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Collins Gem Scots Dictionary Collins Digital Instant
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Author(s): Collins
ISBN(s): 9780007224128, 0007224125
Edition: New edition
File Details: PDF, 14.34 MB
Year: 2006
Language: english
D Collins gem
V
Scots
In colour
«
C Collins gem
Scots
Dictionary
H arperC oIlins P ublishers Acknowledgements
WesterhillRoad We would like to thank those
Bishopbriggs authors and publishers who
Glasgow kindly gave permission for
C642QT copyright material to be used in
Great Britain the CoUins Word Web. We would
also like to thank Times
First Edition 1995 Newspapers Ltd for providing
valuable data.
First published in this format
2003 AU rights reserved. No part of
this pubUcation may be
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©HarperCoIlins Publishers 1995 form or by any means,
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Contents
Introduction v
About this book v
W hat is, in this Dictionary? v
T he History o f Scots vii
T he Dialects o f Scots ix
T he Vocabulary o f Scots xi
Scots Dictionary
EDITORIAL STAFF
Editorial Director
Diana Treffry
Managing Editor
Sheila Ferguson
Senior Lexicographer
Elspeth Summers
Lexicographers
Tom Shearer
Andrew Holm es Mike Munro
Ian Brookes Mary O 'Neill Lorna Gilmour
Pronunciation Editor
Alice Grandison
Editorial Assistance
Alison Foy
Computing Staff
Jane Creevy John Podbielski
IN T R O D U C T IO N
A b o u t this Book
T he Collins Scots Gem is a dictionary o f living Scots;
but both "living” and "Scots" are terms which need
some clarification. By "living" we mean that the words
and terms defined are either in current everyday spoken
or written use, or are readily familiar to Scottish people.
By "Scots" we mean the language o f Germanic origin
spoken by m ost Scots which is neither standard British
English or general slang.
Over the years, a great deal o f excellent lexicographical
work has been done on literary and historical Scots; and
in recent years a num ber o f smaller scale dictionaries
dealing with the contem porary speech o f various
regions o f Scotland have appeared. T he aim o f this
book is to survey the m odern colloquial language o f
Scodand as a whole, while no t neglecting vital archaic or
formal terms.
W hat is in this D ictionary?
T his book covers three main types o f vocabulary:
everyday language, official and technical language, and
literary language.
Everyday language. T his consists o f the words and phrases
which people use in norm al informal conversation.
Some o f these are used almost universally in Scodand,
others only by people who speak broader forms o f
Scots rather than "Scottish English", and others are
restricted to one part o f the country. It is highly
Introduction V/
unlikely that any one person would use all the words in
this book as part o f their natural language. W here we
believe that a term is regional, we have indicated this in
the entry.
Dialects have been covered according to the num ber o f
speakers they have: roughly a quarter o f the population
o f Scotland lives w ithin twenty miles o f central
Glasgow, and the language o f urban W est Central
Scotland is therefore dealt with in more depth than the
language o f Caithness o r the Borders. (W est Central
Scots is also the dialect m ost often heard on television,
whether in comedies or in detective series). T his is not
to say that one dialect is better Scots than another,
simply that some are more widely spoken than others.
Official and technical terms. Scotland has its own
distinctive systems o f law, religion, education and local
government, and each o f these systems has its own
terminology. Many o f these terms are included. Also
included are words to do with specific Scottish activities
such as whisky-making, shinty, and piping.
Literary Scots. Different writers have used Scots in
different ways. Some have written in what is more or less
standard literary English, with a sprinkling o f Scots
words and idioms. O thers have chosen to write using a
language based on the speech o f one particular area, be
it Glasgow, Edinburgh or the rural N ortheast. Yet
others have attem pted to create a m odern literary Scots
by using words from all parts o f the country and, where
necessary, going back to the language o f Scots writers o f
vii Introduction
Th e H istory o f Scots
W hen the Angles, Jutes and Saxons began to settle in
Britain from the fourth century on, they brought with
them their own Germanic dialects, and these became
O ld English, the language o f the parts o f England and
Southern Scotland under Anglo-Saxon rule. T his
eventually developed into what is known as M iddle
English. Over the centuries, as the Scottish and English
states emerged as unitary wholes, and followed their
own historical paths, a language based on the
N orthum brian dialect o f M iddle English (that spoken
N o rth o f the H um ber) emerged as one o f the standard
languages o f Scotland. It is ultimately from this that
m odern Scots is descended.
