University of Virginia Library

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LETTER XI. Correggio Candid, to the celebrated Mr. Daniel, of Bath.

The Portrait-Painter's Golden Rules.

Say, flattering Artist, favourite of the Graces,
Is your bright fancy never smote by Terror?
But though you draw a myriad of faces,
List to these rules, and you may laugh at Error.
Quilletus once averr'd,
That Beauty perish'd with the Golden age;

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But he was quite absurd,
As you shall find,
When you've perus'd my thoughts on human kind,
And scann'd this friendly page.

Though Fresnoy wrote upon the art,
And knew the subject well;
The way to fascinate the heart,
That Bard could never tell:
He sung in many a strain of radiant Truth:
Though Truth's a damsel pretty,
She does not always meet the wish of Youth,
Or Fashion—or the tenants of the City:
Nine-tenths of mortals such queer freaks have got,
They'd all appear to others—what they're not!

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As you're not vain or arrogantly nice,
But one of us;
Go mentally transcribe this apt advice:—
The envied Attributes inhabit thus:
On the proud forehead Greatness latent roves,
And amplifies the face:
Blythe in the eye disport the wanton Loves
Who mortal Woes destroy,
And bathe in fluids warm from the spring of Joy.
The mouth—the mouth's the residence of Grace.—
But 'tis the nose, or be it large or small,
Abases or gives dignity to all.
The other lineaments, combin'd together,
Are but mere fungus—pith or biped's leather.

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Keep all the projections in happy relief,
Let the soft clear-obscure smooth the edge of each feature,
Be the keeping accordant with Joy—Wit, or Grief,
And let the repose of the whole be in Nature.—
Make all the sons of Mars look fierce and big,
Adroitly mix th'alluring and tremendous,
And give Physicians—plenitude of wig,
As iron Habit Physic's sons will send us.

Some faces, like the progress of the day,
Are sombrous—luminous, and black, and grey:

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Now charg'd with woe—now pregnant with delight,
Red—pale—green—purple—yellow—blue, and bright;
Like Proteus' jacket all their hues deceive,
Which eminently differ morn and eve.
When those present themselves, be this your study:
Paint to their wishes—make them sick or ruddy!
Such ne'er obey th'opinion of the town,
They see Truth jaundic'd, and their will's their own.

Reynolds, the Monarch of your frail profession,
Once gave a booby-heir—acute expression,
To please an ideot mother;
But when that honour'd sprig of Knighthood drew it,
Nor friend—nor foe—nor men—nor women knew it,
And poor Sir Joshua trowell'd out another!

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When Fashion's children visit your recess,
Preserve your temper—you can do no less—
For human fiends exist, so mean—so base,
To answer some unworthy end,
Or tantalize a friend;
They'll ridicule your labours to your face.
Though such there are,
Who damn because—they dare!
Let not their little malice shake a nerve,
Smile from on high—look down—improve your meed,
Till Nature's jealous of the glowing deed;
Then shew mankind what Hate will not observe.—
Think not my dogmas insolent or rough,
And learn to know when you have done—enough!

Copy not Romney's mad—affected style,
Which makes the Judgment stare;

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That man's so fond of angles false and vile,
He'd make a circle—square!
His markings, as he calls them, are but flaws,
Which Genius scoffs, and Elegance abhors.
Though pliant Hayley lauds him in the land,
Touching a theme he does—not understand:—
You'll say, and faith your argument is clear,
Romney designs a score of Lords a year.

The POINT of ASTONISHMENT.

A TALE.

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