo ; ” Petronius, “ sibilis undae tremunt.” Thus theplagiarist always 
 passes from the great to.the monstrous, and from the marvellous to the 
 impossible. The description of the boys being encircled by the serpent- 
 folds is in Virgil ajjarergon, drawn by a few expressive strokes, which 
 tell only of their helplessness and distress. Petronius turns this 
 sketch into a finished picture, and makes the two boys a pair of heroic 
 souls : 
 
 Neuter auxilio sibi 
 Uterque fratri transtulit pias vices 
 Morsque ipse miseros mutuo perdit metu. 
 
 Such self-denial is not expected from either children or men. How 
 much better the Greek understood nature (Quintus Calaber xii. 459) 
 when he makes even the mothers forget their children at the appear- 
 ance of the horrible serpents; so completely were the efforts of all 
 turned towards their own preservation: 
 
 . . . . “ evda yvvaiKes 
 
 ’'Oipoa^ov , teal 7 tov tis £(ov inr]\r](TaTO reKvuv, 
 
 * Avrr) aXevopevrj arvyepov popov.” 
 
 Another device for hiding their imitation, very common among 
 plagiarists, is that of changing the shadows in the original into 
 lights in the copy, and on the other hand throwing the lights into the 
 back ground. Virgil takes some pains to render the size of the ser- 
 pents palpable, because it is on this immense size that the probability 
 of the following scene depends; the noise they cause is but a sub- 
 ordinate idea, intended to beget a more vivid conception of it. 
 Petronius, on the contrary, converts this subordinate idea into a 
 prominent feature, describes the noise with great prolixity, and 
 forgets the size so completely that we are almost left to infer 
 it from the sound. It is difficult to believe that he could have 
 fallen into this impropriety, if he had drawn his description from 
 imagination solely, and had had no pattern before him, from which 
 he borrowed his design, though anxious at the same time to conceal 
 his plagiarism. Indeed we may hold it to be a rule that every poetical 
 picture, which is overladen in its less important features — while de- 
 ficient in its weightier, is an unsuccessful imitation ; nor can the 
 conclusion be affected by its possessing lighter beauties, or our being 
 unacquainted with the original. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 223 
 
 Note (12) p. 40. 
 
 Suppl. aux Antiq. Expl. T. i. p. 243. II y a quelque petite difference 
 entre ce que dit Virgile, et ce que le marbre represente. II semble, 
 selon ce que dit le poete, [que les serpens quitterent les deux enfans 
 pour venir entortiller le pere, au lieu que dans ce marbre ils lient en 
 meme terns les enfans et leur pere. 
 
 Note (13) p. 40. 
 
 Donatus ad v. 227. lib. ii. iEneid. Mirandum non est, clypeo et 
 simulacri vestigiis tegi potuisse, quos supra et longos et validos dixit, 
 et multiplici ambitu circumdedisse Laocoontis corpus ac liberorum, 
 et fuisse superfluam partem. It appears to me in regard to this pas- 
 sage, that either the non at the beginning of the sentence must be 
 omitted, or else that a dependent clause is wanting at the end. For 
 since the serpents were of such an extraordinary size, it is certainly 
 to be wondered that they could hide themselves under the shield of 
 the goddess ; unless the shield were itself very large, and belonged 
 to a colossal statue. The confirmation of this supposition was doubt- 
 lessly contained in the missing consequent clause, or the non had no 
 meaning. 
 
 Note (14) p. 42. 
 
 This plate is to be found in the splendid large folio edition or 
 Dryden’s Virgil, published in London 1697. And even in this picture 
 the serpents are only coiled once round the body, and scarcely at all 
 round the neck. If so mediocre an artist require any further justifi- 
 cation, the only plea that can be urged in his favour is, that prints are 
 intended to serve merely as illustrations of the text, and put forward 
 no pretensions to being considered independent works of art. 
 
 Note (15) p. 44, line 1. 
 
 This is the judgment of De Piles himself in his notes to Du 
 Fresnoy. v. 210. Remarqukz s’il vous plait, que les draperies tendres 
 et legeres, n’ etant donnees qu’ au sexe feminin, les anciens sculpteurs 
 ont evite’ autant qu’ils ont pu d’habiller les figures d’hommes ; parce 
 qu’ils ont pens6, comme nous avons dej& dit, qu’en sculpture on ne pou- 
 vait imiter les etoffes et que les gros plis faisoient un mauvais effet. 
 II y a presque autant d’exemples de cette verite, qu’il y a parmi les 
 
224 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 antiques de figures d’hommes nuds. Je rapporterai seulement celui 
 du Laocoon, lequel selon la vraisemblance devroit etre vetu. En effet, 
 quelle apparence y a t’il qu’ un fils de Roi, qu’ un pretre d’ Apollon se 
 trouvat tout nud dans la ceremonie actuelle d’ un sacrifice j car les 
 serpens passerent de 1’ isle de Tenedos au rivage de Troye, et sur- 
 prirent Laocoon et ses fils dans le terns meme qu’il sacrifioit k Neptune 
 sur le bord de la mer, comme le marque Virgile dans le second livre 
 de son iEneide. Cependant les Artistes, qui sont les auteurs de ce bel 
 ouvrage ont bien v£i, qu’ ils ne pouvoient pas leur donner de vetemens 
 convenables a leur qualite, sans faire comme un amas de pierres, dont 
 la masse resemblerait a un rocher, au lieu des trois admirables figures, 
 qui ont 4t6 et qui sont toujours 1’ admiration des siecles. C’est pour 
 cela que de deux inconv^niens ils ont jug£ celui des draperies beau- 
 coup plus facheux, que celui d’ aller contre la verity m£me. 
 
 Note (16) p. 46. 
 
 Maff’ei, Richardson, and more lately still Herr von Hagedorn. 
 (Betrachtungen fiber die Mahlerey, S. 37. Richardson, Traits de la 
 Peinture, Tome iii. p. 513,) De Fontaines scarcely deserves to be 
 added to this list. He maintains certainly in the notes to his trans- 
 lation of Virgil, that the poet had the group in his mind ; but he is 
 ignorant enough to assert that it is the work of Phidias. 
 
 Note (17) p. 48. 
 
 I cannot refer to anything more decisive, in this respect, than the 
 poem of Sadolet. It is worthy of an ancient poet, and since it may 
 well serve the purpose of an engraving, I venture upon inserting it 
 whole. 
 
 DE LAQCOONTIS STATUA JACOBI SADOLETI CARMEN. 
 Ecce alto terras e cumulo, ingentisque ruinas 
 Visceribus, iterum reducem longinqua reduxit 
 Laocoonta dies. Aulis regalibus olim 
 Qui stetit, atque tuos ornabat, Tite, penates. 
 
 Divinas simulacrum artis, nec docta vetustas 
 Nobilius spectabat opus, nunc celsa revisit 
 Exemptum tenebris redivivae masnia Roms. 
 
 Quid primum summumve loquar ? miserumne parentem 
 Et prolem geminam ? an sinuatos flexibus angues 
 Terribili aspectu ? caudasque irasque draconum 
 Vulneraque et veros, saxo moriente, dolores ? 
 
NOTES. 
 
 225 
 
 Horret ad haec animus, mutaque ab imagine pulsat 
 Pectora non parvo pietas commixta tremori. 
 
 Prolixum bini spiris glomerantur in orbem 
 Ardentes colubri, et sinuosis orbibus errant, 
 
 Ternaque multiplici constringunt corpora nexu. 
 
 Yix oculi sufferre valent, crudele tuendo 
 Exitium, casusque feros : micat alter, et ipsum 
 Laocoonta petit, totumque infraque supraque 
 Implicat et rabido tandem ferit ilia morsu. 
 
 Connexum refugit corpus, torquentia sese 
 Membra, latusque retro sinuatum a vulnerecernas. 
 
 Ille dolore acri, et laniatu impulsus acerbo, 
 
 Dat gemitum ingentem, crudosque evellere dentes 
 Connixus, laevam impatiens ad terga Chelydri 
 Objicit: intendunt nervi, collectaque ab omni 
 Corpore vis frustra summis conatibus instat. 
 
 Ferre nequit rabiem, et de vulnere murmur anhelum est. 
 At serpens lapsu crebro redeunte subintrat 
 Lubricus, intortoque ligat genua infima nodo. 
 
 Absistunt surae, spirisque prementibus arctum 
 Crus tumet, obsepto turgent vitalia pulsu, 
 
 Liventesque atro distendunt sanguine venas. 
 
 Nec minus in natos eadem vis effera saevit 
 Implexuque angit rapido, miserandaque membra 
 Dilacerat; jamque alterius depasta cruentum 
 Pectus, suprema genitorem voce cientis, 
 
 Circumjectu orbis, validoque volumine fulcit. 
 
 Alter adhuc nullo violatus corpora morsu, 
 
 Dum parat adducta caudam diveljere planta, 
 
 Horret ad aspectum miseri patris, haeret in illo, 
 
 Et jam jam ingpntes fletus, lachrymasque cadentes 
 Anceps in dubio retinet timor. Ergo perenni 
 Qui tantum statuistis opus jam laude nitentes, 
 
 Artifices magni (quanquam et melioribus actis 
 Quaeritur aeternum nomen, multoque licebat 
 Clarius ingenium venturae tradere famae) 
 
 Attamen ad laudem quaecunque oblata facultas 
 Egregium hanc rapere, et summa ad fastigia niti. 
 
 Yos rigidum lapidem vivis animare figuris 
 Eximii, et vivos spiranti in marmore sensus 
 Inserere, aspicimus motumque iramque doloremque, 
 
 Et pene audimus gemitus: vos extulit olim 
 Clara Rhodos, vestrae jacuerunt artis horiores 
 
226 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Tempore ab immenso, quos rursum in luce secunda 
 Roma videt, celebratque frequens : operisque vetusti 
 Gratia parta recens. Quanto praestantius ergo est 
 Ingenio, aut quovis extendere fata labore, 
 
 Quam fastus et opes et inanem extendere luxum. 
 
 (V. Leodegarii a Quercu Farrago Poematum, T. ii. p. 63.) Gruter 
 also has inserted this poem, together with some others of Sadolet’s, 
 in his well known collection. (Delic. Poet. Italorum, Parte alt. 
 p. 582.) His version however is very inaccurate; e. g. for bini,T. 14, 
 he reads vivi : for errant, v . 15, oram, &c. 
 
 Note (18) p. 49. 
 