Scots has always tended to define itself in terms o f
what it isn't: this early Anglo-Saxon derived tongue,
initially only spoken in Southeast Scotland, was known
as Inglis, to distinguish it from the Gaelic spoken in the
Introduction viii
Language: English
PAINTING
AND
SCULPTURE
OF THE
G R E E K S.
REFLECTIONS
ON THE
Translated from
The German Original of the Abbé W i n k e l m a n n,
Librarian of the V a t i c a n, F. R. S. &c. &c.
By H E N R Y F U S S E L I, A.M.
LONDON:
Printed for the Translator, and Sold by A. Millar,
in the Strand, 1765.
TO
The Lord S c a r s d a l e.
My Lord,
W
ith becoming gratitude for your Lordship’s condescension in
granting such a noble Asylum to a Stranger, I humbly presume
to shelter this Translation under your Lordship’s Patronage.
If I have been able to do justice to my Author, your Lordship’s
accurate Jugment, and fine Taste, will naturally protect his Work: But
I must rely wholly on your known Candour and Goodness for the
pardon of many imperfections in the language.
I am, with the most profound respect,
My Lord,
Your Lordship’s
Most obliged, most obedient, and most humble Servant,
Henry Fusseli.
London,
10 April, 1765.
GRAIIS INGENIUM
&c.
ON THE
IMITATION
OF THE
Painting and Sculpture of the GREEKS.
I. Nature.
T
o the Greek climate we owe the production of T a s t e, and from
thence it spread at length over all the politer world. Every
invention, communicated by foreigners to that nation, was but the
feed of what it became afterwards, changing both its nature and size
in a country, chosen, as Plato[1] says, by Minerva, to be inhabited by
the Greeks, as productive of every kind of genius.
But this T a s t e was not only original among the Greeks, but
seemed also quite peculiar to their country: it seldom went abroad
without loss; and was long ere it imparted its kind influences to
more distant climes. It was, doubtless, a stranger to the northern
zones, when Painting and Sculpture, those offsprings of Greece,
were despised there to such a degree, that the most valuable pieces
of Corregio served only for blinds to the windows of the royal stables
at Stockholm.
There is but one way for the moderns to become great, and
perhaps unequalled; I mean, by imitating the antients. And what we
are told of Homer, that whoever understands him well, admires him,
we find no less true in matters concerning the antient, especially the
Greek arts. But then we must be as familiar with them as with a
friend, to find Laocoon as inimitable as Homer. By such intimacy our
judgment will be that of Nicomachus: Take these eyes, replied he to
some paltry critick, censuring the Helen of Zeuxis, Take my eyes,
and she will appear a goddess.
With such eyes Michael Angelo, Raphael, and Poussin, considered
the performances of the antients. They imbibed taste at its source;
and Raphael particularly in its native country. We know, that he sent
young artists to Greece, to copy there, for his use, the remains of
antiquity.
An antient Roman statue, compared to a Greek one, will generally
appear like Virgil’s Diana amidst her Oreads, in comparison of the
Nausicaa of Homer, whom he imitated.
Laocoon was the standard of the Roman artists, as well as ours;
and the rules of Polycletus became the rules of art.
I need not put the reader in mind of the negligences to be met
with in the most celebrated antient performances: the Dolphin at the
feet of the Medicean Venus, with the children, and the Parerga of
the Diomedes by Dioscorides, being commonly known. The reverse
of the best Egyptian and Syrian coins seldom equals the head, in
point of workmanship. Great artists are wisely negligent, and even
their errors instruct. Behold their works as Lucian bids you behold
the Zeus of Phidias; Zeus himself, not his footstool.
It is not only Nature which the votaries of the Greeks find in their
works, but still more, something superior to nature; ideal beauties,
brain-born images, as Proclus says[2].
