Art has never been reformed, after a lapse from high eminence, by mere imitation of examples, however excellent; nor by only following rules for the correction of error. It is here as in morals, example succeeds where precept would fail. Some mind of uncommon firmness and good sense is required, who, beginning with nature, brings to the work of reformation original powers and severe judgment; fancy and feeling, with correctness and cultivated taste: one, in short, of those rare minds whose merits, great in themselves, become incomparably greater viewed with the times in which they commenced their career; whose exertions, wonderful in their own accomplishments, are yet more admirable from the progress which thereby others have been enabled to effect. Such a genius was that possessed by Canova, a name venerable alike for virtue and for talents. Born, in 1757, in a distant and otherwise unknown hamlet, in the territory of Treviso—fallen upon evil days in his art—of the most obscure parentage, destined to fill the humble and laborious occupation of village stone-cutter—remote, in the first instance, from every advice and assistance, he rose to be the companion of princes, the restorer of art, and the generous patron of merit friendless as his own. We know not whether more to love or to admire Canova. In his fifteenth year, repairing to Venice, the cloisters of a convent supplied him, through the benevolence of the good fathers, with a work-shop; and only fifteen years afterwards, through a struggle of poverty, yet redeemed by prudence and industry, and sweetened by independence, he erected in St Peter's the monument of Ganganelli—the first fruits of a spirit, whose sobriety of temperament, more valuable and more rare than mere original invention, here exhibited a correctness which would amend, with a vigour which would elevate, a fallen age.

A series of more than two hundred compositions, of which this was the first, standing itself nobly conspicuous, yet only a step from previous imbecility, presents too extensive a field for particular description, or minute examination. The remembrance is yet fresh upon our memory, when, arranged in a funereal hall, representations of these works might well have been deemed the labours of a generation; and while now about to describe the originals, we bear in recollection, that to view these a considerable portion of Europe has been traversed. Thus numerous, and widely extending the influence of their style, these productions certainly, require careful notice. Avoiding details, then, we shall class them under Heroic subjects; Compositions of softness and grace—Monumental erections and Relievos.

The superiority of Canova, has been questioned in the first of these departments only. He has been admitted a master of the beautiful—hardly of the grand. Or rather, perhaps, while his claims have been universally recognised in representing the softer graces of loveliness, his powers in the sublimities of severe and masculine composition are less generally appreciated. This estimation is unjust, having been originated and maintained by causes entirely extrinsic to the genius or labours of the artist. In not one, but many groups and single statues, he has attained some of the loftiest aims of sculpture. In manly and vigorous beauty of form, the Perseus; in forceful expression and perfection of science, the Pugilists—a work, in its peculiar range, one of the most classical of modern art; in harmonious and noble composition, uniting nature and poetic feeling, the Theseus combating the Centaur; in the terrible of sentiment and suffering, the Hercules;—these, with the Ajax, Hector, Paris, Palamedes, all belonging to the grand style of art, may challenge comparison with any works of the modern chisel, in the beauties of sustained effect, learned design, boldness yet exquisite delicacy of execution; while as to number, the series here is unparalleled in the history of any single mind. In the majestic or venerable realities of portraiture, again, there is Napoleon, Pius VI., Washington, Ganganelli, Rezzonico.

In the second department, the compositions of Canova have enriched modern art with the most glowing conceptions of elegance and grace; raised, and yet more refined, by the expression of some elevating or endearing sentiment. Here, indeed, has been allotted his peculiar and unapproachable walk. Yet it may justly be doubted, whether he be not superior in the former class, where his merit has hitherto been denied or doubted. True, one or two works in the second, as the Venus recumbent, the Nymph, and Cupid, are superior, as examples of beauty and grace, to any one of masculine character which might be compared with them; but, as a class, the second is less uniformly dignified and excellent than the first. The great defect here, indeed, is a want of dignity in the female figures; which, though equally removed from the flimsy affectations of his immediate predecessors, as from the robust and austere proportions of the Tuscan school, are not always free from the meagre and the cold where grace is to be united with sweetness. This seems to be occasioned by a want of harmony between the just height and roundness of the forms—from an absence of those firm, yet gracious contours, meeting, yet eluding the eye, rounded into life and dissolving in the animated marble, which render, for instance, the Medicean so incomparably superior to the Venus of Canova. Throughout the whole of this class, there frequently runs a character of composition too ornate—too elaborately pleasing, and which would appear still more decidedly, were it not accompanied by inimitable ease, and were not every part, even to the minutest ornament, an emanation of the same refined taste and cultivated mind. It is this, chiefly, which spreads their delightful charm of consistency over these works; there is, on close examination, little derived immediately and simply from nature. Every choice has finally, but not obviously, been determined after much thought and many trials. All is that perfection of art, by which art itself is best concealed, and which to its creations lends the enchantment of nature's own sweetest graces.