 De la Peinture, Tome iii. p. 516. C’est l’horreur que les Troiens 
 ont conque contre Laocoon, qui etoit necessaire a Virgilepour la con- 
 duite de son Poeme ; et cela le mene a cette description pattRique de 
 la destruction de la patrie de son heros. Aussi Virgile n’ avoit garde 
 de diviser l’attention sur la derniere nuit, pour une grande ville 
 entiere, par la peinture d’un petit malheur d’un Particulier. 
 
 Note (19) p. 56. 
 
 I say, “may be; ” but the chances are ten to one that it is not 
 so. Juvenal is speaking of the early times of the republick, when its 
 citizens were still unacquainted with splendour and luxury, and the 
 soldier employed the gold and silver, of which he had despoiled his 
 foe, only for the decoration of his horse-trappings and arms. (Sat. 
 xi. 100—107.) 
 
 Tunc rudis et Graias mirari nescius artes 
 Urbibus eversis prasdarum in parte reperta 
 Magnorum artificum frangebat pocula miles, 
 
 Ut phaleris gauderet equus, caelataque cassis 
 Romuleae simulacra ferae mansuescere jussae 
 Imperii fato, geminos sub rupe Quirinos, 
 
 Ac nudam effigiem clypeo fulgentis et hasta, 
 
 Pendentisque Dei perituro ostenderet hosti. 
 
 The soldier broke up costly cups the masterpieces of great artists, 
 that he might have a she wolf and a little Romulus and Remus 
 wherewith to adorn his helmet, made out of the metal. All is intel- 
 ligible up to the last two lines, where the poet goes on to describe a 
 
NOTES. 
 
 227 
 
 figure of this kind, wrought upon the helmets of the old soldiers. 
 It is easy to see that this figure is intended for Mars ; the question is, 
 what is the meaning of the epithet pendentis , which he applies to him. 
 Rigaltius discovered a gloss which explained it by “ quasi ad ictum 
 se inclinantis.” Lubinus is of opinion that the figure was upon the 
 shield, and that as the shield was suspended from the arm the poet 
 may on this account have applied the epithet “ suspended ” to the 
 figure. But this is in opposition to the construction : for the subject 
 to ostenderet is not miles but cassis. Britannicus observes, “ every- 
 thing that stands high in the air may be said to be pendent, and 
 therefore this figure either above or upon the helmet may be so 
 called.” Others wish to read perdentis instead of pendentis, in 
 order to create an antithesis, which however they alone can detect. 
 Let us see what is Addison’s opinion about this disputed point. The 
 commentators, he says, are all in error. “The true meaning of the 
 “ words is certainly as follows. The Roman soldiers, who were not 
 “a little proud of their founder, and the military genius of their 
 “ republick, used to bear on their helmets the first history of Romu- 
 “ lus, who was begot by the God of War, and suckled by a Wolf. 
 “ The figure of the god was made as if descending upon the priestess 
 
 “Ilia, or as others call her Rhea Silvia As he was 
 
 “represented descending, his figure appeared suspended in the air 
 “ over the vestal virgin, in which sense the word pendentis is ex- 
 “ tremely proper and poetical. Besides the antique basso relievo 
 “ (in Bellorio), that made me first think of this interpretation, I have 
 “since met with the same figures on the reverses of a couple of 
 “ancient coins, which were stamped in the reign of Antoninus 
 “ Pius.” (Addison’s Travels, Rome, Tonson’s Edition, 1745, page 183). 
 Since Spence thinks this discovery of Addison such an extraor- 
 dinarily happy one, as to quote it as a pattern of its kind and a very 
 strong example of the use which may be made of the works of the 
 old Artists in illustrating the Roman classic poets, I cannot refrain 
 from entering into a somewhat closer examination of this explanation. 
 (Polymetis, Dial. vii. p. 77.) Now firstly I must observe that it is 
 not probable that the mere sight of the bas relief and the coins 
 would have recalled the passage in Juvenal to Addison’s memory, had 
 he not at the same time recollected that in the old scholiast who 
 reads venientis instead of fulgentis in the last line but one he had 
 seen the gloss: “ Martis ad Iliam venientis ut concumberet.” If 
 however we reject the reading of the scholiast and adopt the same 
 as Addison himself, there is nothing to lead to the supposition that the 
 poet had Rhea in his mind. It would manifestly be a hysteronproteron 
 for him to speak of the wolf and the twins, and afterwards mention 
 
228 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 for the first time the event to which they were indebted for their 
 existence. “ Rhea is not yet a mother, and the children are already 
 lying under the rocks,”— such would be the language of the poet. 
 Again, would a representation of the moment of the most enervating 
 enjoyment be altogether a suitable device for the helmet of a Roman 
 soldier? It is true the soldier was proud of the divine origin of his 
 founder ; but that \yould have been sufficiently testified by the she 
 wolf and the infants ; and it by no means follows that he would have 
 wished to exhibit Mars in the conception of an action, in which he 
 completely ceases to be the terrible Mars. It is no reason that, be- 
 cause the surprise of Rhea is found represented on ever so many 
 old marbles and coins, it was also adapted for a piece of armour. 
 Besides, where are the marble and the coins, on which Addison dis- 
 covered it, and where did he see Mars in this hovering attidude ? 
 The ancient bas-relief to which he appeals ought to be found in 
 Bellorio: but we search through the Admiranda, a collection of the 
 finest antique bas-reliefs, for it in vain. I cannot find it, nor can 
 Spence have found it either there or elsewhere, as he makes no 
 allusion to it whatever. All therefore depends upon the coin. Let 
 us look at this then in Addison’s own work. There is a Rhea in a 
 reclining posture, and as the die-cutter had no room to draw the figure 
 of Mars on the same ground with her, he has placed him a little higher. 
 This is all. Beyond this there is not the slightest appearance of hover- 
 ing. It is true that in the engraving which Spence gives of it, this 
 hovering attitude is very strongly expressed; the upper part of the 
 body is thrown considerably forwards. It is plain that the figure is 
 not standing ; and, since it cannot be falling, it must needs be hover- 
 ing. Spence says that he himself is in possession of this coin. It 
 would be harsh to call a man’s integrity into question, even concern- 
 ing a trifle. But a prejudice once adopted exercises an influence even 
 upon our eyes ; besides he may have permitted his artist to strengthen 
 the expression which he fancied he himself discovered upon the coin, 
 that his reader might feel as little doubt upon the subject as himself. 
 There is no doubt, at any rate, that Spence and Addison both refer to 
 the same coin, and that this being the case the latter has either greatly 
 disfigured, or the former greatly beautified it. I have yet another ob- 
 jection to urge against this assumed hovering attitude of Mars ; viz : 
 that a body hovering without any visible cause by which the effect of 
 its gravity is counteracted is an incongruity of which no instance is 
 to be found among the ancient works of art. It is not even permitted 
 in modern painting ; but if a body is suspended in the air, it must 
 either have wings, or must appear to rest upon something though it 
 be only a cloud. When Homer represents Thetis as ascending from 
 the beach to Olympus on foot, 
 
NOTES. 
 
 229 
 
 Trjv fxev ap ’ r Ov\vp,n6vde nodes <pepov — Iliad, 2 . 148. 
 
 Count Caylus displays too just a comprehension of the necessities of 
 art, to permit the goddess to step through the air so freely. She is 
 to take her way upon a cloud (Tableaux tir£s de l’lliade, p. 91) ; for 
 the same reason he, on another occasion, places her in a chariot, 
 though the poet’s description expressly contradicts him. How indeed 
 could it be otherwise ? Although the poet teaches us to image to our- 
 selves the gods clothed in the human form, he is far from entertaining 
 any idea of gross and heavy matter, and animates their human forms 
 with a power which exempts them from our laws of motion. But what 
 distinction could painting draw between the bodily figure of a god and 
 of a man, which would be sufficiently striking to prevent our eyes from 
 being offended at seeing two completely different principles of motion, 
 gravity, and equilibrium, observed in their treatment ? Conventional 
 signs are the artist’s only resource ; and in reality a pair of wings and 
 a cloud are nothing else. But of this more in another place. For the 
 present it is sufficient to require from the advocates of Addison’s 
 opinion, that they should show us a figure upon any other monu- 
 ment of antiquity, suspended as freely and absolutely in the air, as 
 the Mars on Addison’s coin is supposed to be. It is not likely that 
 this Mars was the only specimen of its kind; or that tradition had 
 transmitted any circumstance, which rendered this hovering attitude 
 indispensable in this particular instance. Not the slightest trace of 
 such an idea can be found in Ovid, (Fast. lib. i.) Nay more, such a 
 circumstance cannot be reconciled with the other extant ancient 
 works of art, which represent the same story, and in which Mars is 
 manifestly not hovering but walking. Let us turn to the bas-relief 
 in Montfaucon, (Suppl. Tom. i. p. 183), the original of which, if I am 
 not mistaken, is at Rome in the Mellini palace. Rhea is lying asleep 
 under a tree, while Mars is approaching her with stealthy footsteps 
 and his right hand stretched backwards with that significant move- 
 ment, by which we beckon to those behind us either to stand still 
 or to follow quietly. His posture here is precisely the same as upon 
 the coin, except that on the coin the lance is placed in the right 
 hand, but upon the bas-relief in the left. So many celebrated statues 
 and bas-reliefs are found copied upon coins, that it was probably the 
 case here. As for the difference between the two, the die-cutter did 
 not appreciate the expression contained in the backward motion of 
 the hand, and therefore thought it better to fill it with the lance. 
 If all this is taken together, how little probability does Addison’s 
 hypothesis still retain ; scarcely more indeed than bare possibility. 
 Yet where are we to look for a better explanation, if this is worth 
 
230 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 nothing ? It may be that there is a better among those, which 
 Addison rejected. But if not what then ? The passage of the poet 
 is corrupt ; let it remain so. Remain so it will, though twenty new 
 explanations of it should be proposed. Such as the following, for 
 instance : that pendentis should be taken in its figurative sense, as 
 equivalent to “uncertain, irresolute, undecided;” Mars pendens 
 would, in that case, convey the same meaning as Mars incertus, or 
 “ Mars communis.” “ Dii communes sunt, a says Servius, (ad. v. 118. 
 lib. xii. iEneid,) Mars, Bellona, Victoria, quia hi in bello utrique parti 
 favere possunt, and the whole line : 
 
 Pendentisque Dei (effigiem) perituro ostenderet hosti 
 
 would then mean, that the old Roman soldier was wont to bear the 
 image of the god, the protector of his foe as well as of himself, 
 under the very eyes of his enemy, who was none the less destined to 
 fall by his hand. A very fine idea, attributing the victories of the 
 ancient Romans to their own bravery, rather than to the partial assist- 
 ance of their progenitor. For all that “non liquet.” 
 
