Sidney and Junius on Poetry and Painting: From the Margins to the Center [1 ed.] 9780845346082, 9780874139822

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Sidney and Junius on Poetry and Painting

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Sidney and Junius on Poetry and Painting From the Margins to the Center

Judith Dundas

Newark: University of Delaware Press

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䉷 2007 by Rosemont Publishing & Printing Corp. All rights reserved. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use, or the internal or personal use of specific clients, is granted by the copyright owner, provided that a base fee of $10.00, plus eight cents per page, per copy is paid directly to the Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, Massachusetts 01923. [978-0-87413-982-2/07 $10.00 Ⳮ 8¢ pp, pc.]

Associated University Presses 2010 Eastpark Boulevard Cranbury, NJ 08512

The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials. Z39.48-1984.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Dundas, Judith, 1927– Sidney and Junius on poetry and painting : from the margins to the center / Judith Dundas. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978-0-87413-982-2 (alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-87413-982-1 (alk. paper) 1. Ut pictura poesis (Aesthetics)—Early works to 1800. 2. Sidney, Philip, Sir, 1554–1586. Arcadia. 3. Junius, Franciscus, 1589–1677. De pictura veterum libri tres. English. I. Title. NX175.D86 2007 700.1—dc22 2006101703

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In Memoriam Philipp Fehl

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Qui per omnem aetatem/Sine querela aut injuria cuiusquam/ Musis, tantum et sibi vacavit. Throughout his whole life he did no offence or injury to any man, and he applied himself only to the Muses and to his own soul. Inscription on the tablet to Junius in St. George’s Chapel, Windsor

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Contents List of Illustrations Preface Acknowledgments Note to the Reader Introduction 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

9 11 15 17 21

The Art of Annotation English Poets and the Defense of Art The Painted Poetry of Ovid The Playfulness of Ancient Poets The Laws of Nature and the Laws of Art The Wit of Narrative The Enriching of Memory and the Unity of the Arts

Appendix 1 Longinus Appendix 2 The Philostrati and Callistratus Notes Bibliography Index

39 58 83 109 134 166 196 227 234 247 272 284

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List of Illustrations Title Page of Franciscus Junius, The Painting of the Ancients 22 Fig. 2 Daniel Mytens, Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel 24 Fig. 3 Tablet to Franciscus Junius, by Thomas Wood of Oxford 27 Fig. 4 Anthony Van Dyck, Franciscus Junius 28 Fig. 5 Franciscus Junius, The Painting of the Ancients 31 Fig. 6 Daniel Mytens, Alathea, Countess of Arundel 35 Fig. 7 Title Page of Sir Philip Sidney, The Countesse of Pembrokes Arcadia 47 Fig. 8(a) and (b) Sir Philip Sidney, The Countesse of Pembrokes Arcadia 111–12 Fig. 9 Sir Philip Sidney, The Countesse of Pembrokes Arcadia 158 Fig. 10 Sir Philip Sidney, The Countesse of Pembrokes Arcadia 170 Fig. 1

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Preface THIS BOOK EVOLVED IN RATHER UNEXPECTED WAYS. MY FIRST INFORmation about Junius’s annotations to Sidney came from Philipp Fehl, to whose memory this book is dedicated. He had himself learned of the annotations from Ph. H. Breuker of Leiden University. But the ultimate source was Rolf Bremmer Jr., who had been identifying Junius’s hand in the volumes that formed part of the Isaac Vossius library, purchased by Leiden University in 1689. Long considered annotated by Vossius, the Sidney volume had not attracted any particular notice. Once the annotations were identified as the work of Franciscus Junius, the famous scholar of Germanic philology and author of an important treatise on the visual arts, both Philipp Fehl and I saw the potential for a new insight into Sidney’s works, as well as into their reception in the seventeenth century. As soon as possible, I set off to Leiden to examine this new find. On that occasion, I met, very briefly, Rolf Bremmer, who had arranged a symposium on Junius to take place within a few months, in 1992. A little later, he invited me to contribute an article on the Sidney annotations to a volume that would contain the papers from the symposium, with the title Franciscus Junius F.F. and His Circle. From the beginning, I viewed Junius’s annotations as providing a kind of gloss on his treatise, The Painting of the Ancients (1638). To relate these two became central to my interpretation. Originally, I had no thought of writing anything other than an article, but by the time it was finished, I realized that this was a subject for a book, not simply an article. The study of marginalia has become increasingly important to scholars. Heather Jackson in her book Marginalia: Readers Writing in Books (2001) says: ‘‘Given the recent shift from the writer to the reader and to the production, dissemination, and reception of texts, marginalia of all periods would appear to be potentially a goldmine for scholars.’’ From Junius’s annotations to Sidney, 11

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we learn not only about one reader’s response at a time— probably 1621–36—close to that of Sidney himself, but also, we acquire a great deal of information that might otherwise be overlooked even by the most diligent of modern scholars. I refer specifically to the sources and analogues for Sidney’s New Arcadia. Since the same ancient authors appear in The Painting of the Ancients (1638), my book relates the annotations to Junius’s treatise. It is significant that the only modern poet he cites is Sidney; he not only quotes directly, but he also incorporates in his text other Sidney quotations without acknowledgment. My purpose in this book is to explore Sidney’s and Junius’s thinking about the arts, specifically the relationship between poetry and painting, the central concern of the theory of classical art as interpreted in the Renaissance. My approach is historical in that it assumes a common psychology—so-called faculty psychology—as the basis for a particular theory of art. According to this psychology, which compartmentalizes functions of the human mind, the imagination was viewed, in the words of Frances Yates, as ‘‘a lower power of the soul which is also the gateway to higher understanding.’’1 For Sidney and Junius, this is the realm of the arts, where they both have their origin and exercise their capacity to alter a person’s very being. It is open to any critic to emphasize the differences between the sister arts of poetry and painting, or the similarities. Junius chose the latter course of recognizing similarities between these arts, based on their common origin in the imaginations of poet and painter, reader and viewer. This emphasis on the imagination marks him off both from his predecessors and his contemporaries. Elizabeth Cropper, discussing Junius’s influence on Bellori, notes that he ‘‘considered the role of the fantasy, or the imaginative faculty as he often calls it, more fully than any other writer on art.’’2 At the same time, with the whole classical tradition to draw on, Juniuus did not feel the need for a rigorous theoretical justification for his approach. In this, he differs from many modern critics.3 The word ‘‘image’’ presents no difficulties of interpretation for him. What matters is the image in the mind, rather than its verbal or painted equivalent. If the significance of the word ‘‘image’’ is not questioned, neither is the morality of art as understood by Sidney and Junius. To repeat, the chief benefit of studying these annotations is that they make it possible to learn how a reader close in time to Sidney

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would have read his text and how, in turn, this text became involved in the writing of a treatise on the art of painting. With the 1998 publication of Bremmer’s volume, my original article on the subject finally appeared. My own delays in completing my book have less excuse in that I allowed myself to be drawn in other directions than those strictly concerned with Sidney and Junius. Throughout, the labyrinths in which I have wandered have doubtless enriched my study of the Renaissance. My main regret is that Philipp Fehl, who died in 2000, did not live to give me the benefit of his profound knowledge of Junius’s great work on the classical theory of art and to see the completion of a project in which he fervently believed. To his shade, I would say, this book was never intended to be an exhaustive study of Junius’s annotations to Sidney. Referring to his own work, in the conclusion to his two versions of De pictura veterum, Junius wrote: ‘‘in the forest where these passages are to be captured, the darkness is deeper than usual and there are no well-trodden paths to take us where we want to go.’’ The metaphor applies equally to the following chapters, which consist of a series of forays into a vast, unexplored wilderness with a secret order of its own.

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Acknowledgments MY GREATEST DEBT IS TO THE LATE PHILIPP FEHL. IT IS HE WHO MADE me aware of the singular importance of Junius’s The Painting of the Ancients. Through the edition of this work that he, together with Keith Aldrich and Raina Fehl, prepared, a new and richer understanding of its originality became available to all who are interested in the classical theory of art. Among the libraries that have made my work possible are: the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Library; the University of Leiden Library; the Bodleian Library; the British Library; the Warburg Institute. I thank the staff of each of them for their kind assistance. I also wish to thank the Research Board of the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign for support of my research. For inspiriting conversations about my work, I thank Wallace Maurer. Finally, I owe special thanks to the classics librarian at the University of Illinois Library, Bruce Swann. He has helped me not only with translations but has read my work with a knowledge and insight for which I am grateful. Three of my articles contributed to this book. I thank the International Journal of the Classical Tradition 3 (1996): 159–70, for use of my article ‘‘Franciscus Junius and the Painted Poetry of Ovid,’’ in chapter 3; Etudes Anglaises 51 (1998): 3–16, for use of a portion of my article ‘‘Spenser and the Literature of Art in Renaissance England.’’ The other article, ‘‘ ‘A Mutuall Emulation’: Sidney and The Painting of the Ancients,’’ is a preliminary overview of the relationship between the Sidney annotations and Junius’s treatise. It appeared in a volume, Franciscus Junius F.F. and His Circle (1998), 71–92, edited by Rolf Bremmer Jr. I thank the editor and the publisher, Rodopi, for permission to draw upon this article for examples used in this book. Rolf Bremmer has been an unfailing source of encouragement. By his invitation to contribute to this volume, he inadvertently initiated the project that resulted in the present book. His former student, Sophie van 15

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Romburgh, who has published the complete letters of Junius, has kindly shared some of her knowledge with me. I am particularly grateful to Ingrid Rowland for her thoughtful reading of my manuscript. She raised questions that have helped me to clarify my own thinking on my subject.

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Note to the Reader TRANSLATIONS FROM ANCIENT AUTHORS ARE TAKEN FROM THE LOEB editions, unless otherwise indicated. The letters i/j and u/v have been normalized throughout. The accent marks in Junius’s marginalia have been omitted. Italics used for poems in the Arcadia are omitted, as they are for passages quoted from Alexander Gill’s Logonomia. The following abbreviations are used parenthetically: Franciscus Junius, The Painting of the Ancients: P, followed by numerals to indicate book, chapter, and section. Junius’s copy of Sidney’s Arcadia: A, followed by the page number. Junius’s copy of Sidney’s Defence of Poesie: D, followed by the page number.

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Sidney and Junius on Poetry and Painting

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Introduction FRANCISCUS JUNIUS THE YOUNGER (1591–1677) IS FAMOUS AS VIRTUally the founder of Germanic philology. In particular, he is among the first to restore a knowledge of Anglo-Saxon poetry to the world. But he also composed an important treatise on the art of painting as it is viewed in ancient literature. It is the relationship between this book and his annotations to Sir Philip Sidney’s works that is the focus of the following chapters. The discovery of Junius’s annotations to Sidney’s works in a volume in the University of Leiden Library is of signal importance.1 Until recently, these were believed to be by Isaac Vossius, Junius’s nephew, who had inherited a large number of books that originally belonged to his uncle and that were later bought by the University of Leiden Library in 1689. 2 Thanks to the diligence of scholars at Leiden, especially Rolf Bremmer, a number of Junius’s books—some three dozen—have been identified. To Bremmer I owe the discovery of a volume that reveals not only Junius’s knowledge of Sidney and response to him but also one that illuminates Sidney’s own reading and rhetorical concerns. In Junius’s treatise, The Painting of the Ancients (1638), the only modern poet cited by name is Sidney, ‘‘a noble and famous Poet,’’ along with a direct quotation from his Arcadia (fig. 1). There are also unacknowledged quotations from Sidney that confirm the importance of this English poet to the writer of the influential treatise on the representational arts.3 The connection between the two writers is further underlined by the fact that many of the same ancient authors appear both in the annotations to the Arcadia and in the body of Junius’s treatise. The relationship between Junius and Sidney may well antedate the annotations. It so happens that Junius’s father, who was himself a noted Hebraist and whose edition of the Bible, on which he and Emanuel Tremellius cooperated, is mentioned in Sidney’s Defence of Poesie. The elder Junius also dedicated his Grammatica Hebraeae Linguae (1580) to Sidney,4 so that there was al21

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Fig. 1 Title Page of Franciscus Junius, The Painting of the Ancients, London, 1638. University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.

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ready, so to speak, a family relationship between the Juniuses and Sidney; it may help to account for the unusual attention that the younger Junius gave to the works of the English poet. Though born after Sidney’s death, which occurred in Holland in 1586, he would certainly have been familiar with this ‘‘noble and famous Poet’’ by reputation. Indeed, Sidney’s contacts with Leiden humanists were such that when he died, they published a volume of forty Latin poems in his memory: Epitaphia in mortem Philippi Sidneji (1587).5 In any case, Junius must have seen in Sidney’s Defence of Poesie a model for his own defense of painting, and in the Arcadia, a model of the kind of pictorial fiction that justified the analogy between painting and poetry, which lies behind his whole treatise. For the story of how Junius came to write this treatise, we must trace the broad outlines of his life.6 Born in 1591, in Heidelberg, he belonged to a generation of scholars forced to leave their countries by religious controversy. This particular category of refugees often ended up as librarians to monarchs and noblemen. Among them were Jean Verneuil (1583?–1647), sublibrarian at Bodley’s; Isaac Vossius (1619–89), adviser and book collector; Henri Justel (1620–93), royal librarian; Paul Colomiez (1638– 92), librarian at Lambeth Palace Library; and Elie Bouhe´reau (1643–1719), Marsh’s librarian, Dublin.7 Despite England’s own religious controversies, scholars from more troubled countries could, at least before the outbreak of the Civil War, lead a life of relative peace there as librarians. Junius was fortunate in becoming librarian to the Earl of Arundel, thereby having access to a splendid library and an art collection surpassed in England only by the monarch’s (fig. 2). Throughout his life, Junius sought ‘‘retirednesse’’ in order to pursue what was important to him: the relationship of languages to one another, literature in all its forms, and all expressions of the classical past as they constituted the cultural heritage of the Europe he knew. Citing Ovid, he writes in his Painting that ‘‘not Poets only, but such also as meane to reade Poets with good attention, and such likewise as desire to looke upon choice Pictures, and excellent Statues with a sound judgement . . . have great need of retirednesse.’’ He goes on to say that the reason for ‘‘retirednesse’’ is that ‘‘solitary and silent places doe mightily helpe and nourish our Phantasie, the only means Artificers doe worke, and lovers of Art doe judge by.’’8

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Fig. 2 Daniel Mytens, Thomas Howard, 2nd Earl of Arundel (1618), National Portrait Gallery, London.

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Junius’s father, Franciscus Junius the Elder, had himself led the life of a refugee. Forced to flee from his home in France, he lived in Geneva and studied with eminent Protestants, such as Calvin, Theodore Beza, and Jean Crespin. After an appointment to Antwerp as a pastor, he once again had to flee, this time to Heidelberg, where the Younger Junius was born. From there he answered a call to Leiden, where famous scholars, from Joseph Justus Scaliger to Justus Lipsius, Hugo Grotius, and Gerhard Vossius, gave luster to the university. Vossius, having married Junius’s half-sister and having moved to Dordrecht as rector, invited the Younger Junius to that city to continue his studies. These were later completed at Leiden University, in philosophy, mathematics, oriental languages, biblical exegesis, and theology. In 1615, the younger Franciscus spent three months in England, practicing his English and learning about the English church. Here is the beginning of his love for England, which was to continue for the rest of his life. But, still uncertain where his destiny lay, he, like his father before him, became a clergyman, and, like his father, was forced by religious controversy to leave his clerical post, in Hillegersberg, in 1619. After a short time in France, he proceeded to England; there he was introduced into the household of the Earl of Arundel by Lancelot Andrewes and William Laud, later archbishop of Canterbury. By 1621, Junius was librarian to the earl. In joining the circle of this nobleman, he was destined to play a part in the exhilarating world of collecting and commissioning works of art that characterized the first part of the seventeenth century in England. Among those whose paths he would cross were Inigo Jones, the greatest architect and stage designer of the day, and the celebrated Flemish painters, Rubens and Van Dyck. Henceforth art in all its dimensions was to complement his theological and linguistic studies. It was also here, in the library of the earl with its huge manuscript collection—550 titles in all—that Junius’s philological work in the Germanic languages began. Besides acting as librarian to Arundel, Junius served as tutor to his younger son, William Howard, later Viscount Stafford. In this capacity, he encountered another of William’s tutors, Henry Peacham, who dedicated his book The Compleat Gentleman in its enlarged edition of 1634 to William. In the period from 1541 to 1647, Junius also acted as tutor to the young earl of Oxford and to Arundel’s grandsons. But he still found time, from around

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1645, to develop his study of Anglo-Saxon and the Germanic languages, an activity that would occupy him for the remainder of his life, both in England and in the Netherlands. Among his important contributions to this field are his Etymologicum Anglicanum (not published until 1743) and his edition of Ulfilas’s translation of the Gospels into Gothic. For a classical scholar, all this work shows a breadth of linguistic interest that is remarkable in any era. In keeping with his growing interest in vernacular languages and out of loyalty to his Dutch heritage, he published his translation of his De pictura veterum into Dutch in 1641. He also increasingly wrote to his correspondents either in Dutch or in English, rather than in his customary Latin.9 After 1642, with the Arundels living abroad to escape civil unrest at home, Junius lived primarily in the Netherlands. Although much occupied with his philological work, he continued to add to his De pictura veterum. As part of this enlarged edition, he included a Catalogus. Besides the more theoretical account of the place and function of painting, both for the individual and for society, Junius had planned from the beginning a catalog of ancient artists, including mythical and biblical ones, and of artifacts. Just as he was adding to his De pictura veterum throughout his life, so he was adding to his Catalogus. After his death, the enlarged De pictura, together with the Catalogus, were published by Joannes Graevius in 1694. In 1675, Junius returned to England to prepare his bequest of 122 books and manuscripts to the Bodleian Library in Oxford. He died at Windsor, at the home of his nephew, Isaac Vossius, who was then a canon in the royal chapel.10 There, in 1677, at the age of eighty-six, Junius found his last resting place after a lifetime of ceaseless scholarly activity (fig. 3), but one not without the pleasures of friendship and close family ties. His portrait by Van Dyck still commemorates him in the Bodleian Library (fig. 4). It is the source of various engraved portraits, including those reproduced in the Dutch and posthumous editions of his treatise on painting. While Junius’s fame as a philologist has tended to overshadow this treatise, its influence on subsequent art theorists in England and in France through the last part of the seventeenth century and down through the eighteenth century was considerable. In France, it helped to inspire Roland Fre´art de Chambray, Roger de Piles, and Andre´ Fe´libien; in Italy, Carlo Dati and Giovanni

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Fig. 3 Tablet to Franciscus Junius, by Thomas Wood of Oxford, St. George’s Chapel, Windsor, 1680. Photo: Martin Andrews.

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Fig. 4 Anthony Van Dyck, Franciscus Junius (1640), Lane Poole Portrait 151, Bodleian Library, Oxford University.

Bellori; in England, William Aglionby and William Sanderson, and, later, Jonathan Richardson and Sir Joshua Reynolds; in the Netherlands, Willem Goeree and Gerard de Lairesse.11 Yet, given modern reluctance to take seriously the language of the classical tradition in the praise and evaluation of art, comparatively little effort has been made to grasp the premises on which Junius’s De pictura veterum (1637) and his English translation, The Painting of the Ancients (1638), rest. At the request of his

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patron, the Earl of Arundel, who collected not only manuscripts but also statues and pictures,12 he had undertaken to bring together everything the ancients had to say about the visual arts— everything, that is, encompassed by the word pictura. Reading over virtually the whole corpus of classical literature, he transferred to painting many comments originally made about poetry and oratory. In so doing, Junius is in the company of other Renaissance writers on art, such as Alberti, Armenini, Dolce, and Lomazzo, who found a vocabulary and a method of analysis in ancient writers. Whether he knew the writings of other humanist art theorists firsthand, or not, Junius, like them, sought a means of discussing artistic principles. The ancients themselves left no theory of art;13 Renaissance art theorists had to reconstruct a classical tradition through analogy with rhetorical texts. It is difficult to know how well acquainted Junius was with such writers, since he does not refer to them directly,14 but it is as if he were going behind the theory to its sources in classical antiquity. Did he have to know the theory in order to go behind it? Not necessarily, since he had virtually the whole corpus of ancient writers to draw on. He is more thorough and systematic in his use of these writers; he is also innovative in equating painting and poetry on the basis of their common origin in the imagination. In the conclusion to his two Latin editions—the second, the posthumous edition of 1694—Junius justifies this procedure as follows: ‘‘And who . . . will take it upon himself to disparage this work, because, by means of a slight verbal change, I have applied passages of Cicero, Horace, and Quintilian from oratory or the art of poetry to the visual arts? Surely such a person has little comprehension of the close affinity which joins these arts one to another.’’15 He was, of course, following the practice of these writers themselves, each of whom makes use of analogies drawn from the visual arts in order to speak of the literary art. It is evident that for Junius, as for the times in which he lived, the vocabulary of art criticism was much more limited than the vocabulary of literary criticism, and it was only natural for writers on art to take what they could from the more developed study of classical rhetoric. They could not have done so without the bedrock conviction that there is what Junius calls ‘‘an affinitie . . . between Poesie and Picture.’’ Ut pictura poesis was not merely a conventional

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analogy but a living reality.16 Both kinds of art had the imitation of nature as their goal, a discoverable truth, which, if it cannot always be explained, is the ordering of human experience in terms of a hierarchy of values. Citing the ancient authors, Junius necessarily approaches painting as an art mediated by words. His purpose is not to appeal to ordinary craftsmen, but to great artists, who pursue perfection through the mind as well as through the hand and eye. Yet the reality of art’s achievement lay not only in the words of ancient authors but, for Junius, in the art collection formed by the Earl of Arundel. So great was the fame of this collection that Henry Peacham, who had served as tutor to the earl’s youngest son, included a reference to it in his Compleat Gentleman of 1634 when he added the chapter ‘‘Of Antiquities.’’ Speaking of the demand for ancient statues, he notes, ‘‘And here I cannot but with much reverence, mention the every way Right honourable Thomas Howard Lord High Marshall of England, as great for his noble patronage of Arts and ancient learning, as for his birth and place. To whose liberall charges and magnificence, this angle of the world oweth the first sight of Greeke and Romane Statues, with whose admired presence he began to honour the Gardens and Galleries of Arundel-House about twentie yeeres agoe, and hath ever since continued to transplant old Greece into England.’’17 In another passage, Peacham praises Arundel House as ‘‘the chiefe English scene of ancient Inscriptions, which Master John Selden (the best and learnedst Antiquary in this Kingdome) hath collected together under the title of Marmora Arundeliana. You shall finde all the walles of the house inlayde with them, and speaking Greeke and Latine to you. The Garden especially will affoord you the pleasure of a world of learned Lectures in this kinde.’’18 It is against this background that we must set Junius’s De pictura veterum. From one point of view, it is an antiquarian work, and Junius deals with art more as he has read about it than as he has seen it. Nonetheless, his eloquence reveals a passionate concern with what constitutes the excellence of art. Like Peacham, he refers to Arundel House as a great center for the study of the antique. He notes the collection of drawings and the engraved or etched copies that Arundel commissioned from Lucas Vosterman, Wenceslaus Hollar, and Hendrick van der Borcht to make his collection available to all: ‘‘The matchlesse collection of designes

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made by my Lord of Arundell serveth here for a sufficient proofe: seeing our Honourable Lord out of his noble and art-cherishing minde, doth at this present expose these jewells of art to the publike view in the Academie at Arundell-house’’(P 3.2.12). In a presentation copy of The Painting of the Ancients, now in the British Library, Junius has bracketed this passage and made a marginal note, in the same hand as in the Sidney annotations: ‘‘these words are misplaced here, and are to be set at the margent of the two or three last lines in the 270 page’’ (fig. 5).19 Interestingly, he intended the reference to the Earl of Arundel to be marginal only, beside his discussion of the value of drawings: ’’they do not onely perceive in these naked and undisguised lineaments

Fig. 5 Franciscus Junius, The Painting of the Ancients, London, 1638. British Library, G.2674, p. 271.

