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Mike Meyers CompTIA Security+ Certification Passport (Exam SY0-601) Dawn Dunkerley full chapter instant download
Mike Meyers CompTIA Security+ Certification Passport (Exam SY0-601) Dawn Dunkerley full chapter instant download
Mike Meyers CompTIA Security+ Certification Passport (Exam SY0-601) Dawn Dunkerley full chapter instant download
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About the Author
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Acknowledgments
Introduction
I apprehend, with his own countrymen or ours, all the love and
loyalty would come to little, but for their hatred of the army opposed
to them. It is the resistance, ‘the two to kill at a blow,’ that is the
charm, and makes our fingers’-ends tingle. The Greek cause makes
no progress with us for this reason: it is one of pure sympathy, but
our sympathies must arise out of our antipathies; they were devoted
to the Queen to spite the King. We had a wonderful affection for the
Spaniards—the secret of which was that we detested the French. Our
love must begin with hate. It is so far well that the French are
opposed to us in almost every way; for the spirit of contradiction
alone to foreign fopperies and absurdities keeps us within some
bounds of decency and order. When an English lady of quality
introduces a favourite by saying, ‘This is his lordship’s physician, and
my atheist,’ the humour might become epidemic; but we can stop it
at once by saying, ‘That is so like a Frenchwoman!’—The English
excel in the practical and mechanic arts, where mere plodding and
industry are expected and required; but they do not combine
business and pleasure well together. Thus, in the Fine Arts, which
unite the mechanical with the sentimental, they will probably never
succeed; for the one spoils and diverts them from the other. An
Englishman can attend but to one thing at a time. He hates music at
dinner. He can go through any labour or pain with prodigious
fortitude; but he cannot make a pleasure of it, or persuade himself he
is doing a fine thing, when he is not. Again, they are great in original
discoveries, which come upon them by surprise, and which they
leave to others to perfect. It is a question whether, if they foresaw
they were about to make the discovery, at the very point of projection
as it were, they would not turn their backs upon it, and leave it to
shift for itself; or obstinately refuse to take the last step, or give up
the pursuit, in mere dread and nervous apprehension lest they
should not succeed. Poetry is also their undeniable element; for the
essence of poetry is will and passion, ‘and it alone is highly
fantastical.’ French poetry is verbiage or dry detail.
I have thus endeavoured to shew why it is the English fail as a
people in the Fine Arts, because the idea of the end absorbs that of
the means. Hogarth was an exception to this rule; but then every
stroke of his pencil was instinct with genius. As it has been well said,
that ‘we read his works,’ so it might be said he wrote them. Barry is
an instance more to my purpose. No one could argue better about
gusto in painting, and yet no one ever painted with less. His pictures
were dry, coarse, and wanted all that his descriptions of those of
others indicate. For example, he speaks of ‘the dull, dead, watery
look’ of the Medusa’s head of Leonardo, in a manner that conveys an
absolute idea of the character: had he copied it, you would never
have suspected any thing of the kind. His pen grows almost wanton
in praise of Titian’s nymph-like figures. What drabs he has made of
his own sea-nymphs, floating in the Thames, with Dr. Burney at their
head, with his wig on! He is like a person admiring the grace of an
accomplished rope-dancer; place him on the rope himself, and his
head turns;—or he is like Luther’s comparison of Reason to a
drunken man on horseback—‘set him up on one side, and he tumbles
over on the other.’ Why is this? His mind was essentially ardent and
discursive, not sensitive or observant; and though the immediate
object acted as a stimulus to his imagination, it was only as it does to
the poet’s—that is, as a link in the chain of association, as implying
other strong feelings and ideas, and not for its intrinsic beauty or
individual details. He had not the painter’s eye, though he had the
painter’s general knowledge. There is as great a difference in this
respect between our views of things as between the telescope and
microscope. People in general see objects only to distinguish them in
practice and by name—to know that a hat is black, that a chair is not
a table, that John is not James; and there are painters, particularly of
history in England, who look very little farther. They cannot finish
any thing, or go over a head twice: the first coup-d’œil is all they ever
arrive at, nor can they refine on their impressions, soften them down,
or reduce them to their component parts, without losing their spirit.
The inevitable result of this is grossness, and also want of force and
solidity; for, in reality, the parts cannot be separated without injury
from the whole. Such people have no pleasure in the art as such: it is
merely to astonish or to thrive that they follow it; or, if thrown out of
it by accident, they regret it only as a bankrupt tradesman does a
business which was a handsome subsistence to him. Barry did not
live, like Titian, on the taste of colours (there was here, perhaps—and
I will not disguise it—in English painters in general, a defect of
organic susceptibility); they were not a pabulum to his senses; he did
not hold green, blue, red, and yellow for ‘the darlings of his precious
eye.’ They did not, therefore, sink into his mind with all their hidden
harmonies, nor nourish and enrich it with material beauty, though
he knew enough of them to furnish hints for other ideas and to
suggest topics of discourse. If he had had the most enchanting object
in nature before him in his painting-room at the Adelphi, he would
have turned from it, after a moment’s burst of admiration, to talk of
the subject of his next composition, and to scrawl in some new and
vast design, illustrating a series of great events in history, or some
vague moral theory. The art itself was nothing to him, though he
made it the stalking-horse to his ambition and display of intellectual
power in general; and, therefore, he neglected its essential qualities
to daub in huge allegories, or carry on cabals with the Academy, in
which the violence of his will and the extent of his views found
proper food and scope. As a painter, he was tolerable merely as a
draftsman, or in that part of the art which may be best reduced to
rules and precepts, or to positive measurements. There is neither
colouring, nor expression, nor delicacy, nor striking effect in his
pictures at the Adelphi. The group of youths and horses, in the
representation of the Olympic Games, is the best part of them, and
has more of the grace and spirit of a Greek bas-relief than any thing
of the same kind in the French school of painting. Barry was, all his
life, a thorn in the side of Sir Joshua, who was irritated by the temper
and disconcerted by the powers of the man; and who, conscious of
his own superiority in the exercise of his profession, yet looked
askance at Barry’s loftier pretensions and more gigantic scale of art.