 Note (20) p. 57. 
 
 “ Till I got acquainted with these Auras, (or Sylphs) I found myself 
 “ always at a loss in reading the known story of Cephalus and Procris, 
 “ in Ovid. I could never imagine how Cephalus’ crying out. Aura 
 “ venias, (though in ever so languishing a manner) could give anybody 
 “ a suspicion of his being false to Procris. As I had been always 
 “used to think that Aura signified only the air in general, or a 
 “ gentle breeze in particular, I thought Procris’ jealousy less founded, 
 “ than the most extravagant jealousies generally are : but when I had 
 “ once found that Aura might signify a very handsome young lady as 
 “well as the air, the case was entirely altered; and the story seemed 
 “ to go on in a very reasonable manner. ” I am not going to recall 
 in my note the approbation which I have bestowed in my text upon 
 this discovery, on which Spence evidently plumes himself. But I can- 
 not omit observing that the passage of the poet would be quite 
 natural and comprehensible without it. All that was required to be 
 known was, that among the ancients Aura was not an unusual 
 name for ladies, e. g. It is the name of a nymph, in Nonnus, 
 (Dionys. lib. xlviii.) one of the attendants of Diana, who, because 
 she boasted that her beauty was more manly than that of the goddess, 
 was as a punishment given up to the embraces of Bacchus. 
 
 a Forbiger explains communes, by “by which both sides were going to swear.” 
 
NOTES. 
 
 231 
 
 Note (21) p. 57. 
 
 Juvenalis Satyr®, viii. 52—55. 
 
 At tu 
 
 Nil nisi Cecropides ; truncoqup simillimus Herm® : 
 
 Nullo quippe alio vincis discrimine, quam quod 
 Illi marmoreum caput est, tua vivit imago. 
 
 If Spence had included the Greek authors in his plan, an old 
 fable of JEsop might possibly have occurred to him, on which the 
 form of one of these pillars of Hermes throws a light still more 
 beautiful, and more indispensable to the proper understanding of its 
 meaning. “Hermes,” ZEsop tells us, “ was desirous to learn in what 
 “ estimation he was held among men. He concealed his divinity, and 
 “ entered a sculptor’s ; here he saw a figure of Jupiter, and asked the 
 “artist its price. ‘A drachma,’ was the reply. Mercury smiled; 
 “‘And this Juno?’ he continued. ‘About the samel’ was the 
 “ answer. Meantime he had espied an image of himself, and was thus 
 “cogitating : * I am the messenger of the gods; I am the author of 
 “ all gain ; men must needs value me highly ;’ ‘ and this god here,’ he 
 “ went on, pointing to the figure of himself, ‘what may be its price ?’ 
 “ ‘ O, if you will buy the other two I will throw that into the bargain.’ ” 
 Mercury’s vanity received a check. The sculptor, however, did not 
 know him, and could not therefore have had any design of wounding 
 his self-love ; but there must have been something in the nature of 
 the statues, which made the last of such little value that the artist was 
 willing to give it in with the others. The lower rank of the god could 
 not have been the reason, for the artist values his productions accord- 
 ing to the skill, the industry, and the labour expended upon them, 
 and not according to the rank and estimation in which the beings 
 whom they represent are held. It is clear that an image of Mercury, 
 if it was to cost less than one of Jupiter or Juno, must have required 
 less skill and industry in its execution. Such was really the case ; 
 the statues of Jupiter and Juno were full figures of these divinities; 
 the statue of Mercury was a simple square pillar with his bust at the 
 top of it. No wonder then the artist could afford to give it in to the 
 purchaser of the other two. Mercury overlooked this circumstance, 
 because his thoughts were wholly employed in the consideration of 
 his seeming pre-eminent services; his chagrin, therefore was as 
 natural as deserved. It would be vain to search the commentators, 
 translators, or imitators of iEsop, for any traces of this explanation ; 
 whilst I could quote a whole series, if it were worth the trouble, who 
 have understood the fable literally, that is, have not understood it at 
 
232 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 all. They have either not felt the incongruity which arises from 
 all the images being supposed to be of the same kind at all, or they 
 have pushed it too far. The price, which the artist asks for his 
 Jupiter, is also difficult to understand; for a potter could hardly 
 make a doll for the money. A drachma, therefore, must be taken 
 generally, as equivalent to any very low price.— (Fab iEsop, 90). 
 
 Note (22) p. 58. 
 
 Lucretius, d. R. N. Lib. v. 736— 747. 
 
 It ver et Venus, et Veneris prsenuntius ante 
 Pinnatus graditur Zephyrus, vestigia propter 
 Flora quibus mater prmspargens ante viai 
 Cuncta coloribus egregiis et odoribus opplet. 
 
 Inde loci sequitur Calor aridus, et comes una 
 Pulverulenta Ceres, et Etesia flabra Aquilonum. 
 
 Inde Autumnus adit: graditur simul Evius Evan: 
 
 Inde alias tempestates, ventique sequuntur, 
 
 Altitonans Volturnus et Auster fulmine pollens. 
 
 Tandem Bruma nives adfert, pigrumque rigorem 
 Reddit, Hyems sequitur, crepitans ac dentibus Algus. 
 
 Spence pronounces this to be one of the most beautiful passages in 
 the whole of Lucretius. At least it is one of those on which he con- 
 siders his reputation as a poet is to be grounded. Yet surely he greatly 
 diminishes this honour, or rather deprives him of it altogether, when 
 he says that the description was borrowed from some ancient pro- 
 cession of the deities of the several seasons ; and why ? “ Such pro- 
 fessions,’’ he says, “of their deities in general, were as common 
 “among the Romans of old, as those in the honour of the saints are 
 “ in the same country to this day. All the expressions used by Lucre- 
 “tius here come in very aptly, if applied to a procession.” Excellent 
 reasons! But how much might be said against the last! The epithets 
 which the poet bestows upon the personified abstractions, “ Calor 
 aridus — Ceres pulverulenta, — Volturnus altitonans, — fulmine pollens 
 Auster, — Algus dentibus crepitans,” — prove at once that they derive 
 their being from him, and not from the artist, who would have attri- 
 buted totally different characteristics to them. Spence appears, more- 
 over, to be indebted for this idea of a procession to Abraham Preigern, 
 who, in his note upon these lines, says, “ Ordo est quasi pompas cujus- 
 dam, Ver et Venus, Zephyrus et Flora,” &c. But Spence should have 
 been satisfied to stop here. To say “ The poet makes the seasons pass 
 
NOTES. 
 
 233 
 
 by as it were in a procession,” is all very well ; but to say he borrowed 
 the idea of making them thus pass before us from a procession shews 
 great want of taste. 
 
 Note (23) p. 67. 
 
 Valerius Flaccus, Lib. ii. Argonaut. 265 — 273. 
 
 Serta patri, juvenisque comam vestesque Lysei 
 Induit, et medium curru locat : Eeraque circum 
 Tympanaque et plenas tacita formidine cistas. 
 
 Ipsa sinus hederisque ligat famularibus artus : 
 
 Pampineamque quatit ventosis ictibus hastam, 
 
 Respiciens : teneat virides velatus habenas 
 Ut pater, et nivea tumeant ut cornua mitra, 
 
 Et sacer ut Bacchum referat scyphus. 
 
 The word tumeant, in the last line but one, seems to indicate that 
 the horns of Bacchus were not quite so small as Spence imagines. 
 
 Note (24) p. 68. 
 
 The so called Bacchus in the gardens of the Medici at Rome 
 (Montfaucon Suppl. Aux Antiq. i. 254) has little horns just sprouting 
 from his forehead. But there are some connoisseurs, who, for that 
 very reason, think it would be more properly considered a faun. 
 In fact such natural horns are a degradation of the human form, and 
 can only become beings who are esteemed a kind of link between 
 man and brute. Besides the attitude, the longing look with which 
 he eyes the grapes held over him is more suited to one of his attend- 
 ants than to the god himself. I here recollect what Clemens Alex- 
 andrinus says of Alexander the Great ; (Protrept p. 48, Edit. Pott.) 
 *E/3ouAero de kcll’ A\e£avftpos’ A/jl/juovos vios eivai doKelv, 
 Kai Ktpaarpopos dvauXaTTeadai npos twv ayaXparo 
 
 7TOLG)V, TO KaXoV dvOpWTTOV vj3pL(TaL (nrevdcOU Kf.pa.TL. 
 It was Alexander’s express wish that the sculptor should represent 
 him with horns : he was quite content that the human beauty of his 
 form should be degraded by them, provided he should be believed to 
 have sprung from a divine origin. 
 
 Note (25) p. 69. 
 
 When I asserted above that the ancient artists had never executed 
 a fury, it had not escaped me that the furies had more than one tem- 
 ple, in which there certainly must have been statues. In that at 
 
234 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Cerynea, Pausanias found some of wood, which were neither large, 
 nor in any other respect worthy of remark,: but it seemed that art, for- 
 bidden to exhibit its powers in the statues of the goddesses, displayed 
 them in those of their priestesses; which stood in the vestibule of the 
 temple, and were most beautifully executed in stone ; (Pausanias 
 Achaic. xxv. p. 587, Edit. Kuhn). Neither had I forgotten that 
 it is supposed that their heads may be seen upon an abraxas made 
 known by Chiffletius, and upon a lamp in Licetus ; (Dissertat. sur les 
 Furies par Bannier, Memoires de l’Academie des Inscriptions, T. V. 
 p. 48.) Nor was that urn of Etruscan workmanship unknown to me, 
 upon which Orestes and Pylades are drawn attacked by furies with 
 torches. I spoke however of works of art only, from which I believe 
 that all these pieces may be excluded ; and even if the case of the 
 last-mentioned work is more doubtful than that of the others, yet when 
 considered from another point of view, it serves to corroborate my 
 opinion rather than contradict it. For though beauty was not, generally 
 speaking, the aim of Etruscan artists, yet even here the furies are not 
 denoted by their horrible features so much as by the treatment of them, 
 and the attributes by which they are distinguished. Indeed so mild is 
 their expression, while they thrust their torches into the very eyes of 
 Pylades and Orestes, that they appear as if they only wished to 
 frighten them in jest. We can only infer how terrible they appeared 
 to the two friends from their terror, but in no way from the figures 
 of the Furies themselves. They are therefore Furies, and yet, as it 
 were, not. They perform the office of Furies, yet not with that re- 
 presentation of anger and rage, which we are accustomed to associate 
 with the name : not with a brow, which, as Catullus says, “ expiran- 
 tis prasportat pectoris iras.” But lately Winkelmann thought he had 
 discovered a Fury, with dishevelled dress and hair and a dagger in 
 her hand, upon a cornelian in the cabinet of Herr Stoss; (Library of 
 the Fine Arts, vol. v. p. 30). Hagedorn advises artists, on the strength 
 of this, to introduce Furies into their pictures ; (Betrachtungen fiber 
 die Mahlercy, p. 222.) Winkelmann himself however has since 
 thrown doubts upon this discovery, because he cannot find any 
 grounds for believing that among the ancients the Furies were ever 
 armed with daggers instead of torches ; (Descript, des Pierres gravies, 
 p. 84.) Doubtlessly, therefore, he does not consider the figures upon 
 the coins of the towns Lyrba and Massaura, which Spanheim pro- 
 nounced Furies, as such, (Les Cagsars de Julien, p. 44); but as an 
 Hecate triformis : for otherwise a fury might here also be seen bear- 
 ing a dagger in either hand ; and it is curious that this too appears 
 with her hair uncovered and dishevelled, whereas in other cases 
 Furies are covered with a veil. But supposing Winkelmann’s first 
 
NOTES. 
 
