Except for Hogarth, can we find any painter in the last fifty years, or since the trend of exhibiting

art
began, who has approached a story with imagination? By this, we mean someone who has been so
influenced by their subject that it has seemed to guide them—not to be arranged by them. Anyone
on whom its main or side points have impressed themselves so forcefully that they dared not treat it
differently, lest they falsify a revelation? Has any painter imparted to their compositions not only
enough truth to convey a story clearly but also that distinguishing quality which keeps the subject
unique, distinct from every other, even though similar, and almost identical to common
understanding? Something in modern art—without demanding it to be equal— but in any way
comparable to what Titian achieved in that remarkable fusion of two times in the "Ariadne" at the
National Gallery? There, Bacchus, in his drunken fury with his entourage of reeling Satyrs, suddenly
reanimates the desolate landscape, hurling himself at the Cretan woman born from fire, Ariadne.
This represents the present time. An artist, and not just an ordinary one, could be greatly proud of
such a depiction. Guido, in his harmonious interpretation of the story, saw no further. But from the
depths of the imaginative spirit, Titian has summoned the past and made it contribute to the present
in one simultaneous effect. With the desert echoing with the frenzied cymbals of Bacchus's
followers, illuminated by the presence and new promises of a god, Ariadne, seemingly unaware of
Bacchus or merely glancing idly at some unrelated spectacle, remains on the solitary shore, her soul
undistracted from Theseus, pacing in the same profound silence of heart and almost the same lonely
solitude as when she awoke at dawn to catch the departing sail that carried away the Athenian.

Here are two points miraculously coming together: the intense presence of society, yet the feeling of
solitude remains absolute; revelations of noon-day, with the remnants of the dull grey dawn still
present and lingering; the current Bacchus alongside the past Ariadne; two stories, with Time
doubled and yet harmonizing. If the artist had made the woman even slightly less indifferent to the
God, or if she had shown ecstasy at his arrival, where would be the story of the profound desolation
of the heart beforehand? It would be overshadowed by the bland occurrence of a flattering offer
being met with a welcome acceptance. The shattered heart left by Theseus was not meant to be
easily mended by a God.

We have here a fine rough print, derived from a painting by Raphael in the Vatican. It depicts the
presentation of the newborn Eve to Adam by the Almighty. One might imagine a fairer mother of
mankind and a more majestic father of men since born. However, these details are secondary to the
portrayal of the situation in this extraordinary work. A moderately modern artist might have been
content with tempering certain expressions of marital anticipation in Adam's countenance, along
with a suitable acknowledgment of the blessing from the Giver, akin to the divided attention of a
child (Adam depicted here as a child man) between a given toy and the mother who had just
bestowed it upon him. This is the obvious, surface-level view. An artist of higher caliber, considering
the solemn presence they were in, would have ensured to subtract something from the expression of
human passion and heighten the spiritual one. This would be as much as an exhibition-goer, from the
opening of Somerset House to last year's show, has been encouraged to expect. It's obvious to
suggest a lower expression, yet in a picture that, for its aspects of drawing and coloring, might be
considered somewhat acceptable within these art-promoting walls, in which the raptures should be
as ninety-nine, the gratitude as one, or perhaps Zero! Raphael, however, did not explain Adam's
situation through either passion. Solely on his brow sits the absorbing sense of wonder at the
created miracle. The moment seized by the intuitive artist, perhaps not fully aware of his art, is one
in which neither of the conflicting emotions, no matter how abstract, has had time to arise or to
battle for indecorous mastery.

We've encountered a landscape by a rightly admired modern artist, in which he aimed to depict a
fiction—one of the most exquisitely beautiful in antiquity—the gardens of the Hesperides. To do Mr.
----- justice, he painted a commendable orchard with suitable seclusion, and a genuine dragon
(reminiscent of a Polypheme by Poussin in a similar situation), overlooking the world shut out
behind, so that none but a "still-climbing Hercules" could hope to catch a glimpse of the admired
Triad of Recluses. No conventual porter could guard his keys better than this custos with the "lidless
eye." Not only does he ensure that no one intrudes into that Privacy, but he also ensures, as clearly
as daylight, that none but Hercules or Diabolus by any means can. So far, all is well. We have absolute
solitude here or nowhere. From outside, the damsels are secure enough. But here the artist's
courage seems to have failed him. He began to pity his pretty charge and, to alleviate the boredom,
populated their solitude with a group of fair attendants, ladies-in-waiting, or ladies of the
bedchamber, according to the approved etiquette of a nineteenth-century court, giving the entire
scene the air of a country fete, if we excuse the absence of gentlemen. This is well and Watteauish.
But what happened to the solitary mystery—the

Daughters three,

That sing around the golden tree?