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what beauties and force there is in a good and proportionable designe, but they doe likewise see in them the very thoughts of the studious Artificer, and how he did bestire his judgment before he could resolve what to like and what to dislike.’’ No doubt, he did not wish to make a gratuitous compliment to the earl part of the main body of his text, for that would weaken the objectivity of his whole argument. But he did want to stress the value of preparatory drawings as not only beautiful in themselves but as revealing the working out of an artist’s invention. It almost seems as if Junius had been reading Vasari here. In the latter’s Life of Titian, the comment is made that ‘‘the painter must first do various sketches on paper to see how everything goes together. The idea which the artist has in his mind must be translated into what the eyes can see, and only then, with the assistance of his eyes, can the artist form a sound judgement concerning the inventions he has conceived.’’20 Still, although he makes references analogous to what may be called Renaissance art theory, such as his allusion to Horace’s ‘‘si vis me flere’’ (Ars poet 102–3), Junius makes no mention of any contemporary writers on art. His chosen subject—what the ancients thought and believed and said about the visual arts—meant that even his reference to the Earl of Arundel’s collection of drawings had to be placed in the margin. According to D. E. L. Haynes, Arundel House, ‘‘At its greatest extent’’ had a sculpture collection of ‘‘no less than thirty-seven statues, one hundred and twenty-eight busts and two hundred and fifty inscriptions, as well as a large number of sarcophagi, altars and fragments.’’ And, Haynes adds, ‘‘The sculpture was, of course, only part of what the house could boast. There was a collection of paintings and drawings unrivalled in England except by that of the King himself.’’ There were also, besides the rare manuscripts and incunabula of the Pirckheimer library, ‘‘the gems, coins and medals of the celebrated ’cabinet ’ of Daniel Mys.’’21 In this environment, antiquity had a new and exciting role to play. But Junius was not dedicated to an antiquarian pursuit only; like Vasari, he wished to provide the artists of his own day with an account of their lineage and aspirations. To this end, he sent copies of his book to Rubens and Van Dyck.22 If Rubens, in his letter of thanks, expressed the wish that Junius might go on to deal with modern masters, in the same manner as he had dealt with those of the past, this is not to denigrate Junius’s achieve-

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ment, but rather to pay him the compliment of spurring him on to a consideration of the extent to which these modern artists had fulfilled the dreams of antiquity as expressed in such famous stories as those of Apelles, Zeuxis, or Phidias. Three strands of humanist art criticism are present in Junius’s treatise: the Plinian history of progress in the arts; the ekphrastic description of works of art, including praise or blame; and the Ciceronian analogy between literature and the visual arts, with an emphasis on composition and order.23 The Plinian history of ancient art, and its summaries in Cicero and Quintilian, provides a paradigm by which to judge the works of Renaissance artists.24 Of these three strands, however, the ekphrastic and the Ciceronian link Junius’s marginalia and his treatise. The Plinian, important as it is in Painting, and in other Renaissance treatises on art, for describing the artistic achievements of the ancients, especially the imitation of nature, does not have a role in the marginalia for the Arcadia, where the arts already belong to an ideal world of beauty. Junius was writing for all lovers of art. In his dedication of De pictura veterum to Charles I, he describes himself as one lacking the ability to relish the delights of the visual arts with his eyes— ‘‘for they must be educated and well trained for the purpose’’— and therefore he resolved that ‘‘I must look at what matters with my mind’s eye.’’25 Although not himself a connoisseur, he can point to the principles of good art as a guide to those who wish to learn more about its appreciation. He uses the expression ‘‘learned eyes’’ to distinguish those who understand what they are seeing from those who do not. He brings these same ‘‘learned eyes’’ to his reading of Sir Philip Sidney’s works. We are indeed fortunate in having his own copy, annotated in his own hand; it will be at the center of the following chapters. Because Junius believed in the unity of the arts of poetry and painting, and subscribed to the spirit of ut pictura poesis, he had a great deal in common with Sidney. They were intent on transforming this phrase from a cliche´ into what they perceived as a profound truth about the relationship of the arts. Near the beginning of his treatise, Junius spells out various parallels between poetry and painting, asserting that there is ‘‘a mutuall relation . . . between Poesie and Picture’’ (P 1.4.1).26 This assertion separates Junius’s approach from the often sterile rhetorical debates known as the paragone.27 Instead of arguing

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about which art is superior, whether in imitating nature or in social status, Junius examines what poetry and painting have in common. If originally the paragone was concerned with the rivalry of painting and sculpture, it sometimes had included the arts of poetry and painting, most notably by Leonardo. Even Michelangelo became involved, somewhat reluctantly and enigmatically, in the general debate about the excellence and function of the arts, at the request of Benedetto Varchi, who was conducting a survey on the subject. As we will see, Junius was not directly concerned with such disputes and chose, instead, to proclaim the unity of the poetic and pictorial arts, not only in their parallel effects but also in their origins in the imagination. Of particular interest to those of us who are concerned with the poets of the English Renaissance is the fact that Junius’s second, English, edition of his work draws upon English poets to amplify his argument. The story of his knowledge of the recent poets of his adopted country has yet to be told. His annotation of Sidney’s works shows him responding to the words of a poet and, in turn, illuminating those words for us today.28 In effect, we have a reader over our shoulder close in time to Sidney himself. But it is not only that we now have an opportunity to gain a remarkable insight into the reception of Sidney in the seventeenth century, but that we are put in position to read his works with the kind of knowledge that the poet himself possessed. What modern scholars have difficulty in reconstructing, Junius makes plain to us, simply because he shared in the same classical culture as Sidney. The English edition of De pictura veterum will be the focus of our attention here, despite Junius’s apology for ‘‘the forced stile of a forrainer.’’ It is not simply that both Sidney and Spenser— the latter unacknowledged—make appearances in this version but that when Junius wrote his dedicatory letter to the Countess of Arundel (fig. 6), who had asked him to provide her with an English translation of his Latin treatise, he comments that her request seemed to open a way ‘‘unto me, of effecting that my serviceable intent: and the rather, because some things having passed therein, which (as one day teacheth another) in the review and more mature cogitation I wished might be altered, I thought best to begin that correction in the present Edition.’’ In other words, the English version more accurately represents Junius’s ideas in 1638 than his earlier Latin version does. A further value of the English edition is that, instead of quoting ancient poets in

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Fig. 6 Daniel Mytens, Alathea, Countess of Arundel (ca. 1618), National Portrait Gallery, London.

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the original, he translates and paraphrases them, thereby interpreting them for us, so that we see what they meant to him. At the same time, he gives marginal references to the ancient authors whom he quotes. Although references will occasionally be made in the following pages to the Latin edition of 1637 and to the posthumous Latin edition of 1694, it is the English edition that will be used in conjunction with the annotations to Sidney. Neither Sidney nor Junius writes as a theoretician but as an advocate of fiction, whether in the form of poetry or of the visual arts. They are partisans in a particular cause: to defend the arts against puritanical objections. But beyond that purpose is a broader one. Especially for Junius, his use of literary sources as not only analogous to pictorial theory and practice but as supplying a commentary on the visual arts is designed to elevate these arts to the status of the liberal arts, which had long included poetry under the rubric of rhetoric. No longer was painting to be regarded as merely a manual skill but as an intellectual discipline, as emphasized, for example, by Leonardo da Vinci in his comparison of poetry and painting. As he says, the painter must first have in his mind and then in his hand what he would paint. Sidney, for his part, has more the task of defending the value of fiction against those who consider it as lies. Both he and Junius live in a climate in which the arts must be defended, whether against an iconoclasm of mental images or of material objects, such as statues. The separation of art from religion meant that in England, a new place for art must be found, such as the court and country manors.29 With the new interest in collecting works of art, especially by his own patron, the Earl of Arundel, Junius must move outside the theoretical to justify the place of the visual arts in society. He has to recognize and justify their physical existence in a way that Sidney in his defense of poetry does not have to do. But both ultimately defend the arts by relating them to the deus artifex, in imitation of the divine Creator of the universe. One can deduce from their arguments certain principles that characterize Renaissance thought, as well as considerations of the place of art in the larger, divine, scheme of things. So although they do not write as theoreticians, it is possible to sketch out a theory of art based not only on their treatises but on the link between them found in Junius’s marginalia to Sidney’s works. The relationship of the marginalia to Junius’s treatise

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constitutes a subject of inquiry that may well open a new window onto the subject of Renaissance art theory. Junius’s use of quotations from ancient authors in his treatise provides a direct connection to his marginalia in Sidney’s works, particularly in the Arcadia. The topics treated in the following chapters reflect their shared values and assumptions, values and assumptions principally derived from the classical heritage. Thus chapters 3, 4, and 5 are concerned with Junius’s classical allusions as he finds them in the Arcadia and as he uses them, or similar ones, in support of his theory of painting. In particular, his annotations help us not only to identify Sidney’s classical allusions but to realize where his playfulness lies in making his own variations on rhetorical forms and images already in existence from a distant past. Ovid, as the most widely quoted ancient author in the annotations, occupies the whole of chapter 3. Other ancient poets, and the example they set of a playful approach to art and experience, are considered in chapter 4. In chapter 5, the place of ancient prose writers, and their more overtly philosophical contribution to Sidney’s and Junius’s thinking, is discussed. Preliminary to these core chapters are two that set the stage: chapter 1, by examining Junius’s habits of annotation in other books, as well as in the Arcadia; chapter 2, by showing Junius’s borrowings from the English poets Sidney and Spenser for the defense of poetry, which in turn, for Junius, means the defense of painting.30 Chapter 6 turns to Junius’s response to the Arcadia in terms of his plot summaries and rhetorical glosses. The plot summaries reflect his concern to keep track of a complicated plot with many interwoven stories; the rhetorical glosses point to Sidney’s skill. Together they suggest that a work of modern fiction could assume the importance of a classic, such as Virgil. At the same time, Junius’s concern with the wit of Sidney’s rhetoric is in keeping with the emphasis in many other seventeenth-century commentaries on this work.31 Finally, chapter 7 serves as a conclusion by drawing together what the previous chapters have demonstrated: that for Junius, memory is not only the storehouse of invention but the place where word and image, poetry and painting, are one. Two appendixes treat ancient authors whom Sidney did not know but whose ideas he intuitively shared. Most important for Junius’s argument, Longinus emphasizes the imagination as the

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source of the poet’s power, just as Sidney does. The Philostrati and Callistratus demonstrate that for the reader or listener, good description evokes the same response as a painting. A poetic painting and a pictorial poetry is seen as the goal, removing their defenses from the commonplace and cross-fertilizing the arts that concern them. While recognizing differences in media, Renaissance writers on the visual arts, as well as on poetry, gave central importance to the analogy between poetry and painting. For Sidney and Junius, it reflected the deepest psychological truth about the closeness of these arts in their mental origins and, in turn, their impact on the mind of the reader or viewer.32 For these writers, words and paint equally evoke mental images and have their origins in mental images. The painted or poetic image is a metaphor for the image in the mind, just as the internal image is a metaphor for something in the emotional life. Sidney and Junius base their art theories on a common psychology that must be understood if their defenses of art are to make sense to modern readers. My title is designed to focus on what may be called the art theory of my two authors. Even though neither writes as a theoretician, it is possible to see the broad outlines of a theory of art in their works. Examining Sidney and Junius in relationship to one another, with the help of Junius’s marginalia and his quotations from Sidney, is to give a fresh perspective not only on both of them but on the relationship of the arts in the Renaissance. The subtitle of my book, From the Margins to the Center, points specifically to Junius’s marginalia to Sidney, but these are placed in the context of the larger issues with which both were concerned.

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l The Art of Annotation I

SOME OF THE BOOKS THAT JUNIUS ANNOTATED AND BEQUEATHED TO the Bodleian Library reveal a nexus between his philological studies and his treatise on painting. It may well be considered a work of archaeology, reassembling as it does the body of ancient thought about the visual arts.1 He was constantly alert to all aspects of language as a representational medium. How words develop and change in form as well as in meaning, how metaphor and other figures of speech function—such subjects engage him in all his reading and directly affect the annotation of his books. Of these annotations, none are more important for our understanding of his treatise on art than those in his own copy of the works of Sidney. But before turning to the significance of Junius’s annotations to Sidney, let us look more generally at his methods of annotation. He was in the habit of annotating all his books; his writing and style are unmistakable. Of the books that he bequeathed to the Bodleian Library, three are of particular interest as helping to supply a context for examining his Sidney annotations. His annotations to his copy of Gavin Douglas’s translation of the Aeneid indicate his literary, as well as philological, concerns.2 Published in 1553, it attracted Junius’s attention for its use of obsolete words, which he sometimes cross-references to his copy of Speght’s edition of Chaucer’s works (1598). The text includes brief printed marginal summaries of the action, which, in the case of Junius’s copy of Sidney’s Arcadia, he had to supply for himself. Not that he would have needed such summaries for his Eneados, knowing the Aeneid as well as he did, but this practice in printed books undoubtedly provided him with an example to follow in one aspect of his Sidney annotations. What he does note 39

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in the margins of his Eneados, in his own handwriting, are the key Latin passages on virtually every page. Now and again, he corrects a mistaken reading by Douglas. He must have done exactly what C. S. Lewis recommends to the modern reader of Douglas’s translation, to keep ‘‘an open Virgil on his knees for glossary and comment while he is reading Douglas.’’3 Junius, of course, knowing Virgil’s original so well, is critical of Douglas’s mistakes, which he attributes to ‘‘the infection of a monkish ignorance then prevailing in Church and common wealth.’’4 Yet, he continues, ‘‘is there verie good use to be made of him.’’ He alludes here to the way his reading of Douglas has contributed to his understanding of Chaucer’s language. To his dismay, however, he found that one beautiful passage in the Latin had been omitted in the translation. So shocked is he that he pastes into his text a note to say: Heer is a breach in the worke; and seems to be rather the Printers fault than the Translators: for having rendered those words: insequitur commista grandine nimbu, the rest is left out, unto those words again Haec passim Dea probimus ad Regem [4.161; 195–96] . . . Whereby we are deprived of one of the noblest peeces of the Poem, the Description of Fate, which certainly the worthy Translator would never have gone by, and it would be worth the paynes of a good poet to supply the defect, if he could find the stile.

Lewis, without having noticed this omission, would agree with Junius, for he says of Douglas, ‘‘But if he often inserts, he never omits; and the two texts are generally so close that a glance at one serves to elucidate anything that is difficult in the other. At worst, Douglas is a very honest translator and always lets you see how he is taking the Latin . . .’’5 When Lewis calls the translation ‘‘a great work,’’ it is clear that he and Junius share something of the same admiration for it. Junius’s wish that someone could supply the defect he noted is qualified by the proviso, ‘‘if he could find the stile.’’ His philological interests go hand in hand with his concern for the decorum of style. He does not read mechanically but in active engagement with the mimetic work of art. The same close attention to a text is apparent in another of his books in the Bodleian, his copy of Speght’s Chaucer (1598).6 This work already has printed marginalia in the form of a pointing finger to indicate Chaucer’s use of sentences and proverbs, signs of an author in possession of traditional wisdom. Junius too paid

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attention to just such expressions in his annotation of Sidney’s Arcadia. But here, in his Chaucer, it is the language that fascinates him. His study of it is even more thorough than his study of Douglas’s language, for now it is cross-referenced not only internally but to a separate glossary that he had compiled. His annotations indeed almost constitute a concordance, since he quotes the various passages in which a particular expression appears. In the margins, he also frequently writes ‘‘vide annotat,’’ suggesting that he had compiled, or planned to compile, more extensive explanatory notes and allusions for particular passages. Sometimes he notes marginally an allusion to an ancient author, such as Ovid. But, as Rolf Bremmer comments, it is surprising that ‘‘for all his unrivalled knowledge of Old English, no parallels are drawn in his Chaucer marginalia with words from that language.’’7 Although his method of annotation here is not like the one he used in his copy of the Arcadia, it is altogether in keeping with his immediate purpose of providing information that might at some future date be useful to anyone undertaking an edition of Chaucer based on authoritative manuscripts not available to Junius. Unfortunately, he never completed this enterprise, and it was left to much later editors to accomplish the task. We cannot but regret that he did not provide the entire list with classical and medieval parallels to Chaucerian expressions that he had begun to make. But, as he says in a letter to his friend and fellow AngloSaxonist, Sir William Dugdale, he read Chaucer and Douglas as ‘‘a sweet entretainment’’ and ‘‘a kind of solace to my griefe in the most sad times.’’8 After getting his Teutonic glossaries in perfect order for the presses, he had suffered, ‘‘seeing them as it were lie dead by me, I had neither heart nor lust to hoorde up some more workes of that nature in my studio.’’ His affection for the English language and its literature is everywhere apparent. Writing to Dugdale, he makes it clear that he rates English above the romance languages, which he sees as deriving from the debased Latin of the monkish era. He writes, ‘‘It is forsooth most evident unto mee that your language having a neer relation to the old Gothike, Cimbrike, and Saxonike languages, is much more capable of goodly and gallant ornaments then anie of the languages so much cried up and allmost wholly derived or traduced out of that corrupted barbarous Latin. . . .’’9 Another of the books that Junius bequeathed to the Bodleian

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more directly shows his interest in the Elizabethan poets. It is not that he has actually annotated this work, Alexander Gill’s Logonomia Anglica (1621),10 but that he has underlined the passages of particular interest to him. Any comparison between English poets and the ancients in this treatise on English grammar and rhetoric, by the headmaster of St. Paul’s School, is underlined. For example, Junius marks a reference to George Wither, ‘‘Nec te pigeat a Iuvenali nostro Georgio Witherz, ubi satyrae asperitatem seposuit frequentem audire Metaphoram’’ (98). [And not to displease you, listen to the numerous metaphors of George Wither (our Juvenal), when he abandons biting satire (152).]11 Similar references are made to Samuel Daniel as ‘‘our Lucan,’’ Edmund Spenser as ‘‘our Homer,’’ Sir John Harington as ‘‘our Martial,’’ and Sir Philip Sidney as ‘‘our Anacreon.’’ All these expressions are underlined by Junius, indicating his interest in the comparison of English poets to the ancients. In other underlined passages, he gives particular attention to Spenser and Sidney, two poets that, as we shall see, had a part to play in The Painting of the Ancients. Junius marks a passage explaining allegory, which Gill had just defined in the usual way as ‘‘a sustained metaphor’’: ‘‘Sed & totum Spenseri poema allegoria est, qua ethicen fabulis edocet’’ (99). [But Spenser’s whole poem is an allegory which teaches ethics by means of stories (153).] The rest of the passage, although not underlined, is relevant to Junius’s rhetorical interests. Gill explains, ‘‘Sic Allegoria rem totam per Metaphoram obscure tractat: Paroimia, & Aenigma multo obscurius: Comparatio dilucidius, quia primo Metaphoram explicat, postea cum re componit’’ (99). [Thus an allegory explores an idea obscurely through a complete metaphor, a proverb or a riddle even more obscurely, but a comparison more openly, since it explains the metaphor to begin with and afterwards brings it together with the matter [with which it is being compared] (153).] This entire passage is illustrated by one of Spenser’s epic similes describing a fight between two rams (Faerie Queene, 1.2.16). In fact, there are numerous quotations from Spenser in the Logonomia. Gill sums up the importance of this poet: Iam fateris ad sermonis ornatum nihil a nostris praetermissum. Neque enim solus est in hoc genre Homerus noster; exiguum dixi,

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Spenserus noster; nam & sermonis cultu accuriatior est; & sententiis ut crebrior ita gravior. . . . (124–25) [It must now be granted that nothing pertaining to the adornment of writing has been omitted. Nor is our Homer (that is to say our Spenser) the only poet writing like this but he is more precise in the refinement of writing, and more abundant and more serious in his ideas. . . . (171)]

Junius’s attention to this passage in praise of Spenser is in keeping with his unacknowledged quotations from the poet in his Painting of the Ancients. But his philological interests are never forgotten. He marks a passage referring to a northern dialect: Et ne semper Sidneios loquamur & Spenseros, audi epilogum fabulae quam docuit Boreali dialecto poeta, titulumque fecit, Reus Machiavellus. (122) [And so that we may not always quote the Sidneys and Spensers, note the epilogue of a story written in the northern dialect entitled ‘‘Machiavelli the Villain.’’ (169)]

Other passages provide a context for his close attention to Sidney’s works. Of Sidney, Gill remarks: ‘‘At divino Sidneii ingenio, & dicendi copiae sic omnia fluunt, ut Latinos ingenio, superasse dixeris, aequasse facundia. Testis sit Echo, Arcad. lib.2c.29’’ (146). [But in the divinely inspired genius of Sidney the wealth of his diction so flows that you would say that he has surpassed the Latins in talent and equalled them in eloquence. Let Echo be a witness (186)]: Fair rocks, goodly rivers, sweet woods, when shall I see peace? Echo, Peace. Peace? What debars my tung? who is it that comes me so nye? Echo, I. (146)12

In Junius’s copy of the Arcadia, he underlines two other lines from this same song, in which Philisides, the mask of Sidney, is answered by Echo:

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Echo, what do I get yeelding my sprite to my grieves? Grieves. What medicine may I finde for a griefe that drawes me to death? Death. (A 230)

No doubt these words came home to Junius in the difficulties of his own life. He must also have had a feeling for Sidney’s attempt to reproduce the Latin hexameter and other meters in English. Among the passages he marks in Gill’s books is one that refers to Sidney’s translation of the Psalms: ‘‘Quin etiam ad exempla Latinorum poetarum, omnia fere Lyricorum genera reperies in illa Psalmorum Davidicorum Metaphrasi quae a Philippo Sidneio incoepta ab aliis ad umbilicum perducta est’’ (147): [Furthermore, you will perceive, in examples of Latin poets, almost every type of lyric in the translation of David’s Psalms begun by Philip Sidney and completed by others (186).] Indeed, Junius found in Gill’s book much to interest him about metrics and about what he calls ‘‘species Metaplasmi, in omni carminis genere tam necessarii’’ (142) [the types of metaplasm [or transposition of letters and syllables] so necessary in every type of poetry (183)].13 He marks this passage, since it explains why Gill invented his unusual orthography, which he calls ‘‘a simple technique for the types of metaplasm.’’ His use of the Anglo-Saxon thorn and his attention to the native element in English must have attracted Junius, although the latter never attempted to reform English spelling. Gill’s criticism of Stanyhurst’s translation of the Aeneid evidently caught Junius’s attention for the comment on poor versification: Heroiciis 4. primos libros Aeneidos Virgilii transtulit Stanihurstus, ad sensum quodammodo, & subdolo consilio si aperirem: sed quia privato non est opus. Ita tamen inconcinnem concatenantur numeri, ut risum captasse videatur, potius quam poetam vertisse. (146) [Stanyhurst has translated in heroics the first four books of Virgil’s Aeneid, according to the sense, in a measure, and with crafty intention (if I am honest, but personal opinion is not necessary). For the metres are connected so awkwardly that he seems to strive for laughter rather than render poetry. (185)]

Junius, with his fondness for Gavin Douglas’s translation of the Aeneid, showed his agreement with Gill’s judgment of Stany-

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hurst’s translation when he marked this passage. On the other hand, commenting on how English dramatic and epic poetry are ‘‘constructed virtually with only one type of metre’’—the pentameter—Gill has a reference to Spenser that Junius underlined: ‘‘Spenceri tamen Epicum, sive Heroicum, nonum quemque versum habet hexametrum, ad gravitatem, & quandam stationis firmitudinem’’ (142). [But Spenser’s epic or heroic poetry has a hexameter every ninth line for the sake of dignity and a certain firmness of position (183).] From Junius’s underlinings in his copy of the Logonomia, it is evident that his interest in metrics, as well as his interest in metaphor and all aspects of language, including the representational, coincides with his philological researches into Anglo-Saxon literature. At the same time, these interests constitute a bridge to his treatise on the art of painting as perceived by the ancients. Seldom in the history of scholarship has there been such a case made for the parallel between poetry and painting as we will see in our consideration of The Painting of the Ancients, and the way is prepared by Junius’s close study of such books as the Logonomia. The Bodleian books that once belonged to Junius supply a kind of context for considering the attention he gave to Sidney’s works. The direct references to Sidney’s genius in Gill’s Logonomia could only have reinforced the poet’s European reputation in Junius’s eyes. His father, Franciscus Junius the Elder, had, as already mentioned, dedicated his Grammatica Hebraeae Linguae (1580) to Sidney, in the hope of interesting the educated of England in the study of Hebrew. That the relationship between the elder Junius and Sidney was a reciprocal one is suggested by Sidney’s own reference to the Protestant Latin translation of the Bible published by Junius and Tremellius (1575–79). Wishing to claim parts of the Bible as religious poetry, Sidney, in his Defence of Poesie, writes, ‘‘such were David in his Psalmes, Salomon in his Song of Songs, in his Ecclesiastes, and Proverbs: Moses and Debora in their Hymnes, and the writer of Job. Which beside other, the learned Emanuell Tremelius, and Fr. Junius do entitle the Poeticall part of the Scripture: against these none will speake that hath the holie Ghost in due holie reverence.’’14 Certainly the young Junius would have been aware that Sidney fought and died, in 1586, in the cause of Dutch freedom. It is likely that he was giving close attention to Sidney’s works before 1630. A letter written from London to his nephew Dionysius Vos-

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sius in Leiden mentions a copy of Sidney that he is sending to this nephew.15 It is even possible that Junius acquired his own copy as early as 1615, when he first visited England. For various reasons, our Junius would have had occasion to devote a good deal of time to studying the works of the English poet. Not least of these reasons is that Sidney had himself written a defense of poetry that provided an example to Junius when he came to write a similar defense of painting against puritan objections. Most of the annotations in Junius’s copy of Sidney’s works are for the Arcadia, in the edition accepted at that time, though not so universally accepted today. Sidney had not completed his revision of his Arcadia when he died in 1586—indeed, he stopped in the middle of a sentence in book 3. But to complete the story, his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, added the last two books of the Old Arcadia, with a few modifications to bring them into line with the revised Arcadia (1593 and 1598). It is the 1598 edition that is used in Junius’s copy of the 1613 edition (fig. 7).16 Included in his volume are the other works of Sidney. Among these is The Defence of Poesie. One might have expected more annotation here, given the fact that its purpose in seeking to elevate the art of poetry resembles Junius’s, and that Junius incorporated some passages from it in his Painting of the Ancients. But almost the only passages he underlined were references to such works as Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde and Spenser’s Shepheardes Calender: Chaucer, undoubtedly, did excellently in his Troilus and Creseid; of whom, truly, I know not whether to marvell more, either that he in that mystie time could see so clearely, or that wee in this cleare age, goe so stumblingly after him. Yet had he great wants, fit to be forgiven in so reverent an Antiquitie. . . . The Shepheards Kalender hath much Poetrie in his Eclogues, indeede worthie the reading, if I be not deceived. That same framing of his stile to an old rusticke language, I dare not allow: since neither Theocritus in Greeke, Virgil in Latin, nor Sanazaro in Italian did affect it. (D 513)

Yet, though it would seem that his philological interests have taken precedence over his artistic ones, the picture alters when we consider his direct borrowings from Sidney’s Defence, which we will do in the next chapter.

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Fig. 7 Title Page of Sir Philip Sidney, The Countesse of Pembrokes Arcadia (London: Waterson, 1613). Leiden University Library, 766 A 15.