In the monumental series of works, Canova displays all the practical excellences of his genius, with more, perhaps, of originality and simplicity than generally characterise his other labours. This class consists of architectural elevations, supporting colossal statues, and of tablets in relievo. Of the former, the tombs of the Popes at Rome, of Alfieri at Florence, and of the Archduchess Maria Christina at Vienna, are magnificent examples. The second constitutes a numerous and very beautiful class, which, though composed of nearly the same simple elements of design, a female figure, or a genius, in basso relievo, mourning over a bust or an urn, yet exhibit much diversity of character and arrangement. From each of these an example might be selected in the tomb of the Archduchess, and the grand relievo of the O'Hara family mourning over the funereal couch of the deceased daughter and wife—equal to anything in the whole compass of art. To those who deny the merit of Canova in relief, we recommend the study of this monument. The former, representing a procession bearing to the tomb the ashes of the dead, is one of the most arduous and noblest compositions extant; and, judging from our own impressions, no record of mortality ever better accomplished its purpose, whether to awaken regret for departed virtue, or to tell, by its own perfection, that in man there exists an intelligence which shall survive beyond the grave.

Although, from the series of works briefly mentioned, it would not be difficult to prove Canova the most indefatigable—nor, when we consider their influence, the principles they are calculated to enforce, and the fallen state from which they rescued art, the most respectable—of modern sculptors; yet, in estimating truly the rank and constituents of his genius, there is no small difficulty. The very fertility of that genius, diffusing its richness over every province of the art, and, in each varied exercise, constantly displaying the same judgment and taste, increases this difficulty, by blending into one harmonious and regular effect, those outbreakings of peculiar energies usually accompanying, and indicative of, great powers. Hence the character of his mind might be pronounced, at first, as distinguished rather by correctness than by force. Yet, of his talents generally, such would be an erroneous estimate. His mind was deeply embued with both fire and enthusiasm; his imagination, uncommonly active, was stored with materials, but over the treasures thus lavishly poured forth by fancy, severe scrutiny was held by the understanding. Energetic, and even rapid, in composition, in correcting, and finally determining, he was slow and fastidious—often changing, but always improving. Such intellectual organization is by no means favorable to that grandeur usually associated with highest genius, which frequently hurrying alike the artist and spectator beyond reality, derives its very mastery from daring disregard of rule, grasping, with dangerous hardihood, those lofty graces, pardoned only when successful; and even then, however they may elevate the individual subject or artist, not enriching art with useful examples or solid acquisitions. But a mind thus constituted was eminently fitted for correcting public taste, especially in the serene majesty, the orderly magnificence, which compose the true grandeur of Sculpture. Hence Canova is uniformly dignified and consistent; correct without coldness, if he rarely attains the highest sublimity; neither does he fall beneath himself, nor into the extravagant. Compared with the ancients, many of his works remind us of more than merely casual imitation; but it is no less true, that in others of novel invention, he has applied, in not unsuccessful rivalry, their own principles, the discovery of which forms his highest praise, as constituting one of the most essential services ever rendered to Sculpture. Among the moderns he claims pre-eminence, as the first who established improvement upon genuine and universal precepts of art.