But he had no more occasion to be really jealous of him than of an
Irish porter or orator. It was like Imogen’s mistaking the dead body
of Cloten for her lord’s—‘the jovial thigh, the brawns of Hercules’: the
head, which would have detected the cheat, was missing!
I might have gone more into the subject of our apparent
indifference to the pleasure of mere imitation, if I had had to run a
parallel between English and Italian or even Flemish art; but really,
though I find a great deal of what is finical, I find nothing of the
pleasurable in the details of French more than of English art. The
English artist, it is an old and just complaint, can with difficulty be
prevailed upon to finish any part of a picture but the face, even if he
does that any tolerable justice: the French artist bestows equal and
elaborate pains on every part of his picture—the dress, the carpet,
&c.; and it has been objected to the latter method, that it has the
effect of making the face look unfinished; for as this is variable and
in motion, it can never admit of the same minuteness of imitation as
objects of still-life, and must suffer in the comparison, if these have
the utmost possible degree of attention bestowed on them, and do
not fall into their relative place in the composition from their natural
insignificance. But does not this distinction shew generally that the
English have no pleasure in art, unless there is an additional interest
beyond what is borrowed from the eye, and that the French have the
same pleasure in it, provided the mechanical operation is the same—
like the fly that settles equally on the face or dress, and runs over the
whole surface with the same lightness and indifference? The collar of
a coat is out of drawing: this may be and is wrong. But I cannot say
that it gives me the same disturbance as if the nose was awry. A
Frenchman thinks that both are equally out of drawing, and sets
about correcting them both with equal gravity and perseverance. A
part of the back-ground of a picture is left in an unfinished state: this
is a sad eye-sore to the French artist or connoisseur. We English care
little about it: if the head and character are well given, we pass it over
as of small consequence; and if they are failures, it is of even less. A
French painter, after having made you look like a baboon, would go
on finishing the cravat or the buttons of your coat with all the nicety
of a man milliner or button-maker, and the most perfect satisfaction
with himself and his art. This with us would be quite impossible.
‘They are careful after many things: with us, there is one thing
needful’—which is effect. We certainly throw our impressions more
into masses (they are not taken off by pattern, every part alike): there
may be a slowness and repugnance at first; but, afterwards, there is
an impulse, a momentum acquired—one interest absorbing and
being strengthened by several others; and if we gain our principal
object, we can overlook the rest, or at least cannot find time to attend
to them till we have secured this. We have nothing of the petit
maître, of the martinet style about us: we run into the opposite fault.
If we had time, if we had power, there could be no objection to giving
every part with the utmost perfection, as it is given in a looking-glass.
But if we have only a month to do a portrait in, is it not better to give
three weeks to the face and one to the dress, than one week to the
face and three to the dress. How often do we look at the face
compared to the dress? ‘On a good foundation,’ says Sancho Panza, ‘a
good house may be built’; so a good picture should have a good back-
ground, and be finished in every part. It is entitled to this mark of
respect, which is like providing a frame for it, and hanging it in a
good light. I can easily understand how Rubens or Vandyke finished
the back grounds and drapery of their pictures:—they were worth the
trouble; and, besides, it cost them nothing. It was to them no more
than blowing a bubble in the air. One would no doubt have every
thing right—a feather in a cap, or a plant in the foreground—if a
thought or a touch would do it. But to labour on for ever, and labour
to no purpose, is beyond mortal or English patience. Our clumsiness
is one cause of our negligence. Depend upon it, people do with
readiness what they can do well. I rather wonder, therefore, that
Raphael took such pains in finishing his draperies and back grounds,
which he did so indifferently. The expression is like an emanation of
the soul, or like a lamp shining within and illuminating the whole
face and body; and every part, charged with so sacred a trust as the
conveying of this expression (even to the hands and feet), would be
wrought up to the highest perfection. But his inanimate objects must
have cost him some trouble; and yet he laboured them too. In what
he could not do well, he was still determined to do his best; and that
nothing should be wanting in decorum and respect to an art that he
had consecrated to virtue, and to that genius that burnt like a flame
upon its altars! We have nothing that for myself I can compare with
this high and heroic pursuit of art for its own sake. The French fancy
their own pedantic abortions equal to it, thrust them into the Louvre,
‘and with their darkness dare affront that light!’—thus proving
themselves without the germ or the possibility of excellence—the
feeling of it in others. We at least claim some interest in art, by
looking up to its loftiest monuments—retire to a distance, and
reverence the sanctuary, if we cannot enter it.
‘They also serve who only stare and wait.’[40]