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II The margins of Junius’s text are most heavily annotated on the wider side; that is, the one that does not have line numbers,17 but where he does not have sufficient space, he will use the margin with line numbers, as well as the top and bottom margins of the page, and even, occasionally, the space between lines. Writing in a neat italic hand, he annotates all five books of the Arcadia, but his marginalia are most profuse in the first two books, suggesting that he grew weary of his self-imposed task or perhaps had been called away by other duties. His motivation for annotating differs from that of annotators of the eighteenth, nineteenth, or twentieth century. He is not concerned to express a personal opinion, except by occasional praise of a rhetorical set piece of description, but rather to place Sidney in the classical tradition. Hence, the numerous references to ancient authors, with analogous, or, sometimes, what appear to be actual, source material. He also underlines and notes rhetorical forms, such as metaphor or set description, and he pays particular attention to any mention of what prompts speech or various modes of expression. Throughout his work of annotating, he summarizes the plot of the story, in a manner similar to the plot summaries of Douglas’s Eneados, perhaps because of the complexity of Sidney’s plot, in an attempt to keep it all in mind. There does not appear to be any ulterior motive in all these kinds of annotation, other than as a way of engaging with a text written in a language that he might still be trying to master. He may well have wished to take note of some of Sidney’s expressions for possible use in his own writing, as we shall see when we consider his borrowings from the English poet. Handwritten marginalia such as Junius’s differ in purpose from printed marginalia, so common in Renaissance texts: they are likely to be personal, though not always overtly so, rather than public, reflecting one reader’s response to the text. They are also less likely to be systematic and may even be erratic. If, for the moment, we confine ourselves to the annotations to the Arcadia, it will be useful if they are grouped as follows: (1) Rhetorical glosses and underlinings. Junius notes in the margin many set pieces of description with a phrase indicating the subject matter and his judgment of the expression; for example, ‘‘elegans descriptio amoenissimi hortus’’ [an elegant descrip-

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tion of a most beautiful garden]. He also frequently underlines metaphorical expressions. (2) Narrative summaries. He gives brief marginal summaries of Sidney’s narrative. Writing these in Latin, he uses a language that was, at this stage, more natural to him than English; it is also more concise and therefore fits more neatly into the margins of his text. This form of annotation no doubt served as an aid to keeping track of a very lengthy and complicated narrative. But Junius had precedents for doing just this, including the printed narrative summaries in his copy of Gavin Douglas’s Eneados and the ‘‘argument’’ at the head of each book in Renaissance editions of Virgil’s Aeneid. The following is an example of how closely Junius follows the narrative line. Sidney’s text is given, with Junius’s underlining, and this is followed by his summary. I let fall my harpe from mee: and casting mine eye sometime upon Mopsa, but setling my sight principally upon Pamela, ‘‘And is it the onely fortune, most beatifull Mopsa,’’ said I, ‘‘of wretched Dorus that fortune must be the measure of his mind? Am I onely he, that because I am in miserie, more miserie must be laid upon me? . . . Alas excellent Mopsa, consider, that a vertuous Prince requires the life of his meanest subject, and the heavenly Sunne disdaines not to give light to the smallest worme. . . . Who hath not heard of the greatnesse of your estate? who seeth not, that your estate is much excelled with that sweet uniting of all beauties, which remaineth and dwelleth with you? who knowes not, that all these are but ornaments of that divine sparke within you . . . (A 103)18

In the margin is written: ‘‘Dorus apud Mopsam, praesente Pamela, cum fortuna sua, expostulat, eamque ad coelum, usque summis extollit laudibus’’ [Dorus, Pamela being present, given the state of his fortune, pleads with Mopsa and extols her to the sky with praises]. Besides these summaries, he uses cross-references at certain points in the text. For example, on page 109 of the Arcadia, he notes in the margin, ‘‘vide quid hac de re ipsa Pamela dicat, pag. 117’’ [see what Pamela says of this matter, page 117]. On page 117, he writes in the margin: ‘‘audi hac de re Dorum loquentem pag. 109’’ [hear Dorus speaking of this matter, page 109]. The first is a reference to Dorus’s account to his friend Zelmane of his plan to reveal his princely qualities by a little equestrian display

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in competition with his peasant master, Dametas; the second refers to Pamela’s own account of the event to her sister, Philoclea. Junius has, through his annotations, brought together Dorus’s plan and its effect on the beloved Pamela. (3) Ancient sources. He refers to these allusively, rather than noting them as exact sources. This third category is the most important and interesting to us, because Junius shows the kind of reading that had informed Sidney’s mind and that we in the modern world are generally ignorant of. With Junius’s help, we have the opportunity to recover something of the lost world of a humanist education in the Renaissance. Sidney’s sources are, as various scholars have noted, difficult to ascertain, especially as he does not, so to speak, wear his learning on his sleeve but rather absorbs and transmutes it.19 In Junius’s annotations, we have the answer, at least in part. Without necessarily giving exact sources, he notes allusively the analogous topoi and ‘‘sentences’’ in ancient literature. In so doing, he follows the example of the printed marginalia in Renaissance printed books, such as sixteenth-century editions of Virgil. It is as though he were trying to create his own edition of the Arcadia. If he is moving the text ‘‘from its time and place of origin to the new time and place of a marginator and a reader,’’20 he is also linking it to its roots in classical literature and rhetoric. But this is not simply source-hunting, valuable as that may be; beyond that, it is a reflection of his response to Sidney’s text. Besides writing marginalia, Junius has done a great deal of underlining of the text. Anything that caught his attention might be underlined, such as ‘‘sentences.’’ This in itself is a form of annotation, one that will be made use of throughout the following chapters. Indeed, his underlining is the clearest indication of what was important to him, as we have already noticed in our brief consideration of his underlining in his copy of Gill’s Logonomia Anglica. But evidently the task of annotating and underlining his copy of the Arcadia was too much even for his industry, or perhaps other tasks simply carried him in other directions. In any case, less and less annotation and underlining appear after the initial heavy annotation. Later, only debates, such as those between Cecropia and Pamela, on the subject of beauty, and of the two princes before and during their trial, seem to spur him to renewed engagement with the text. Nevertheless, what we have is

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more than enough to reveal not only aspects of Sidney’s mind and reading that may not previously have been sufficiently considered but also of Junius’s own mind and reading. Together, the two authors constitute a microcosm of humanist concerns during the Renaissance. At the core of their relationship is a concern with truth and beauty as these are expressed by art. One of them is a creator of poetry, as well as an advocate of it—Sidney; the other, Junius, is an advocate and a great scholar who is able to bring his immense learning to the service of the visual arts. Their treatises in defense of art show clearly their common ground. Moreover, by drawing some passages directly from Sidney and including them in his treatise, Junius makes explicit his sense of what they have in common. He also, as will be shown in the next chapter, borrows the words of Edmund Spenser to express some key principles in The Painting of the Ancients. It is a pity that his copy of Spenser’s works has not so far been discovered, so that we might have the same opportunity to follow him in his reading of this poet as we have in his reading of Sidney.21 It is also possible that he made use of a copy of the works of Spenser owned by the Earl and Countess of Arundel when he served them as librarian. Perhaps he simply copied into his commonplace book passages of particular interest to him. Like Ben Jonson in his Timber, or Discoveries, Junius makes use of quotations probably copied from other writers into his commonplace book. Far from being a random selection of quotations, such a notebook was ‘‘an index to the major texts and a storehouse from which to draw an abundant supply of excellent material (res), sententiae, similitudes, narrations, and so forth, for any matter on which they [students] are required to speak or write.’’22 This advice from a sixteenth-century schoolmaster is virtually a description of Junius’s method of annotating Sidney’s works. His annotations are preliminary to arranging and presumably recording in his commonplace book any passage that strikes him as particularly memorable. Even if he never proceeded to that point, the reading habits developed by the use of a commonplace book are evident; an active engagement with the text is essential. In the words of one of Gabriel Harvey’s marginalia, ‘‘master what you read.’’23 It must be remembered, too, that readers of early modern texts were accustomed to find printed marginalia in a great many of the books they read. What could be

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more natural than to provide marginalia for books in which there were none? Besides, it was a way of making each book the peculiar possession of the reader who so annotated. The types of headings, such as virtues and vices, under which quotations would be arranged are, for example, to be seen in Milton’s surviving commonplace book.24 For composing the De pictura veterum, we can imagine that Junius had a list of headings to do with art and beauty, such as perspective or grace. He must also have created subdivisons for some categories, such as physical beauty, which he could break down into hair, eyes, complexion, and so on. This is the way he organizes the material for the last four chapters of his Latin text, which he did not translate for his English version but which remain as striking evidence of the relationship between physical beauty and art that he takes for granted. As an aid to copia, Erasmus gives advice on keeping a commonplace book: ‘‘first provide yourself with a full list of subjects. These will consist partly of the main types and subdivisions of vice and virtue, partly of the things of most prominence in human affairs which frequently occur when we have a case to put forward; and they should be arranged according to similars and opposites.’’25 Reading thus becomes purposeful when the reader looks for certain kinds of ideas expressed in memorable form. The difference from the modern researcher’s note-taking is that the Renaissance authors had a clear idea of what they considered to be truth; their selection of quotations was therefore inescapably moral. As a critic who has made a study of Ben Jonson’s annotations to Seneca notes, Jonson’s chief attention was given to ‘‘the demands of virtue in all its manifestations and ramifications.’’26 However rhetorical the business of annotating a text and entering quotations into a commonplace book, the search for ‘‘deep truth’’ is also part of the enterprise, at least for such thinkers as Jonson and Junius.27 For us today, the bearing of the commonplace book on originality inevitably arises. Lessing was just one of those who has found fault with Junius’s use of other men’s words. In his criticism of Winckelmann, who made use of Junius’s work, he states, ‘‘Junius is a very deceptive author; his entire work is a cento, and because he always attempts to use the language of the ancients, he not infrequently applies to painting passages from them, that refer in their original context to anything but painting.’’28

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As already indicated, Junius’s answer to the latter part of this criticism was that he was doing no more than what the ancients themselves had done, in reverse. But when it comes to Lessing’s criticism of what may be called the commonplace-book mode of writing, we have only to think of what Montaigne and Sir Francis Bacon achieved, with the help of their commonplace books in writing their essays, to make us aware that the selection and development of borrowings from other writers could result in works that not only are expressive of the individual who does the borrowing but that also represent milestones in the history of literature. In the words of Montaigne, ‘‘I only quote others the better to quote myself.’’29 Bacon, having some stringent criticism of too much dependence on commonplaces, also makes a very positive statement of their value: I am aware that the transferring of the things we read and learn into common-place books is thought of some to be detrimental to learning, as retarding the course of the reader and inviting memory to take holiday. Nevertheless, as it is but a counterfeit thing in knowledge to be forward and pregnant, except a man be also deep and full, I hold diligence and labour in the entry of commonplaces to be a matter of great use and support in studying: as that which supplies matter to invention, and contracts the sight of judgment to a point.30

This is a good description of Junius’s method of supporting his claims for the art of painting by means of commonplaces derived from his reading. These represent the wisdom and depth that a superficial invention could not muster: ‘‘the sight of judgment’’ is contracted ‘‘to a point’’ through the eloquence of those whom he quotes. Because of the parallel between Jonson’s Timber, or Discoveries and Junius’s De pictura veterum, it is also worth noting what a historian of English Renaissance criticism, J. W. H Atkins, has to say on Jonson’s use of a commonplace book: The truth is that Jonson has given to the work an air of originality by diffusing throughout something of his own personality and traits. And this is seen in the character of the passages selected, as well as in his treatment of his borrowed material. Thus his choice of matter, in the first place, is of no haphazard kind. . . . His material, it is true, was originally borrowed; but in selecting and thus endorsing that material he has not only recalled some of the wisest teaching of antiquity

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but he has also incidentally revealed what he regarded as some of the guiding principles of literary art.31

This comment applies equally to Junius’s Painting of the Ancients, but in the case of Junius, a more coherent defense of art is presented. His work, as the introduction to the most complete modern edition of his treatise notes, is ‘‘a great oration by a philologist-historian, who, as he surveys the past, speaks to us in the voice of the past itself’’ (Aldrich, Fehl, and Fehl, 1:liii). The organization of his work is laid out clearly in his ‘‘Argument’’: My purpose is, by Gods assistance, to set forth the Art of painting, as in olde times it hath begun, as it was promoted, as it came to that wonderfull perfection mentioned in ancient Authors. The first booke toucheth the first beginnings of Picture. The second booke propoundeth diverse meanes tending to the advancement of this art. The third booke speaketh of the maine grounds of Art, the which being well observed by the old Artificers, made them come neerer to the height of perfection. . . . Seeing also that many Artificers seeme to have drawne that same love of new-fangled conceits from Poets, I did not thinke it amisse to shew what affinitie there is between Poesie and Picture, adding upon the same occasion, how they are to prepare themselves that would willingly attaine to some skill in judging the workes of excellent Masters. (P 9)

Junius does not in any way set himself up as an art expert. He is simply the conduit by which an understanding of the principles of classical art is to be garnered from the writings of the ancients. He deals with art, not as he has seen it, but as he has imagined it through the descriptions or ekphrases of the poets. But if his artistic experience is anchored in words, his actual encounter with the works of art in the famous collection of the Earl of Arundel, together with the prints that the earl commissioned, as well as others that were now readily available in England, must have enriched his comprehension of what ancient and Renaissance authors had to say on the subject. But, citing the ancients, he necessarily approaches painting as an art mediated by words. In so doing, he appeals, not to ordinary craftsmen but to great artists, who must be educated and must understand that the imitation of nature implies the imitation of truth. He has in mind ‘‘the

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absolute painter’’ whose purpose resembles that of the great poet in speaking directly to the imagination.32 Sidney’s re-creation of the past in his Arcadia clearly has a different purpose from Junius’s. Most important, Sidney is writing fiction and for that reason is in direct competition with his predecessors in the genre of Greek pastoral romance. One of Alexander Gill’s observations that is not annotated or marked by Junius but that brings out this point occurs in the passage in which Gill discusses irony: ‘‘Commune defunctorum totum est in Ironia, ut & illud Philippi Sidnei, in ingeniosissimo illo Arcadiae poemate, nisi quod versibus scriptum non est’’ (100). [The entire community of the dead is to be found in Irony, as in Sir Philip Sidney’s most witty poem Arcadia, although it is not written in verses (153).] Here Gill quotes from the very poem that Junius marks in his copy of the Arcadia, writing, ironically, in the margin ‘‘Laudes Mopsae’’ [Praises of Mopsa]: ‘‘Like great god Saturne faire, and like fair Venus chaste’’ (A 11). Yet, besides such obvious examples of irony in particular passages, is the broader irony that Gill finds in the Arcadia. Sidney, in other words, is playing off his version of the ancient world against that of the Greek romances. His rhetoric, with its wordplay and use of antithesis and balance, is the means by which he both creates his version and gives it a distinctive tone that may indeed be called ironic. His emulation revels in this enterprise of wit but with a substructure of serious concern that is the counterbalance to the surface detachment.33 All this will be more fully illustrated in chapter 6. As for Gill’s comment on the Arcadia as a poem, it is in keeping with Sidney’s own view as expressed in the Defence, a passage, incidentally, underlined by Junius, that ‘‘One may be a Poet without versing, and a versifier without Poetrie’’ (D 507). It is a statement also in keeping with Junius’s understanding that it is the imitation of nature by means of fiction, which links together poetry and painting: ‘‘studying alwayes to worke out a lively similitude of what wee have conceived.’’ The subtle connections between the annotations and The Painting of the Ancients will occupy us in the following chapters. As a preliminary example, I have chosen a rather arcane marginal reference to Velleius Paterculus. Sidney is describing shepherds in Arcadia as poets by nature: But certainly all the people of this courntry from high to lowe, is given to those sports of the wit, so as you would wonder to heare how soone

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even children will begin to versifie. Once, ordinary it is amongst the meanest sort, to make songs and dialogues in meeter, either love wheting their braine, or long peace having begun it; example and emulation amending it. (A14)

Junius has underlined the part that interests him most. Beside it, he refers to Velleius Paterculus: Historia 1.17.6: ‘‘Alit aemulatio ingenia etc.’’ [Emulation fosters genius].34 Now it so happens that he uses the same passage from Velleius in his Painting: ‘‘Emulation,’’ sayth he, ‘‘is a nource of wits: and whilest our imitation is provoked sometimes by envie, sometimes by admiration, it falleth out that the thing earnestly sought after, is quickly brought to some height of perfection: but then is it a very hard matter that any thing should continue long in that perfection; seeing naturally, what cannot goe forward, goeth backward: and as at the first we are very well disposed, to overtake them that run before us; so, when we doe despaire to goe beyond them or else to keepe an even pace with them, our earnestnesse together with our hope groweth cold, and ceaseth to follow what it cannot overtake: leaving therfore the whole matter, as being afore-hand seased upon by others, wee seeke a new one: and passing by that, wherein we cannot excell, we doe looke about for something to worke upon: whereupon it followeth that a frequent and wavering change turneth to be the greatest hindrance of perfection.’’ (P 2.5.2)

It is clear that Junius is finding in Sidney the same ideas that he wants to set forth in his Painting. Of central importance to him is the idea of emulation as the spur to excellence. Immediately after quoting this passage, he says: Although now the ancient Artificers were questionlesse by the heat of Imitation and by the unsufferable prickings of Emulation forcibly driven to a more earnest and accurat study of Art, yet doe we not thinke that these Arts have been onely advanced by the mutuall Emulation there was betwixt the Artificers themselves, but we do hold that the great fame of many most eloquent men in those times hath also stirred up the lively spirits of the Artificers, not suffering them to rest till they had wrought something that might deserve the like fame.

He goes on to say that picture flourishes when eloquence does, for both require great wit or inventiveness.35 This touches on an-

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other form of emulation than the one between artists; this emulation is between poets and painters, the paragone to which the great writer-painters of the Renaissance, including Leonardo and Michelangelo, gave close attention.36 The competition of artists with each other, with the ancients, such as Zeuxis and Apelles, and with nature constitutes a parallel to Junius’s theoretical emphasis on the value of emulation if art is to arrive at its perfection. What catches his attention in the Arcadia is the same as what catches it in Painting: the laws that govern both nature and art. One could even say that his glossing of the Arcadia serves as a kind of gloss on his Painting.

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2 English Poets and the Defense of Art I

IN HIS ENGLISH VERSION OF DE PICTURA VETERUM, JUNIUS MAKES use of the English poets Edmund Spenser and Sir Philip Sidney as voices in support of the arts and the role of the imagination both in creating and in judging works of art. Sidney’s Defence of Poesie (1595) must have been particularly important to him, since it provides a model of the terms in which to defend art. Moreover, Sidney makes as a cornerstone of his defense the value of picture and the affinity that poetry has with picture. It is no surprise, then, to find that Junius makes one direct reference to Sidney in his treatise, as well as unacknowledged borrowings. In still other instances, the parallels in expression are so close as to suggest that he gave careful attention to Sidney’s treatise as he wrote. Sidney had set out to defend the images of poetry against Platonic and puritanical objections.1 Junius similarly launched a defense of painting in a climate of sometimes virulent criticism of the visual arts as they increasingly attracted the attention of the court and collectors in England. While emblems, which use picture within a didactic context, were morally acceptable, the freedom of artists to depict mythological scenes or make nude statues aroused an iconoclastic fury in some quarters. William Prynne may stand for the more extreme element in this controversy over pictures. Although he directs most of his ire toward stage plays and masques, he includes pictures in his attack: since our late renowned Soveraigne King James, and our owne Homilies against the perill of Idolatry . . . doe absolutely condemne, as sinfull, idolatrous, and abominable the making of any Image or Picture of God the Father, Son, and holy Ghost or of the sacred Trinity, & the

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erecting of them, of Crucifixes, or such like Pictures in Churches, which like the Emperor Adrians Temples built for Christ, should be without all Images, or Saints Pictures. So they likewise condemned the very art of making Pictures and Images, as the occasion of Idolatry, together with all Stage-portraitures, Images, Vizards or representations of Heathen Idols &c, as grosse Idolatry, as Josephus witnesseth.2

The word ‘‘idolatry’’ evokes the Elizabethan Homily on this subject but goes further in linking all image-making to this emotive word. Prynne speaks of pictures as close to those ‘‘lively pictures’’ on the stage: And shall not then those lively, if not reall pictures and representations of the adulteries, rapes, incests, Love-prankes, murther, treasons, and other such practices of Pagan Idols, which are so artificially acted on the Stage, that a man can hardly difference the representations of them from the sinnes themselves, be much more liable to condemnation on the self-same grounds?3

This outburst came at a time when Archbishop Laud was at the height of his power, authorizing church decoration in accordance with the liturgy.4 At a time, too, when the visual arts were strongly supported as a manifestation of courtly culture, Junius, like Sidney, entered the fray as a defender of images. Given the exceptional interest that The Defence of Poesie must have had for him, it is perhaps surprising that Junius did not annotate it more thoroughly in the 1613 edition of Sidney’s works he possessed. He certainly read it closely, but almost the only passages he underlined were, as we have seen, references to the language used in such works as Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde and Spenser’s Shepheardes Calender.5 Yet there is one underlined passage, already noted, that ‘‘One may be a Poet without versing, and a versifier without Poetrie’’ (D 507) that chimes with Junius’s view of the good painter as a kind of poet by suggesting that poetry is a quality of the imagination, regardless of the form of expression. The most direct, though unmarked and unacknowledged, quotation that Junius took from the Defence and incorporated in The Painting of the Ancients is given a slightly different context. Sidney distinguishes poetry from other forms of learning by reason of its incitement to virtuous action:

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This purifying of wit, this enriching of memorie, enabling of judgement, and inlarging of conceit,which commonly we call learning, under what name so ever it come forth, or to what immediate end soever it be directed, the finall end is to leade and draw us to as high a perfection, as our degenerate soules, made worse by their clay lodgings, can be capable of. (D 496)

Junius uses part of this sentence to argue that not only an Artificer but also lovers of art ‘‘must be filled with great varietie of learning’’ (P 3.7.12). Only the learned can judge of an invention: Without this purifying of our wit, enriching of our memory, enabling of our judgement, inlarging of our conceit, which is commonly called by the name of learning, we shall never be able to understand the drift of an historicall invention aright. . . .