 235 
 
 conjecture to be right ; still, in this stone and the Etruscan vase alike, 
 the features are so small that they can hardly be recognized. Besides 
 carved stones generally, on account of their use as seals, may be con- 
 sidered as belonging to symbolical language ; and the figures upon 
 them were probably designed according to the caprice of the owner, 
 and were not the spontaneous productions of the artist. 
 
 Note (26) page 70. 
 
 Fasti, lib. vi. v. 295 — 98. 
 
 Esse diu stultus Vestas simulacra putavi : 
 
 Mox didici curvo nulla subesse tholo. 
 
 Ignis inextinctus templo caslatur in illo ; 
 
 Effigiem nullam Vesta, nec ignis, habet. 
 
 Ovid is speaking only of the worship of Vesta at Rome, and of the 
 temple, which Numa had there built her, of which he says shortly 
 before (v. 259) : 
 
 Regis opus placidi, quo non metuentius ullum 
 Numinis ingenium terra Sabina tulit. 
 
 Note (27) p. 70. 
 
 Fasti, lib. iii. v. 45, 46. 
 
 Sylvia fit mater; Vestas simulacra feruntur 
 Virgineas oculis opposuisse manus. 
 
 It is thus that Spence should have compared Ovid’s different state- 
 ments. The poet speaks of different periods : in the last passage, of 
 the age preceding Numa; in the first, of a time subsequent to him. 
 During the former she was worshipped in Italy under a personal re- 
 presentation, as she had been in Troy, from whence iEneas had intro- 
 duced her services along with her divinity. 
 
 . . . . Manibus vittas, Vestamque potentem, 
 
 iEternumque adytis effert penetralibus ignem : 
 
 says Virgil of the spirit of Hector, after it has counselled iEneas to 
 take flight. Here a distinction is expressly drawn between the eternal 
 
236 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 fire and Vesta, or her statue. Spence cannot have studied the latin 
 poets with sufficient attention for his purpose, since this passage has 
 escaped him. 
 
 Note (28) p. 71. 
 
 Plinius xxxvi. 4, 7. Edit. Tauch. “ Scopas fecit Vestam seden- 
 tem laudatam in Servilianis hortis.” Lipsius must have had this 
 passage in his mind when he wrote, (de Vesta, cap. 3) : Plinius Vestam 
 sedentem effingi solitam ostendit, a stabilitate : but he had no right 
 to assume that, what Pliny said of a particular piece of Scopas was 
 a characteristic universally adopted in the goddess’ statues. He him- 
 self remarks that on the coins Vesta appears standing as often as 
 sitting : by this observation, however, he corrects not Pliny, but his 
 own mistaken imagination. 
 
 Note (29) p. 71. 
 
 Gf.org. Codinus de originib. Constant. Edit. Venet. p. 12. 
 
 Tr]V yrjv Xeyovcnu 'Eariav, Kai jrXdTTOvaiv dvrrjv 
 yvvaiKa, Tv/nravov fiao-Ta^ovcrav, eVeiSi) tovs dvefiovs 
 T} yrj i<j> eavrrjv (TvyKkeUl. Suidas, either on Codinus’ au- 
 thority, or perhaps drawing from a common source with him, says the 
 same in his account of the word, ecrria • “ The earth is represented 
 
 under the name of Vesta as a woman carrying a tympanum, in 
 which she is supposed to hold the winds confined.” The reason 
 given is somewhat absurd, it would have been more plausible to have 
 said that the tympanum was one of her attributes because the an- 
 cients believed that she resembled it in shape ; o~)(rjfxa avTrjs 
 TV fJLTTavo tides eivcii . (Plutarchus de placitis Philos, cap. 10. id. 
 de facie in orbe Lunae). Only it is possible enough that Codinus may 
 have been mistaken in the figure, or in the name, or in both. Per- 
 haps he knew no better name to give to what he saw in Vesta’s hand 
 than “tympanum;” or heard it called a tympanum, and it never 
 struck him that a tympanum could be anything else than the instru- 
 ment which we call a kettle-drum. Tympana, however, were also 
 a kind of wheel : 
 
 Hinc radios trivere rotis, hinc tympana plaustris Agricolge. 
 (Virgilius Georgic. lib. ii. 444.) The symbol, which we see in the 
 hands of the Vesta of Fabretti (ad Tabulam Iliadis. p. 334), seems 
 to me to be very like such a wheel, though this scholar takes it 
 for a handmill. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 237 
 
 Note (30) p. 76. 
 
 In the picture which Horace draws of Necessity, and which is 
 perhaps the richest in attributes, that can be found among the poets. 
 (Lib. i. Od. 35.) 
 
 Te semper anteit seeva Necessitas; 
 
 Clavos trabales et cuneos manu 
 Gestans ahenea ; nec severus 
 
 Uncus abest liquidumque plumbum. 
 
 Whether we take the nails, the clamps, the molten lead, for means 
 of giving strength, or for instruments of punishment ; they must alike 
 be considered as belonging to the class of poetical rather than alle- 
 gorical attributes ; yet there are too many of them even when con- 
 sidered as such ; and the passage is one of the coldest in Horace, 
 Sanadon says ; J’ose dire que ce tableau pris dans le detail serait plus 
 beau fur la toile que dans une ode heroique. Je ne puis souftiir cet 
 attirail patibulaire de clous, de coins, de crocs, et de plomb fondu. 
 J’ai cru en devoir decharger la traduction en substituant les idees 
 generales aux idees singulieres. C’est dommage que le Poet ait eu 
 besoin de ce correctif. Sanadon’s feeling w as just and refined, but his 
 justification of it is based upon false grounds. The passage is unpleas- 
 ing, not because the attributes, made use of, are an attirail patibu- 
 laire, (for he had the option of adopting the other interpretation, 
 and thus changing the instruments of execution into the firmest ce- 
 ments employed in building) but because they are peculiarly addressed 
 to the eyes; and, if we attempt to acquire by the ear conceptions which 
 would be naturally conveyed through the eyes, a greater effort is re- 
 quired, while the ideas themselves are incapable of the same dis- 
 tinctness. The continuation of the above quoted stanza in Horace 
 moreover reminds me of a few mistakes of Spence, which do not create 
 the most favourable impression of the accuracy with which he has 
 weighed the passages he has cited from the ancient poets. He is 
 speaking of the figure, under which the Romans worshipped Faith or 
 Honesty, (Dial. x. p. 145). “ The Romans called her ‘Fides;’ and 
 “ when they called her * Sola Fides,’ seem to mean the same as we do 
 “ by the words, downright honesty. She is represented with an erect, 
 “open air; and with nothing but a thin robe on, so fine that one 
 “ might see through it. Horace therefore calls her thin-dressed, in 
 “ one of his odes ; and transparent in another.” In this short passage 
 there are not less than three gross mistakes. Firstly, it is false that 
 sola was a peculiar epithet applied by the Romans to the goddess Fides. 
 
238 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 In both the passages of Livy, which he quotes to prove this, (Lib. i. 
 21, Lib. ii. 3), it signifies nothing further than usual, viz. “ the exclu- 
 sion of everything else.” In the first passage the soli even appears 
 suspicious to the critics, and is supposed to have crept into the text 
 through a fault of transcription occassionedby the solenne , which stands 
 next it. In the second quotation Livy is speaking not of Fides, but of 
 Innocentia. Secondly, it is stated that in one of his odes, (viz. the one 
 above mentioned, Lib. i. 35), Horace has bestowed upon Fides the 
 epithet “ thin- dressed.” 
 
 Te Spes, et albo rara Fides colit 
 
 Velata panno. 
 
 It is true that rarus does also mean thin ; but here it simply sig- 
 nifies “rare,” i. e. “what is seldom met with,” and is applied to 
 Fides herself, and not to her; dress. Spence would have been right, 
 had the poet said, “ Fides raro velata panno.” Thirdly, Horace is 
 said in another passage to call Faith or Integrity “ transparent,” and 
 to mean the same as when we say, (in our professions of fidelity and 
 honesty) “ I wish you could see into my breast,” or “ I wish that you 
 could see through me.” This passage is the following line of the 
 eighteenth ode of the first book : 
 
 Arcanique Fides prodiga, pellucidior vitro. 
 
 How could any one so suffer himself to be misled by a mere word ? 
 The Fides arcani prodiga, here spoken of, is not Faithfulness, but 
 Faithlessness. It is this last that Horace speaks of as being “ as 
 transparent as glass,” because she exposes to every gaze the secrets that 
 have been entrusted to her. 
 
 Note (31) p. 77. 
 
 Apollo delivers the body of Sarpedon purified and embalmed to 
 Death and Sleep, to carry to his father land, (II. II. 681). 
 
 Ue/jLTre de jjllv 7rofnvoi(nv apa Kpamvolcn (fiepearOai, 
 r 'Y7rv(0 kcu Gaudro) didvpaoo-iv- 
 
 Caylus recommends this idea to the painter, but adds ; II est facheux, 
 qu’ Homere ne nous ait rien laiss6 sur les attributs qu’on donnoit de 
 son temps au Sommeil; nous ne connoissons, pour caracteriser ce 
 Dieu, que son action meme, et nous le couronnons de pavots. Ces 
 idees sont modernes ; la premiere est d’un mediocre service, mais 
 
NOTES. 
 