The perfection to which Canova seems to have aspired in the ideal, appears to have been the union of the two elements of sculptural design, keeping each in just subordination to beauty. Hence, in his figures, form does not, as in the antique, constitute so entirely the primary, and almost sole thought, neither is it so much subservient to action and effect, as in the most eminent of the modern masters. In like manner, the expression holds an intermediate character between the unmoved serenity of the ancients, and the marked lineaments of Michael Angelo. In some instances this union is very happily accomplished; but generally, though always true, the expression is not often simple. The only defect which can be discerned in Canova's selection of form, and which is more especially to be found in his female, is a meagreness and want of vigour; sometimes they too much remind us of the individual model, and of those manners of life whence such models are usually obtained. But speaking universally, the contours of this master are full, flowing, and well sustained. And here we can discover the same principles of design and practice which were pointed out in the best era of the Grecian schools, with this novel precept, the discovery, or at least uniformly successful application, of which belongs to Canova, namely, that all grand parts may be resolved into a primary and two secondary forms. As this ternary combination is sweetly, yet decidedly marked, blending yet separating its constituent lines, the graceful ease and infinite variety of natural outline is obtained. In every statue of the modern, also, we find exemplified the principle adopted from Phidias, and already noticed, namely, that from whatever resources of imagination any figure may be composed, the final surface—all that meets the eye at last—must be finished, and faithfully imitated from individual nature.

There is still one characteristic which pre-eminently distinguishes those works we are examining, namely, the exquisite beauty of composition. They unite the dexterity and force which constituted the peculiar praise of the masters of the sixteenth century, with a delicacy, a refinement, and truth, exclusively their own. This is an excellence of the highest import—not so much in itself as in its consequences—for it can be introduced with good effect only when the nobler elements of composition are present. A statue defective in the higher qualities of art, would by high finish become only the more ungracious: works of unblemished merit only admit with advantage of elaborate technicality. Hence, among the ancients, the perfect statues, in all other respects, are also the most highly wrought. This excellence Canova seems to have been the first to remark and to emulate, which he has done successfully, especially in the most difficult parts—the extremities.

In short, when we view Canova in himself and in his works singly, isolated from the age that preceded, and separated from that which now follows his own, in concentrated energy and originality of mind, he may hardly compare with Donatello, still less with Buonarotti, perhaps not with our own Flaxman; but when we estimate his genius in the varied, yet uniform excellence of his labours, in the principles upon which these are conducted,—when we recollect the state of degradation in which he found, and the elevated condition in which he left art; and remember, too, that his own works and practice between these extremes, were marked by no false splendors of talent, but must prove a shining light, guiding to yet higher attainment; we must pronounce, in truth and gratitude, that none other name is in merit so inseparably associated with the progress of sculpture.

Since the death of his illustrious contemporary, Thorwaldsen, born at Copenhagen, 1771-2, has occupied the public eye as head of the modern school. The character and powers of this master are doubtless of a very elevated rank; but neither in the extent nor excellence of his works, do we apprehend his station to be so high as sometimes placed. The genius of the Danish sculptor is forcible, yet is its energy derived more from peculiarity than from real excellence. His ideal springs less from imitation of the antique, or of nature, than from the workings of his own individual mind—it is the creation of a fancy seeking forcible effect in singular combinations, rather than in general principles; therefore hardly fitted to excite lasting or beneficial influence upon the age. Simplicity and imposing expression seem to have hitherto formed the principal objects of his pursuit; but the distinction between the simple and rude, the powerful and the exaggerated, is not always observed in the labours of the Dane. His simplicity is sometimes without grace; the impressive—austere, and without due refinement. The air and contours of his heads, except, as in the Mercury—an excellent example both of the beauties and defects of the artist's style—when immediately derived from antiquity, though grand and vigorous, seldom harmonize in the principles of these efforts with the majestic regularity of general nature. The forms, again, are not unfrequently poor, without vigorous rendering of the parts, and destitute at times of their just roundness. These defects may in some measure have arisen from the early and more frequent practice of the artist in relievos. In this department, Thorwaldsen is unexceptionably to be admired. The Triumph of Alexander, originally intended for the frieze of the government palace at Milan, notwithstanding an occasional poverty in the materials of thought, is, as a whole, one of the grandest compositions in the world; while the delicacy of execution, and poetic feeling, in the two exquisite pieces of Night and Aurora, leave scarcely a wish here ungratified. But in statues, Thorwaldsen excels only where the forms and sentiment admit of uncontrolled imagination, or in which no immediate recourse can be had to fixed standards of taste, and to the simple effects of nature. Hence, of all his works, as admitting of unconfined expression, and grand peculiarity of composition, the statues of the Apostles, considered in themselves, are the most excellent. Thorwaldsen, in fine, possesses singular, but in some respects erratic genius. His ideas of composition are irregular; his powers of fancy surpass those of execution; his conceptions seem to lose a portion of their value and freshness in the act of realisement. As an individual artist, he will command deservedly a high rank among the names that shall go down to posterity. As a sculptor, who will influence, or has extended the principles of the art, his pretensions are not great; or, should this influence and these claims not be thus limited, the standard of genuine and universal excellence must be depreciated in a like degree.