This is not the way Poussin would have treated this subject.

The paintings, or rather the astounding architectural designs, of a modern artist, have been
presented as objections to the theory of our motto. They are of a nature, we admit, that could
challenge it. His towering structures belong to the highest category of the material sublime. Whether
they were dreams or reproductions of some ancient craftsmanship—perhaps Assyrian ruins restored
by this mighty artist—they fulfill our most ambitious and yearning visions of the glories of the
ancient world. It is regrettable that they were ever populated. On that aspect, the artist's imagination
falters and seems lacking. Let's delve into the essence of the story in "Belshazzar's Feast." We'll
preface it with a relevant anecdote.

The court historians of the day recount that during the first dinner hosted by the late King (then
Prince Regent) at the Pavilion, a characteristic prank was played. The guests were carefully chosen
and full of admiration; the banquet was lavish and excellent; the lighting was bright and exotic; the
eyes were dazzled by the array of silverware, among which the grand gold salt-cellar, brought from
the regalia in the Tower for this special occasion, itself a towering spectacle, stood prominently due
to its size. As the Reverend * * * *, the esteemed court Chaplain at the time, began the grace, a
signal was given, and the lights were suddenly dimmed, revealing a large transparency on which
gleamed golden letters that spelled out:

"Brighton--Earthquake--Swallow-up-alive!"
Imagine the chaos that ensued among the guests; the Georges and garters, jewels, bracelets, all
scattered in the commotion! Fans dropped and were discreetly retrieved by the court pages the next
morning. Mrs. Fitzwhat's-her-name fainting, and the Countess of * * * * offering her smelling salts,
while the good-humored Prince restored order by calling for fresh candles and announcing that the
whole thing was merely a pantomime prank orchestrated by the ingenious Mr. Farley of Covent
Garden, based on suggestions provided by His Royal Highness himself! Then, imagine the uproarious
applause that followed, the playful banter, and the declarations that "they weren't very frightened"
from the assembled guests.

The scene depicted in the painting corresponds precisely to the moment the transparency appeared
in the anecdote. The chaos, the fluttering, the commotion, the rush to escape, the alarm, and the
mock alarm; the enhanced elegance amidst the panic; the courtiers' fear, which was actually flattery,
and the ladies' fear, which was affected; all that we can imagine happening in a crowd of Brighton
courtiers sympathizing with their sovereign's well-acted surprise—all of this, and no more, is
portrayed by the well-dressed nobles and ladies in the Hall of Belus. We've witnessed this kind of
panic among a flock of agitated wild geese at the sound of a gun!

But is this common fear, this mere animal instinct for self-preservation, such as we've seen at a
theater when a slight fire alarm has been raised—an adequate representation of supernatural
terror? Is it how a withered conscience would react to the finger of God writing judgments? There is
a human fear and a divine fear. The former is agitated, restless, and focused on escape. The latter
is humbled, calm, and passive. When the spirit appeared before Eliphaz in the night visions and the
hair on his flesh stood up, did he consider ringing the bell in his chamber or summoning the
servants? Let's examine the text to see if there's any justification for all this vulgar panic.

From Daniel's words, it appears that Belshazzar had hosted a grand feast for a thousand of his lords,
drinking wine in their presence. The golden and silver vessels are listed with pomp, along with the
presence of the princes, the king's concubines, and his wives. Then, the text describes:

"In the same hour, fingers of a man's hand emerged and wrote on the plaster of the wall of the king's
palace opposite the candlestick. The king saw the hand as it wrote, and his expression changed, his
thoughts troubled him, and his knees knocked together."