 239 
 
 elle ne peut 6tre employee dans le cas present, ou m£me les fleurs me 
 paroissent deplac£es, sur tout pour une figure qui groupe avec la 
 mort. (Tableaux tires de l’lliade, de l’Qdyss&e d’ Horn ere et de 1’ Eneide 
 de Virgile, avec des observations generales sur le Costume ; a Paris, 
 1757 — 58.) This is requiring of Homer one of those trifling orna- 
 ments, which are most strongly opposed to the grandeur of his style. 
 The most ingenious attributes he could have bestowed on Sleep would 
 not have characterised him nearly so perfectly, would not have called 
 up in us nearly so lively an idea of him, as does the single trait by 
 which he represents him as the twin brother of Death. Let the artist 
 but express this and he may dispense with all attributes. The ancient 
 artists have, in fact, represented Death and Sleep with that resemblance 
 between the two, which is naturally expected in twins. On a chest of 
 cedar wood in the temple Juno at Elis they were carved as two 
 boys, sleeping in the arms of night. Only the one was white, while 
 the other was black : the one slept, the other appeared to sleep ; both 
 had their feet crossed ; for I prefer to translate the words of Pausa- 
 nias (Eliac. cap. xviii), 
 
 dfX(j)OTepovs 8 ie(TTpcififJLevovs tovs 7ro8as, 
 
 by this, rather than by “ with crooked feet,” or as Gedoyn has ren- 
 dered it in his language, “les pieds contrefaits.” What expression 
 would crooked feet have here ? But to lie with the feet crossed is the 
 ordinary posture of sleepers, and is exactly the attitude of Sleep in 
 Maffei, (Raccol. PI. 151). Modern artists have entirely abandoned 
 the resemblance, which the ancients maintained between Sleep and 
 Death ; and it has become their general custom to represent Death as a 
 skeleton, or at the most as a skeleton clothed with skin. Caylus’ first 
 duty was to advise the artist whether to follow the ancient or modern 
 custom in his representation of Death. Yet he appears to declare 
 himself in favour of the modern, since he speaks of Death as a figure, 
 near which another crowned with flowers could not well be grouped. 
 But had he considered how unsuited the modern idea of Death would 
 have been to an Homeric picture ? And is it possible that its repul- 
 siveness should not have forced itself upon him ? I cannot persuade 
 myself that the little figure in brass, in the ducal gallery at Florence, 
 which represents Death as a skeleton sitting on the ground, and rest, 
 ing one of its arms on a long urn, (Spence’s Polymetis Tab. xli), is 
 really an antique. At any rate it cannot represent death generally, be- 
 cause the ancients represented him differently. Even their poets have 
 never drawn him under so repulsive a form. 
 
240 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note (32) p. 83. 
 
 Richardson mentions this piece, when he wishes to illustrate the 
 rule, that in a painting nothing, however excellent in itself, should 
 be allowed to distract the attention of the spectator from the prin- 
 cipal figure. “ Protogenes, he says, had introduced a partridge in- 
 “ to his famous painting of Talysus, and had delineated it with so 
 “ much skill that it seemed to be alive, and was the admiration of 
 “ all Greece. Since, however, he saw that it attracted all eyes, to 
 “ the prejudice of the main figure in the piece, he completely effaced 
 “it.” (Traits de la Peinture, T i. p. 46.) Richardson is mistaken. 
 This partridge was not in the Ialysus, but in another painting of 
 Protogenes, which was called the Wearied Satyr, "2aTVpos ava- 
 navopevos. I should scarcely have noticed this error, which has 
 arisen from a passage of Pliny being misunderstood, had not I found 
 the same mistake in Meursius : In eadem tabula, scilicet in qua 
 
 Ialysus, Satyrus erat, quem dicebant Anapauomenon, tibias te- 
 nens. (Rhodi. lib i. cap. iv. p. 38.) Something of the kind is found 
 in Winkelmann also (On the Imitation of the Greek pieces in Paint- 
 ing and Sculpture, p. 56.) Strabo is the only authority, on which 
 this story of the partridge rests, and he expressly distinguishes be- 
 tween the picture of Ialysus and that of the Satyr leaning against 
 a pillar, upon which the partridge sat j (Lib. xiv. p. 750, Edit. Xyl). 
 Meursius, Richardson, and Winkelmann, have all misunderstood the 
 passage of Pliny, because they paid no attention to the fact, that 
 two distinct pictures are spoken of ; one, on account of which De- 
 metrius did not conquer a town, because he would not assault the 
 place where it was ; another, which Protogenes painted during this 
 siege. The first was the Ialysus, the second the Satyr. 
 
 Note (33) p. 86. 
 
 Quintus Calaber has imitated this invisible contest of the gods 
 with the manifest intention of improving upon his model. The 
 grammarian, for instance, seems to have found it incomprehensible, 
 that a god should be struck to the ground with a stone. Accord- 
 ingly, though he represents the gods as hurling against one another 
 great masses of rock, torn from Mount Ida, these rocks are shivered 
 against the limbs of the gods, and scattered, as sand, around them. 
 
 . . . . . oi Be KoXwvas 
 
 %ep(riv anopprj^avres an ovBeos * iBaioio 
 fiaXkov in aWr/Xovs * cu Be y\rapLa6oicri opotai 
 pela BieaKLBvavro decov nep\ B' acr^era yvia 
 prjyvvpeva Bia rvrOa .... 
 
NOTES. 
 
 241 
 
 An artificial refinement, which is the destruction of the main subject. 
 It heightens our conceptions of the bodies of the gods, but makes the 
 weapons which they employ against one another ridiculous. When 
 gods hurl stones at one another, if these stones are not capable 
 of injuring gods, nothing is presented to our imagination but a 
 troop of mischievous boys, pelting one another with lumps of earth. 
 Here therefore, as ever, Homer proves the wisest, and all the censure, 
 with which cold critics have assailed him, all the rivalry in which 
 lesser geniuses have engaged with him, serve only to set his wisdom 
 in its happiest light. I do not deny that Quintus’ description con- 
 tains some excellent and entirely original features; but they aie 
 such as become the stormy fire of a modern poet rather than the 
 modest greatness of Homer. The cry of the gods, for instance, the 
 sound of which ascends to the heights of heaven and pierces to the 
 lowest depths of the earth, which shakes vehemently the mountain, 
 and the town, and the fleet, but is not heard of men, seems to me a 
 very significant stroke. The cry was so loud, that the diminutive 
 organs of human hearing were incapable of receiving it. 
 
 Note (34) p. 87- 
 
 No one, who has even cursorily read Homer, will question this as- 
 sertion, as far as regards strength and speed. It may be, however, 
 that all have not alike remarked the example, from which it is clear 
 that the poet also attributed to his divinities a size of body, which far 
 surpasses all human dimensions. The proofs I bring of this (in addi- 
 tion to the passage, quoted above, where Mars is described as covering 
 seven hides of land) are the helmet of Minerva, 
 
 (, Kvverjv eKarov 7r6Xea>v npvXeca apapvlav, Iliad E. v. 744), 
 
 which was large enough to cover as many troops, as a hundred cities 
 could bring into the field; the stride of Neptune (Iliad N. xiii. 20) ; 
 and the passage, in the description of the shield, which I consider the 
 most conclusive proof of all, where Mars and Minerva head the troops 
 of the beleaguered town ; (Iliad 2,516.) 
 
 • . ’Hp^e S’ apa (r(f)iv’'Apr]s kcu IlaXXas ’Adrjvr], 
 
 apcfxo xpv crelco, xpucreia §e etpara ecOrjv, 
 
 KaXcn kcu pcyaAoi crvv rev^ecnv, cos' re #ea> 7 rep, 
 apcjils apitfXoo’ Xao'i S’ vnoXi^oves rjaav. 
 
 Even the commentators on Homer have not been sufficiently careful 
 to bear in mind the extraordinary dimensions, here attributed to the 
 R 
 
242 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 gods; as may be gathered from the modifications which they seem 
 to feel they are bound to introduce into their remarks upon the size 
 of Minerva’s helmet ; (v. the notes on the above-quoted passage in 
 the edition of Clarke and Ernesti). But the loss of the sublime, 
 which we incur by never thinking of the Homeric deities except as 
 the beings of ordinary size which they are generally represented on 
 canvass, is beyond all computation. Painting, it is true, cannot be 
 allowed to represent the gods as of this extraordinary size, but 
 sculpture may in a certain measure; and I am convinced that the 
 ancient masters are indebted to Homer both for the forms of their gods 
 generally, and also for that colossal size, which they sometimes bestow 
 upon them in their statues; (Herodot. lib. ii. p. 130, Edit. Wessel.) I 
 reserve for another place some especial remarks upon the colossal, as 
 well as the reasons I assign for its producing so powerful an effect 
 in sculpture, but none at all on canvass. 
 
 Note (35) p. 90. 
 
 It is true that Homer’s divinities sometimes conceal themselves 
 in a cloud, but it is only when they wish to escape the observation of 
 their fellow-deities : e. g. Iliad g. xiv. 282, where Juno and Sleep 
 rjepa iacrapevco, go together to Mount Ida : the cunning goddess had 
 every reason for concealing herself from Venus, from whom she had 
 borrowed her girdle, on pretext of making a very different expedition. 
 In the same book (v. 343) a golden cloud is required for the conceal- 
 ment of the love-intoxicated Jupiter, that he may put an end to the 
 chaste reluctance of his spouse. 
 
 7T(bs k eoL , ei tis vgol 6ea>v dieiyeverdcov 
 evbovr dSpr]<T€Le ; ... 
 
 Juno was not afraid of being seen by men but by gods. And because 
 Homer, some lines after, makes Jupiter say : 
 
 r/ H prj, prjre 8ecov roye 8eldi8i, prjre tlv dvBpcov, 
 oxj/ecrflai' tolov tol eyo) ve(pos dp(fiiKa\v\l/(o 
 Xpvcreov- 
 
 It does not follow that this cloud would have been required merely to 
 conceal them from the eyes of men. All he meant to say was, that, 
 protected by it, his wife would be as invisible to the eyes of the gods, 
 as she always was to those of men. So also when Minerva puts Pluto’s 
 helmet upon her head, which had the same effect as enveloping herself 
 
NOTES. 
 
 243 
 
 in a 'cloud, she does it, not that she may be hidden from the Trojans, 
 who either did not behold her at all, or else under the form of Sthene- 
 lus, but simply that she may not be recognised by Mars. 
 
 Note (36) p. 96. 
 
 Tableaux tir£s de lTliade, Avert, p. 5. On est toujours convenu, 
 que plus un poeme fournissoit d’images et d’actions, plus il avoit de 
 superiorite en Poesie. Cette reflexion m’avoit conduit apenser que le 
 calcul des differens Tableaux, qu’offrent les Poemes, pouvoit servir k 
 comparer le merite respectif des Poemes et des Poetes. Le nombre et 
 le genre des Tableaux que presentent ces grands ouvrages, auroient 
 4t£ une espece de pierre de touche, ou plut6t une balance certaine du 
 merite de ces poemes et du genie de leurs auteurs. 
 