No doubt Junius would have accepted the validity of Sidney’s statement in relationship to the ‘‘ending end’’ of human life; here, however, he chooses to treat learning in a more limited sense, as necessary to the ability to judge a work of art. When he adapts the words of other writers, he is less concerned with their original context than with using them to make his own expression of the ideas of the ancients more eloquent. Another borrowing, less certain but still probable, occurs when Junius uses the phrase ‘‘to plant in the imagination.’’ Sidney asks: Whom doe not those words of Turnus move (the Tale of Turnus having planted his image in the imagination) fugientam haec terra videbit? Usque adeone mori miserum est? (D 502)6

Again, Junius alters the context for this phrase, this time in order to look at the process of composition for a painter: the ‘‘planting’’ is now preliminary to the work of art, rather than the effect of the work: for if the history doth but once beginne to plant her image in our imagination, the very handling of the matter and the reentring into the presence of things will instantly suggest into us a readie and sure way how to order and place every figure. . . . (P 3.5.4)

In the one case, the image planted in the imagination by the poet moves the reader; in the other, the inner image directly affects

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the disposition of figures in a history painting. In the two instances cited, Junius has lifted Sidney’s words from their original moral context to give them a practical value in judging or fashioning a picture. Indeed Junius’s purpose is a more practical one than Sidney’s in the Defence. Although he, like Sidney, has in mind the need to defend art against the criticisms of puritans or other iconoclasts, he also seeks to elevate painting to the staus of a liberal art. Still more practical is his purpose, in all the modesty of a compiler of ancient wisdom, to teach artists how to paint and connoisseurs how to judge according to the best traditions of classical art, which had long been assimilated to rhetoric. Accordingly, Junius discusses the pictorial arts within the rhetorical framework of invention, disposition, and elocution (this last identified with the ‘‘colors of rhetoric’’).7 It is the first stage of composition that most tellingly indicates the affinity of painter and poet: for both, the origins of creation lie in the imagination. On this subject, Junius quotes Philostratus the Younger, who said that ‘‘the Art of Painting . . . is found to be a kin to Poesie; seeing both do therein agree, that as well the one as the other requireth a forward Phantasie’’ (P 1.4.6).8 In annotating Sidney’s Arcadia, Junius usually underlines any passage that alludes to the imagination, even when it may be concerned neither with poetry nor with painting but, rather, with the passions. So, for example, he marked with a vertical line the whole passage in which Musidorus tries to reassure Pamela of the chastity of his love for her: If in my desire I wish, or in my hopes aspire, or in my imagination faine to my self any thing which may be the least spot to that heavenly vertue, which shines in all your dooings; I pray the eternall powers, that the words I speake may be deadly poysons, while they are in my mouth, & that al my hopes, all my desires, all my imaginations may onely work their own confusion. (A 139)

The imagination plays its usual role of ‘‘faining,’’ or inventing, but here it governs the inner life of the individual, not a work of art. The importance of imagination to invention is ever present to Sidney and to Junius, but both are aware of its dangers. Junius, citing Apollonius of Tyana, refers to phantasy as ‘‘the mother of

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Invention, a thing full of wisedome’’ (P 3.1.11) and notes that it ‘‘doth so represent unto our mind the images of things absent, as if we had them at hand, and saw them before our eyes’’ (P 3.4.4). At the same time, only such phantasies as are grounded upon the true nature of things are worth the artist’s attention. Sidney, in his Defence, contrasting the imagination that figures ‘‘forth good things’’ with that which presents ‘‘unworthy objects,’’ specifically draws a parallel with a painter: For I will not denie, but that mans wit may make Poesie, which should be eikastike, which some learned have defined: figuring forth good things, to be phantastike: which doth contrariwise infect the fancie with unworthie objects, as the Painter, that should give to the eye either some excellent perspective, or some fine Picture, fit for building or fortification, or containing in it some notable example, as Abraham sacrificing his son Isaack, Judith killing Holofernes; David fighting with Goliath, may leave those, & please an ill-pleased eye with wanton shewes of better hidden matters. ( D 509)9

By praising the right sort of poetry, Sidney also praises good paintings. Junius, although more closely following Plato’s distinction between the two sorts of imitation, nevertheless is at pains similarly to distinguish the good artist from the immoral: Now as the Artificer may not abuse the libertie of his Imaginations, by turning it into a licentious boldnesse of fancying things abhorring from Nature; so must also a right lover of Art preferre a plaine and honest worke agreeing with Nature before any other phantastically capricious devices. (P 1.3.12)

The licentiousness to which he refers seems to mean depicting monsters or grotesques rather than ‘‘any certaine images of limited things.’’ The word ‘‘limited,’’ which indicates the finite form of created things, sets a boundary to the freedom of the artist.10 Junius also marked the passage in the Arcadia in which there is a somewhat satiric reference to ‘‘the conceipts of the Poets, whose liberall pennes can as easily travaile over mountaines, as molehills’’ (A 33). Yet in his Defence, Sidney had claimed for the poet the freedom to describe anything, ‘‘having all from Dante his heaven to his hell, under the authority of his pen’’ (D 501) and ‘‘freely ranging within the Zodiacke of his owne wit’’ (D 494). For

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these writers, it is essential both to claim this liberty and to caution against its abuse. If we consider one of the close parallels to Sidney, without actual quotation by Junius, a somewhat controversial term in The Defence of Poesie is clarified. Speaking of the importance of the work done in the poet’s mind before he sets pen to paper, Sidney says, ‘‘every understanding knoweth the skill of each Artificer standeth in that Idea or foreconceit of the worke, and not in the work itselfe. And that the Poet hath that Idea, is manifest, by delivering them forth in such excellency as hee had imagined them’’ (D 494–95). Some critics interpret the conjunction of ‘‘Idea’’ with ‘‘fore-conceit’’ to mean that the poet is to aim at presenting a Platonic idea to his audience.11 But Sidney’s use of the word ‘‘imagined’’ modifies this interpretation in the direction of the word ‘‘image.’’ That it is the image and not simply an abstract concept he is concerned with is evident in his reference to how a good painter would paint Lucretia, ‘‘whom he never saw.’’ Although it is the painter’s task to show the outward beauty of such a virtue—give it a body—he must have in his mind the fitting image; otherwise he will have nothing to paint. Sidney contrasts the ‘‘meaner sort of painters, who counterfeit only such faces as are set before them,’’ with ‘‘the more excellent, who having no law but wit, bestow that in colours upon you, which is fittest for the eye to see: as the constant, though lamenting looke of Lucretia, when shee punished in her selfe anothers fault: wherein he painteth not Lucrecia, whom he never saw, but painteth the outward beautie of such a vertue’’ (D 495–96). A similar argument is present in Raphael’s famous letter to Castiglione, in which he describes how in his Galatea, he painted the image of a beautiful woman.12 Alluding to the ancient story of how Zeuxis painted Helen of Troy by selecting the best features from five maidens of Croton, Raphael uses the word ‘‘idea’’— certa idea—to refer to what was in his mind. A perfection not to be found in nature requires the use of many models, though as Cicero, Alberti’s source, states, he as orator is luckier than the painter in having so many more models to choose from. The fact that Alberti, in his allusion to this story, immediately turns back to the imitation of nature as the artist’s true goal suggests a compromise between the ideal beauty that exists in the mind and the imitation of nature. But models, especially classical models, may

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assist both with the ideal and the natural. Gombrich, wanting to discount a doctrinaire Platonism in the practice of Raphael himself, puts the emphasis on models derived from tradition.13 However much painters and poets tossed around the word ‘‘idea,’’14 ultimately they cannot depict a concept without giving it a body. Both Sidney and Junius lay stress on image, rather than idea, as the essential form taken by the artist’s imagination. Junius, in his use of the word ‘‘pattern’’ as equivalent to ‘‘idea,’’ gives it an artistic function by linking it to the word ‘‘image’’: ‘‘seeing then that Artificers themselves doe not borrow the Image or pattern of a most excellent beautie from one particular worke of Nature; so is it likewise requisite, that Lovers and Well-willers of Art should not content themselves with the contemplation of any one particular body, but that they should rather cast their eyes upon severall bodies . . . studying alwayes to enrich their Phantasie with lively impressions of all manner of things’’ (P 1.5.2). This glancing allusion to the story of Zeuxis and the five maidens of Croton implies that the images of phantasy depend upon nature for their truthfulness; these images nevertheless go beyond nature to create pictures of beauty and virtue, which become a standard for both the artist and the lover of art. Besides nature or experience as an essential source of the artist’s inspiration, literary descriptions may assist the artist’s phantasy. The story of Phidias has particular relevance to Junius. When this artist made the images of Jupiter and Minerva, he had in his mind ‘‘an exquisite forme of beautie, upon the which he staring, directed both his Art and his hand to the similitude of the same’’ (P 1.2.2).15 Interestingly, the artist did not rely on his own imagination alone; rather, he ‘‘fetched the patterne of his worke out of a Jupiter conceived after Homers description.’’16 For Renaissance art theorists, such as Alberti, the story illustrated the need for artists to turn to poets, rhetoricians, and men of letters for their inventions.17 Like Sidney, Junius frequently uses the words ‘‘conceit’’ and ‘‘conceive’’ in conjunction with the words ‘‘image,’’ ‘‘imagine,’’ and ‘‘imagination.’’ In at least one instance, he refers to ‘‘our premeditated and fore-conceived images.’’ To avoid paying attention only to ‘‘matters of small importance,’’ it is necessary, he says, to ‘‘conceive the whole shew of the represented matters with a large and freely diffused apprehension; to the end that wee might compare the chiefest circumstances of the Argument with our pre-

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meditated and fore-conceived images’’ (P 3.7.7). That is to say, the viewer needs a store of mental images in order to judge the validity of a work of art, just as the artist needs the same kind of store as a source for his invention. Citing Maximus Tyrius (10.7c– d), Junius notes the origin of these images in the mind: ‘‘Our senses therefore, which stand as it were at the entry of the mind. . . .’’ The senses, in other words, begin the process of memory, but it is memory that supplies the images for invention, as well as for the comparison by which the reader or viewer is enabled to judge a work of art. Speaking of the need to bring order and coherence to the scattered images of the imagination, Junius refers to the labor involved, ‘‘till we have met with some right well conceived and stedfastly abiding Images: then are we by little and little to encrease this store, studying alwayes to worke out a lively similitude of what wee have conceived; for without this abilitie of expressing the conceived Images, is all the former exercise of our phantasie worth nothing; and ‘it were a great deal better to follow sudden and unpredemeditated conceits,’ sayth Quintilian, ‘then to be troubled with such Imaginations, as doe not hang handsomely together’ ’’ (Quint. 10.6.6; P 1.2.6). As for the painter, Junius concedes, that ‘‘although we cannot at all times and in all places draw and paint, our mind for all that can prepare it selfe alwayes and every where’’ (P 1.2.5). Even by the darkness of night, the imagination sees, and ‘‘when sleep beginneth to faile us,’’ our mind does not ‘‘onely digest the conceived things in some kinde of order, but bringeth the whole Invention so farre, that nothing more but the hand of the Artificer seemeth to be required to the perfection of the worke.’’ This is close to Sidney’s view that the poet’s chief work is carried out in the mind: ‘‘the skill of the artificer standeth in that Idea or foreconceit of the work, and not in the work itself.’’ On this matter, these writers seem to echo the art theorists of the Italian Renaissance.18 Leonardo, too, had stated that an artist first has an image in his mind and then in his hands.19 The efficacy of the work in teaching some truth is also addressed by both our writers, and, as it happens, both contrast this efficacy with ‘‘building castles in the air.’’ The delivering forth of the work ‘‘is not whollie imaginative,’’ Sidney remarks, ‘‘as wee are wont to say by them that build Castles in the aire; but so farre substantiallie it worketh, not onely to make a Cyrus . . . but to

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bestow a Cyrus upon the world to make many Cyrusses, if they will learne aright, why and how that maker made him’’ (D 495). According to Junius, the inexperienced artist ‘‘doth nothing else but build castles in the aire for feare of stooping to the ground’’ (P. 3.1.15). The apparent reality of the representation is essential to its effect on the viewer or reader; it must be analogous to life if it is to touch the soul. But the emotional impact of the work depends on more than artistic skill. Junius is well aware that conventional rhetorical expression can have the desired effect only when the artificer is himself moved. He cites Horace’s ‘‘si vis me flere, dolendum est / primum ipsi tibi,’’20 that the artificer ‘‘ had need first to be mooved himselfe, when hee goeth about to conceive and to expresse his intended worke’’ (P 3.4.4). This principle left its mark on Renaissance art theory, from Alberti to Vasari, and beyond.21 Rhetoricians had stressed its importance for presenting a case in a courtroom, in order to move the listeners. For poets and painters, no less, the demand for expressiveness in a work of art was seen to require the empathetic imagination. What Junius does is to integrate the principle with his whole theory of the imaginative faculty, which binds poets and painters together, and which is crucial for both creators and recipients. With the help of Cicero and Quintilian, he is able to explain how the artist is moved by his own inner images. He notes that ‘‘study and diligence’’ alone ‘‘will not furnish us with such images as must readily flow out of the nature and constitution of the matter in hand,’’ He concludes, ‘‘Whosoever therefore conceiveth these images aright, propounding unto himself the truth of things and actions, the same is likely to be most powerfull in all manner of affections . . .’’ (P 3.4.4).22 Sidney, for his part, associates moving with a didactic end: ‘‘And that moving is of a higher degree then teaching, it may by this appeare, that it is well nigh the cause and effect of teaching’’ (D 501). For an insight into Sidney’s own practice, we have the word of John Hoskins in Directions for Speech and Style (1599), that it was his habit ‘‘to imagine the thing present in his own brain that his pen might the better present it to you.’’23 The poet’s images, comparable as Sidney considers them to be to the painter’s, have the power to move the reader to right action. If Junius does not draw so direct a link between the moving power of pictures and a moral purpose, his commitment to truth and de-

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corum suggest an unswerving acceptance of moral standards in art. On a practical level, to argue for the resemblance of poetry to painting—ut pictura poesis—was to argue for the value of sensuous depiction as a path to knowledge: For as in outward things, to a man that had never seene an Elephant or a Rhincoeros, who should tell him most exquisitely all their shape, colour, bignesse and particular markes; or of a gorgious palace, an Architecture, who declaring the full beauties, might well make the hearer able to repeat, as it were by roat, all he had heard, yet should never satisfie his inward conceit, which being witnesse to itselfe of a true living knowledge: but the same man, as soone as he might see those beasts well painted, or the house well in modell, should straightwaies grow without neede of any description to a judicial comprehending of them. . . . (D 498–99)

Sidney seems to reject description but only in order to claim the transcendent value of the poetic image as it appears to leave words behind in creating a picture for the mind’s eye. He is of course proclaiming that in this respect poetry has the better of the abstract language of the philosopher. Junius uses the same kind of instances to demonstrate the value of painting: seeing it is practised almost in all Arts and Sciences, that the cleerest grounds an Artist is able to propound, are yet illustrated and cleered by Picture; how often chanceth it in the naturall science, that, when words come short, a little picture bringeth us to the knowledge of beasts, birds, fishes, and all sorts of vermine wee never saw before? . . . neither may we doubt but that all mankinde should be overwhelmed with a thicker mist of ignorance then it is now, if this generous Art did not sometimes step in and set forth in a small image what many words cannot describe. . . .’’ (P 2.8.3)24

The practical value of a picture is never forgotten. Propertius’s reference to a map comes in conveniently to support Junius’s argument that picture often explains better than words: ‘‘every one of us must say with Propertius, ‘I am compelled to learne the painted worlds out of a mappe.’ The poet sayth very well, ‘I am compelled,’ seeing the most industrious studie of perusing all the laborious commentaries of Geographers can give us but a confused and obscure view of what one painted sheet of paper pro-

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poundeth unto our eyes most clearely’’ (Propertius 4.3.37; P 2.8.3). Both Sidney and Junius in their defenses of art return time and again to a psychology of human response. The similarity of their examples points to their reading of the same ancient sources; the difference is that Sidney can credit poetry with the power of the visual image only on the level of metaphor. He himself safeguards his definition of poetry as ‘‘a speaking picture’’ by the phrase ‘‘to speak metaphorically.’’25 But, though they do not wish to blur the distinction between poetry and painting, any more than they wish to ignore the methods by which each can overcome the limitations of its own medium, Sidney and Junius join hands in viewing the poetic imagination as working like nature herself. Junius did in fact underline Sidney’s comparison between the poet and nature in The Defence of Poesie: ‘‘Nature never set forth the earth in so rich Tapistrie as diverse Poets have done’’ (D 494). Junius’s one acknowledged borrowing from Sidney is part of a poem from the Arcadia, which he uses to show the parallel between a perfect picture and the unity created by nature. It is introduced by a reference to the ‘‘aire of the picture’’: which in it selfe is nothing else but a sweet consent of all manner of perfections heaped up in one piece: the best collection of the best things. ‘‘Like divers flours, whose divers beauties serve To deck the earth with his well-coloured weed, Though each of them his privat form preserve, Yet joyning forms, one sight of beauty breed:’’ sayth a noble and famous Poet. (P 3.6.1)

In his original Latin version, as well as in the posthumous version of 1694, Junius alluded to the perfection beyond the reach of art with a quotation from Martial 6.61.5–10: ‘‘Your writings, Pompilius, they, are ingenious. But that, believe me, is not enough for fame. / How many clever writers feed moths and bookworms. . . . / A certain something, I know not what, beyond such art gives writing immortality. / A book, to last, must be the work of genius.’’26 But it was a stroke of genius for Junius to choose the passage from Sidney’s song for his English translation: it shows nature as the ultimate model for the artist. Here nature is shown

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to be creating a picture in which all the elements preserve their individuality and yet contribute to a whole that breathes the ‘‘aire’’ that is an emanation of grace. In illustrating the quality from nature’s own artistry, Junius keeps art in touch with its model in the natural world. It was the ancient artist Apelles who most represented the gift of grace. Pliny the Elder described the claim to a quality that surpassed all other artistic qualities: ‘‘The grace of his genius remained quite unrivalled, although the very greatest painters were living at that time. He would admire their works, praising every beauty and yet observing that they failed in the grace, called charis in Greek, which was distinctively his own; everything else they had attained, but in this alone none equalled him.’’27 Junius, summing up the argument of book 3 of Painting, refers to the ‘‘five principall points’’ for the art of painting: ‘‘Invention, or Historicall argument, Proportion, or Symmetrie, Colour, and therein Light and Shadow, as also Brightnesse and Darknesse. Motion or Life, and therein Action and Passion. Disposition, or an Oeconomicall placing and ordering of the whole worke. . . . Yet did not the ancients think that the perfection of Art consisted in a meete observing of these five points, except the whole worke did breath forth a certaine kinde of Grace proceeding out of a decent comeliness of every point by it self, and out of a mutuall accord of all five.’’ Once again, the word ‘‘mutuall’’ seems to suggest the whole mystery of art in the friendship of one part to another, or the friendly competition of the arts with one another and with nature. Junius repeats that the quality of grace is not to be discerned in any one part of a picture but in the whole, like a bed of flowers: ‘‘equally diffused and dispersed through the whole worke’’ (P 3.7.1). Castiglione’s ideal courtier similarly derives his grace from what he has been endowed with by nature, even though this may be perfected by a hidden art. Junius goes on to say that this quality of grace ‘‘readily and freely proceeding out of the Artificers spirit, cannot be taught by any rules of art’’ (P 3.6.2). Indeed, the hardest work of any artist is to dissemble his art, to make it appear natural.28 Sidney turns from the learned to the courtier exactly for this unaffected naturalness: Undoubtedly (at least to my opinion undoubtedly) I have found in divers small learned courtiers a more sound stile, then in some profes-

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sors of learning; of which I can ghesse no other cause, but that the courtier following that, which by practise he findeth fittest to nature, therin (though he know it not) doth according to Art, though not by Art: where the other, using Art to show Art, and not hide Art (as in these cases he should do), flyeth from nature, and indeed abuseth Arte.(D 517)

Consideration of Junius’s annotations to Sidney will show in further detail the importance of this poet for the argument of The Painting of the Ancients. Although Junius in his wide reading may well have come across similar ideas elsewhere, it is Sidney’s emphasis on the visual image as the great gift of poets, and the way this supports the analogy between poetry and painting, that would give The Defence of Poesie a special place in his thinking about the visual arts. When Sidney speaks of fiction, it is always in terms of seeing through words; for example, his allusion to the parable of the Prodigal Son at once evokes a picture: ‘‘Truly for my selfe, (me seemes) I see before mine eyes, the lost childes disdainfull prodigalitie, turned to envy a Swines dinner’’ (D 499). The inner image, the image in the mind’s eye, becomes both the inspiration for art and the effect of art, joining poet and reader. In his fiction, Sidney habitually comments on visual experience, whether from the imagination or from the visible world. One of the scenes depicted in the Arcadia is the trial of the guilty queen, Gynecia. After describing her appearance, behavior, and speech, Sidney comments on the reaction of those present: ‘‘But most were most moved, with that which was under their eyes: the sense most subject to pitie’’ (A 451). Junius underlines this sentence for its insight into the emotional response to visual experience, a subject which he will explore at length in his Painting. Visual experience generated internally, rather than as a response to external stimuli, is largely a matter of memory. Fittingly, Sidney begins and ends the Arcadia with a reference to memory. The importance of this faculty is that it provides a link between sense perception and the soul. Bearing the imprint of sense, it nevertheless, with the help of the imagination, is capable of affecting the moral life. While Prynne was condemning bodily senses, Sidney and Junius were accepting them for their contribution to higher understanding. Prynne writes: ‘‘For the senses of the body doe easily infuse their objects into the soule. Therefore wee command, that such pictures as dazell the eyes, corrupt

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the minde, and stirre up flames of filthy lusts, be not henceforth made or printed upon any tearmes. And if any shall attempt to doe it, let him be deposed.’’29 The central issue is always the bodily senses, and it is here that Sidney and Junius as defenders of art know where to place them in relation to the soul.30

II Besides Sidney, Junius drew upon the works of another English poet, Edmund Spenser, in composing his English translation. Unlike some of the other English treatises on art, Junius’ treats Spenser, not as a source of iconographic information, but as an authority on the workings of the imagination, both in his prose statements and in his poetry.31 Since Junius never mentions Spenser by name, these borrowings have gone unrecognized by those who have studied his Painting. He also takes passages from E.K.’s Dedicatory Epistle to The Shepheardes Calender. But the most interesting borrowings may well be the quotations from The Faerie Queene that are embedded in his text. Let us begin, however, with Junius’s unacknowledged borrowings from E.K., Spenser’s anonymous commentator in The Shepheardes Calender.32 In discussing disposition, the rhetorical term equivalent to the painter’s composition,33 Junius quotes Seneca’s statement on ‘‘due proportions’’ for the human figure, that ‘‘Where naked joynts are propounded, it is instantly manifest, if either the number or the order have not their due.’’ He follows this passage with one taken almost word for word from E.K.’s praise of Spenser but without any reference to either of them. Compare the following: For what in most English wryters useth to be loose, and as it were ungyrt, in this authour is well grounded, finely framed, and strongly trussed up together. (E.K.’s Dedicatory Epistle) What in other works useth to be rude, loose, and scattered, is ever in a good and perfect worke well grounded, finely framed, and strongly trussed up together. (P 3.5.9)

Junius continues with parts of two other sentences from E.K.’s Epistle that he joins together:

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the whole periode and compasse of speache so delightsome for the roundnesse, and so grave for the straungenesse. . . . such indeede as may be perceived of the leaste, understoode of the moste, but judged onely of the learned. (E.K.) The whole period and compasse of the represented history is so delightsome for the equable roundnesse of composition, and so grave from the seemely simplicity of handling and framing the matter, that it may bee perceived even of the least, liked of the most, understood and judged only of the Learned. (P 3.5.9)

Just before this passage, Junius explains what is meant by ‘‘roundnesse of composition’’: ‘‘the worke requireth a round, and not interrupted continuance: all the parts of it must be connected, easily rolling on, and gently flowing or rather following one another, after the manner of them that goe hand in hand to strengthen their pace; they hold and are held’’ (P 3.5.9). Interestingly, Sir Kenelm Digby also praises The Faerie Queene for ‘‘its straunge fulnesse and roundnesse.’’34 For Junius himself, E.K.’s words were a vivid expression in English of what he wished to say about the painter’s composition; he took them over virtually unchanged as the best way of conveying his own thoughts. In the Latin of 1694, he expresses the idea of roundness by borrowing from Quintilian: ‘‘Historia non tam finitos nmeros quam orbem quendam contextumque desiderat’’ [History does not so much demand full, rounded rhythm as a certain continuity of motion and connexion of style].35 For the latter part of the English sentence, Junius has again borrowed, without saying so, from an adjacent passage in Quintilian: ‘‘ut homines qui manibus invicem apprehensis gradum firmant, continent et continentur’’ [we may compare its motion to that of men, who link hands to stay their steps, and lend each other mutual support].36 In general, where E.K. provides an English translation of Quintilian, Junius simply takes over his words. On the other hand, for the 1694 Latin version, he returns to E.K.’s own source in Quintilian. Whereas he generally acknowledges his classical sources, he does not do so with the moderns, perhaps because they too were seen as dependent on antiquity for their ideas. Junius’s omission of any reference to his near contemporaries when using their very words was standard practice among Renaissance humanists. Not having the status of the classics, the writings of a Sidney or Spenser were there for the taking.

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Even what E.K. said about writers who mix words taken from various languages—something of philological interest to Junius—is applied to the visual arts. E.K. begins by criticizing those who condemn the English language: ‘‘which truely of it self is both ful enough for prose and stately enough for verse, hath long time ben counted most bare and barrein of both.’’ He mocks their attempts to compensate for these supposed weaknesses: Which default when as some endevoured to salve and recure, they patched up the holes with peeces and rags of other languages . . . not weighing how il those tongues accorde with themselves, but much worse with ours: so now they have made our English tongue a gallimaufray or hodgepodge of al other speches.(E.K.)

Junius applies this statement to painters who lack an assured conceit or invention, which would imply its own disposition or arrangement: Which default, when as some endeavor to salve and recure in their workes, they patch up the holes with pieces and ragges borrowed of other mens inventions, corrupting the whole frame of their worke, and making it like unto an ill relished gallamaufrey or hodge-podge, of several and very much disagreeing things. (P 3.5.9)

It may seem ironic that Junius should, in a passage he has himself borrowed, speak of patching ‘‘up the holes with pieces and ragges borrowed of other mens inventions.’’ Nevertheless, he continues to borrow E.K.’s phrases such as ‘‘round without roughnesse, and learned without hardnesse’’ (P 3.7.2) or ‘‘rakehellye route of our ragged rymers,’’ which he turns into a description of disorderly painters as ‘‘ragged and raking‘‘ (P 3.5.9). Stressing the importance of ‘‘disposition‘‘ in the Argument to the third book of The Painting of the Ancients, Junius notes that it was ’’observed in Pictures that had many figures: seeing a piece wherein there doe meete many and severall figures shall be nothing else but a kinde of mingle-mangle or a darksome and dead confusion of disagreeing things, unlesse they receive light and life by a convenient and orderly disposition.‘‘ His analogies, in 3.5.2, are drawn from architecture, sculpture, and even an army, to illustrate the crucial value of order, which he associates with ‘‘Nature it selfe.’’37 The reverse is represented by such words as

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‘‘mingle-mangle,’’ which resembles his use of E.K.’s words ‘‘gallamaufray’’ or ‘‘hodgepodge’’ or ‘‘rakehellye route of our ragged rymers.’’ Such colloquialisms must have seemed decorous in descriptions of disorder. To illustrate a specific cause of disorder, Junius takes over E.K.’s criticism of those who rely too much on what they believe to be divine inspiration. Immediately after his reference to ‘‘the rakehellye route of our raged rymers,’’ E.K. describes them as those who without learning boste, without judgement jangle, without reason rage and fome, as if some instinct of poeticall spirite had newly ravished them above the meanenesse of commen capacitie. And being in the middest of all theyr bravery, sodenly eyther for want of matter, or of ryme, or having forgotten theyr former conceipt, they seemed to be so pained and traveiled in theyr remembrance as it were a woman in childebirth, or as that same Pythia, when the traunce came upon her. . . .