The most beautiful body of ours would perhaps be as much
inferior to the most beautiful Greek one, as Iphicles was to his
brother Hercules. The forms of the Greeks, prepared to beauty, by
the influence of the mildest and purest sky, became perfectly elegant
by their early exercises. Take a Spartan youth, sprung from heroes,
undistorted by swaddling-cloths; whose bed, from his seventh year,
was the earth, familiar with wrestling and swimming from his
infancy; and compare him with one of our young Sybarits, and then
decide which of the two would be deemed worthy, by an artist, to
serve for the model of a Theseus, an Achilles, or even a Bacchus.
The latter would produce a Theseus fed on roses, the former a
Theseus fed on flesh, to borrow the expression of Euphranor.
The grand games were always a very strong incentive for every
Greek youth to exercise himself. Whoever aspired to the honours of
these was obliged, by the laws, to submit to a trial of ten months at
Elis, the general rendezvous; and there the first rewards were
commonly won by youths, as Pindar tells us.[3]To be like the God-
like Diagoras, was the fondest wish of every youth.
Behold the swift Indian outstripping in pursuit the hart: how
briskly his juices circulate! how flexible, how elastic his nerves and
muscles! how easy his whole frame! Thus Homer draws his heroes,
and his Achilles he eminently marks for “being swift of foot.”
By these exercises the bodies of the Greeks got the great and
manly Contour observed in their statues, without any bloated
corpulency. The young Spartans were bound to appear every tenth
day naked before the Ephori, who, when they perceived any
inclinable to fatness, ordered them a scantier diet; nay, it was one of
Pythagoras’s precepts, to beware of growing too corpulent; and,
perhaps for the same reason, youths aspiring to wrestling-games
were, in the remoter ages of Greece, during their trial, confined to a
milk diet.
They were particularly cautious in avoiding every deforming
custom; and Alcibiades, when a boy, refusing to learn to play on the
flute, for fear of its discomposing his features, was followed by all
the youth of Athens.
In their dress they were professed followers of nature. No modern
stiffening habit, no squeezing stays hindered Nature from forming
easy beauty; the fair knew no anxiety about their attire, and from
their loose and short habits the Spartan girls got the epithet of
Phænomirides.
We know what pains they took to have handsome children, but
want to be acquainted with their methods: for certainly Quillet, in his
Callipædy, falls short of their numerous expedients. They even
attempted changing blue eyes to black ones, and games of beauty
were exhibited at Elis, the rewards consisting of arms consecrated to
the temple of Minerva. How could they miss of competent and
learned judges, when, as Aristotle tells us, the Grecian youths were
taught drawing expressly for that purpose? From their fine
complexion, which, though mingled with a vast deal of foreign blood,
is still preserved in most of the Greek islands, and from the still
enticing beauty of the fair sex, especially at Chios; we may easily
form an idea of the beauty of the former inhabitants, who boasted
of being Aborigines, nay, more antient than the moon.
And are not there several modern nations, among whom beauty is
too common to give any title to pre-eminence? Such are
unanimously accounted the Georgians and the Kabardinski in the
Crim.
Those diseases which are destructive of beauty, were moreover
unknown to the Greeks. There is not the least hint of the small-pox,
in the writings of their physicians; and Homer, whose portraits are
always so truly drawn, mentions not one pitted face. Venereal
plagues, and their daughter the English malady, had not yet names.
And must we not then, considering every advantage which nature
bestows, or art teaches, for forming, preserving, and improving
beauty, enjoyed and applied by the Grecians; must we not then
confess, there is the strongest probability that the beauty of their
persons excelled all we can have an idea of?
Art claims liberty: in vain would nature produce her noblest
offsprings, in a country where rigid laws would choak her
progressive growth, as in Egypt, that pretended parent of sciences
and arts: but in Greece, where, from their earliest youth, the happy
inhabitants were devoted to mirth and pleasure, where narrow-
spirited formality never restrained the liberty of manners, the artist
enjoyed nature without a veil.