 Note (37) p. 97. 
 
 What we call poetical pictures were, as the reader of Longinus 
 will recollect, called phantasies, by the ancients. And what we call 
 illusion, viz. that part of this picture which produces deception, was 
 by them named enargia. For this reason it was said by some one, as 
 Plutarch mentions (Erot. T. ii. p. 1351, Edit. Henr. Steph.) that poeti- 
 cal phantasies were, on account of their enargia, dreams of awaking 
 person ; 
 
 ‘At TToirjTiKal (pavracrlm dta rrjv ivapyeiav iyprjyoporc ov 
 ivimvia iicriv. 
 
 I much wish that modern treatises on art had made use of this 
 nomenclature, and had entirely abstained from employing the word 
 picture. We should thus have been spared a number of half- 
 true rules, which principally rest upon the coincidence of an arbitrary 
 term. Poetical phantasies would not have been so readily confined 
 within the limits of material painting ; but as soon as the term poeti- 
 cal picture was introduced, the foundation of the error was laid. 
 
 Note (38) p. 99. 
 
 Iliad A. iv. 105. 
 
 *A vtlk ierv\a ro£ov iv^oov .... 
 Ka\ to pen ev KaredrjKe ravvacrdpevos, nrpoTi yaip 
 ayicXivas' • ..... 
 
244 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 avrap 6 avka rroopa paper prjs, ei< 8' e\er Ibv 
 djSXrjra, Ttrepoevra , pekaiveov epp? obwacov' 
 al\j/a 8' e7 ri vevpfj KareKoarpei rriKpov o'icrrov- 
 eX/ce S’ oju,ov ykvpibas re Xafioov, Kal vevpa (3oeia‘ 
 vevprjv pev pa^co rvekacre, t6£co be aib^pov « 
 avrap erreibr) KvicXorepes peya ro^ov ereivev , 
 
 X/y|e Bios, vevprj be pey dXrc S’ diaros 
 
 6£v(3e\r}s, KaO ’ bpiXov emrrreaQai pevealvcov. 
 
 Note (39) p. 108. 
 
 Prologue to the Satires, v. 340. 
 
 That not in Fancy’s maze he wander’d long 
 But stoop’d to Truth, and moraliz’d his song. 
 
 Ibid. v. 147. 
 
 . . . Who could take offence, 
 
 While pure Description held the place of Sense ? 
 
 Warbur ton’s remarks upon this last passage may be considered as 
 an authentic explanation of the poet himself. “ He uses Pure 
 “ equivocally, to signify either chaste or empty; and has given in this 
 “line what he esteemed the true character of descriptive poetry, as 
 “ it is called. A composition, in his opinion, as absurd as a feast 
 “made up of sauces. The use of a picturesque imagination is to 
 “ brighten and adorn good sense ; so that to employ it only in des- 
 “ cription, is like children’s delighting in a prism for the sake of its 
 “ gaudy colours ; which, when frugally managed and artfully disposed, 
 « might be made to represent and illustrate the noblest objects in na- 
 “ ture.” Both poet and commentator, it is true, look at the question 
 from a moral, rather than an artistic point of view. So much the 
 better : it only proves that description in poetry appears equally 
 valueless, from whichever side it is viewed. 
 
 Note (40) p. 119. 
 
 Poetique Francoise, T. ii. p. 501. J’ecrivois ces reflexions avant 
 que les essais des Allemands dans ce genre (l’Eglogue) fussent connus 
 parmi nous. Ils ont ex£cut£ ce qui j’avois conqu; et s’ils parviennent 
 ^ donner plus au moral et moins au detail des peintures physiques, ils 
 excelleront dans ce genre, plus riche, plus vaste, plus fecond, et infini- 
 ment plus naturel et plus moral que celui de la galanterie cbampetre. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 245 
 
 Note (41) p. 127. 
 
 I see that Servius adduces another argument in Virgil’s justifica- 
 tion : for Servius also has remarked the difference that exists between 
 Virgil’s shield and Homer’s. “ Sane interest inter hunc et Homeri 
 “ clypeum ; illic enim singula dum fiunt narrantur ; hie vero perfecto 
 “ opere noscuntur ; nam et hie arma prius accipit JEneas, quam spec- 
 “ taret ; ibi postquam omnia narrata sunt, sic a Thetide deferuntur ad 
 “ Achillem.” (Ad. v. 625. lib. viii. iEneid.) Because, in Servius’ 
 opinion, not only the unimportant events, which the poet mentions, but 
 
 . . . genus omne futures 
 
 Stirpis ab Ascanio, pugnataque in ordine bella, 
 
 were wrought upon the shield of .Eneas. It would not then have been 
 possible for the whole series of posterity tohavebeen mentioned indivi- 
 dually, and for the wars they fought to have been related in chronological 
 order by the poet, as quickly as they would have been executed on the 
 shield by Vulcan. This seems to be the meaning of the somewhat 
 obscure passage in Servius : “ Opportune ergo Virgilius, quia non vi- 
 “detur simul et narrationis celeritas potuisse connecti, et opus tarn 
 “velociter expedire, ut ad verbum posset occurrere.” As Virgil 
 could only bring forward a small part of the non enarrabile tex- 
 tum Clypei , so also he could not even describe that part, whilst 
 Vulcan was forging it ; but was forced to be silent until all was ready. 
 I wish, for Virgil’s sake, that Servius’ reasoning was altogether with- 
 out foundation : my defence is far more creditable for him. What ne- 
 cessity was there for h is introducing the whole of Roman history into his 
 shield ? In but a few pictures Homer made his shield an epitome of 
 everything that happens in the world. One would be almost led to 
 think that Virgil, though he despaired of surpassing Homer in the exe- 
 cution of his shield, and in his choice of subjects for it, hoped at least 
 to exceed him in the number of his subjects. And this would truly 
 have been the conduct of a child. 
 
 Note (42) p. 134. 
 
 The first picture commences at line 483, and finishes at line 489. 
 The second lasts from 490— 509 ; the third from 510—540; the fourth 
 from 541 — 549; the fifth from 550 — 560; the sixth from 561 — 572 ; the 
 seventh from 573—586; the eighth from 587—589; the ninth from 
 590 — 605 ; and the tenth from 606 — 608. The third picture is the only 
 one that has not the introductory words quoted in the text ; but from 
 the words at the commencement of the second, 
 
 eV de Svco Troirjae noXets, 
 
246 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 and from the circumstances of the case itself, it is plain that two pic- 
 tures are intended. 
 
 Note (43) p. 135. 
 
 That I have just grounds for all that I have said of Pope is proved 
 by the beginning of the passage I am about to quote from him. 
 “ That Homer was no stranger to aerial perspective, appears in his ex- 
 “ pressly marking the distance from object to object ; he tells us, &c.” 
 I repeat. Pope has here made an entirely false use of the term aerial 
 perspective (perspective aerienne) ; for it has nothing to do with the 
 lessening of size in proportion to distance, but merely expreses the 
 change and increasing faintness of colour, according to the condition 
 of the air, or medium through which it is viewed. Any one who 
 could commit such a blunder as this must necessarily have been 
 ignorant of the whole matter. 
 
 Note (44) p. 139. 
 
 Constantinus Manasses Compend. Chron. p. 20, Edit. Venet. 
 Dacier was well pleased with the whole of this portrait by Manasses, 
 except the tautology : De Helenas pulchritudine omnium optime Con. 
 stantinus Manasses, nisi in eo tautologiam reprehendas, (Ad Dyctin 
 Cretensem, lib. i. cap. -3. p. 5). She also quotes, according to Mezeriac, 
 (comment, sur les Epitres d’Ovide, T. i. p. 361) the descriptions, which 
 Dares, Phrygius and Cedrenus give of the beauty of Helen. In the 
 first there occurs a trait which sounds rather curious. Dares pointedly 
 says of Helen that she had a mole between her eyebrows : notam inter 
 duo supercilia habentem. Surely that was no beauty ! I wish that 
 Dacier had given her opinion upon it. My own belief is that the word 
 nota is here corrupt, and that Dares is speaking of what the Greeks 
 used to call pecroefipvov, and the Latins glabella. The eyebrows of 
 Helen, he means to say, did not meet, but were slightly separated. 
 The ancients were divided in their taste upon this point. Some ad- 
 mired a space between the eyebrows, some not, (Junius de Pictura 
 Vet. lib. iii. cap. 9. p. 245). Anacreon held a middle course; the 
 eyebrows of his beloved maiden were neither strikingly divided, nor 
 did they run completely into each other. They died away gently into 
 a single point. He says to the artist, who is painting her (Od. 28.) : 
 
 to peaoejipvov de pr) poi 
 diaKonre, pyre playe. 
 
 e'x^TCO d , OTTcOS €K€LVr), 
 
 ri XeXrjfloTois rrvvocfipvv 
 (3Xe(pdpcoi/ Itvv KeXcuvrjW 
 
NOTES. 
 
 247 
 
 This is Pauw’s reading, but the ordinary one admits of the same sense 
 being put upon it, which has been rightly given by Henr. Stephano : 
 
 Supercilii nigrantes 
 Discrimina nec arcus 
 Confundito nec illos: 
 
 Sed junge sic ut anceps 
 Divortium relinquas. 
 
 Quale esse cernis ipsi. 
 
 If then I have hit upon Dares’ meaning, what word must be substi- 
 tuted for notam ? Perhaps moram. At any rate it is certain that 
 mora means not only the lapse of time before the occurrence of any 
 event, but also the impediment, the space, which separates one thing 
 from another. 
 
 Ego inquieta montium jaceam mora, 
 
 is the wish of the raving Hercules in Seneca, (v. 1215) which passage 
 Gronovius has well explained as follows : “ Optat se medium jaceje 
 “inter duas Symplegades, illaram velut moram, impedimentum, 
 “obicem; qui eas moretur, vetet aut satis arete conjungi, aut rursus 
 “distrahi.” The same poet uses the phrase lacertorum morse, as 
 “ equivalent to junctures, (Schrcederus, ad. v. 762. Thyest.) 
 
 Note (45) p. 142. 
 
 (Dialogo della Pittura, intitolato l’Aretino: Firenze, 1735. p. 178.) 
 “ Se vogliono i Pittori senza fatica trovare un perfetto esempio di bella 
 “ Donna, leggano quelle Stanze dell’ Ariosto, nelle quali egli discrive 
 “ mirabilmente le bellezze della Fata Alcina : e vedranno parimente, 
 “ quanto i buoni Poeti sano ancora essi Pittori.” 
 