Junius shares this contempt for artists who neglect to learn their craft: Yet can these men finde in their hearts to boast, as if instinct of an elevated spirit had newly ravished them above the meannesse of common capacities. But sometimes, being in the middest of their bravery, suddenly either for want of matter, or skill in ordering the matter, sometimes also for having lost their former conceit loosely hanging together, they are very much pained and travelled in their remembrance, not knowing which way to turne themselves. (P 3.5.9)

On the surface, this statement contradicts E.K.’s gloss on Cuddie’s emblem ‘‘Agitante calescimus illo, &c.’’ at the end of the October eclogue, that ‘‘poetry is a divine instinct and unnatural rage passing the reache of comen reason.’’38 But Junius has the same paradox in his Painting of the Ancients, citing the same Ovidian passage used in the October emblem, that there is a God in us, ‘‘by whose tossing of us we are enflamed’’ (P 1.4.1), and at the same time insisting on the ordering needed for the work of art. Despite the general criticism of disorder voiced by E.K. and Junius, both of them hold to a belief in an artistic principle of disorderly order. One of E.K.’s sentences provides a classic in-

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stance of this principle, and since it refers to the art of painting as analogous to the poet’s art, all Junius has to do to make use of it is to remove the statement of analogy. E.K.’s Epistle contains the following influential statement: But all as in most exquisite pictures they use to blaze and portraict not onely the daintie lineaments of beautye, but also rounde about it to shadow the rude thicket and craggy clifts, that by the basenesse of such parts, more excellency may accrew to the principall (for oftimes we fynde our selves, I know not how, singularly delighted with the shew of such naturall rudenessse, and take great pleasure in that disorderly order) even so doe those rough and harsh termes enlumine and make more clearly to appeare the brightnesse of brave and glorious words. So ofentimes a dischorde in musick maketh a comely concordaunce. . . .

Junius borrows this statement on the pleasing effect of contrast: Great masters use sometimes to blaze and to pourtray in most excellent pictures, not onely the dainty lineaments of beauty, but they use also to shadow round about it rude thickets and craggy rockes, that by the horridnesse of such parts there might accrue a more excellent grace to the pricipall: even as a discord in musicke maketh now and then a comely concordance; and it falleth out very often, that the curious spectators finde themselves, I know not how, singularly delighted with such a disorderly order of a counterfeited rudenesse. (P 3.5.10)

The purpose of E.K.’s analogy is to defend Spenser’s use of archaic words in The Shepheardes Calender. In this aim he draws support from Cicero’s pointing out the value of contrast and the role that archaic words may play in eloquence. Cicero also refers to pictures as an analogue: ‘‘in the case of old pictures the actual roughness and old-fashioned style are an attraction.’’ He follows this immediately with musical and other analogies to show that human nature requires contrast and variety to escape satiety: ‘‘A style,’’ he says, ‘‘which is symmetrical, decorated, ornate, and attractive, but that lacks relief or check or variety, cannot continue to give pleasure for long.’’39 Summing up, he uses the analogy of light and shadow: a speech ‘‘had better have some shadow and background to make the spot of high light appear to stand out more prominently.’’ This kind of contrast was regularly emphasized by Renaissance

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writers on art, who were themselves heavily influenced by rhetorical writers such as Cicero and Quintilian in their development of a theory of painting. Vasari, for example, refers to ‘‘la discordante concordia che fanno i lumi con l’ombre’’[the concord in discord that comes from light and shade].40 He, like other writers on the art of painting and its history, has Pliny the Elder to draw on for the story of ancient art and its progress from a more primitive to a more fully representational style. Pliny had drawn attention to the need for a contrast between light and shade—lumen et umbrae—and Renaissance art theorists, as well as artists, took full cognizance of this principle.41 When Junius borrows the words of E.K., it is to defend a certain obscurity—the smoke from which light emerges—as a safeguard against indecorum and failure: the artist is ‘‘to unfold great matters of argument covertly,’’ rather than ‘‘professing it, not to be able to performe it accordingly.’’ Here again he uses E.K.’s very words: ‘‘it seemeth, he [Spenser] chose rather to unfold great matter of argument covertly then, professing it, not suffice thereto accordingly.’’ For additional support, Junius cites Horace: ‘‘They do not study to produce smoke out of light, but light out of smoke, . . . to the end that they might effect specious miracles’’(Ars poet.143ff.; P 3.5.10). At the end of the paragraph, he includes a reference to Horace’s insistence on the grace received, even from ‘‘mean and ordinary things,’’ by ‘‘a good and orderly connexion’’(240–44). One interesting change Junius makes in the E.K. passage is that he substitutes for ‘‘naturall rudenesse’’ the expression ‘‘counterfeited rudenesse.’’ Since these words are exactly opposite in meaning, he must have considered carefully what he wanted to say; he is less concerned with a feature of nature than with the imitation of it. Being considerably more sophisticated as an art theorist than E.K., he subtly modifies the direction of the argument. Nevertheless, Junius is prepared to take over most of what E.K. has said. Like E.K., he uses a musical analogy to emphasize the point. In his next chapter, dealing with Grace as the ultimate expression of a perfect art, he again refers to music as an example of ‘‘disorderly order’’: ‘‘Even as a lute cannot delight the hearer, unlesse all the strings from the highest to the lowest being well tuned, strike the eare with the sweet harmony of a disagreeing agreement’’ (3.6.1). Spenser, alluding to the same commonplace,

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says, ‘‘Discord oft in music makes the sweeter lay’’ (FQ 3.2.l5). Henry Peacham, in The Compleat Gentleman, likewise exclaims: ‘‘How doth Musicke amaze us, when of sound discords she maketh the sweetest harmony?’’42 A direct link to painting is made, unmelodiously, by John Norden’s Vicissitudo Rerum (1600): All arts have discord, yet in unitie Concording, as in musicke, high and low, Long and short, these compose the harmonie. The paynter doth by contraries forth show By lively hand, what Nature doth bestow, By colours, white, blacke, red, and greene and blew; These contraries depaynt right Natures hew.43

Although E.K. did not invent the topos, his statement of it echoed well into the seventeenth century.44 Evidently it was felt necessary to make the principle of order include the principle of disorder, for the sake of the variety that nature, the model for art, exhibits. Besides E.K.’s Epistle, Junius must also have had Spenser’s prefatory letter to The Faerie Queene before him as he composed his English translation of De pictura veterum. And as with his E.K. borrowings, it is the discussion of disposition that leads him to use Spenser’s words. Near the end of his letter, Spenser states that the whole is more important than the parts of a poem, or, rather, that it is necessary to grasp the whole in order to understand the parts: Thus much, Sir, I have briefly overronne, to direct your understanding to the wel-head of the history, that from thence gathering the whole intention of the conceit, ye may, as in a handfull, gripe al the discourse, which otherwise may happily seeme tedious and confused.

Junius combines this notion of disposition as related to invention with Aristotle’s emphasis on the apparent eyewitness account that the poet must give if he is to prove consistent in the details of his narrative: for if the history doth but once beginne to plant her image in our imagination, the very handling of the matter and the reentring into the presence of things will instantly suggest into us a readie and sure

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way how to order and place every figure: but we must suffer our understanding to be directed to the well-head of the history it selfe, that from thence gathering the full intention of the conceit, wee might at one view, rightly apprehend the whole argument: for if wee doe but understand it by half and confusedly, the Disposition must needs be lame and imperfect. . . . (P 3.5.4)

As we have already seen, the ‘‘planting’’ of the image in the imagination echoes Sidney’s words in the Defence; the next part of the sentence, with its emphasis on ‘‘the presence of things,’’ echoes Aristotle in chapter 17 of The Poetics;45 the latter part is drawn directly from Spenser’s prefatory letter. Such is the subtle combining of ideas and words from Junius’s various sources to make clear how both poets and painters win over their readers and viewers and how necessary it is for the recipients of the story to see the whole picture. In this context, invention implies disposition. As Junius says, if the ‘‘conceit’’ is a good one, an order ‘‘which floweth out of the nature of things’’ will follow. Accepting Horace’s dictum that ‘‘The matter being considered of aforehand . . . words use to follow with an unconstrained facilitie’’ (Ars poet. 311; P 3.5.2), Junius applies this key rhetorical concept to painting. He also takes from this letter Spenser’s distinction between a historical poet and a historiographer, which explains the different principles that historians and either poets or painters must observe in the ordering of their work: For the methode of a poet historical is not such as of an historiographer. For an historiographer discourseth of affayres orderly as they were donne, accounting as well the times as the actions; but a poet thrusteth into the middest, even where it most concerneth him, and there recoursing to the things forepaste, and divining of things to come, maketh a pleasing analysis of all.

Most of the following is taken word for word from Spenser, except for the substitution of painter for poet: Observe onely that the methode of a painted history must not alwayes be tyed to the lawes of a penned historie: an historiographer discourseth of affaires orderly as they were done, according as well the times as the actions: but a Painter thrusteth himselfe into the very middest, even where it most concerneth him: and recoursing from

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thence to the things fore-past, preventing likewise the things to come, he maketh his Art all at once represent things alreadie done, things that are doing, and things which are as yet to be done. (P 3.5.5)46

Whatever Lessing’s distinction between the space-art of painting and the time-art of poetry, Junius has no problem with transferring to painting a critical precept of epic poetry: in medias res.47 He uses the same contrast Spenser used between history and epic poetry to describe the painter’s freedom to choose the moment that will imply the entire story, rather than following the old custom of simultaneous narration, such as is used in the illustrations for Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso and for Sir John Harington’s translation.48 Junius has in mind, it is clear, the istoria as the pictorial equivalent to epic. This passage from Spenser’s prefatory letter was important enough to Junius to be included in his revised Latin edition of 1694: Hic tantum in transitu observa, pictam historiam minime teneri iisdem legibus, quibus obstricta est historia scripta; quum praecipuum sit munus historicorum rem omnem a principio ad finem usque prosequi, observata ubique temporis atque omnium circumstantiarum vera serie; Pictores vero consulto saepe, prout e re sua esse judicant, in medios irrumpunt actus, ad antecedentia exinde & consequentia, cum opportunum erit, redituri; siquidem perfacile iis est una eademque tabula praeteritarum, praesentium, futurarumque rerum imagines complecti (191). [Observe here only in passing that the story told in pictures is constrained very little by the same laws by which the written account is held, since it is the particular duty of historians to follow the whole subject through from the beginning to the end, with the actual sequence of time and of all the circumstances everywhere noted. But painters often deliberately break into the middle of events, as they are making an examination [judicant] from their own view [re], with the intention of returning to preceding events and from there to those that follow when there is occasion. Indeed it is very easy for them to include images of past, present, and future events in one and the same picture.]

The closeness to Spenser’s form of statement is the more remarkable in that Junius had all the ancient authors to draw upon, yet chose here to use the words of an English poet. This choice is in keeping with his emphasis on the role of the imagina-

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tion in artistic creation. Indeed Spenser has, for Junius, his own part to play in exemplifying the imagination at work in painting with words. To illustrate how artists are ‘‘studying alwayes to enrich their Phantasie with lively impressions of all manner of things’’ (P 1.5.2), Junius provides a tissue of poetic quotations, woven together especially from his reading of The Faerie Queene, with a little help from the Arcadia.49 Since Junius must himself use words to describe the kind of impressions painters need to store in their memory and imagination, it is natural for him to borrow descriptions from poets. Sidney had repeatedly referred to the visual effect of poetry: ‘‘Well may you see Ulysses in a storme and in other hard plights’’ (D 501). The artist must see in his mind’s eye what he will paint; that is, he must have ‘‘the very presence, as it were, of the conceived matter’’ in his mind if he is to be consistent and convincing in his choice of detail. It is this power of visualization that links poet and reader, painter and viewer, and that is at the heart of the phrase, used both by Sidney and Junius, ‘‘to plant an image in the imagination.’’ To illustrate, Junius takes from The Faerie Queene a description of a sunrise. Compare his ‘‘how the great lampe of Light uprearing his flaming head above the earth’’ with Spenser’s ‘‘reard above the earth his gleaming creast’’ (1.12.2). Or compare Junius’s description of the coming of night—‘‘how darkesome night beginneth to display her coal-black curtain over the brightest skie, dimming the spacious reach of heaven with a shady dampe’’—with Spenser’s ‘‘Now whenas darkesome Night had all displayd / Her coleblack curtein over brightest sky’’ (1.4.44), together with ‘‘All suddeinly dim wox the dampish ayre, / And griesly shadowes covered heaven bright’’(3.4.52): For the next part of his description, Junius borrows from The Faerie Queene, 1.1.7: Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, A shady grove not farr away they spide, That promist ayde the tempest to withstand: Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers pride, Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide, Not perceable with power of any starr. . . .

This stanza is incorporated into his landscape description as follows: ‘‘pleasant arbors and long rowes of lofty trees, clad with

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summers pride . . . the beames of the Sunne here and there breaking through the thickest boughes, and diversly enlightening the shadie ground. . . .’’ The only real difference is that Junius has allowed the sunbeams to break through the thickest boughs. As he continues to describe a landscape typical of the locus amoenus in the variety of its appeal to the senses, he borrows from Sidney’s Arcadia: ‘‘sweet brooks running with a soft murmuring noise, holding our eyes open with their azure streames, and yet seeking to close our eyes with the purling noise made among the pebble-stones’’ (A 68; P 1.5.2).50 In every detail, accurate observation is transfigured by the idealizing power of the imagination and beauty of expression. It is interesting to compare Junius’s two Latin versions—the earlier one of 1637 and the posthumous version of 1694—with his English version. His use of Spenser’s own words in the latter results in an opening up of the poetic qualities that he urges the painter to cultivate. The Latin edition of 1694 includes some of this expansion of imagery. In one instance, it seems that Junius’s Latin reflects his reading of Spenser. In his English version he described how the rising sun ‘‘causeth the dawning day to spread a faint and trembling light upon the flichering gilded waves’’ (P 1.5.2). Here he has borrowed from The Faerie Queene 2.12.2: ‘‘Upon the waves to spred her trembling light.’’ In the Latin of 1694, this becomes ‘‘matutinae lucis tremulum in aquis ardorem’’ [the trembling heat of the morning light on the water]. For the rest of this expanded descriptive passage, he has used classical sources, mentioning in particular Columella, De Re Rustica 10 and Claudianus, De Raptu 2.103. Junius’s direct reference to these ancient authors contrasts with his omission of any reference to Spenser.51 But the importance of Spenser and Sidney to him is that the poets of his adopted country domesticate, as it were, classical traditions. They are fitting heirs of the ancients. Above all, they speak in images that, like a painter’s, mirror the internal images of the human mind. Junius’s use, for example, of Spenser, not only points to some important theoretical assumptions about art in general, but also illustrates the power of vivid description, or ekphrasis, to evoke images for the imagination. Just as Dryden refers to Spenser as ‘‘warming the imagination,’’52 so Junius seeks to show how the poet’s words create a mental picture analogous to the painter’s effect on the mind of the viewer. He finds a similar

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power in Sidney’s fictions, along with the theoretical support offered by the Defence of Poesie. In the next two chapters, Junius’s actual annotations to Sidney will be considered in the light of ancient poets who helped to inspire the Elizabethan poet and who frequently serve as examples in The Painting of the Ancients.

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3 The Painted Poetry of Ovid I

OVID’S POETRY IS, FOR JUNIUS, OF PARAMOUNT IMPORTANCE IN PREsenting his theory of art.1 On the surface, it might seem paradoxical that a devout Protestant should draw so heavily on the advocacy of sense experience that Ovid’s works express.2 But for Junius, the Roman poet is an expert on artistic qualities, as well as an exemplar of them. When he annotated his copy of the Arcadia, he made a point of singling out many of the Ovidian allusions. Indeed, Ovid is our first key both to Junius’s Painting and to Sidney’s thought and expression.3 Although in Junius’s copy of Sidney’s Defence of Poesie, he does not take special note of the Ovidian allusions, he knew it well and made use of it in his own treatise. The two direct references to Ovid by name in the Defence both present the Roman poet in the character of a wit, and it is in this character that Sidney emulates him. In Ovid’s own context, the first passage, from Ars amatoria 2.661–62, explains how to ‘‘soften’’ the shortcomings of a woman by euphemistic expression.4 He illustrates how to do this: ‘‘If cross-eyed, let her be like Venus; grayhaired, like Minerva; call her slender whose thinness impairs her health; if short, call her trim; if stout, of full body; let its nearness to a virtue conceal a fault.’’ He sums up this method with the line that Sidney uses: ‘‘Ut lateat vitium proximitate boni.’’ By changing vitium to virtus and boni to mali Sidney adapts the line to his purposes, ‘‘that good lie hid in nearnesse of the evil’ ’’ (D 506). He then cites the opposite procedure in Agrippa, who shows the vanity of science, and Erasmus, who commends folly. He notes that ‘‘a playing wit can praise the discretion of an Asse, the comfortablenesse of being in debt, and the jolly commoditie of being sicke of the plague.’’ But he adds 83

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that ‘‘for Erasmus & Agrippa, they had an other foundation, then the superficiall part would promise.’’ He makes clear his disdain for mere scoffers and particularly for those who, without understanding poetry, attack it with their jibes. Concerned with the right use of wit in the cause of truth, he says that ‘‘scoffing commeth not of wisedome,’’ a sententious remark that Junius underlined in his copy of The Defence (506). The second Ovidian allusion, from Tristia 4.10.26, criticizes the license some inferior poets, who lack ‘‘Art, Imitation, and Exercise,’’5 have taken in making quodlibet, or ‘‘whatever you please,’’ their principle of composition. Thus, says Sidney, ‘‘wrongfully performing Ovids Verses, ‘Quicquid conabor dicere, Versus erit’ [And whatever I tried to say will turn into verse]. Never marshalling it into any assured ranke, that almost the Readers cannot tell where to find themselves’’ (D 513). These bad poets never give fitting form, such as Ovid gave to his own use of quodlibet. Sidney’s freedom of ‘‘ranging only within the zodiacke of his own wit,’’ which he argues that all true poets possess, never sets aside the necessity of form. Another quotation from Ovid, though here he is not mentioned by name, is from the Remedia Amoris, 686. It occurs in the context of arguing for the memorable wisdom contained in lines of poetry drawn from the ancients. After illustrating with a line from Horace, Sidney quotes: ‘‘Dum sibi quisque placet credula turba sumus’’ [While each of us flatters himself, we are all a believing crew] (D 507).6 Once again, Ovid plays the part in Sidney’s essay as sage, as well as wit. Finally, Sidney ends his Defence with an allusion to the story of Midas in Ovid’s Met. 11.146ff. In denouncing those who attack poetry, he links them to the stupidity of Midas, who preferred the playing of Pan to that of Apollo, for which he was punished by being given ass’s ears. Sidney comments, ‘‘though I will not wish unto you the Asses eares of Midas, . . . yet’’—and here he proceeds to pronounce his own curse—‘‘yet thus much curse I must send you, in the behalfe of al Poets, that while you live, you live in love, and never get favour, for lacking skill of a Sonet, and, when you die, your memorie die from the earth for want of an Epitaph’’ (D 518). Sidney has taken Ovid for his master in the witty expression of wisdom.

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II In considering Junius’s annotations to Sidney’s Arcadia, one must recognize that these are allusive, rather than exact identification of sources. Some do, indeed, point directly to Sidney’s source of an idea or an image; more often, they suggest an analogue in ancient literature. The annotations are closely related to the use of a commonplace book and the method of composition based on such a book. Studying these annotations, we see how a seventeenth-century humanist would read a modern text—what kind of interpretations he would bring to bear on the text and, in turn, what use he could make of the relationship he creates between the text and his own writing. The result is a much more personal reading than a present-day annotated edition proposes. Rather than the book as ‘‘entombing’’ the author’s thoughts, they grow alive under the pen of the responding annotator. It is this intimacy between the annotator and his text that will be at the center of what follows. We are fortunate in having Junius’s Painting of the Ancients as a compelling instance not only of the use to which he put his own commonplace book but also of his thought on many of the issues that engage Sidney as well. For both of them, Ovid is an inspiration for his knowledge of the human heart and of art and all that pertains to it. Central to Ovid’s place in their thinking about life and art is the role he gives to the imagination and memory. It is Ovid’s story of Ceyx and Alcyone that comes to Junius’s mind when reading Sidney’s account of how place stirs memory and brings with it the emotion associated with the place. Sidney’s two shepherds, Claius and Strephon, return to the shore from which their beloved Urania had departed: ‘‘Well, then, remembrance commanded; we obeyed and here we find that as our remembrance came ever cloathed unto us in the forme of this place, so this place gives new heate to the feaver of our languishing remembrance’’ (A 1). For his part, Junius remembers, in reading this, how Alcyone, after her husband had left on his perilous voyage, ‘‘renovat lectusque torusque / Alcyonae lacrimas et quae pars admonet absit’’ [sought her empty bedroom and threw herself upon the bed. Bedroom and bed renewed her tears, for they reminded her of the part that was gone from her] (Met.11.472–73).7 The sex of the departed one is different, as is the place of remembrance: in

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the Metamorphoses, it is a bed; in the Arcadia, it is the seashore, which of course is crucial to the Alcyone story with the drowning and transformation of husband and wife into seabirds. Certainly, the associative significance of place is enough for Junius to link the two passages through his annotation.8 Although Ovid may be regarded as Sidney’s ultimate model, the more immediate inspiration for this passage on remembrance is in the Diana of Montemayor. The shepherd Syrenus, remembering where he first saw his beloved Diana, weepingly denounces memory for the pain it brings: ‘‘Ah, memorie (cruell enemie to my quiet rest) were not thou better occupied to make me forget present corsies, then to put before mine eies passed contents? What saiest thou, memorie? / That in this medow I beheld my Lady Diana, that in the same I began to feele that, which I shal never leave of to lament.’’9 He then asks memory, ‘‘Since now thou hast put before me the foundations of my mishap . . . forget not to tune me this jarring string, to put before mine eies by one and one the troubles, the turmoiles, the feares . . . which leave not him, that most truly loves. . . .’’ This is a call for verse to be made from the misery of memory. Sidney himself in his Defence (D 507) links verse to memory on the analogy between the ‘‘places’’ of the artificial memory systems and the fact that each word ‘‘having his naturall seat, which seat must needes make the words remembred.’’ Commenting on the art of memory, he notes, ‘‘nothing [is] so apt for it, as a certaine roome divided into many places, well and throughly knowne.’’ The systematization of memory in terms of place has the effect of putting an emphasis on images as the active, energizing element. It is significant that Thomas Wilson, in his Arte of Rhetorique, defines ‘‘a place’’ in these terms: ‘‘A place is called any roome apt to receive images.’’10 Both Sidney and Junius recognize that ‘‘planting an image’’ in the imagination and memory is the way to give an idea efficacy, for images make ideas concrete. For example, Sidney advises, ‘‘Onely let Aeneas be worne in the Tablet of your memory . . . and I thinke in a minde most [sic—modern texts have ‘‘not,’’ which makes better sense] prejudiced with a prejudicating humor, he will be found in excellencie fruitfull . . .’’ (D 505–6). This emphasis belongs to Sidney’s whole argument that poetry is better than philosophy for teaching moral truths. He cites as examples

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Christ’s mnemonic images in the parables, such as that of Dives and Lazarus. Junius’s stress on memory in the formation of true images occurs in a passage in his Painting where he notes, ‘‘Lovers of art ought to store up in their mind the perfect Images of all manner of things.’’ But the process involves phantasy to such a degree that it can hardly be separated from memory. Citing Themistius for his paraphrase of Aristotle’s De Anima (P 1.2.1), Junius, who, like Sidney, makes imagination absolutely central to art, says, ‘‘the phantasie . . . is like a print or footstep of sense . . . whose nature is to lay up the prints delivered her by sense, and to seal them up after so sure a manner, as to keep still the footsteps of the same, after that now the visible things are gone out of our sight.’’ The metaphors ‘‘prints’’ and ‘‘footsteps’’ are Aristotelian terms for memory. Aristotle had also compared the mental pictures held in the memory to a portrait.11 In this metaphor, he has the opportunity of comparing the memory image to the reality of an experience, for a portrait both exists in itself and as a similitude for something else.12 For Junius, the work of art must be compared with the internal image, on the one hand—that is, the artistic configuration—and ‘‘the truth of nature,’’ on the other hand: ‘‘a perfect and accurate admirer of Art is first to conceive the true Images of things in his minde, and afterwards to applie the conceived Images to the examination of things imitated’’ (P 1.5.1). He goes this extra step beyond Sidney in emphasizing the comparison with experience because he is, after all, dealing with the art of painting, in which a comparison of the painted object or portrait with nature is much more direct than is the case in poetry. The images of memory exert a powerful force on the emotions. As Sidney and Junius recognize, we are influenced by images within the mind, as well as by the real presence of things. This is not the ‘‘artificial memory’’ but real memory linked to the emotions that first fixed it in the mind. It is the same as imagination, sharing the feature that Aristotle identifies: ‘‘in imagination we are like spectators looking at something dreadful or encouraging in a picture.’’13 Imagination and memory both derive from the senses and both present interior images. The only difference that Aristotle found between them is that ‘‘the mental images of memory are not from perception of things present but of things past.’’14 This emphasis

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on the senses as they are reflected in imagination and memory brings Junius and Sidney into essential harmony with Ovid. Of particular interest to Junius are passages in which Sidney treats visual experience. Given the actual quotations from Sidney that appear in The Painting of the Ancients, it is safe to assume that Sidney’s own ‘‘speaking pictures’’ met with Junius’s concern for the relationship between poetry and painting. Here Ovid cements the bond between the two. Even the periphrasis by which Sidney describes the coming of dawn reminds Junius of an Ovidian parallel: ‘‘in the time that the morning did strow roses and violets in the heavenly floore against the coming of the Sunne’’ (A 6). The Ovid passage is not identical but contains the same rose and violet colors: ‘‘ecce vigil nitido patefecit ab ortu / purpureas Aurora fores et plena rosarum / atria’’ [behold Aurora, who keeps watch in the gleaming dawn, has opened wide her purple gates, and her courts growing with rosy light] (Met.2.112–14). Without Junius’s annotation, our attention might not be drawn to the fact that Sidney has substituted the more pastoral image of flowers for Ovid’s palace imagery. It is a small matter but alerts us both to Sidney’s classical precedent and to his modification of it. One of the ways that Sidney in this passage and in many others makes his descriptions more vivid is by the use of mythological allusions, which most often derive from Ovid’s poems. The pictorial quality of these poems attracted Junius in his writing of Painting; he also took note of a great number of Ovidian allusions in the Arcadia, which Sidney introduced as a picture that amplifies his own. Thus Junius cites a passage in Ovid’s Fasti (12.348) beside Sidney’s description of how Basilius came into his wife’s bed when he was planning to leave her for his adulterous assignation in a cave with Zelmane: ‘‘Till at length, fearing his wife were not fullie asleepe, he came, lifting up the cloathes as gently as (I thinke) poor Pan did, when, in steed of Ioles bed, he came into the rough embracings of Hercules; and laying himselfe downe, as tenderly as a new Bride, rested awhile with a verie open eare, to marke each breath of his supposed wife’’—who is, of course, Pyrochles-Zelmane, a man for all his feminine appearance (A 366). The mythological allusion is both vivid and humorous. In Ovid’s story, Pan falls in love with Omphale, the beloved of Hercules. At night, when all were asleep, Pan gets into bed with the supposed Omphale, but she and Hercules have exchanged clothes.