The Gymnasies, where, sheltered by public modesty, the youths
exercised themselves naked, were the schools of art. These the
philosopher frequented, as well as the artist. Socrates for the
instruction of a Charmides, Autolycus, Lysis; Phidias for the
improvement of his art by their beauty. Here he studied the elasticity
of the muscles, the ever varying motions of the frame, the outlines
of fair forms, or the Contour left by the young wrestler on the sand.
Here beautiful nakedness appeared with such a liveliness of
expression, such truth and variety of situations, such a noble air of
the body, as it would be ridiculous to look for in any hired model of
our academies.
Truth springs from the feelings of the heart. What shadow of it
therefore can the modern artist hope for, by relying upon a vile
model, whose soul is either too base to feel, or too stupid to express
the passions, the sentiment his object claims? unhappy he! if
experience and fancy fail him.
The beginning of many of Plato’s dialogues, supposed to have
been held in the Gymnasies, cannot raise our admiration of the
generous souls of the Athenian youth, without giving us, at the same
time, a strong presumption of a suitable nobleness in their outward
carriage and bodily exercises.
The fairest youths danced undressed on the theatre; and
Sophocles, the great Sophocles, when young, was the first who
dared to entertain his fellow-citizens in this manner. Phryne went to
bathe at the Eleusinian games, exposed to the eyes of all Greece,
and rising from the water became the model of Venus Anadyomene.
During certain solemnities the young Spartan maidens danced naked
before the young men: strange this may seem, but will appear more
probable, when we consider that the christians of the primitive
church, both men and women, were dipped together in the same
font.
Then every solemnity, every festival, afforded the artist
opportunity to familiarize himself with all the beauties of Nature.
In the most happy times of their freedom, the humanity of the
Greeks abhorred bloody games, which even in the Ionick Asia had
ceased long before, if, as some guess, they had once been usual
there. Antiochus Epiphanes, by ordering shews of Roman gladiators,
first presented them with such unhappy victims; and custom and
time, weakening the pangs of sympathizing humanity, changed even
these games into schools of art. There Ctesias studied his dying
gladiator, in whom you might descry “how much life was still left in
him[4].”
These frequent occasions of observing Nature, taught the Greeks
to go on still farther. They began to form certain general ideas of
beauty, with regard to the proportions of the inferiour parts, as well
as of the whole frame: these they raised above the reach of
mortality, according to the superiour model of some ideal nature.
Thus Raphael formed his Galatea, as we learn by his letter to
Count Baltazar Castiglione[5], where he says, “Beauty being so
seldom found among the fair, I avail myself of a certain ideal image.”
According to those ideas, exalted above the pitch of material
models, the Greeks formed their gods and heroes: the profile of the
brow and nose of gods and goddesses is almost a streight line. The
same they gave on their coins to queens, &c. but without indulging
their fancy too much. Perhaps this profile was as peculiar to the
antient Greeks, as flat noses and little eyes to the Calmucks and
Chinese; a supposition which receives some strength from the large
eyes of all the heads on Greek coins and gems.
From the same ideas the Romans formed their Empresses on their
coins. Livia and Agrippina have the profile of Artemisia and
Cleopatra.
We observe, nevertheless, that the Greek artists in general,
submitted to the law prescribed by the Thebans: “To do, under a
penalty, their best in imitating Nature.” For, where they could not
possibly apply their easy profile, without endangering the
resemblance, they followed Nature, as we see instanced in the
beauteous head of Julia, the daughter of Titus, done by Euodus[6].
But to form a “just resemblance, and, at the same time, a
handsomer one,” being always the chief rule they observed, and
which Polygnotus constantly went by; they must, of necessity, be
supposed to have had in view a more beauteous and more perfect
Nature. And when we are told, that some artists imitated Praxiteles,
who took his concubine Cratina for the model of his Cnidian Venus;
or that others formed the graces from Lais; it is to be understood
that they did so, without neglecting these great laws of the art.
Sensual beauty furnished the painter with all that nature could give;
ideal beauty with the awful and sublime; from that he took the
Humane, from this the Divine.
Let any one, sagacious enough to pierce into the depths of art,
compare the whole system of the Greek figures with that of the
moderns, by which, as they say, nature alone is imitated; good
heaven! what a number of neglected beauties will he not discover!