 Note (46) p. 143. 
 
 (Ibid.) Ecco, che, quanto alia proportione, Pingeniosissimo Ariosto 
 assegna la migliore, che sappiano formar le mani de’ pih eccellenti 
 Pittori, usando questa voce industri, per dinotar la diligenza, che con- 
 viene al buono art4fice. 
 
 (Ibid. p. 182.) Qui l’Ariosto colorisce, e in questo suo colorire di. 
 mostra essere un Titiano. 
 
 f Ibid. p. 180.) Poteva l’Ariosto nella guissa, che ha detto chioma 
 bionda, dir chioma d’oro: ma gli parve forse, che havrebbe havuto 
 troppo del poetico. Da che si pub ritrar, che ’1 Pittore dee imitarl’oro, 
 e non metterlo (come fanno i Miniatori) neile sue Pitture, in modo, 
 
248 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 che si possa dire, que capelli non sono d’oro, ma par che risplendano, 
 come Poro. Dolce’s subsequent quotation from Athenams is only re- 
 markable for its inaccuracy. I will speak of it at another time. 
 
 (Ibid. p. 182.) II naso, che discende gib, havendo peraventura la 
 consideratione a quelle forme d£ nasi, che si veggono ne’ ritratti delle 
 belle Romane antiche. 
 
 Note (47) p. 157. 
 
 Pliny says of Apelles, (Lib. xxxv. sect. 36, 17), Fecit et Dianam 
 s acrificantium virginum choro mixtam ; quibus vicisse Homeri versus 
 videtur id ipsum describentis. Nothing can be more true than this 
 praise. A beautiful goddess, surrounded by beautiful nymphs and 
 taller than them by the whole of her majestic forehead, is indeed a 
 subject fitter for painting than for poetry. The word s acrificantium 
 however is, in my opinion, very suspicious. What part could the 
 goddess take among sacrificing virgins ? Is this the occupation of the 
 companions of Diana in Homer ? Not at all ; they roam with her over 
 hill and through forest ; they hunt, sport, and dance ; (Odyss. Z. vi. 102), 
 
 olt) & * A pre/us eicri kcit ovpeos lo^eaipa, 
 rj Kara T rjvyerov irepip.r]KeTov< rj E pvp.av6ov, 
 repTTopevrj KapiroujL Kal doKeirjs eXdtp oiai 1 
 rr) de & dpca N vpfpai, Kovpai A los aiyio^oio, 
 dypovopLoL rral^ovcri ..... 
 
 Pliny therefore must have written, not sacrificantium i, but venan- 
 tium, or something like it; perhaps sylvis vagantium , to which 
 amendment the number of the letters which have been changed would 
 pretty nearly correspond : saltantium would answer most closely 
 
 to the word, 7rai£ov(ri, which is used by Homer. Virgil, moreover, 
 in his imitation of this passage, speaks of Diana as dancing with her 
 nymphs ; (iEneid i. 497), 
 
 Qualis in Eurotse ripis, aut per juga Cynthi 
 Exercet Diana chores . 
 
 Spence’s ideas on this passage are curious, (Poly metis, Dial. viii. p. 102) : 
 “ This Diana, he says, both in the picture and in the descriptions, was 
 “ the Diana Venatrix, though she was not represented either by Virgil, 
 “ or Apelles, or Homer, as hunting with her nymphs ; but as employed 
 “ with them in that sort of dances, which of old were regarded as very 
 “solemn acts of devotion.” In a note he adds : “ The expression of 
 “ fraifeiv^ used by Homer on this occasion, is scarce proper for hunt- 
 
NOTES. 
 
 249 
 
 “ ing ; as that of choros exercere, in Virgil, should be understood of 
 “ the religious dances of old, because dancing, in the old Roman idea 
 « of it, was indecent even for men, in public ; unless it were the sort 
 “ of dances used in honour of Mars, or Bacchus, or some other of 
 “their gods.” Spence speaks of those festive dances which were 
 reckoned by the ancients in the number of their religious ceremonies. 
 And it is in this sense that he thinks the word sacrificare is used by 
 Pliny : “ It is in consequence of this that Pliny, in speaking of Diana’s 
 “ nymphs on this very occasion, uses the word, sacrificare of them ; 
 “ which quite determines these dances of theirs to have been of the re- 
 “ ligious kind.” He forgets that in Virgil Diana herself joins in the 
 dance : exercet Diana choros. If then this dance was a religious ser- 
 vice, in whose honour did Diana dance ? in her own, or in that of 
 another divinity ? Either supposition is ridiculous. And even if the 
 ancient Romans considered that no man of character could engage in 
 a dance with any regard to propriety, it does not follow that their 
 poets were obliged to transfer this seriousness to the manners of the 
 gods, whose mode of life had been already described and settled by the 
 Greek poets in a very different manner. When Horace says of Venus, 
 (Od. iv. lib. 1), 
 
 Jam Cytherea choros ducit Venus ; imminente luna : 
 Junctaeque Nymphis Gratia; decentes 
 Alterno terram quatiunt pede .... 
 
 Is he here also speaking of a holy religious dance ? But I am wasting 
 too many words upon such a trifle. 
 
 Note (48) p. 159. 
 
 PLiNius,lib. xxxiv. sect. 19. 3. Ipsetamencorporumtenuscuriosus, 
 animi sensus non expressisse videtur, capillum quoque et pubem non 
 emendatius fecisse, quam rudis antiquitas instituisset. 
 
 Note (49) p. 177. 
 
 The Connoisseur, Vol i. No. 21. It is entitled “ A description of the 
 beauty of Knonmquaiha.” “ He was struck with the glossy hue of 
 “ her complexion, which shone like the jetty down on the black 
 “hogs of Hessaqua; he was ravished with the prest gristle of her 
 “ nose; and his eyes dwelt with admiration on the flaccid beauties of 
 “ her breasts, which descended to her navel.” And what does art con- 
 tribute to set so much beauty in its most advantageous light ? “ She 
 
 “ made a varnish of the fat of goats mixed with soot, with which she 
 
250 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 “ anointed her whole body, as she stood beneath the rays of the sun ; 
 “ her locks were clotted with melted grease, and powdered with the 
 " yellow dust of Buchu : her face, which shone like the polished 
 “ ebony, was beautifully varied with spots of red earth, and appeared 
 “ like, the sable curtain of the night bespangled with stars : she sprin- 
 “ kled her limbs with wood-ashes, and perfumed them with the dung 
 “ of Stinkbingsem. Her arms and legs were entwined with the shining 
 “ entrails of an heifer : from her neck there hung a pouch composed 
 “ of the stomach of a kid. 
 
 Note (50) p. 182. 
 
 The Sea Voyage, Act. iii. sc. 1. A French pirate is driven with 
 his ship upon a desert island. Avarice and envy produce a quarrel 
 among his crew. This affords some poor wretches, who had been ex- 
 posed for some time to the utmost distress upon the island, an 
 opportunity of putting out to sea in the pirates’ vessel. These last 
 are thus suddenly deprived of all the necessities of life, and have no 
 prospect before them but a cruel death. One of them expresses his 
 hunger and despair to his fellow as follows : 
 
 Lamure. Oh, what a tempest have I in my stomach! 
 
 How my guts cry out ! My wounds ake, 
 
 Would they would bleed again, that I might get 
 Something to quench my thirst. 
 
 Franville. O Lamure, the happiness my dogs had 
 When I kept house at home ! They had a storehouse, 
 
 A storehouse of most blessed bones and crusts. 
 
 Happy crusts. Oh, how this sharp hunger pinches me I 
 
 Lamure. How now, what news ? 
 
 Morillar. Hast any meat yet ? 
 
 Franville. Not a bit that I can see ; 
 
 Here be goodly quarries, but they be cruel hard 
 To gnaw : 
 
 I ha’ got some mud, it we will eat with spoons. 
 
 Very good thick mud ; but it stinks damnably; 
 
 There’s old rotten trunks of trees too. 
 
 But not a leaf nor blossom in all the island. 
 
 Lamure. How it looks! 
 
 Morillar. It stinks too. 
 
 Lamure. It may be poison. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 251 
 
 Franville. Let it be anything, 
 
 So I can get it down. Why man. 
 
 Poison’s a princely dish. 
 
 Morillar. Hast thou no bisket ? 
 
 No crumbs left in thy pocket ? Here is my doublet. 
 
 Give me but three small crumbs. 
 
 Franville. Not for three kingdoms. 
 
 If I were master of ’em. Oh Lamure, 
 
 But one poor joint of mutton, we ha’ scorned, man. 
 
 Lamure. Thou speak’st of Paradise; 
 
 Or but the snuffs of those healths. 
 
 We have lewdly at midnight flung away. 
 
 Morillar. Ah ! but to lick the glasses. 
 
 But this is nothing to the next scene, when the ship’s surgeon enters. 
 
 Franville. Here comes the surgeon. What hast thou 
 discovered ? 
 
 Smile, smile, and comfort us. 
 
 Surgeon. I am expiring, 
 
 Smile they that can. I can find nothing, gentlemen ; 
 
 Here’s nothing can be meat, without a miracle; 
 
 Oh that I had my boxes and my lints now. 
 
 My stupes, my tents, and those sweet helps of nature. 
 
 What dainty dishes could I make of ’em. 
 
 Morillar. Hast ne’er an old suppository ? 
 
 Surgeon. Oh would I had, Sir. 
 
 Lamure. Or but the paper where such a cordial, 
 
 Potion, or pills, hath been entomb’d. 
 
 Franville. Or the blest bladder, where a cooling-glister. 
 Morillar. Hast thou no searcloths left ? 
 
 Nor any old poultesses ? 
 
 Franville. We care not to what it hath been ministered. 
 Surgeon. Sure I have none of these dainties, gentlemen. 
 Franville. Where’s the great wen 
 Thou cut’st from Hugh the sailor’s shoulder ? 
 
 That would serve now for a most princely banquet. 
 
 Surgeon. Ay, if we had it, gentlemen. 
 
 I flung it overboard, slave that I was. 
 
 Lamure. A most improvident villain. 
 
252 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note (51) p. 185. 
 
 Not Apollodorus, but Polydorus. Pliny is the only author who 
 mentions this artist, and I do not know that there is any difference in 
 the manuscripts, as regards this name. Had it been so, Harduin would 
 certainly have noticed it. Polydorus too is the reading in all the old 
 editions. Wink elmann, therefore, must have here committed a trifling 
 error in transcription. 
 