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Not realizing this, he touches Hercules: ‘‘horrebant densis aspera crura pilis’’ (There he encountered) [legs that bristled with thick rough hair].15 Basilius, on the other hand, remains ignorant of the fact that he is in bed with his own wife and that his dream of illicit passion in a cave is to be a humiliating failure. The mythological parallel accentuates the ridiculous in matters of love. By drawing attention to Ovidian analogues, Junius gives an extra pictorial dimension to Sidney’s narrative. We now have Ovid’s full picture in mind as an illustrative allusion or analogue for Sidney’s description. We are made more aware than we perhaps would have been of just how Ovidian Sidney’s descriptive style is; Sidney’s own reading comes into play in our reading of the Arcadia. Another example of Junius’s allusions to Ovidian mythology occurs in the scene where Basilius was found out by his wife in the proposed act of adultery and was more ashamed to see himself so overtaken than ‘‘Vulcan was, when with much cunning hee proved himselfe a Cuckold’’ (A 398). Junius’s reference to Met. 4.170 and to Ars amat. 2.561, though pointing to a better-known story than the one of Pan and Omphale, shows his habit of noting marginally every possible Ovidian parallel. The wit with which Sidney comments on Vulcan’s construction of a net in which he caught his wife, Venus, and her lover, Mars, is reinforced by the use of paronomasia: ‘‘with much cunning hee proved himselfe a Cuckold.’’ Even this brief allusion adds a pictorial dimension; it fixes the universality of the absurdity of love. Everywhere, Ovid contributes to Sidney’s own vividness, and Junius helps us to a fuller recognition of this fact. For example, he reminds us that for Sidney, following Ovid, everything in nature is expressive, and equally, everything in man’s face and gesture. That faces can speak, Kalander reminds us when he comments on the appearance of the young prince Musidorus: ‘‘I am no Herald to enquire of mens pedegrees, it sufficeth me if I know their vertues; which (if this young mans face be not false witnesse) do better apparel his minde then you have done his body’’ (A 7). Junius notes a parallel in Heroides 16.51–52, in which Paris writes to Helen: ‘‘Forma vigorque animi, quamvis de plebe videbar, / indicium tectae nobilitatis erat’’ [My beauty and my vigor of mind, though I seemed from the common folk, were the sign of hidden nobility].16 The countenance is a clue to the inner life; it is the speaking portrait of the person.

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For those bearing, as Musidorus does, ‘‘in his countenance evident marks of a sorrowful mind supported with a weak body,’’ it is best to follow the advice stated by Ovid, as Junius notes in the margin: ‘‘Dum furor in cursu est, currenti cede furori; / Difficiles aditus impetus omnis habet’’ [while its [sorrow’s] fury is at full speed, give way to its furious speeding; impetuous force is ever hard to face] (Remed. 119–20). Sidney reaffirms this principle (which Junius underlines), not only paraphrasing Ovid but also showing how those around Musidorus act on it: ‘‘knowing that the violence of sorrow is not at the first to be striven withall (being like a mighty beast, sooner tamed with following than overthrowne by withstanding), they gave way unto it for that day and the next . . .’’ (A 5). One could argue that the chief of the virtues in the Arcadia is compassion. How the emotions are expressed is a constant concern of Sidney and Junius, as it is of Ovid. When Basilius and Gynecia praise Zelmane, Sidney comments, and Junius underlines, with a marginal note to Met. 6.469: ‘‘facundum faciebat amor’’ [Love made him eloquent]. Sidney’s own comment is more extended: ‘‘both in such extremity of praising, as was easie to be seene, the construction of their speech might best be made by the Grammer rules of affection’’ (A 71). In view of Junius’s own interest in language, it is natural for him to underline the sentence; he would have enjoyed the metaphor in ‘‘the Grammar rules of affection,’’ which implies that emotion dictates the very form of speech. One of Sidney’s sonnets in Astrophel and Stella, number 63, has another playful allusion to grammar rules, this in response to Stella’s ‘‘No, No.’’ Astrophel enjoys a factitious triumph, declaring, ‘‘But Grammer’s force with sweet successe confirme, / For Grammer says . . . (to Grammer who says nay?) / That in one speech two Negatives affirme.’’ Yet the difficulties of verbal expression are ever present in the Arcadia. Musidorus, writing his letter of apology to Pamela for embracing her, makes as many alterations as Byblis in her love letter to her brother, Caunus. Junius refers to Byblis, as described by Ovid: ‘‘incipit et dubitat, scribit damnatque tabellas, / et notat et delet, mutat culpatque probatque / inque vicem sumptas ponit positasque resumit. / quid velit ignorat; quicquid factura videtur, / displicet; in vultu est audacia mixta pudori’’ [She begins, then hesitates and stops; writes on and hates what she has written; writes and erases; changes, condemns, approves; by

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turns she lays her tablets down and takes them up again. What she would do she knows not; on the point of action, she decides against it. Shame and bold resolution mingle in her face] (Met. 9.523–27). Not content with simply giving the reference to Ovid, as he sometimes does, Junius here quotes the entire passage. In so doing, he shows the intensity of his interest in problems of expression. In similar terms, Sidney describes Musidorus’s plight: But never pen did more quakingly performe his office; never was paper more double moistened with inke and teares; never words more slowly married together, and never the Muses more tired then with changes and rechanges of his devices: fearing how to end, before he had resolved how to begin, mistrusting each word, condemning each sentence. This word was not significant, that word was too plaine: this would not be conceived, the other would be ill conceived: here sorow was not enough expressed, there he seemed too much for his own sake to be sorie: this sentence rather shewed arte then passion; that sentence rather foolishly passionate, then forcibly moving. At last, marring with mending, and putting out better then he left, he made an end of it; and being ended, was divers times readie to teare it . . . . (A 236)

If on occasion, love may make someone eloquent, it can also paralyze. The ‘‘grammar rules of affection’’ may assist or they may cancel speech itself, or lead to a chaos of expression. Ovid the psychologist figures frequently in Junius’s annotations to the Arcadia. Beside a description of Palladius, ‘‘whom true love made ready to marke, and long knowledge able to marke’’ (A 30), Junius notes Met., 4.68: ‘‘quid non sentit amor?’’ [what does love not see?]. Sometimes Sidney seems simply to paraphrase, as in his description of Queen Helen ‘‘whom in all these encounters astonishment made hardy,’’ which Junius compares to: ‘‘illa malo est audax’’ [misery made her bold] (Met. 6.288). Nevertheless, reading Sidney through the eyes of Junius gives a new dimension to expressions that might otherwise pass us by; we are now able to see more clearly what lies behind them. Thus Musidorus’s criticism of Pyrochles concerning the way he has deserted his former worthy pursuit of ‘‘the knowledge of those things which might better your mind’’ (A 31) has its analogue in Ovid’s Remed., where he recommends as a cure for love

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some of the very pursuits that Pyrochles has forsaken in his lovesickness. Another aspect of this young prince’s behavior unlikely to spell virtue is his seeking of solitude. Musidorus, the moral voice of Sidney, rebukes such a departure from the well-regulated mind, one ‘‘well trained and long exercised in vertue’’ (A 30). Junius not only underlines the rebuke but, for good measure, adds a passage from Ovid’s Remed.: ‘‘Quisquis amas, loca sola nocent, loca sola caveto: /Quo fugis? in populo tutior esse potes. / Non tibi secretis / augent secreta furores / Est opus: auxilio turba futura tibi est: / Tristis eris, si solus eris . . .’’ (579–83) [Whoever you are that love, solitary places are dangerous, beware of solitudes. Whither do you flee? You will be safer in a crowd. You have no need for secrecy (secrecy adds to passion); a crowd will give you succour. If alone, you will be sad . . .]. Despite Ovid’s more worldly tone, his advice chimes with Musidorus’s. The wants and needs of both men and women are the common subject matter of Sidney in the Arcadia and of Ovid in his love poems. The way women, for their part, seek freedom is compared by Sidney to a bird in a cage (A 13). Junius’s reference to Amores 3.4.25 indicates the danger of too much restraint: ‘‘Quidquid servatur cupimus magis’’ [Whatever is guarded we desire the more].17 But one woman is more shameless: Erona beloved by Plangus, is wooed by his father. She ‘‘left no art unused, which might keep the line from breaking, whereat the fish was already taken; not drawing him violently, but letting him play himselfe upon the hooke, which he had so greedily swallowed’’ (A 158). Junius’s Ovidian analogy does not use the fish metaphor but still advises this kind of behavior by a woman: ‘‘Sed neque te facilem iuveni promitte roganti, / Nec tamen e duro quod petit ille nega. / Fac timeat speretque simul, quotiensque remittes, / Spesque magis veniat certa minorque metus’’ [But neither promise yourself too easily to him who entreats you, nor yet deny what he asks too stubbornly. Cause him to hope and fear together and as often as you reply, see that hope becomes surer and fear diminishes] (Ars amat. 3.475–78). Many aphorisms about love in the Arcadia suggest parallels with Ovid’s own aphorisms on this subject. Beside a song of Sidney’s, in which Love smiled, and thus said: ‘‘Want joyn’d to desire is unhappie,’’ Junius referred to the Remed. 749: ‘‘Non habet, unde suum paupertas pascat amorem’’ [Poverty has no means to

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feed its passion]. Sidney moralizes here, in a way that Ovid does not, by including a further allusion to Heraclitus, who put himself beyond the power of both Fortune and nature by adopting a completely pessimistic philosophy. So Sidney adds to the aphorism by asking, ‘‘But if he nought do desire, what can Heraclitus aile?’’ (A 78). Sometimes an allusive notation is like a flash of light illuminating Sidney’s text. Just after Philoclea’s letter to the captors of her Pyrochles, now imprisoned and facing death for love of her, and just before Pamela’s similar letter pleading for the life of her beloved Musidorus, Junius places a reference to Met. 2.393: ‘‘non meruisse necem, qui non bene rexerit illos’’ [he who failed to guide them well did not deserve death]. Ovid is recounting Apollo’s argument on behalf of his son Phaethon, who has died trying to control the horses of the sun-chariot. The failure of Pyrochles and Musidorus to govern their passions is analogous, at least in Junius’s eyes: it is not a reason for punishment by death (A 459). The ancient association of horses with the passions—and here one cannot ignore Plato’s parable18 —suggests the underlying reason for Junius’s annotation. For us, he draws attention to the problem of self-control and focuses on the injustice of condemning the two young men for their inability to control what may, by analogy, be called the horses of the sun god. Both princesses argue that the princes do not deserve to die for what has happened; they take the blame upon themselves for inspiring such passion. Junius modestly places in perspective the whole issue of the degree to which the young men are guilty, and thereby gives an insight into Sidney’s own interpretation of events. Often it seems that Junius, by his annotations, is filling out some passage that we would not otherwise pay much attention to. The statement ‘‘in truth our state is sunke below the degree of feare’’ is made by the good son of the aged prince of Paphlagonia, in the passage that Shakespeare borrowed for his story of the blind Gloucester in King Lear (A 134). Junius’s marginal reference to Met. 14.488–90 expands Sidney’s brief comment: ‘‘nam dum peiora timentur, / est in vota locus: sors autem ubi pessima rerum, / sub pedibus timor est securaque summa malorum’’ [For so long as we fear worse fortune, we lie open to wounds, but when the worst possible lot has fallen, then is fear beneath our feet and the utmost misfortune can bring us no further care].19 The passage occurs in Diomedes’ narrative of the hardships faced on the

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sea by the Greeks after the fall of Troy. Consulting Ovid, we see what Sidney has condensed; the meaning is richer than would be apparent at first glance. One of Junius’s references illuminates not only Sidney but also a famous passage in Shakespeare’s Henry IV,Part l (5.1.133–35). In the Arcadia, Kalander’s steward explains to Musidorus (Palladius) the relationship between Clitophon, his master’s son, and Argalus, describing it as true friendship: ‘‘so rare as it is to be doubted whether it be anything indeede or but a word’’ (A 17). Junius notes Ovid’s Ars amat. 1.740: ‘‘Nomen amicitia est, nomen inane fides’’ [Friendship is but a name, faith is an empty name]. Shakespeare’s Falstaff is thus less original than one might think when he says, ‘‘What is honor? A word. What is in that word honor? What is that honor? Air.’’20 But it is not originality that is at issue. By knowing the Ovidian source, we become aware of the interconnectedness of the thought of Ovid, Sidney, and Shakespeare. Besides noting Sidney’s observations on the use of language and such subjects as love and friendship, Junius pays particular attention to allusions to artistic skill, just as he does in his Painting of the Ancients. He marks and annotates Sidney’s comment on Basilius’s high regard for the peasant Dametas: ‘‘And so like a creature of his owne making, he [Basilius] liked him [Dametas] more and more’’ (A 11). The reference is to Ovid’s Ex Ponto 4.1.28: ‘‘quod fecit, quisque tuetur opus’’ [Every man watches over the work he has wrought].21 Such sententiae are as important to Sidney as to his annotator, for they encapsulate, seemingly, a universal truth. Twice on one page, Junius notes Ovidian parallels to the songmaking of Sidney’s shepherds. One passage remarks on how the shepherds impute to love their invention of songs, ‘‘love whetting their braine’’ (A 14). The epistle of Sappho to Phaon (Heroides 15.27) makes the same claim, as we learn from Junius: ‘‘at mihi Pegasides blandissima carmina dictant’’ [Yet for me the daughters of Pegasus dicatate sweetest songs]. He also notes that the way the shepherds ‘‘make songs and dialogues in metre’’ has a parallel in: ‘‘nec tamen, ut verum fatear tibi, nostra teneri / a componendo carmine Musa potest’’ [And yet to confess the truth to you, my Muse cannot be restrained from composing verses] (Tristia 5.12.59). The topos of spontaneous poetic expression is

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given definitive form by Ovid, and the educated in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century England would recognize it. In the pastoral world, removed as it is from the artifice of courts, this topos has a natural place. For Junius, anything to do with poetry as it graces life through imagery and music has an attraction, especially when he can find a precedent in the poetry of the ancients. Thus he underlines Sidney’s description of a young shepherdess ‘‘knitting, and withal singing and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to worke, and her hands kept time to her voices musick’’ (A 6). In the margin, he refers to an analogous passage in Ovid’s Tristia 4.1.13–14, in which the poet explains why he continues to sing amid the hardships of exile. Among his examples of those who ease their toil with song is this: ‘‘cantantis pariter, pariter data pensa trahentis, / fallitur ancillae decipiturque labor’’ [At once singing, at once spinning her allotted task, the slave girl beguiles and whiles away her toil].22 The image combines sight and sound, toil and ease, hands and voice. On a loftier level, as befits the princes and princesses of the Arcadia, praise of the beloved is often couched in terms of the ideal beauty she represents. Philoclea, whom Pyrochles believes to be dead, unexpectedly appears in his room: ‘‘Most blessed Angell . . . wel hast thou done to take that shape, since thou wouldest submit thy selfe to mortall sence; for a more Angelicall forme could not have bin created for thee’’ (A 316). This angel has come from her ‘‘blissefull seate’’ to ‘‘this place most wretched’’ when it would have been better for Pyrochles to die and go to heaven, ‘‘there eternally to beholde, and eternally to love your beauties’’ (A 316). Junius sees a parallel in Helen’s letter to Paris (Heroides 17.130): ‘‘Tarda solet magnis rebus inesse fides’’ [faith is wont to be slow in matters of great moment]. For the educated and courtly, who have somehow strayed into the pastoral world, ideal beauty is angelic or divine; this is the only fitting comparison for the beloved. Junius himself, in Painting, gives considerable attention to sensuous beauty, especially in his Latin version, De pictura veterum, where he assembles passages from Ovid’s works in praise of hair, eyes, figure. By implication, it is the poet and painter who are best fitted to perceive beauty, for they have stored up in their memory and imagination the ideal images with which to compare their earthly counterparts.

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A paragraph, describing the garden at Kalander’s house, of much interest to Junius, judging by the underlinings and marginal comments, begins with an example of nature’s own use of artistic illusion: ‘‘In the middest of all the place was a faire pond, whose shaking crystall was a perfect mirrour to all the other beauties, so that it bare shew of two gardens; one in deede, the other in shadowes. . .’’ (A 8). This kind of parallel between nature and art has a long history. Alberti, for example, referred to Narcissus as the first painter when he saw an image of himself in a pool.23 Erasmus is even closer to Sidney in his description of a painted garden that extends the real garden from outside to inside a house: ‘‘we are twice pleased when we see a painted flower competing with a real one. In one we admire the cleverness of nature, in the other the inventiveness of the painter. . . .’’24 This mirror relationship between art and nature is at the heart of Junius’s treatise on painting. Taking particular note of nature’s own art in the garden at Kalander’s house, he notes as ‘‘elegans descriptio amoenissimae horti’’ [elegant description of a most beautiful garden] the ‘‘new beds of flowers, which being under the trees the trees were to them a Pavillion, and they to the trees a Mosaicall floor: so that it seemed that Arte therein would needs be delightfull, by counterfeyting his enemie Errour, and making order in confusion’’ (A 8). This is an immediate example of nature’s disorderly order.25 From nature as both an artist and as cooperating with manmade art, Sidney moves to the human artist who knows how to imitate nature. In Kalander’s summerhouse—‘‘a square roome full of delightfull pictures, made by the most excellent workeman of Greece’’—are two Ovidian pictures, described with Sidney’s own comment on the skill of the workman. In the story of Diana and Actaeon, Ovid uses a simile to describe the goddess’s blush at being seen by a man as she bathes: ‘‘qui color infectis adversi solis ab ictu / nubibus esse solet aut purpureae Aurorae, / is fuit in vultu visae sine veste Dianae’’ [And red as the clouds which flush beneath the sun’s slant rays, red as the rosy dawn, were the cheeks of Diana as she stood there in view without her robes] (Met. 3.183–84). Sidney, commenting on a picture, rather than on an event, amplifies the meaning of the color in Diana’s cheeks: ‘‘in whose cheekes the Painter had set such a colour, as was mixt betweene shame and disdaine; and one of her foolish Nymphs,

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who weeping, and withall lowring, one might see the workman meant to set forth teares of anger’’ (A 8). He does the same for the picture of Atalanta running her race. Ovid describes how Hippomenes watched: ‘‘passu volat alite virgo. / quae quamquam Scythica non setius ire sagitta / Aonio visa est iuveni, tamen ille decorem / miratur magis’’ [the girl sped by on winged feet. Though she seemed to the Aonian youth to go not less swiftly than a Scythian arrow, yet he admired her beauty still more] (Met. 10.587–90). Again Sidney comments on how the artist has portrayed the scene: ‘‘In another table was Atalanta, the posture of whose limmess was so lively expressed, that if the eyes were the only judges, as they be the only seers, one wold have sworn the very picture had run’’ (A 8). The portion of the description that Junius underlines is the metaphor that strikingly sums up the surpassing skill of the artist in imitating nature. Here, he is already anticipating his writing of The Painting of the Ancients by noting the power of painting to speak, and to do so poetically.

III The importance of Ovid to Junius’s thinking about the arts is evident everywhere in Painting. The Roman poet is presented as an expert on artistic qualities, as well as an exemplar of them. Junius draws on all Ovid’s writings to illustrate pictorial values and, above all, the role of the artistic imagination. Stressing that the artist’s inner image, rather than any external model, is crucial to his imitation—in Junius’s words, following ‘‘the perfection of an inward image’’—he cites Ovid’s description of Cyllarus, ‘‘the fairest of all the Centaures’’: he had, according to Met. 12.397–99, ‘‘a pleasing liveliness in his countenance . . . and for as much as he was like a man, so came his necke, his shoulders, his hands, his brest neerest of all to the praiseworthy images of the Artists’’ (P 1.1.3). This habit of Ovid’s, of representing supreme beauty in living creatures by comparing them to works of art, stresses in Junius’s eyes the superiority of art over nature— even though nature provides the model—in the fashioning of perfect images. Almost immediately after citing this passage, Junius draws upon another Ovidian image to represent the greater ‘‘exactitude of art.’’ Referring to Ovid’s description of Pygmalion’s statue

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(Met. 7.247–49), he remarks: ‘‘Pigmalion did carve the snowwhite ivorie image with such a luckie dexteritie, that it was altogether impossible such a woman should be borne’’ (P 1.1.3). This is the same topos that Raphael used in the supposed letter he wrote to Castiglione, on how he painted his Galatea according to ‘‘a certain idea.’’26 Junius, like Raphael, includes a reference to the five maidens of Croton whose features were combined by the ancient painter Zeuxis to form ‘‘a choice patterne of a most beautifull woman’’—namely, Helen of Troy. In the course of discussing grace, Junius cites Ovid’s description of Venus in the Ars amat. 2.570. Grace benefits beauty itself: ‘‘So doth Ovid say, ‘That there was in the beauty of Venus a sufficient mixture of grace’ ’’ (P. 3.6.1). In the original context, Ovid is alluding to Venus’s aping of the awkwardness of Vulcan, for the entertainment of Mars. But the general idea that Venus cannot be other than graceful, no matter what she does, appears in Renaissance painting most notably, I think, in Titian’s Venus and Adonis, where Venus assumes a pose, as she tries to hold back Adonis from his hunting expedition, that would appear awkward in any other woman. Titian indeed had a full sense, as did Shakespeare in his poem Venus and Adonis, of the Ovidian portrayal of the grace that enhances beauty and bestows charm even upon the ridiculous.27 Given the poet’s and painter’s ability to imagine perfection, it is no wonder that they alone know how to depict the gods. Again, Junius finds the support he needs in Ovid, this time in the Ex Ponto 4.8.55–56): not only is virtue preserved by poetry but ‘‘Gods also, if we might say it, are made by Poesie, and such a majestie standeth in need of a singer.’’ It is the invisible majesty of the gods that poets bring to earth. Junius also cites Ovid’s Ars amat. 3.401–2 for an allusion to Apelles that illustrates this notion: ‘‘if Apelles had not painted Venus for the Inhabitants of Coos . . . shee should as yet lie drowned under the sea-water’’ (P 1.4.5). The revelation of the divine through the artist’s image is more directly stated in such passages than in almost any Renaissance criticism, perhaps because a Christian writer must, in some sense, not set himself up as a perfect painter, or creator, of God. But Junius, concerned as he is, to give all the power and dignity he can to artists, uses classical authors who assign to poets and painters this very power to represent the divine. ‘‘The Poets

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bring the presence of the Gods upon a stage,’’ he says (P 1.4.6), quoting Philostratus the Younger (Imagines, proem.6). We will return to this subject in a moment, but first, let us consider the practical value of a picture in explaining something. By drawing a picture, an artist can show what some strange beast looks like, what a builder has in mind to erect, or how a battlefield was arranged on some notable occasion.28 Just as Sidney defended poetry by defending picture, so Junius turns to poetry in defense of painting. Not having seen ancient paintings, though some artists in Italy had a few examples to draw upon, he can only refer to the descriptions given by ancient authors.29 In their words, he finds the authority and eloquence he seeks. To illustrate the value of a picture as explanation, he uses two examples from Ovid’s poetry. The first is from Penelope’s letter to Ulysses in the Heroides (1.31ff.). Junius introduces it by referring to a tactician: ‘‘A Tactike shal never know how to set his men in aray, unlesse he doe first trie the case by designe or delineation: so doe we read that Penelope doth attribute this same skill to the ancient Worthies, saying that they being returned home from the Trojan warre, did paint in their feasts the whole besieged Citie and all the manner of warre with a little wine upon the board’’ (P 2.8.3). In the original, Ovid mentions the various landmarks, such as the rivers and Priam’s palace, where the battles were fought. In another example, this one taken from the Ars amat. 2.125–40, we are reminded that Ulysses ‘‘at the request of Calypso did paint the siege of Troy with all the circumstances that might be observed in such a siege’’ (P 2.8.3). (Oddly enough, Junius substituted the name of Aeneas for that of Ulysses. No matter, he makes his point.) Again, in Ovid’s account, we hear how Ulysses drew in the sand with his staff a map of Troy. The features of this map constitute ‘‘the circumstances’’ that Junius says were included in the picture. This rhetorical term stands for the details designed to bring a verbal description to life. When we turn from the layout of battlefields to pictures of the actions of the gods, we find that Junius uses the same term ‘‘circumstances’’ to identify Ovid’s skill in recounting the doings of the gods. ‘‘Painters,’’ he says, ‘‘in like manner doe fall to their worke invited and drawne on by the tickling pleasure of their nimble Imaginations’’ (P 1.4.6). He describes how, when they light upon some suitable ‘‘Poetical or Historicall argument, sometimes also upon an invention wrought out by their owne Phanta-