For instance, in most of the modern figures, if the skin happens to
be any where pressed, you see there several little smart wrinkles:
when, on the contrary, the same parts, pressed in the same manner
on Greek statues, by their soft undulations, form at last but one
noble pressure. These master-pieces never shew us the skin forcibly
stretched, but softly embracing the firm flesh, which fills it up
without any tumid expansion, and harmoniously follows its direction.
There the skin never, as on modern bodies, appears in plaits distinct
from the flesh.
Modern works are likewise distinguished from the antient by parts;
a crowd of small touches and dimples too sensibly drawn. In antient
works you find these distributed with sparing sagacity, and, as
relative to a completer and more perfect Nature, offered but as
hints, nay, often perceived only by the learned.
The probability still increases, that the bodies of the Greeks, as
well as the works of their artists, were framed with more unity of
system, a nobler harmony of parts, and a completeness of the
whole, above our lean tensions and hollow wrinkles.
Probability, ’tis true, is all we can pretend to: but it deserves the
attention of our artists and connoisseurs the rather, as the
veneration professed for the antient monuments is commonly
imputed to prejudice, and not to their excellence; as if the numerous
ages, during which they have mouldered, were the only motive for
bestowing on them exalted praises, and setting them up for the
standards of imitation.
Such as would fain deny to the Greeks the advantages both of a
more perfect Nature and of ideal Beauties, boast of the famous
Bernini, as their great champion. He was of opinion, besides, that
Nature was possessed of every requisite beauty: the only skill being
to discover that. He boasted of having got rid of a prejudice
concerning the Medicean Venus, whose charms he at first thought
peculiar ones; but, after many careful researches, discovered them
now and then in Nature[7].
He was taught then, by the Venus, to discover beauties in
common Nature, which he had formerly thought peculiar to that
statue, and but for it, never would have searched for them. Follows
it not from thence, that the beauties of the Greek statues being
discovered with less difficulty than those of Nature, are of course
more affecting; not so diffused, but more harmoniously united? and
if this be true, the pointing out of Nature as chiefly imitable, is
leading us into a more tedious and bewildered road to the
knowledge of perfect beauty, than setting up the ancients for that
purpose: consequently Bernini, by adhering too strictly to Nature,
acted against his own principles, as well as obstructed the progress
of his disciples.
The imitation of beauty is either reduced to a single object, and is
individual, or, gathering observations from single ones, composes of
these one whole. The former we call copying, drawing a portrait; ’tis
the straight way to Dutch forms and figures; whereas the other
leads to general beauty, and its ideal images, and is the way the
Greeks took. But there is still this difference between them and us:
they enjoying daily occasions of seeing beauty, (suppose even not
superior to ours,) acquired those ideal riches with less toil than we,
confined as we are to a few and often fruitless opportunities, ever
can hope for. It would be no easy matter, I fancy, for our nature, to
produce a frame equal in beauty to that of Antinous; and surely no
idea can soar above the more than human proportions of a deity, in
the Apollo of the Vatican, which is a compound of the united force of
Nature, Genius, and Art.
Their imitation discovering in the one every beauty diffused
through Nature, shewing in the other the pitch to which the most
perfect Nature can elevate herself, when soaring above the senses,
will quicken the genius of the artist, and shorten his discipleship: he
will learn to think and draw with confidence, seeing here the fixed
limits of human and divine beauty.
Building on this ground, his hand and senses directed by the
Greek rule of beauty, the modern artist goes on the surest way to
the imitation of Nature. The ideas of unity and perfection, which he
acquired in meditating on antiquity, will help him to combine, and to
ennoble the more scattered and weaker beauties of our Nature.
Thus he will improve every beauty he discovers in it, and by
comparing the beauties of nature with the ideal, form rules for
himself.
Then, and not sooner, he, particularly the painter, may be allowed
to commit himself to Nature, especially in cases where his art is
beyond the instruction of the old marbles, to wit, in drapery; then,
like Poussin, he may proceed with more liberty; for “a timid follower
will never get the start of his leaders, and he who is at a loss to
produce something of his own, will be a bad manager of the
productions of another,” as Michael Angelo says; Minds favoured by
Nature,
II. Contour.
B
ut even supposing that the imitation of Nature could supply all
the artist wants, she never could bestow the precision of
Contour, that characteristic distinction of the ancients.