We have hitherto made little or no mention of British sculpture, for two reasons. The number of ancient monuments of the art with which the cathedrals of England, and Westminster Abbey in particular, are ornamented, is considerable: yet very little is known regarding their authors. There is reason to believe, however, that by far the greater part are the work of foreigners, members of those confraternities of itinerant artists, which have been noticed as existing in Italy so early as the middle of the fourteenth century. This opinion is corroborated by the circumstance, that the object in these societies was to undertake buildings in whatever country, and for this purpose were composed of architects, sculptors, workers in mosaic, builders, designers, each strictly attending to his own department, except the architect, who seems to have acted as the general overseer. Thus, companies of individuals, more or less numerous, were engaged by the proper ecclesiastical authorities, wherever a building of magnitude was to be erected. Of this, the plan appears uniformly to have been prescribed by the ecclesiastics, the foreign masters superintending and availing themselves of local assistants for the mere workmanship. Again, between the early productions of sculpture in England, when these first attract notice by their excellence, we very decidedly trace the style, and in some instances, as in the beautiful monuments of Eleanor, queen of Edward I., the designs of the school of Pisa. About this time, the very improvements introduced by Giovanni da Pisa, son of Nicolo, especially in the drapery, are decidedly apparent in those and other English works. Hence, although we find English names mentioned as masters of the works in several of our most splendid erections, and even in one instance as sculpturing the images of saints, it is doubtful whether they were not the ecclesiastics directly employed by the chapter to communicate their plans to the actual artificers. But it must also be observed, that the natural consequence of introducing foreign art would be to create native artists. There can be little doubt, therefore, that many of the really fine monuments of our Henrys and Edwards, during the fifteenth century, are the works of home-bred talent. During the sixteenth century, again, we do certainly know that two Italian sculptors, Cavallini, and especially the celebrated Torregiano, were in England, when the latter erected the monument in Henry VII.'s chapel, for which he received so large a sum as a thousand pounds. Henry VIII., again, had for his master of works an Italian sculptor, John of Padua, scholar of Michael Angelo. In 1615, we at length find a work erected by an Englishman, the monument of the 'good Thomas Sutton,' by Nicholas Stone; and, towards the conclusion of the same era, lived Francis Bird, a native of London, whose labours, however, only show the miserable state of art. Sculpture has never been practised as a separate branch in the early history of Scotland, who appears to have obtained her masters rather from France than Italy. In both countries, our first historians have been most culpably remiss in attention to the progress of native art. On the present occasion, to attempt a detailed account of the scattered notices they have left us, or, what might prove still more satisfactory, an examination of the rich remains we possess, would be irrelevant, as we touch merely upon the general history of the arts, in which our own isolated labours, even at best, form only an episode.