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sie, they doe first of all passe over every circumstance of the matter in hand, considering it seriously, as if they were present at the doing, or saw it acted before their eyes.’’ Here Junius, using the language associated with description in rhetorical treatises, makes clear the parallel between the descriptive poet and the painter.30 If painters have as much need of the imaginative faculty as poets, they cease to be mere copiers of external reality.31 As Junius transfers to painting the practice and theory of poetry in ancient times, he naturally evolves a theory of a poetic painting. It is not only subject matter that, as Alberti advised, painters can find in the poets, but a whole method of approaching a subject. Junius cites Apollonius of Tyana on the notion that what imitation could not achieve, phantasy could, because it mirrors the unseen: ‘‘sure it is that these Arts [painting and sculpture] would alwayes have been at a stay, or rather growne worse and worse, if Phantasie had not supplied what Imitation could not performe’’ (P 1.3.2). Ovid’s story of Phaethon is a case in point: ‘‘When Ovid doth describe that same temerary ladde that foolishly longed to tread upon his Fathers fiery chariot, would you not thinke then that the Poet stepping with Phaeton upon the waggon hath noted from the beginning to the end every particular accident which would fall out in such a horrible confusion? neither could he ever have conceived the least shadow of this dangerous enterprise, if he had not been as if it were present with the unfortunate youth’’ (P 1.4.6). Although Junius refers only to Ovid’s account, it is clear that he is also drawing on Longinus’s commentary on the Phaethon of Euripides. After quoting from Euripides’ description of Phaethon’s wild journey through the heavens, Longinus remarks: ‘‘May one not say that the writer’s soul has mounted the chariot, has taken wing with the horses, and shares the danger? Had it not been up among those heavenly bodies and moved in their courses, he could never have visualized such things.’’32 This is the passage that Junius, without acknowledgment, quotes almost word for word. But speaking directly of Ovid’s version, he apologizes for attempting even to paraphrase the Roman poet and says: But seeing it would be a very hard taske for me, yea and too much arrogancy in me that I should strive to expresse any part of the abun-

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dance of conceit the ancient Poets had, I must needs remit the studious Reader to Ovid himselfe, for whosoever doth but marke how Ovid goeth about the fable of Phaeton, and how other Poets likewise do handle other matters in that kinde, he shall questionlesse both with pleasure and profit understand what vehement and sensible Imaginations they have followed. (P 1.4.6)

Here he echoes Longinus’s emphasis on the imagination, which allows the writer to see what he describes and place it before the eyes of the reader.33 In a real sense, he reads Ovid with the eyes of Longinus. As if to confirm this point, a page or two after his commentary on Ovid’s Phaethon, Junius twice refers to Longinus by name, with specific allusions to chapter 15 of On the Sublime, the very chapter in which Longinus comments on Euripides’ Phaethon. Quintessentially, he recognizes that the viewer, like the reader, requires imagination if he is to enter into the work of art: ‘‘ ‘such as doe contemplate the workes of the Art of painting,’ saith Apollonius, ‘have great need of the imaginative facultie, for no body can with any good reason praise a painted horse or bull, unlesse hee doe conceive that same creature in his mind, whose similitude the Picture doth expresse,’ ’’ (Philostratus, Vita Apollonii Tyanensis, 2.22; P 1.5.1).34 One of the great virtues of Junius’s approach is that he involves the imaginative faculty in judging, as well as inventing, works of art. The images already available in the viewer’s mind provide a standard not unlike that provided by ancient descriptions. But this comparison of the painted image with the mental image, on the one hand, and with ancient descriptions, on the other hand, is not merely mechanical: it has validity only if one’s mind becomes engaged in ‘‘a lively consideration of what we see expressed; not otherwise then if wee were present, and saw not the counterfeited image but the reall performance of the thing’’ (P 3.7.5). The role of the imagination in invention is equally important. Junius, while speaking of all those who fashion images to represent the invisible, goes so far as to say that without ‘‘such a force of phantasie the whole labour of their braines will be but a heavie, dull, and lifelesse piece of worke’’ (P 1.4.6). In the importance he attaches to the imagination, he constantly finds support in Longinus. Phantasy or imagination as essential to invention was a subject

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much discussed in Italian Renaissance art theory by, among others, Michelangelo.35 In England, both Sidney and George Puttenham made phantasy the storehouse of images for the poet.36 It is close to the senses, especially the sense of sight, and its mirrorlike quality provides poet and painter with that interior image that will allow them to represent even things not seen with mortal eye. If the reader or viewer meets ‘‘with an evident and clear sight of things present, [he] must needs bee mooved as with the [actual] presence of things’’ (P 1.4.6). Throughout this discussion, Junius in general equates poets and painters, except that poets are more likely to be carried away by their inspiration than painters, who must aim at possibility and truth, or the representation of visible reality.37 As a practical matter, the work of phantasy occurs before the artist picks up his tools. To reflect the mind’s freedom of observation, Junius quotes one of Ovid’s letters written in exile, in his Ex Ponto (3.5.48). ‘‘ ‘Thankes be to God,’ sayth Ovid, ‘our minde hath leave to goe any where’ ’’ (P 1.2.5). Yet this same freedom when expressed in a work of art must, as Junius repeatedly points out, conform to ‘‘the true nature of things.’’ Phantasy, that is to say, must be shaped to the rational purposes of the artist. Junius comments on the exercising and preparing of artists’ phantasies, ‘‘seeing they do by a most accurat Imagination designe and make up in their mindes the compleat pictures of all kind of naturall things’’ (P 1.5.3). Faithful as Ovid is to ‘‘the true nature of things,’’ even at his most fantastic, Junius refers to the accuracy of his observations. It is apparent that this poet is an expert on the principles of art, as well as a practitioner of them. Junius finds, for example, that on matters of light and color, Ovid is a student of nature. From the Fasti (5.365–66), the following finds its way into Junius’s treatise: ‘‘ ‘Flowers and flame have not a dul colour,’ saith Ovid, ‘but the brightnesse of them both is able to carry away our eyes’ ’’ (P 3.3.8). Another instance of Ovid’s keen observation of light and color is taken from the Met. (6.61–67): ‘‘ ‘For although there doe shine a thousand severall colours in the Rain-bow,’ sayth Ovid, ‘their transition for all that deceiveth the eyes of the spectators, seeing her colors are all one where they touch, though farther off they are much different’ ’’ (P 3.3.9). This observation of Ovid’s occurs in his description of the weaving contest between Arachne and Minerva; he introduces it with the words ‘‘illic et

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Tyrium quae purpura sensit aenum / texitur et tenues parvi discriminis umbrae [There are inwoven the purple threads dyed in Tyrian kettles, and lighter colours insensibly shading off from these] (61–62). This gradual transition from one color to another Junius calls Tonus or Harmoge, using the Greek terms for a ‘‘fitting, joining agreement’’ (P 3.3.9n55). It is further illustrated in Junius’s discussion by reference to the way one would represent a centaur, with an imperceptible transition between the human and the horselike character of the creature ‘‘deceiving the eye with a strange stealth of change’’ (Lucian, Zeuxis 6; P 3.3.9). From ‘‘Natures admirable skill’’ in arranging the colors of the rainbow, Junius thus moves to ‘‘a few examples of Arts no less admirable imitation’’ (P 3.3.9). Surpassing artist that Arachne was, she was also a great sinner. It is interesting that Junius treats her only as a great artist, unlike the various mythographers who commented on her throughout the Middle Ages and Renaissance, not to mention the poets, such as Spenser, Chapman, and Ben Jonson.38 Indeed, Chapman and Jonson use the adjective ‘‘Arachnean’’ to stand for human blindness. They were very clear that Arachne represented human presumption in the attempt to rival the divine, as revealed through her weaving contest with Minerva. Junius, on the other hand, quotes only Ovid’s praise for Arachne’s skill in her competition piece: ‘‘The same Ovid, when he describeth the rape of Europa woven by Arachne, addeth among the rest, ‘you would think the Bull to be a true Bull, and the Sea to be the true Sea’ ’’ (Met. 6.104; P 3.4.6). This indeed is the height of illusionistic art, which to moralists only makes it the more dangerous by reason of the hold it takes over the viewer’s imagination. But moralist though Junius is, he treats Ovid’s mythological artists simply as exemplars of supreme skill.39 Perhaps he did not wish to confuse his argument by relating their skill to their sin, especially as he is, after all, writing in defense of art. Another of the artists who could be condemned by moralists for an illusionistic triumph leading to idolatry is Pygmalion. Again Junius alludes to him only for his surpassing ability to transform marble into the semblance of flesh: ‘‘the ivorie image carved by Pygmalion giveth us another example of this softnesse; for ‘Pygmalion standing well affected to the fabricke of his owne hands,’ sayth Ovid, ‘was apt to perswade himselfe that nothing but a modest shame withheld her from mooving: he beleeved that his

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fingers did sinke into the touched parts: fearing least her bodie might grow black and blew where it should be pressed somewhat too hard’ ’’ (Met. 10.250ff. and 256–58; P 3.4.6). This is the dream of every Renaissance artist, to have his workmanship come to life. Vasari records Donatello’s cry to his statue Zuccone, ‘‘Speak, damn you, speak!’’40 The same topos provides the theatrical conclusion to Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale, when a living woman appears as a statue.41 Pygmalion appears three times in The Painting of the Ancients as well as in the Catalogus, or annotated list of the artists of the ancient world that Junius compiled and that was published along with the posthumous edition of De pictura veterum, in 1694. One of the allusions, already mentioned, makes Pygmalion the example of the artist who seeks and gives reality to an ideal that does not exist on earth (P 1.1.3). In still another passage Junius associates Pygmalion with ‘‘the heart-ravishing force which was in that image’’ and he comments that Ovid ‘‘doth well and properly expresse this point’’ that Pygmalion had the ‘‘skill of concealing the Art in such a notable piece of Art’’ (Met. 10.252; P 3.6.4). This, the essence of grace, as noted by such Renaissance writers as Vasari and Castiglione, was always attributed to one of the most famous of all ancient painters, Apelles, to whom Junius has numerous references as the complete and perfect artist. But Pygmalion, as described by Ovid, represents the same ‘‘lucky dexteritie,’’ which ultimately is more important than any amount of study. Junius invokes the mythological artists as examples of what art can achieve; he ignores their subject matter and the effect the marvelous illusionistic handling has on the viewer. Some moralists were concerned that the very skill of Ovid in relating his stories of the gods made them the more dangerous to those who, in Spenser’s terms, ‘‘did not well advis’d [them] view’’ (Faerie Queene, 2.12.61). As an aid to reading the Metamorphoses properly, a seventeenth-century interpreter, George Sandys, produced a commentary on the stories. Treating the fable of Pygmalion, he recalls that Lucian and Pliny relate a story of a youth who similarly fell in love with a statue of Venus—the one by Praxiteles— and madly tried to make love to it.42 In the Elizabethan ‘‘Homily against Idolatry,’’ this story is cited as evidence that idolatry is really spiritual fornication.43 It is against this kind of background of puritan attacks on visual images, whether fashioned by paint-

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ers and sculptors or by poets, that Junius sets his defense of art. It would not do, then, to subject art to the kind of criticism that its opponents voice, though Junius does sometimes take cognizance of it.44 To counteract puritan criticism, however, Junius quotes Ovid’s Ars amat. (3.545ff.) in defense of art: ‘‘ ‘Forsooth the wit of man is softened by gentle Arts, and our manners are sutable to our studies,’ sayth Ovid’’ (P 1.5.9). No doubt Ovid particularly had poetry in mind as the ‘‘gentle art,’’ but Junius, as usual, transfers the statement to painting. He also, in the same passage, quotes Virgil’s description of the paintings of the Trojan War on the temple at Carthage and of how, as Aeneas studies the pictures, he feels reassured that people who had so commemorated both the miseries and triumphs of the human spirit must enjoy a measure of civilization; he is given ‘‘some hope of safetie’’ here (Aeneid 1.450–65; P 1.5.9).45 The emotional reaction of Aeneas to these paintings, his tears and groans, is exactly what art aims at. If the work does not move, it is a failure, no matter how competent it appears to be. Junius knows that the visual artist, unable to use words, must rely on expressive features and gestures to make his painting speak. Once again, Ovid is introduced as an expert on art. Junius notes: ‘‘The Image of Jupiter is discerned from the images of the other gods by ‘a royall looke,’ as Ovid speaketh in the description of Arachnes worke’’ (Met. 6.74; P 3.4.3). We might well miss the implications of these words. But, accepting as he does the sisterhood of poetry and painting, Junius is alert to anything in poetry suggestive of the painter’s art, such as allusions to gesture. Two more quotations from Ovid serve to illustrate the method of the painter. One is taken from Ex Ponto: ‘‘Germanicus Caesar being about to make a speech, had ‘the true countenance and posture of an eloquent man,’ as Ovid speaketh’’ (2.5.51; P 3.4.3). On the same page, Junius mentions Apollo’s posture as he prepares to enter the contest with Pan: ‘‘So doth the same Ovid describe Apollo sitting of himselfe to play for strife with Pan, ‘his very posture,’ sayth he, ‘was the posture of an artificer’ ’’(Met. 11.169). It is this constant attention Ovid gives to the visual aspects of his stories that made him such a favorite with Renaissance painters. Among the very greatest of those who depicted stories from the Metamorphoses was Peter Paul Rubens. Junius sent him a copy of De pictura veterum as soon as it was published in 1637. Rubens,

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in his letter of thanks, expressed his regret that Junius had not gone on to deal with the great Italian Renaissance artists such as Raphael and Titian, who had in effect brought ancient paintings to life. Rubens writes to Junius, ‘‘I find that you have to perfection done justice to the title and design of your book, De pictura veterum . . .’’ ( P 1:327). But, according to Rubens, the modern artists would offer something more tangible than, say, Pliny’s description of the work of Apelles or Ovid’s of Arachne’s, even though these moderns might not have succeeded in achieving the complete perfection associated with the ancients in their art. Emulation with the ancients was a constant theme in Renaissance writing on the fine arts; often, too, as in Vasari, for example, contemporary artists were said to outdo the ancients themselves. Junius’s task, as he views it, is to present the principles on which the goal of perfection rests. Although Junius is critical of the mediocre artists of his day, he recognized the quality of Rubens’ and Van Dyck’s work by sending each of them a copy of his book. Linking together ‘‘This conceived presence of antient, and the true presence of moderne masters,’’ he set the same standard for both of them (P 3.1.15). By his emphasis on ‘‘a more couragious boldnesse’’ in the inventions of supreme artists, rather than ‘‘a slavish kinde of Imitation’’ (P 1.3.9), he points the way that Rubens himself took. To this theme of the artist’s freedom, Junius constantly returns. Through the ‘‘well-ordered Imagination’’ (P 1.3.9), this freedom is exercised, or, as Sidney stated it, the poet is limited only by ‘‘the zodiac of his own wit.’’ So convinced is Junius of the unity of the arts that he credits painters with the same inspiration that poets claim: ‘‘Both,’’ he says, ‘‘doe follow a secret instinct of Nature: for we do daily see, that not Poets onely, but Painters also are possessed with the love of those Arts, not so much by a fore-determined advise, as by a blind fit of a most violent and irresistible fury. . . . As for Poets,’’ he continues, ‘‘ ‘there is a god in us,’ sayth Ovid, ‘by whose tossing of us we are enflamed: this same forwardnesse hath in it selfe the seeds of a sacred minde’ ’’ (Fasti 6.5–6.; P 1.4.1).46 By ‘‘forwardnesse,’’ Junius means artistic impulsiveness. Following Pliny’s treatment of the painters Nicophanes and Protogenes, he makes the inevitable allusion to Plato’s Ion, the locus classicus for the doctrine of poetic inspiration. Again, in the last book of The Painting of the Ancients, Longinus is invoked: ‘‘Longinus his words are worth not-

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ing: ‘Many are carried away by another mans spirit as by a divine inspiration . . .’ ’’ (Longinus 13.2.; P 3.1.15). Implicit in Junius’s quotations from Ovid, and especially his example of the way Ovid tells the story of Phaethon, is the sense that this poet understood everything there is to know about art. Writing in defense of art, Junius shares Ovid’s enduring conviction that the gods have need of singers, or, as Junius argues, painters, to represent their majesty. There are four final chapters in the Latin edition that Junius did not translate for his English edition of De pictura veterum. As he assembles references to ancient authors who described the beauty of men and animals, it almost seems that Junius the moralist is in abeyance. So sensuous are his Ovidian references, especially those paying tribute to various feminine attractions, that one may conclude that this may be the reason he did not translate these chapters for Lady Arundel. He did, however, have a serious purpose in them, for he wanted to develop his argument that artists and connoisseurs should read the ancient writers: ‘‘there are scattered heere and there in their workes,’’ he says, ‘‘such compleat descriptions of beauty as may serve to worke after and to judge by’’ (P 3.7.12). In the first of these untranslated chapters, he comments that ancient writers, by means of their words, ‘‘drew images of bulls, of horses, and finally, of men, so convincingly that certainly it would be neither right nor possible for artists to represent them differently’’ (P 1:335).47 He begins the following chapter with the words: ‘‘Let a painting show a bull notable for its gentleness. Surely, you will not ever know if he is properly represented until you compare him to the one who carried Europa on his back, as he is described by Ovid.’’ The passage he had in mind is this: colla toris exstant, armis palearia pendent, coruna vara quidem, sed quae contendere possis facta manu, puraque magis perlucida gemma. nullae in fronte minae, nec formidabile lumen: pacem vultus habet. (Met. 2.854–58) [The muscles stood rounded upon his neck, a long dewlap hung down in front; his horns were twisted, but perfect in shape as if carved by an artist’s hand, cleaner and more clear than pearls. His brow and eyes would inspire no fear, and his whole expression was peaceful.]

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Follower of Ovid that he was, Rubens surely understood exactly what Junius meant, that the Roman poet was a great painter. He himself made a copy of Titian’s Rape of Europa, the most complete realization of Ovid’s description.48 In recommending that painters follow the descriptions of poets, and that viewers of art should compare paintings with these same descriptions, Junius has in mind the principle of emulation as the spur to accurate imitation of nature. In one passage, he refers to the strife between art and nature: ‘‘Seeing then that in the contemplation of the rare workes of Art, we are not so much taken with the beautie it selfe, as with the successfull boldnesse of Art provoking Nature to a strife, it falleth out that not onely the Imitation of faire but of foule things also doth recreate our mindes.’’ (P 1.5.7). In another passage, he speaks of the ‘‘mutuall emulation’’ between poets and painters ‘‘to set forth the manifold actions of men’’ (P 1.4.2). Here, too, Ovid comes to his aid with an apt analogy: ‘‘ ‘A horse doth then best of all run his race,’ sayth Ovid, ‘when he is in the company of other horses which he may leave behinde him or follow’ ’’ (Ars amat. 3.595ff ). It is ‘‘the prickes of emulation’’ that drive forward the competitors to ‘‘strive to attaine to the same perfection of Art’’ (P 2.5.1). To Junius, this is no vulgar emulation but one we stand in need of if we are to reach the perfection of art. Renaissance poets and painters regularly competed with Ovid himself. Junius would have understood why. For he speaks of those who have ‘‘learned eyes’’ in judging works of art (P 1.5.3). He denies that his own eyes are sufficiently learned in judging pictures, but he brings them to his reading of the Arcadia. His annotations not only document how a seventeenth-century humanist would read Sidney but illuminate our own reading. We can follow the movements of the poet’s mind as he relates sense experience to memory and imagination and, finally, to verbal expression. Through all this, Ovid serves as guide for both Junius and Sidney. Although the place of the Roman poet in Painting is more directly related to the theory and practice of art, his place in the Arcadia is no less important for the psychology and expression of love. Junius makes clear, through his treatise and also through his annotations, how Ovid’s works, moving as they do between emotional affect, as represented by images, and witty expression, give a perspective on the relationship between human life and art.

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4 The Playfulness of Ancient Poets I

THE PLAYFULNESS OF OVID ALERTS US TO JUNIUS’S REASON FOR USING other ancient poets in defense of painting. Through their imaginations, they play with what is experienced, especially what is experienced by the senses. Sidney, too, has a whimsical approach similar to these ancient poets that Junius loves. But, though playful and delightful on one level, poetry and the visual arts mask a wisdom that seeps into the mind of reader or viewer. What begins in play ends by civilizing. For Junius, Sidney’s modifications and adaptations of ancient literature show the allusiveness of his mind. Even so small a Virgilian echo as ‘‘by the shadow of yonder tower’’ causes him to note in the margin of his Sidney text: ‘‘Virg. Ecl. 1:83. ‘maioresque cadunt altis de montibus umbrae’ ’’ [longer shadows fall from the mountains-heights].1 But the whole context in this eclogue is relevant. After an offer of various kinds of food, such as apples, the time of day is indicated by two references to the visible signs that it is time for shepherds to turn homeward. The line preceding the mention of shadows reads: ‘‘et iam summa procul villarum culmina fumant’’ [Even now the housetops yonder are smoking]. Like Virgil, Sidney uses a suitably pastoral cronographia to say that it is time for supper: ‘‘by the shadow of yonder tower, I see it is a fitter time with our supper to pay the duties we owe to our stomacks, then to breake the aire with my idle discourses’’ (A 15). It is a more copious, and, one might add, more humorous description, in keeping with the implicit goal of not only emulating the ancients but sometimes, as Alexander Gill said of Sidney, making them serve his ironic purpose. His ability to hold ‘‘contrarieties’’ in mind, whether of love or war, or any other pair of opposites, such as solitariness or society, 109

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coincides with this ironical distance from the personages and events he describes.2 Abraham Fraunce defines irony in a way that is applicable to Sidney: Ironia is a Trope, that by naming one contrarie intendeth another. The speciall grace whereof is in jesting and merie conceipted speaches. This trope continued maketh a most sweet allegorie, and it is perceived by the contrarietie of the matter it selfe, or by the manner of utterance quite differing from the sense of the wordes, for then it is apparant that wee speake but jestinglie, and not as wee thinke.3

Indeed, Fraunce draws four of his illustrations from the Old Arcadia. But his use of the word ‘‘allegorie’’ is very broad in scope and not what we customarily think of as schematic allegory. One of the ironical passages that Junius himself notes has a particular relevance to Painting. He must have enjoyed the way Sidney plays off a version of ut pictura poesis against Horace’s (fig. 8): Poore Painters oft with sillie Poets joyne, To fill the world with straunge but vaine conceits: One brings the stuffe, the other stamps the coine, Which breeds nought else but glosses of deceits.

These lines are underlined in Junius’s copy of the Arcadia; beside them, he makes a reference to Horace’s Ars poetica 9–10: ‘‘Pictoribus atque poetis / Quidlibet audendi semper fuit aequa potestas’’ [But equall power, to painter, and to poet, / Of daring all, hath still beene given] (A 155).4 The caution that accompanies Horace’s acceptance of the license granted to poets and painters, the freedom to play, is repeated in the opening of Sidney’s poem, with a scoffing at the fancies of incompetent painters and ignorant poets. More straightforwardly, Junius in his Painting, repeats Horace’s warning: ‘‘It is then a very grosse erroure to deeme with the vulgar sort that Painters as well as Poets have an unlimited libertie of devising; for if we doe but marke what Horace telleth us in the first entrance of his booke written about the Poeticall Art, wee shall confesse that neither Poets nor Painters may take such a libertie as to stuffe up their workes with all kind of frivolous and lying conceits’’ (1.3.13). The last words ‘‘frivolous and lying conceits,’’ seem to echo Sidney’s ‘‘vain conceits’’ and ‘‘glosses of deceit.’’

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Fig. 8 (a) and (b) Sir Philip Sidney, The Countesse of Pembrokes Arcadia (London: Waterson, 1613) pp. 155–56, Leiden University Library, 766 A 15.