The noblest Contour unites or circumscribes every part of the
most perfect Nature, and the ideal beauties in the figures of the
Greeks; or rather, contains them both. Euphranor, famous after the
epoch of Zeuxis, is said to have first ennobled it.
Many of the moderns have attempted to imitate this Contour, but
very few with success. The great Rubens is far from having attained
either its precision or elegance, especially in the performances which
he finished before he went to Italy, and studied the antiques.
The line by which Nature divides completeness from superfluity is
but a small one, and, insensible as it often is, has been crossed even
by the best moderns; while these, in shunning a meagre Contour,
became corpulent, those, in shunning that, grew lean.
Among them all, only Michael Angelo, perhaps, may be said to
have attained the antique; but only in strong muscular figures,
heroic frames; not in those of tender youth; nor in female bodies,
which, under his bold hand, grew Amazons.
The Greek artist, on the contrary, adjusted his Contour, in every
figure, to the breadth of a single hair, even in the nicest and most
tiresome performances, as gems. Consider the Diomedes and
Perseus of Dioscorides[8], Hercules and Iole by Teucer[9], and
admire the inimitable Greeks.
Parrhasius, they say, was master of the correctest Contour.
This Contour reigns in Greek figures, even when covered with
drapery, as the chief aim of the artist; the beautiful frame pierces
the marble like a transparent Coan cloth.
The high-stiled Agrippina, and the three vestals in the royal
cabinet at Dresden, deserve to be mentioned as eminent proofs of
this. This Agrippina seems not the mother of Nero, but an elder one,
the spouse of Germanicus. She much resembles another pretended
Agrippina, in the parlour of the library of St. Marc, at Venice[10].
Ours is a sitting figure, above the size of Nature, her head inclined
on her right hand; her fine face speaks a soul “pining in thought,”
absorbed in pensive sorrow, and senseless to every outward
impression. The artist, I suppose, intended to draw his heroine in
the mournful moment she received the news of her banishment to
Pandataria.
The three vestals deserve our esteem from a double title: as being
the first important discoveries of Herculaneum, and models of the
sublimest drapery. All three, but particularly one above the natural
size, would, with regard to that, be worthy companions of the
Farnesian Flora, and all the other boasts of antiquity. The two others
seem, by their resemblance to each other, productions of the same
hand, only distinguished by their heads, which are not of equal
goodness. On the best the curled hairs, running in furrows from the
forehead, are tied on the neck: on the other the hair being smooth
on the scalp, and curled on the front, is gathered behind, and tied
with a ribband: this head seems of a modern hand, but a good one.
There is no veil on these heads; but that makes not against their
being vestals: for the priestesses of Vesta (I speak on proof) were
not always veiled; or rather, as the drapery seems to betray, the veil,
which was of one piece with the garments, being thrown backwards,
mingles with the cloaths on the neck.
’Tis to these three inimitable pieces that the world owes the first
hints of the ensuing discovery of the subterranean treasures of
Herculaneum.
Their discovery happened when the same ruins that overwhelmed
the town had nearly extinguished the unhappy remembrance of it:
when the tremendous fate that spoke its doom was only known by
the account which Pliny gives of his uncle’s death.
These great master-pieces of the Greek art were transplanted, and
worshipped in Germany, long before Naples could boast of one
single Herculanean monument.
They were discovered in the year 1706 at Portici near Naples, in a
ruinous vault, on occasion of digging the foundations of a villa, for
the Prince d’Elbeuf, and immediately, with other new discovered
marble and metal statues, came into the possession of Prince
Eugene, and were transported to Vienna.
Eugene, who well knew their value, provided a Sala Terrena to be
built expressly for them, and a few others: and so highly were they
esteemed, that even on the first rumour of their sale, the academy
and the artists were in an uproar, and every body, when they were
transported to Dresden, followed them with heavy eyes.