This is the straightforward account. There is no indication whatsoever that anyone else present saw
the apparition; it was solely confined to Belshazzar's perception. Not even the queen is mentioned as
witnessing it; she only offers to interpret the phenomenon, likely based on what her husband related
to her. The lords are merely said to be astonished, probably at their sovereign's distress and changed
demeanor. Even the prophet does not seem to have seen the writing on the wall; he only recalls it,
akin to Joseph interpreting the dream for the King of Egypt. He refers to the apparition as a past
event.
So, what happens to this unnecessary amplification of the miracle? This idea that a message was
simultaneously conveyed to the consciences of a thousand courtiers, who were neither directly nor
grammatically involved in it?

However, if we accept the artist's interpretation of the story, and assume that the vision was visible
to all of Babylon, Belshazzar's knees were shaken, and his countenance troubled, then surely the
knees and countenances of every person in Babylon would have been similarly affected. They would
have all been bowed down, immobilized by a sense of impending judgment, with no thought of
resisting that inevitable fate.

Not everything that can be seen optically should be depicted in every painting. In a scene like the
"Marriage at Cana" by Veronese or Titian, the eye delights in focusing on the vibrant details, from the
texture and color of the wedding garments to the glimmer of the ring on the bride's finger, or the
material and design of the wine pots. There's leisure and luxury to indulge in curiosity during such
occasions.

However, in a scene depicting the "day of judgment" or the "impious feast of Belshazzar," the
immediate surroundings would be perceived only in masses and indistinction, as one might see them
in the heat of the moment. It's not appropriate to meticulously detail every aspect of female attire or
jewelry, as if critiquing fashion, as some paintings might attempt to do. Similarly, intricate anatomical
features or exaggerated postures, as seen in the works of Michelangelo, have no place in such grand
subjects. There was no time for such observations.

The great masters of painting achieved their true conclusions through a clever distortion of reality.
Rather than showing every actual appearance, they depicted only what the eye might reasonably
perceive during the unfolding of a momentous action. Consider the instance of the swallowing up of
Pompeii. Yes, before the catastrophe, everything was visible – houses, columns, people in their
various activities – albeit in some confusion. But at the moment of destruction, when chaos reigns
and senses are overwhelmed, what eye could discern such details? Now, a thousand years later, we
have the leisure to contemplate the frozen moments of everyday life in Pompeii – the weaver at his
shuttle, the baker at his oven – with a detached, antiquarian interest.

When one reads the magnificent Hebraism, "Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeah, and thou, Moon, in
the valley of Ajalon," who can't help but envision the heroic Joshua, with his outstretched arm,
commanding the sun and moon to obey? Surely, there were hills and valleys, chariots and horsemen,
on the open plains or winding through secret defiles, all the circumstances and strategies of war. But
who would have been aware of this array during the miraculous event? Yet in the painting of this
subject by the artist of the "Belshazzar's Feast," no mean work either, the marshaling and landscape
of the war take precedence, and the miracle becomes a mere anecdote of the day. One may search
among the armed followers for some time before discovering which figure represents Joshua!
It's not just modern art, but even ancient art, where this imaginative faculty is lacking. There's
nothing surpassing the depiction of Lazarus bursting his grave-clothes in the great picture at
Angerstein's. It seems suspended between two states of being – a ghastly horror at its former state
struggles with a newly apprehended gratitude for the second life bestowed upon it. It's as if it cannot
forget its ghostly existence and has barely realized its physical form, having one foot in the world of
spirits.

Perhaps it was the realization that the crowd of semi-interested bystanders and the even more
irrelevant group of distant passersby, who had barely heard of the miracle, do not adequately
respond to the action, that led to attributing the single figure of Lazarus to Michelangelo, unfairly
robbing Sebastian of the greater part of the interest. While there may have been indifferent
passersby within the view of those present at the miracle, who had barely or not at all heard of it, it
would be bold to suggest they were seen. Can the mind even conceive of such unconcerned objects
or associate them with the seers and non-seers of a miraculous event?

If an artist were asked to paint a picture of a Dryad, would the patron be satisfied with a beautiful
naked figure lying under wide-stretched oak trees, given the current low expectations? Move those
woods aside and place the same figure among fountains and cascading clear water, and you have a
Naiad! However, in a rough print we've seen, possibly after Julio Romano, the figure couldn't simply
exchange roles with a change of scenery. Long, grotesque, and fantastic, yet possessing a unique
grace, beautiful in its contortions and distortions, linked to its natural tree, intertwining with its
branches until both seemed like animated parts—these, living branches; those, lifeless limbs—yet
keeping the distinction between animal and vegetable lives, his Dryad lay. It's an approximation of
two natures, which must be seen to be understood, analogous to, but not the same as, the delicacies
of Ovidian transformations.

