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place and nonsense. So that it is not simply, as Mr. Locke observed, That there are not so many wrong opinions in the world as is generally imagined, for most people have no opinion at all, but take up with those of others, or with mere hearsay and echoes;" but these echoes are often false ones, and no more like the original idea than the rhyming echoes in 'Hudibras,' or than Slender's mum and budget.

N. But don't you think the contrary extreme would be just as bad—if every one set up to judge for himself, and every question was split into an endless variety of opinions?

H. I do not see that this would follow. If persons who are sincere and free to inquire differ widely on any subject, it is because it is beyond their reach, and there is no satisfactory evidence one way or the other. Supposing a thing to be doubtful, why should it not be left so? But men's passions and interests, when brought into play, are most tenacious on those points, where their understandings afford them least light. Those doctrines are established which need propping up, as men place beams against falling houses. It does not require an Act of Parliament to persuade mathematicians to agree with Euclid, or painters to admire Raphael.

N. And don't you think this the best rule for the rest of the world to go by?

H. Yes; but not if the doctors themselves differed; then it would be necessary to clench the nail with a few smart strokes of bigotry and intolerance. What admits of proof men agree in, if they have no interest to the contrary; what they differ about, in spite of all that can be said, is matter of taste or conjecture.

Conversation the Eighteenth.

N. OPIE, I remember, used to argue that there were as many different sorts of taste as genius. He said, "If I am engaged on a picture, and endeavour to do it according to the suggestions of my employers, I do not understand exactly what they want, nor they what I can do, and I please no one; but if I do it according to my own notions I belong to a class, and if I am able to satisfy myself I please that class." You did not know Opie? You would have admired him greatly. I do not speak of him as an artist, but as a man of sense and observation. He paid me the compliment of saying, "that we should have been the best friends in the world if we had not been rivals." I think he had more of this feeling than I had, perhaps because I had most vanity. We sometimes got into foolish altercations. I recollect once in particular, at a banker's in the City, we took up the whole of dinner-time with a ridiculous controversy about Milton and Shakspeare. I am sure we neither of us had the least notion which was right; and when I was heartily ashamed of it, a foolish citizen who was present added to my confusion by saying, "Lord! what would I give to hear two such men as you talk every day!" This quite humbled me; I was ready to sink with vexation; I could have resolved never to open my mouth again. But I can't help thinking W- was wrong in supposing I borrow everything from others. It is not my character. I never could learn my lesson at school. My copy was hardly legible; but if there was a prize to be obtained, or my father was to see it, then I could write a very fine hand, with all the usual flourishes. What I know of history (and something about heraldry) has been gathered up, when I had to inquire into the subject for a picture; if it had been set me as a task, I

should have forgotten it immediately. In the same way when Boydell came and proposed a subject for a picture to me, and pointed out the capabilities, I always said I could make nothing of it; but as soon as he was gone, and I was left to myself, the whole then seemed to unfold itself naturally. I never could study the rules of composition, or make sketches and drawings beforehand; in this, probably, running into the opposite error to that of the modern Italian painters, whom Fuseli reproaches with spending their whole lives in preparation. I must begin at once or I can do nothing. When I set about the Wat Tyler,' I was frightened at it; it was the largest work I had ever undertaken; there were to be horses and armour, and buildings, and several groups in it; when I looked at it, the canvas seemed ready to fall upon me. But I had committed myself, and I could not escape; disgrace was behind me, and every step I made in advance was so much positively gained. If I had stayed to make a number of designs and try different experiments, I never should have had the courage to go on. Half the things that people do not succeed in are through fear of making the attempt. Like the recruit in Farquhar's comedy, you grow wondrous bold when you have once taken " list-money." When you must do a thing, you feel in some measure that you can do it. You have only to commit yourself beyond retreat. It is like the soldier going into battle, or a player first appearing on the stage: the worst is over when they arrive upon the scene of action.

H. I found nearly the same thing that you describe, when I first began to write for the newspapers. I had not till then been in the habit of writing at all, or had been a long time about it; but I perceived that with the necessity the fluency came. Something I did took; and I was called upon to do a number of things all at I was in the middle of the stream, and must sink

once.

or swim. I had, for instance, often a theatrical criticism to write after midnight, which appeared the next morning. There was no fault found with it-at least it was as good as if I had had to do it for a weekly paper. I only did it at once, and recollected all I had to say on the spot, because I could not put it off for three days, when perhaps I should have forgotten the best part of it. Besides, when one is pressed for time, one saves it. I might set down nearly all I had to say in my mind while the play was going on. I know I did not feel at a loss for matter-the difficulty was to compress and write it out fast enough. When you are tied to time you can come to time. I conceive in like manner more wonder is expressed at extempore speaking than it is entitled to. Not to mention that the same well-known topics continually recur, and that the speakers may con their extempore speeches over beforehand, and merely watch. their opportunity to slide them in dexterously into the grand procession of the debate, a man when once on his legs must say something, and this is the utmost that a public speaker generally says. If he has anything good to say, he can recollect it just as well at once as in a week's literary leisure, as well standing up as sitting down, except from habit. We are not surprised at a man's telling us his thoughts across a table: why should we be so at his doing the same thing when mounted on one? But he excites more attention: that gives him a double motive. A man's getting up to make a speech in public will not give him a command of words or thoughts if he is without them; but he may be delivered of all the brilliancy or wisdom he actually possesses, in a longer or a shorter space, according to the occasion. The circumstance of the time is optional; necessity, if it be not the mother of invention, supplies us with the memory of all we know.

N. (After a pause.) There is no end of the bigotry and

prejudice in the world; one can only shrug one's shoulders and submit to it. Have you seen the copies they have got down at the club-house in Pall Mall of the groups of horses from the Elgin Marbles? Lord! how inferior they are to Rubens'! So stiff and poor and dry, compared to his magnificent spirit and bold luxuriance! I should not know them to be horses; they are as much like anything else. I was at Somerset House the other day. They talk of the Dutch painters; why, there are pictures there of interiors and other subjects of familiar life, that throw all the boasted chefs-d'œuvre of the Dutch School to an immeasurable distance. I do not speak of history, which has not been fairly tried; but in all for which there has been encouragement, no nation can go beyond us. We have resources and a richness of capacity equal to any undertaking.

H. Do you recollect any in particular that you admired at the Exhibition?

allows it.

N. No, I do not remember the names; but it was a general sense of excellence and truth of imitation of natural objects. As to lofty history, our religion scarcely The Italians had no more genius for painting nor a greater love of pictures than we; but the Church was the foster-mother of the fine arts. Being the most politic and powerful establishment in the world, they laid their hands on all that could allure and impress the minds of the people-music, painting, architecture, ceremonies; and this produced a succession of great artists and noble works till the churches were filled, and then they ceased. The genius of Italian art was nothing but the genius of Popery. God forbid we should purchase success at the same price! Everything at Rome is like a picture—is calculated for show. I remember walking through one of the bye-streets near the Vatican, where I met some procession in which the Pope was; and all at once I saw a number of the most beautiful Arabian