Not till towards the conclusion of the last century can there properly be said to have existed a school of British sculpture. Cibber, Roubilac, Scheemakers, Carlini, Locatelli, Rysbrack—all the sculptors who flourished in England during the greater part of the eighteenth century, were foreigners. It is well that the fame of our good and our brave finds a memorial in the records of history, and in the breasts of their countrymen, more worthy of their virtues than these men have often erected, in the noblest, too, of our temples. Now, British worth can be commemorated by British art. Our native school of Sculpture may be considered as commencing with Banks, born in 1738, died in 1805; for Wilton, as an artist, was educated abroad. In power of modelling few have excelled Banks, whose name merits eulogium, and is mentioned by foreign writers as among the very few at Rome, who, previous to the appearance of Canova, presented in their works the dawnings of reviving art. Bacon, born in 1740, was in every respect an English artist, and we may almost say self-taught. In simplicity his works have great merit; they are often wanting in feeling. Bacon was not unacquainted with the literature of his art. Proctor and Deare died too early for the arts, after they had given evidence of the highest abilities. Deare has indeed left works, young as he was, not surpassed by any in modern art. We approach our more immediate contemporaries with respectful diffidence, and shall touch only upon the merits of those who are removed from the effects of praise or censure. Nollekins knew his art, but wanted science, dignity, and fancy. Flaxman belongs to posterity, and has more widely extended the influence of his genius—more intimately connected his labours with general improvement, than any other English sculptor. Towards the propitious revolution which rescued the arts from utter imbecility, in the latter end of last century, he largely contributed, by his learned, powerful, and simple style. From 1787 to 1794, he continued in Italy; and had his sojourn been longer, he would have divided not unequal honors with the great reformer of taste. This is known and acknowledged by the intelligent critics of that country, of whom one of the most judicious, Count Cicognara, thus writes:—'To Flaxman our obligations are very great, since, as far as our acquaintance with his works extends, they served nobly to elevate from a certain monotonous lethargy, and to create afresh, that taste for the severe and golden style of antiquity, which he applied to his own inventions.' From his youth, Flaxman was distinguished by the strength of his genius, by devotion to the study of the ancient models, and by fearless but judicious disregard of those conventional affectations by which art was disgraced. He was among the first, if not the earliest, to awaken the long dormant energies of sculpture, to unite anew art with nature. The simple and the grand of antiquity he made his own; nor, since the best ages of Greece, do we anywhere find, in the works mentioned in these pages, greater meaning, more deep feeling of truth, with less pomp of art, than in the sculpture of Flaxman. The wonderful designs from Homer, the statues of Mr Pitt and Sir Joshua Reynolds, the monuments of Montague, Howe, and Nelson, the group of Michael and Satan, will alone fully justify this character. If, in the works of this master, a defect may be pointed out, it is an excess of the severe and simple, which nearly approaches to harshness. Surpassing both Canova and Thorwaldsen in the loftiness of his conceptions, and perhaps in classic purity of taste, in the graces of composition, and the facilities of modelling, he is inferior to the former. But in all that constitutes the epic of the art, Flaxman is not surpassed.

We must omit with regret, though not unadmired, the names of living English artists. To their honor be it remarked, that, at this moment, in rectitude and sobriety of precept, in the walk which has hitherto been followed, where nothing is yet to be unlearned, and which must infallibly conduct to higher perfection, no school in Europe can boast of happier auspices, of more vigorous practice, nor of sounder principles, than the British school of Sculpture. In Italy, the numerous—we may say universal—imitators of Canova, appear to be following, with exaggerated effect, the only failing towards which his style inclines—elaborate grace. In Germany, the art languishes for want of encouragement. Sculpture is more pre-eminently the nursling of freedom. The French sculptors are, at the present time, more distinguished for science than for feeling or invention. They want individuality of character in their works; the symmetry and proportions, the mechanical art of antiquity, their chisel has transferred,—but the sentiment, the essence which unites art with nature, which breathes into Grecian statuary the breath of life, has escaped. It is a singular fact, that from the school formed under the empire, while the most valued treasures of existing art were collected in the French capital, not a sculptor, hardly one artist of eminence, has issued. The cause is plain. These monuments were torn from their resting places by the hand of violence; they were viewed by a vain and mistaken people as the trophies of victory; but they were never venerated with that enthusiastic yet humble devotion, with which the disciple regards the sources of knowledge. During a shorter period, how different have been the effects of our own unsullied and bloodless collection. Since the public exposition of the Phidian Marbles, in particular, every department of taste has been improved, and every artist has been ready to exclaim, with the late venerable president, that till he saw these works, he was ignorant how much of his art he had yet to learn. Let the British sculptor, then, continue in the same principles as have heretofore guided his practice; let him follow nature, and these the noblest remains of art in existence, and he must excel. Sculpture seems especially calculated to flourish amongst us. The grave and manly character of the art agrees with the tone of national genius, harmonizes with our free institutions, and may find in our history sources of the brightest inspiration.

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THE FINE ARTS.