 Note (52) p. 193. 
 
 .ZEneid, lib. ii. v. 7, and more particularly lib. xi. 183. Such a 
 work therefore might safely be added to the catalogue of this man’s 
 lost writings. 
 
 Note (53) p. 197. 
 
 The list of inscriptions on ancient works of art, in Mar. Gudius. 
 (ad PhEedri fab. v. lib. 1), should be referred to, and Gronovi us’ correc- 
 tion of this passage (Prsef. ad Tom. ix. Thesauri Antiq. Grasc.) be at 
 the same time consulted. 
 
 Note (54) p. 199. 
 
 At least he expressly promises to do it : quse suis locis reddam. 
 If, however, he has not entirely forgotten it, he has only mentioned it 
 in passing, and not in the way he might naturally have been expected 
 to do after such a pledge. When he writes, (Lib. xxxv. sect. 39), 
 ££ Lysippus quoque iEginas picturas sua* inscripsit, iueKavcrev : 
 ee quod profecto non fecisset, nisi encaustica inventa:” it is manifest 
 that he here adduces the word eveKavaev as a proof of a very different 
 fact. Had he, as Harduin supposes, mentioned it as also being one 
 of those works, upon which the inscription was written in the aorist, 
 he would not have failed to call the attention of the reader to it. 
 Harduin thinks he discovers the other two works of this kind, in the 
 following passage : Idem (Divus Augustus) in Curia quoque, quam in 
 Comitio consecrabat, duas tabulas impressit parieti : Nemeam seden- 
 tem supra leonem, palmigeram ipsam, adstante cum baculo sene, 
 cujus supra caput tabula biga? dependet. Nicias scripsit se inussisse : 
 tali enim usus est verbo. Alterius tabula* admiratio est, puberem 
 filium seni patri similem esse, salva aetatis differentia, supervolante 
 aquila draconem complexa. Philochares hoc suum opus esse testatus 
 est, (Lib. xxxv. sect. 10). Here two different pictures are described, 
 which Augustus put up in his newly built senate house. The first was 
 by Nicias ; the second by Philochares. WTiat is said of Philochares 
 is plain enough; but about Nicias there are some difficulties. Nemea 
 was represented seated upon a lion, with a palm branch in her hand ; 
 an old man with a staff in his hand stood near her ; cujus supra caput 
 
NOTES. 
 
 253 
 
 tabula bigee dependet. What does this mean ? Above whose head 
 there hung a tablet, upon which a two-horse chariot was painted? 
 Yet this is the only sense which can be put upon the words. Thus 
 another smaller picture was hung upon the main picture ; and both of 
 them were by Nicias. This is clearly the construction which Harduin 
 puts upon Pliny’s words. How else are two pictures to be found, 
 since one is expressly ascribed to Philochares? “ Inscripsit Nicias 
 “ igitur geminashuic tabula* suum nomen in hunc modum : O NIKIA2 
 “ ENEKAY2EN : atque adeo e tribus operibus, quae absolute fuisse 
 “ inscripta, Ille Fecit, indicavit Prsefatio ad Titum, duo hasc sunt 
 “ Nicige.” I might, however, put the following question to Harduin : 
 Supposing Nicias had actually used the imperfect, and not the aorist, 
 and Pliny had only wished to remark that the artist had employed 
 evKaieiu instead of ypaCpeiv, would not the idiom of his language still 
 have compelled him to say, Nicias scripsit se inussisse ? But I will 
 not insist upon this : it may really have been Pliny’s intention to record 
 here one of the works in question. But who would be convinced 
 about the two pictures, one of which hung over the other. I, at least, 
 never could. The words, cujus supra caput tabula bigse dependet, 
 must therefore be corrupt. Tabula bigce , “ A painting of a two-horse 
 chariot,” does not sound like Pliny’s Latin, even allowing that he 
 might have used bigs in the singular. And what kind of two-horse 
 chariot was it likely to be ? Perhaps it was of the kind used in the 
 Nemean games, and thus the less picture would, in respect to its 
 subject, be connected with the principal one. But this supposition 
 will not stand ; for four horses, not two, were driven in the chariots 
 at the Nemean games, (Schmidius in Prol. ad Nemeonicas,p. 2). It once 
 occurred to me that Pliny might have written the Greek word TtTV^lOV 
 instead of bigse, and that the transcribers did not understand it. For 
 we know, from a passage in Antigones Carystius, quoted by Zenobius, 
 (conf. Gronovius T. ix. Antiquit. Grasc. Prsef. p. 7), that the ancient 
 artists did not always inscribe their names upon their works them- 
 selves, but sometimes upon a tablet affixed to the picture or statue. 
 Such a tablet was called tvtv^lov. This Greek word was perhaps 
 explained by the gloss tabula, tabella ; and tabula thus came to be 
 inserted in the text. Bigje arose out of TVTV-)(iov , and thus the read- 
 ing tabula big$ may be accounted for. Nothing can agree better with 
 what follows than 7Ttv^luu, for the subsequent sentence contains 
 what was inscribed upon it. The whole passage would stand thus : 
 cujus supra caput tvtv^iov dependet, quo Nicias scripsit se inussisse. 
 Still I acknowledge that this correction is a little bold. But we are 
 not obliged to correct every passage that we can prove to be corrupt. 
 I am contented with having performed the latter task, and leave the 
 
254 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 former to an abler hand. But to return to the point in question. Ii 
 Pliny only mentions one painting of Nicias, upon which the inscrip- 
 tion was in the aorist, and the second of this kind was that of Lysippus 
 mentioned above, where the third is to be found I know not. Even 
 if I could find it mentioned in any other author than Pliny, I should 
 feel no difficulty. It ought however to be found in Pliny, and there, 
 I repeat, it is not. 
 
 Note (55) p. 204. 
 
 Statius uses obnixa pectora, with the same meaning, (Thebaid, 
 lib. vi. 863). 
 
 . . . rumpunt obnixa furentes 
 Pectora. 
 
 Which the old commentator of Barths explains by “ summa vi contra 
 nitentia.” Ovid also uses obnixa fronte, when speaking of the “ scarus” 
 endeavouring to force its way through the fish-trap, not with its head, 
 but with its tail. 
 
 Non audet radiis obnixa occurrere fronte. 
 
 Note (56) p. 210. 
 
 History of Art, vol. ii. p. 328. “ His first tragedy was acted in 
 
 “ the third year of the seventy-seventh Olympiad.” The date is nearly 
 correct, but Winkelmann is mistaken in saying that the Antigone 
 was this first tragedy. Samuel Petit, whom he quotes in a note, is far 
 from making this statement ; but expressly places the exhibition of the 
 Antigone in the third year of the eighty-fourth Olympiad. Sophocles, 
 in the following year, accompanied Pericles to Samos ; and the date of 
 this expedition can be fixed accurately. I shew in my life of Sophocles, 
 by comparing a passage of the elder Pliny with the year, that the first 
 tragedy of this poet was, in all probability, the Triptolemus. Pliny is 
 speaking (Lib. xviii. sec. 12.) of the different qualities of corn in dif- 
 ferent countries ; and concludes : “ Hae fuere sententiae, Alexandro 
 
 Magno regnante, cum clarissima fuit Grascia, atque in toto terrarum 
 orbe potentissima ; ita tamen ut ante mortem ejus annis fere C X L V. 
 Sophocles poeta in fabula Triptolemo frumentum Italicum ante cuncta 
 laudaverit, ad verbum translata sententia : 
 
 Et fortunatam Italiam frumento can ere candido.” 
 
 It is true that the first tragedy of Sophocles is not expressly spoken of 
 here; but it proves that its date, which Plutarch and the Scholiast, and 
 the Arundelian marbles all agree in placing in the seventy-seventh 
 Olympiad, coincides so closely with the year, which Pliny assigns to the 
 publication of the Triptolemus, that this last must be allowed to have 
 been the first tragedy of Sophocles. The calculation is fairly made out. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 255 
 
 Alexander died in the hundred and fourteenth Olympiad; a hundred 
 and forty-five years are equivalent to thirty-six Olympiads and a year ; 
 if this number be subtracted from the total, there remain seventy- 
 seven. Sophocles’ Triptolemus therefore was published in the seventy- 
 seventh Olympiad ; in the same Olympiad, and even, as I have proved, 
 in the last year of it, his first tragedy was acted. The conclusion is 
 obvious : they were one and the same tragedy. I prove, at the same 
 time therefore that Petit might have spared himself the trouble of 
 writing the whole half of the chapter in his Miscellanea (Lib. iii. cap. 
 xviii.) which Winkelmann has quoted. It is unnecessary in the pas- 
 sage in Pliny, which he there wishes to amend, to change the name of 
 the archon Aphesion into Demotion, or avey\nos» He had only to 
 pass from the third year of the seventy-seventh Olympiad into the 
 fourth, and he would have found, that the archon of this year is as 
 often, if not oftener, called Aphesion by ancient authors, as he is 
 Pha^don. He is called Phsedon by Diodorus Siculus, Dionysius Hali- 
 carnassus, and by the anonymous author of the table of the Olympiads. 
 He is called Aphesion, on the other hand, on the Arundelian marbles, 
 by Apollodorus, and by Diogenes Laertius who is quoting this latter. 
 Plutarch speaks of him under both names : in the life of Theseus he 
 calls him Phasdon, in that of Cimon, Aphesion. The conjecture of 
 Palmerius is therefore rendered probable : " Aphesionem et Phaedon- 
 “ em Archontas fuisse eponymos ; scilicet, uno in magistratu mortuo, 
 " suffectus fuit alter.” (Exercit. p. 452.) Winkelmann, as I oppor- 
 tunely recollect, has allowed another error concerning Sophocles to 
 creep into his first work on the imitation of Grecian works of art, 
 (p. 8). “ The most beautiful young people danced unclad upon the 
 “stage, and Sophocles, the great Sophocles, was the first who ex- 
 hibited this spectacle to his fellow-citizens.” Sophocles never danced 
 unclad upon the stage. He did dance around the trophies after the 
 victory at Salamis. According to some authors, he was naked when 
 he did so; but according to others, he was clothed, (Athen. lib. i. 
 p. m. 20.) It is certain that Sophocles was one of the boys, who were 
 carried over to Salamis for security; and it was upon this island that 
 it was the pleasure of the tragic muse to assemble her three favorites 
 in a gradation, that foreshadowed their different courses. The bold 
 iEschylus contributed to the victory ; the young Sophocles danced 
 around the trophies ; and Euripides was born upon that fortunate isle 
 on the very day of the victory. 
 
 THE END. 
 
RUGBY 
 
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