To the most humble subjects, which may seem barren at first glance, the Great Masters gave
loftiness and richness. Their genius saw in the insignificance of present subjects their potential for
greatness when related to the past or future. Consider how Raphael, particularly in his "Building of
the Ark" from his scriptural series, elevated the humble craft of ship-building. This series, from our
observations of rough graphic sketches, appears to be of a higher and more poetic caliber than even
the Cartoons. Only the timid and superficial would dismiss such subjects. There's a timidity in
modern art that shies away from subjects deemed too mundane. Just as some Frenchmen, observing
the Moses of Michael Angelo, saw nothing beyond a he-goat and a cornuto, modern art might turn
away from a subject like ship-building, considering it unworthy of grandeur. But Raphael didn't look
to the nautical preparations in Civita Vecchia's shipyards for inspiration when imagining the building
of the vessel meant to preserve the remnants of drowned mankind. In his depiction, he keeps the
operation's insignificance out of sight. Instead, we see the patriarch, calm and foresighted, giving
directions, and his agents—three solitary but capable figures—hewing and sawing with the strength
and earnestness of demigods. Guided by instinct rather than technique, they are muscular giants,
akin to the Vulcanian Three who worked in fire beneath Mount Etna. These are the workers who
could rebuild a world!
Artists often make the mistake of confusing poetic essence with visual appearance. In paintings,
external characteristics are everything, while unseen qualities are disregarded. For example,
Othello's skin color or Sir John Falstaff's corpulence are not constantly on our minds when reading
about them. Instead, we are absorbed in admiration for their moral or intellectual attributes. Yet, in a
painting, Othello is always depicted as a Blackamoor, and Falstaff is always portrayed as plump. This
shallow portrayal fails to capture the essence of these characters.

One must have a deeply materialistic mindset to only see Quixote as a comical figure accompanied
by Sancho Panza or a group of followers. Those who only see the surface-level humor in Don Quixote
have missed the point of Cervantes' work, which is to evoke tears, not laughter. Artists who paint
Quixote solely for amusement would have joined the mocking crowd at the heels of his starving
horse.

We do not wish to see a counterfeit version of Quixote that diminishes his heroic qualities.
Cervantes' Quixote, who, upon hearing that his ragged appearance was being discussed, would have
stepped outside to contemplate his worn-out clothing, embodies a super-chivalrous gallantry.
Cervantes' portrayal of Quixote's high aspirations and noble sentiments contrasts sharply with the
shallow depictions that reduce him to a figure of ridicule.

Cervantes' Quixote, with his "fine frenzies" and half-ludicrous yet compassion-worthy errors, should
not be subjected to mockery and ridicule by serving men and duennas. It is a pity that men would
take advantage of Quixote's infirmity to entertain themselves, as seen in the heartless banquets
where he is made a spectacle. Even Goneril and Regan from Shakespeare's King Lear would have
been ashamed to treat the abdicated king with such cruelty.

In the First Part of Don Quixote, it required exceptional skill from Cervantes to maintain the heroic
qualities of Don Quixote without allowing them to be overshadowed by the presence of Sancho
Panza. If the clownish behavior of Sancho ever seemed out of place, we might be inclined to laugh
rather than feel the intended emotion. Perhaps stung by the audience's preference for the fooleries
of Sancho over the noble actions of Don Quixote, Cervantes, in the sequel, allowed his pen to run
wild, losing the balance and harmony of the characters and sacrificing the greatness of Don Quixote
to the taste of his readers.

Today, it seems that Sancho Panza has more admirers than Don Quixote himself. Cervantes,
anticipating that someone else might produce a spurious Second Part, and realizing that it would be
easier for a competitor to excel in humor rather than romance, shifted the focus of the narrative to
Sancho, making him the central character. He changed Sancho from a follower influenced by Don
Quixote's madness to a cunning knave who manipulates the madman for his own benefit. With
Sancho losing his respect for Don Quixote, the latter becomes a figure of ridicule rather than a noble
lunatic. This change in characterization has influenced how artists depict Don Quixote in their works.