The famous Matielli, to whom
copied them in clay before their removal, and following them some
years after, filled Dresden with everlasting monuments of his art: but
even there he studied the drapery of his priestesses, (drapery his
chief skill!) till he laid down his chissel, and thus gave the most
striking proof of their excellence.
III. Drapery.
B
y Drapery is to be understood all that the art teaches of covering
the nudities, and folding the garments; and this is the third
prerogative of the ancients.
The Drapery of the vestals above, is grand and elegant. The
smaller foldings spring gradually from the larger ones, and in them
are lost again, with a noble freedom, and gentle harmony of the
whole, without hiding the correct Contour. How few of the moderns
would stand the test here!
Justice, however, shall not be refused to some great modern
artists, who, without impairing nature or truth, have left, in certain
cases, the road which the ancients generally pursued. The Greek
Drapery, in order to help the Contour, was, for the most part, taken
from thin and wet garments, which of course clasped the body, and
discovered the shape. The robe of the Greek ladies was extremely
thin; thence its epithet of Peplon.
Nevertheless the reliefs, the pictures, and particularly the busts of
the ancients, are instances that they did not always keep to this
undulating Drapery[11].
In modern times the artists were forced to heap garments, and
sometimes heavy ones, on each other, which of course could not fall
into the flowing folds of the ancients. Hence the large-folded
Drapery, by which the painter and sculptor may display as much skill
as by the ancient manner. Carlo Marat and Francis Solimena may be
called the chief masters of it: but the garments of the new Venetian
school, by passing the bounds of nature and propriety, became stiff
as brass.
IV. Expression.
T
he last and most eminent characteristic of the Greek works is a
noble simplicity and sedate grandeur in Gesture and Expression.
As the bottom of the sea lies peaceful beneath a foaming surface, a
great soul lies sedate beneath the strife of passions in Greek figures.
’Tis in the face of Laocoon this soul shines with full lustre, not
confined however to the face, amidst the most violent sufferings.
Pangs piercing every muscle, every labouring nerve; pangs which we
almost feel ourselves, while we consider—not the face, nor the most
expressive parts—only the belly contracted by excruciating pains:
these however, I say, exert not themselves with violence, either in
the face or gesture. He pierces not heaven, like the Laocoon of
Virgil; his mouth is rather opened to discharge an anxious
overloaded groan, as Sadolet says; the struggling body and the
supporting mind exert themselves with equal strength, nay balance
all the frame.
Laocoon suffers, but suffers like the Philoctetes of Sophocles: we
weeping feel his pains, but wish for the hero’s strength to support
his misery.
The Expression of so great a soul is beyond the force of mere
nature. It was in his own mind the artist was to search for the
strength of spirit with which he marked his marble. Greece enjoyed
artists and philosophers in the same persons; and the wisdom of
more than one Metrodorus directed art, and inspired its figures with
more than common souls.
Had Laocoon been covered with a garb becoming an antient
sacrificer, his sufferings would have lost one half of their Expression.
Bernini pretended to perceive the first effects of the operating
venom in the numbness of one of the thighs.
Every action or gesture in Greek figures, not stamped with this
character of sage dignity, but too violent, too passioniate, was called
“Parenthyrsos.”
For, the more tranquillity reigns in a body, the fitter it is to draw
the true character of the soul; which, in every excessive gesture,
seems to rush from her proper centre, and being hurried away by
extremes becomes unnatural. Wound up to the highest pitch of
passion, she may force herself upon the duller eye; but the true
sphere of her action is simplicity and calmness. In Laocoon
sufferings alone had been Parenthyrsos; the artist therefore, in order
to reconcile the significative and ennobling qualities of his soul, put
him into a posture, allowing for the sufferings that were necessary,
the next to a state of tranquillity: a tranquillity however that is
characteristical: the soul will be herself—this individual—not the soul
of mankind; sedate, but active; calm, but not indifferent or drowsy.
What a contrast! how diametrically opposite to this is the taste of
our modern artists, especially the young ones! on nothing do they
bestow their approbation, but contorsions and strange postures,
inspired with boldness; this they pretend is done with spirit, with
Franchezza. Contrast is the darling of their ideas; in it they fancy
every perfection. They fill their performances with comet-like
excentric souls, despising every thing but an Ajax or a Capaneus.
Arts have their infancy as well as men; they begin, as well as the
artist, with froth and bombast: in such buskins the muse of Æschilus
stalks, and part of the diction in his Agamemnon is more loaded with
hyperboles than all Heraclitus’s nonsense. Perhaps the primitive
Greek painters drew in the same manner that their first good
tragedian thought in.
In all human actions flutter and rashness precede, sedateness and
solidity follow: but time only can discover, and the judicious will
admire these only: they are the characteristics of great masters;
violent passions run away with their disciples.
The sages in the art know the difficulties hid under that air of
easiness:
ut sibi quivis
Speret idem, sudet multum, frustraque laboret
Ausus idem.
Hor.
A
fter these remarks on the Nature, the Contour, the Drapery, the
simplicity and grandeur of Expression in the performances of the
Greek artists, we shall proceed to some inquiries into their method
of working.
Their models were generally made of wax; instead of which the
moderns used clay, or such like unctuous stuff, as seeming fitter for
expressing flesh, than the more gluey and tenacious wax.
A method however not new, though more frequent in our times:
for we know even the name of that ancient who first attempted
modelling in wet clay; ’twas Dibutades of Sicyon; and Arcesilaus, the
friend of Lucullus, grew more famous by his models of clay than his
other performances. He made for Lucullus a figure of clay
representing Happiness, and received 60,000 sesterces: and
Octavius, a Roman Knight, paid him a talent for the model only of a
large dish, in plaister, which he designed to have finished in gold.
Of all materials, clay might be allowed to be the fittest for shaping
figures, could it preserve its moistness; but losing that by time or
fire, its solider parts, contracting by degrees, lessen the bulk of the
mass; and that which is formed, being of different diameters, grows
sooner dry in some parts than in others, and the dry ones being
shrunk to a smaller size, there will be no proportion kept in the
whole.
From this inconvenience wax is always free: it loses nothing of its
bulk; and there are also means to give it the smoothness of flesh,
which is refused to modelling; viz. you make your model of clay,
mould it with plaister, and cast the wax over it.
But for transferring their models to the marble, the Greeks seem
to have possessed some peculiar advantages, which are now lost:
for you discover, every where in their works, the traces of a
confident hand; and even in those of inferior rank, it would be no
easy matter to prove a wrong cut. Surely hands so steady, so
secure, must of necessity have been guided by rules more
determinate and less arbitrary than we can boast of.
The usual method of our sculptors is, to quarter the well-prepared
model with horizontals and perpendiculars, and, as is common in
copying a picture, to draw a relative number of squares on the
marble.
Thus, regular gradations of a scale being supposed, every small
square of the model has its corresponding one on the marble. But
the contents of the relative masses not being determinable by a
measured surface, the artist, though he gives to his stone the
resemblance of the model, yet, as he only depends on the
precarious aid of his eye, he shall never cease wavering, as to his
doing right or wrong, cutting too flat or too deep.
Nor can he find lines to determine precisely the outlines, or the
Contour of the inward parts, and the centre of his model, in so fixed
and unchangeable a manner, as to enable him, exactly, to transfer
the same Contours upon his stone.
To all this add, that, if his work happens to be too voluminous for
one single hand, he must trust to those of his journeymen and
disciples, who, too often, are neither skilful nor cautious enough to
follow their master’s design; and if once the smallest trifle be cut
wrong, for it is impossible to fix, by this method, the limits of the
cuts, all is lost.
It is to be remarked in general, that every sculptor, who carries on
his chisselings their whole length, on first fashioning his marble, and
does not prepare them by gradual cuts for the last final strokes; it is
to be remarked, I say, that he never can keep his work free from
faults.
Another chief defect in that method is this: the artist cannot help
cutting off, every moment, the lines on his block; and though he
restore them, cannot possibly be sure of avoiding mistakes.
On account of this unavoidable uncertainty, the artists found
themselves obliged to contrive another method, and that which the
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