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This poem giving the lineage of Cupid as derived from Argus of the many eyes and Io, the cow, ends by describing the little god as a hangman. Preceding the poem is a grotesque description of a picture of the god of love given by the unlovely Miso, wife of the peasant Dametas. Junius has underlined this passage as well: there was painted a foule fiend I trow: for he had a paire of hornes like a Bull, his feet cloven, as manie eyes upon his bodie, as my gray mare hath dappels, and for all the world so placed. This monster sate like a hangmman upon a paire of gallowes, in his right hand he was painted holding a crown of Laurel, in his left hand a purse of money, and out of his mouth hung a lace of two faire pictures, of a man and a woman, and such a countenance he shewed, as if he would perswade folkes by those allurements to come thither and be hanged. (A 154–55)

Beside this underlined passage, Junius has a marginal comment: ‘‘Cupidinis descriptio satis aspera et contumeliosa; ingeniosa tamen’’ [a description of Cupid sharp and insulting enough; yet ingenious]. Together, the picture, described, rather than depicted, and the poem constitute an emblem, with an implicit motto, such as the one Junius places in the margin: ‘‘Pictoribus atque poetis.’’5 Junius also includes two other classical references that have some relevance to Sidney’s comparison. Beside these lines: ‘‘The wretch compeld, a runnagate became, / And learn’d what ill a miser state doth breed,’’ he places a reference to Claudian’s In Eutropium 1.138: ‘‘Est ubi despectus nimius iuvat. undique pulso / per cunctas licuit fraudes impune vagari / et fatis aperire viam’’ [Universal contempt is sometimes a boon. Driven out by all, he could freely range amid every sort of crime, and open a way for destiny].6 Both Sidney’s description and Claudian’s suggest that someone who has been forced outside society may enjoy a freedom, if only to commit crimes, denied to those who adhere more strictly to social norms. The other classical reference, to Plautus’s play Cistellaria 2.1, occurs at the end of the poem next to the underlined words ‘‘hang-man’’: ‘‘credo ego Amorem primum apud homines carnificinam commentum’’ [I do believe it was Love that first devised the torturer’s profession here on earth].7 The passage continues with the torments of lovers. Though the ladies ‘‘made sport at the description and storie of Cupid,’’ Zel-

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mane ‘‘could scarce suffer those blasphemies (as she took them) to be read.’’ This satire on Cupid as the god of love, with all that this implies, is the antithesis of the real sufferings of those characters in the romance who are head over heels in love. It is only the ignorant, brutish Miso who can condemn Cupid, because she has no understanding of love; at the same time, she sounds like the voice of reason when she says: ‘‘Thus halfe a beast, each beastly vice he plants, / In those weake hearts that his advice receive.’’ Sidney’s ironic tone in this parody has the effect of caricaturing the representations of poets and painters, both of whom, in a more serious vein, he supports in his Defence. In his crucial comparison of painting with poetry in his treatise, Junius does not directly quote the Horatian phrase ut pictura poesis, preferring, as Sidney did, the words of Simonides, that ‘‘Picture is a silent Poesie, as Poesie is a speaking Picture’’ (P 1.4.2).8 The reason is clear: ut pictura poesis simply states an analogous relationship, whereas Simonides’ comparison describes the parallel effect of the sister arts on the reader or viewer. Junius does, however, use the rest of the Horatian passage in his discussion of the lighting of picture galleries: Some pictures take us most . . . when we stand nearer, others when we stand further off: some love duskie places, others wil be seen in a full light, nothing at all fearing the sharp censures of a peremptory judge: some please us if we do but once view them, others if we take them ten times in hand. (Ars poet. 361–65; P 3.7.4)

The finished work of art alone can stand ‘‘a full light,’’ and, presumably, it alone will stand up to repeated viewings. So complete is the parallel between painting and poetry in Junius’s eyes that he turns Horace’s analogy into a direct description of how pictures should be placed. But he especially takes up Horace’s injunction to view a work ten times over, in order to judge it properly: For our sense doth seldom at the first judg right of these curiosities, it is an unwary Arbitrator, and mistaketh many things: all the soundnesse and truth of our judgement must proceed onely from reason. (P 3.7.5)

Here, too, he teaches that imaginative sympathy is essential to the act of judging: suffering ‘‘our mind to enter into a lively con-

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sideration of what wee see expressed; not otherwise then if wee were present, and saw not the counterfeited image but the reall performance of the thing’’ (P 3.7.5). One of the great virtues of Junius’s approach is that he involves the imaginative faculty in judging, as well as inventing, works of art. It was thus natural for him to treat the words of poets as authoritative not only for their own art, but for the painter’s as well. So important to Junius is the empathetic response that he quotes a passage from Horace (Satyr. 2.7.96–100), while adding his own emphasis: ‘‘ ‘I doe stretch out my hams,’ sayth Horace, ‘to see battels so painted with red chaulke or with a coale; even as if men did fight indeed and stirre their weapons, sometimes bringing blowes, and sometimes shunning them’ ’’ (P 3.2.12).9 The muscles themselves respond to the artist’s evocation of an event. This, the miracle of art, by which it speaks to the viewer, is as central to Junius’s argument as the pictorial qualities of literature are to Sidney’s. There is a beautiful passage cited in Painting from Horace’s Epist. 2.1.210ff. in which Junius allows the poet to stand for the artist in general: ‘‘Of the Poets,’’ sayth Horace, ‘‘it seemeth to me that such a Poet is most like to walke upon a stretched out rope, the which doth torment and vex my thought about matters of nothing; in chaunterlike angring, appeasing, and terrfying me with idle feares; conveying and at his pleasure transporting me sometimes to Thebes, some times to Athens.’’ (P 1.4.4)

One wonders whether Sidney did not have this same passage in mind when he wrote in his Defence: ‘‘What child is there, that comming to a play, and seeing Thebes written in great letters upon an old doore, doth beleeve that it is Thebes?’’ (D 508). But Junius continues to describe how both poets and painters ‘‘have a hidden force to move and compell our minds to severall Passions, but Picture for all that seemeth to doe it more effectually.’’ It is this very power of picture that Sidney invokes in his argument for ut pictura poesis, that poets, as well as painters, use images for the sake of moving. Yet the defense of fiction requires that it both be distinguished from actuality and that it be regarded as a mirror of the same actuality. It is through the skillful imitation of nature that art presents an image that passes from the eyes ‘‘to the soul’s imagination.’’10

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Both Sidney and Junius see what is described. Sidney’s references to narratives, such as the parable of the Prodigal Son, emphasize the visual: ‘‘Truly, for myself (me seemes) I see before mine eyes, the lost childes disdainfull prodigalitie turned to envy a Swines dinner’’ (D 499). His reference to Thebes, on the other hand, is designed to show how artistic illusion is not the same as deception. Even a child can tell that ‘‘Thebes’’ as the setting for a play is not the same as the place itself. The folly of the ignorant artist who does not understand that his art is essentially an art of fiction is portrayed in the Arcadia by means of a story of a painter who wished to become more skilled in depicting battles: This painter was to counterfeit the skirmish between the Centaures and Lapithes, & had been very desirous to see some notable wounds, to be able the more lively to expresse them; and this morning (being caried by the streame of this company), the foolish fellow was even delighted to see the effect of blowes. But this last (hapning neare him) so amazed him, that he stood stocke still, while Dorus (with a turne of his sword) strake off both his hands. And so the painter returned well-skilled in wounds, but with never a hand to performe his skill. (A 199)

Beside this passage, Junius has a marginal reference to Statius’s Thebaid, 8.551–52, which has a parallel story about a poet who sought battles, ‘‘perchance to find theme for song,’’ but for his efforts was slain: ‘‘cupit ille tamen pugnasque virosque, / forsitan ut caneret.’’11 Suddenly we realize that Sidney was not inventing a simply cruel and sadistic satire on the kind of learning that an artist does not need, but using a topos already present in an ancient epic. Instead of Statius’s gently elegiac irony, however, Sidney creates a grotesquely humorous image. Yet as we become aware of the topos, perhaps for the first time, we are less inclined to read the passage in the Arcadia as the expression of an unfeeling mind and more as a parody of an incident in an ancient epic. We may also begin to see the relevance of this story to imitation as requiring more than a literal-minded approach.

II The miracle by which art turns fiction into reality is illustrated for Junius from a small statue of Hercules that Statius describes

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(Silvae 4.6.32–46).12 The power of the artist to portray such strength and power as belong to the hero in this little table statue inspires the viewer with wonder; he both sees the hugeness of the implied strength and the smallness of the work. This alternating vision that art invokes, by which we are caught up in the illusion even as we admire the craftsmanship, is described with a rare eloquence: ‘‘Among so many things,’’ sayth Statius, ‘‘Hercules, the Genius and protector of the pure table, possessed my heart with a great deale of love, and hath not been able to satisfie mine eyes by looking never so much upon him: such dignitie is there in the worke and such a majestie is there included in his limmes: he is a God, a very God; and he indulged unto you, O Lysippe, to conceive him great, though he be but little in shew. . . . What a strange power was there in this hand, and with how great an experience was the care of that learned Artificer accompanied, to make at once an image fit for the table, and to conceive huge Colosses in his minde?’’ (P 2.8.11)

Junius must have been pleased not only with this account of a paradoxical achievement but also with the reference to care and learning in the education of the artist. The element of imagination is both in the artist who made the statue and in the responsive viewer. Here, the word ‘‘deceitfulnesse’’ takes on playful overtones: ‘‘though the statue is small, there is so great a deceitfulnesse of the forme, that you shall be disposed to cry out, The waster of the Nemaean forrest was pressed to death by this brest. . . .’’ The deceitfulness of art is one of the key points in Junius’s comparison of poetry and painting; from the ancients, he learns how to defend it.13 Sidney too recognizes that he cannot defend poetry without defending makebelieve. For both of them, beyond the deception lies the truth of fiction. They can only think of art as revealing a truth that is beyond the ‘‘serious’’ discourse such as some philosophers—though certainly not Plato—may exemplify. A crucial passage in Painting cites Statius on how ‘‘the free spirit of the Artificer marking how Nature sporteth her selfe in such an infinite varietie of things, undertooke to doe the same. ‘The hand of Myron,’ sayth Statius Papinius [Sylvae 1.3.50–51], ‘played in Brasse.’ Myron therefore, when he wrought, seemed but to play: no more did his workes professe a laborious and painfull way of Art, but a man might per-

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ceive in them such a sweet Grace of an unaffected Facilitie, as if the Artificer youthfully playing had made them’’ (P 3.6.6). Facility, along with playfulness, shows youth, joy, and grace. Sidney himself is so playful that his Defence of Poesie begins and ends with a joke. Listening to his riding-teacher’s praise of a horse, he says, with a play on his own name ‘‘Philip’’ (from philhippos, horse-lover), that ‘‘if I had not bene a peece of a Logician before I came to him, I thinke he would have perswaded me to have wished my selfe a horse’’ (D 491). He ends with a mock curse on those who hate poetry: ‘‘thus much curse I must send you in the behalfe of al Poets, that while you live, you live in love, and never get favour, for lacking skill of a Sonet, and when you die, your memorie die from the earth for want of an Epitaph’’ (D 518). He treats the weighty issues of the relationship between poetry and morality with a light hand. But as Statius implies, and as Sidney confirms in his entire defense of metaphor, such as his allusion to the way chess pieces are named, fiction is a game played seriously: ‘‘we see we cannot play at Chesse, but that we must give names to our Chessemen; and yet, me thinkes, he were a verie partial Champion of truth, that would say we lyed, for giving a peece of wood the reverend title of a Bishop’’ (D 508).14 From the ancient poets, Sidney and Junius learned how to approach both poetry and painting, with how much daring and with how much caution or restraint to bring these arts into line with the life of reason. As Sidney says, the poet will ‘‘frame his example to that which is most reasonable’’ (D 500). Junius, quoting Boethius (De institutione musica 5.2) and alluding to Macrobius, Saturnalia 7.14.17–20, warns us to beware of being led by sense only: ‘‘Sence doth confusedly marke what commeth nearest unto the thing perceived; but Reason discerneth the sincerity thereof, and busieth it selfe about the severall differences’’ (P 3.7.5). It is the task of reason to discriminate among similitudes ‘‘approaching unto the truth,’’ and those that present only a confused resemblance.15 For an instance of discriminating connoisseurship, Junius twice refers to Statius’s Silvae 4.6.20–30): Vindex likewise, a most noble Romane, is highly commended by Statius Papinius for his rare judgement in all kinde of Art, ‘‘who dareth ever strive with Vindex,’’ sayth he, ‘‘to discerne the old drawings of

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the Artificers, and to restore his Author unto such statues as have no inscription? he shall shew you what brasse Myron belaboured with a watchfull diligence: what marble got life by the carving-iron of the laborious Praxiteles: what ivorie was smoothed by Phydias: what statues doe as yet retaine the breathing infused into them by Polycletus his furnaces: what line doth a farre off confesse the ancient Apelles: for Vindex doth follow this pastime, as often as he layeth downe his Lute: the love of such things doth call him sometimes a little aside from the habitation of the Muses.’’ (P 1.5.5)16

After attending to ‘‘their urgent affaires,’’ it is good for men to follow the example of Vindex in recreating themselves ‘‘in the contemplation of the divine workes of excellent Artificers.’’ Such recreation, placed on a par with the enjoyment of poetry, is good for the soul. In arguing for the moral value of the visual arts, Junius stresses the need of human beings for beauty, not only of bodies, but of the arts. Though hardly an argument likely to appeal to puritans, it supports the activities of such collectors as Arundel.17 It was this same Roman, Vindex, who was the owner of the small statue of Hercules by Lysippus, which, as we have already noted, was praised by Statius. On this statue, Martial also has two epigrams, cited in Junius’s Catalogus under the name of Lysippus. One of them, 9.43, reads: ‘‘Seated, he softens the stone with a lion’s skin, a great god in small bronze; his face, turned up, looks at the stars which he held on his shoulders; his left hand glows with strength, his right with wine.’’18 Beyond the minutiae of connoisseurship, there is for Junius the imitation of nature that is both a miracle of craftsmanship and a revelation of man’s very being. A telling example is Claudian’s description of the statues of two brothers at Catina (17.1–26). Junius notes that in many ancient authors there are ‘‘divers curious and neat expressions to be found, able both to delight the reader and to informe his judgment in the right manner of examining workes of Art’’ (P 3.7.6). It is interesting that the reader of ancient authors should learn from their writings how to appreciate works of visual art. That literary sources should give lessons in connoisseurship is a notion quite alien to the present day, since the primary emphasis would be on educating the eye by study of actual works of art. But Junius is placing art in a wider context than art itself and, as we will see, he views the education of the eye as partly at least an aspect of the education of the whole person.

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The Claudian description is quoted as an ‘‘example how a skilfull and understanding spectator goeth over all that is remarkable in the worke: and as he cannot abide that his curiositie should spend it selfe about matters of small importance, so doth he very seriously observe the most strange miracles of the noble Art, as they doe display themselves in such a noble argument.’’ Two brothers carry their parents away from the eruption of Mount Aetna, just as Aeneas carried his aged father away from the flames of Troy: Behold how the brothers sweat under a venerable burden . . . and how mount Aetna it selfe, wondering at such an attempt, keepeth his wandering flames from them. Though they support their parents with their neckes, yet doe they uphold them with their hands, confidently lifting up their heads and hastening their pace. . . . Doe not you see how the old man pointeth to the fire? How the frighted mother calleth upon the Gods? Feare setteth their haire on end, the metall it selfe growing pale in their amazed countenances. . . . It must not goe unobserved, what the hands of the Artificer brought quietly to passe in the worke: for though their consanguinitie maketh them very like one another; the one for all that cometh neerest unto the mother, the other unto the father: their unlike yeares receive such a temperature by the skill of Art, that the parents are represented in each of their countenances: and the workman making a new difference between two neerely resembling brothers, hath distinguished their countenances by the effects of their pietie.

In the ekphrastic tradition, it is the expressiveness of works of art that most commends them to the spectator, for it is this quality that makes possible the empathetic response to marble or metal.19 The material from which art is made is always transcended: ‘‘the mettall it selfe growing pale in [the] amazed countenances’’ of the parents. Family resemblances and differences as revealed by countenance, as well as the gestures of the participants in this action, are noted for the life they give to the sculpture. Given that the word ‘‘illusion’’ itself means ‘‘in play,’’ Junius senses that even the most serious praise of art’s accomplishments is tinged with a playful awareness of the mimicry that is at the heart of representation. From Petronius’s Satyricon, 83, he takes a passage about imitation in pictures, especially concerning the use of line to represent the extremities of a body:

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I came into a gallery . . . much to be wondered at for severall sorts of pictures. I saw there Zeuxis his hand, which as yet had escaped the injuries of age: . . . as for Apelles his picture, which was knowne among the Grecians by the name Monocnemos, I did not sticke to adore it: for the extremities of the images were with such a wonderfull subtiltie cut off after the similitude, that you could not but thinke it to be a picture of the spirits and soules it selfe.’’ (P 3.3.10)

Here are again the familiar features of ekphrastic description, including the emphasis on the wonder of the spectator and the power of art to depict not simply bodies but souls as well. While Petronius goes on to mention several mythological scenes, concluding that ‘‘even the gods feel love,’’ Junius’s conclusion is rather different in that he dwells on the technical achievement of ancient artists: ‘‘Seeing then that Petronius and Plinie doe urge such a singular subtiltie in the uttermost lines of an exact and absolute picture, wee may very well suspect they did anciently in these extremities of images require certaine lines approaching neer to the subtiltie of the imaginarie Geometricall lines, which are nothing else but a length without breadth.’’ That is to say, these lines should be drawn ‘‘so lightly and sweetly as to represent unto us things we doe not see: neither can it be otherwise but our eye will alwayes beleeve that behind the figures there is something more to be seene then it seeth’’ (P 3.3.10). This is a clear reference to what the viewer contributes to the realization of a work of art. Without an audience, the artist is hampered and cannot fully complete his invention: ‘‘If there is any thing in my bookes that deserveth approbation, the auditor hath suggested it unto me’’ (P 3.1.15). What Martial says here of the poet (preface to book 12) applies equally to the painter. Only recently, in the writings of E. H. Gombrich, has much attention been paid to ‘‘the beholder’s share’’ as essential to the way art speaks. Epigrams in the Greek Anthology contribute to Junius’s understanding of the miracle of art. He notes, for example, an epigram (16.248) on a carving of a sleeping satyr on a cup: ‘‘ ‘Diodorus did lay the Satyr a sleepe, and not engrave him,’ sayth Plato, ‘you shall waken him, if you stirre him never so little’ ’’ (P 3.4.4).20 The best way to praise the lifelikeness of the work is to treat it as if it were alive, thus dramatizing the viewer’s response. Another epigram (16.97) treats a brass sculpture depicting Hercules’ fight

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with Antaeus; the poet calls it ‘‘a living workmanship’’ (P 3.4.6). Junius’s Catalogus cites a considerable number of epigrams on ancient artists from the Anthology, as, for example, quotations on the work of Timomachus, whose skill in representing conflicting emotions and in foreshadowing what was to come attest the true artist, entering into all the emotions of his subject, whether it be Ajax or Medea. Indeed, Junius may well be the first writer of a treatise on art to make use of the Greek Anthology for purposes of art criticism.21 As the ultimate challenge to the artist’s imagination, the topos of the unpaintable is touched on at the beginning of book 3 of Painting when Junius cites Ausonius (18,2) on the ephemeral in art and how it makes a lasting impression on the viewer only if it is done with miraculous skill. The following passage is somewhat obscure in expression but the general drift is clear: ‘‘a painted fogge,’’ sayth he, ‘‘delighteth us no longer then it is seene.’’ Except it be such a painted mist as is described by the same Ausonius in another place [8, prefatory epist. and 45–67], where the Painter doth represent the dimme shade of hellish blacknesse by a painted mist, and designeth in it how the ancient Ladies torment the crucifed Cupid in hell for having dishonoured them in the times of the Worthies. (P 3.1.1)

Only the exceptionally good picture, such as that described by Ausonius, endures in our memory, and a picture of this value will have a truth that most likely will already have been expressed by a poet such as Virgil. Junius seems to be contrasting an ordinary painted fog with one like clouds miraculously painted on a wall, or ‘‘the unsubstantial image of an unsubstantial thing.’’22 He goes on to speak of the ability of a painter with a good phantasy: he ‘‘must propound unto himselfe what he meaneth to imitate.’’ That is, the artist must choose what he will represent, according to his abilities and according to the worthiness of the subject. Once again, there are restrictions on the unlimited freedom of the artist, governed both by his own powers of invention and by his studies and what they have taught him. Some things are worth painting; some are not. This is not to say that the seriousness of art precludes the pleasurable or ‘‘by-works’’—parerga.23 Referring to the work of Theophylactus Simocatus, Junius quotes: ‘‘ ‘the play of Poets is full of

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all manner of wisdome’; the same is averred also of Painters and Carvers’’ (P 3.1.11). Among the examples he gives of the wisdom of painters and carvers is the appropriateness of the attributes they assign to various personifications and mythological figures, such as the wings given to Cupid, ‘‘to signifie the inconstant ficklenesse of them that are overcome by him.’’24 At this point, ornament overlaps with significance, and the decorative becomes meaningful. Yet in a conception of art that puts fiction in the service of truth, the ‘‘matter in hand’’ must take precedence over ‘‘fine byworkes,’’ on the one hand, or ‘‘farre-fetcht additions,’’ on the other hand (P 3.5.10). Such rhetorical flourishes may interfere with, and weaken, the main subject. Too much attention given by a sculptor to ‘‘the nails and soft hair’’ of a statue suggests an inadequacy in the artist’s concetto, or conception of his work: ‘‘he doth not know how to expresse the whole man as it is fit’’ (Ars poet. 32–37; P 3.3.13). Speaking of poetry, Horace gives examples of purple patches, or what Junius calls ‘‘fine by-workes’’ (P 3.5.10), such as: A scarlet peece, or two, stitched in: when or Diana’s grove, or altar, with the borDering circles of swift waters that entwine The pleasant grounds. . . . (Ars poet. 19–22)25

If a painter puts in a cypress tree because that is all he knows how to paint, his poverty of invention is there for all to see (Ars poet. 19; P 3.5.7). The playfulness of Horace here, as everywhere in this poet’s manifesto, drives home his point with satiric aptness, while at the same time emphasizing the seriousness with which an artist follows his invention Above all, ‘‘A perfect and exactly handled invention must bud forth out of a great and well rooted fulnesse of learning: we must be conversant in all sorts of studies, all antiquitie must bee familiar unto us, but most of all the innumerable multitude of historical and poeticall narrations . . .’’ (P 3.1.6). The agricultural metaphor stresses the spontaneity of nature that grows out of the soil of learning to create poetic or pictorial works of art. Invention also presupposes emulation.26 That is made clear in Junius’s whole discussion of art. He cites Martial (12.36) on the

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desire to excel: ‘‘ ‘Doest thou desire the glory of swiftnesse?’ sayth Martial, ‘studie to goe beyond the tyger and the light Ostrich. It is no glory at all to out-run asses’ ’’ (P 2.5.1). Time and again Junius emphasizes the need for a healthy and honorable emulation if an artist is to aspire to perfection. But he also believes that the artist should assess his own strength, ‘‘whether he be able to compasse his Invention with his Art: ‘‘ ‘Whosoever weigheth his burden,’ sayth Martial, ‘can carry it’ ’’ (12.98.8; P 3.1.2). In other words, the artist should not, like the ignorant Dametas of the Arcadia, take on more than he can handle, but if he has rightly assessed his task, he will have the strength to perform it. Another example of how Junius’s annotations can illuminate the Arcadia occurs with his underlining of Sidney’s description of the authority assigned by Basilius to Dametas: ‘‘Which authority (like too great a saile for so small a boat) doth so over-sway poor Dametas . . . my master will in the end (with his cost) find that his office is not to make men, but to use men as men are, no more then a horse will be taught to hunt, or an asse to mannage’’ (A 11). The reference to Claudian’s In Eutropium (2, preface, 5–8), is a clear analogue to Sidney’s comment: ‘‘culmine deiectum vitae Fortuna priori / reddidit, insano iam satiata ioco. / scindere nunc alia meditatur ligna securi / fascibus et tandem vapulat ipse suis’’ [Fortune, having had enough of her mad freak, has thrust him forth from his high office and restored him to his old way of life. He now prepares to hew wood with axe that is the consular and is at last scourged with rods he once proudly carried]. Such is the fate of one who is not equal to the office he holds, and, similarly, of the artist who takes on more than he can handle. When Junius discusses how ‘‘Great and exquisite masters chuse rather to unfold great matters of argument covertly, then professing it, not able to performe it accordingly,’’ he finds Horace (Ars poet. 143–44) to his purpose: ‘‘They do not study to produce smoke out of light but light out of smoke . . . to the end that they might effect specious miracles’’ (P 3.5.10). The same poet supports the primacy of invention as not only preceding artistic execution but also ensuring it: in Junius’s words, ‘‘The matter being considered of aforehand . . . words use to follow with an unconstrained facilitie’’ (Ars poet. 311; P 3.5.2). It follows that the freedom of the artist is essential to his art, but this freedom is not treated in terms of external conditions but in terms of courage. Constantly Junius rebukes too great a cau-

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tiousness and aiming too low. The artists who seek smoothness will lack ‘‘sinewes and spirit’’; the one who ‘‘standeth alwayes in feare of a storme, useth to creepe along the shore’’ (Ars poet., 26–30; P 2.10.2). Those who concentrate on small perfections rather than on the whole figure will fail of greatness. In short, one must not allow oneself to be put into a straitjacket: ‘‘You that meane to imitate . . . must not leap downe into a narrow and straight place,’’ from which you may not be able to escape (Ars poet. 134–35; P 3.1.3). The daring of poets and painters, recognized so forcefully by Horace, is intrinsic to the thinking of Sidney and Junius. It and its playfulness liberate their treatises from pedestrian concerns and constraints.

III Central to both Sidney’s and Junius’s conceptions of art is that it always aims at beauty. Although, as Huizinga says, ‘‘the attribute of beauty does not attach to play, play nevertheless tends to assume marked elements of beauty.’’27 The freedom that expresses itself in play always adds something over and beyond what is required; hence it tends to generate ornament and an impulse to ‘‘orderly form,’’ outside the demands of ordinary life. Indeed, it revels in an alternate sphere of activity, the sphere of pretense, deception, fiction. Junius marks a number of passages in his Arcadia that draw attention to beauty as a flowering on the face of mere physical necessity. He underlines, for example, a shepherd’s reference to the beauty of the maiden Urania: ‘‘as the greatest thing the world can shewe is her beautie, so the least thing that may be praised in her, is her beautie’’ (A 2 ). At the same time, he notes in the margin beside the entire description: ‘‘pastoralis eleganter ingeniosa descriptio virginis pulcherrimae’’ [a pastoral but nevertheless elegantly ingenious description of a most beautiful maiden]. On the same page, he also underlines the sentence ‘‘But in deede, as we can better consider the sunnes beautie, by marking how he gildes these waters and mountaines, then by looking upon his owne face, too glorious for our weake eyes: so it may be, our conceits (not able to beare her sunstayning excellencie) will better waigh it by her workes upon some meaner subject employed.’’ The illuminating power of

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beauty may be found in human beings, in animals, and in the rest of nature. Another praise of natural beauty, in which Sidney describes the lover’s view of the beloved, is marked in its entirety. It begins with the way a lover’s judgment is so enchained by the beloved that ‘‘whatsoever she doth is ever in his eyes best’’: If she sit still, that is best, for so is the conspiracie of her several graces held best together to make one perfect figure of beauty. If she walke, no doubt that is best, for, besides the making happie the more places by her steps, the very sturring addes a pleasing life to her native perfections. If she be silent, that without comparison is best, since by that meanes the untroubled eye most freely may devour the sweetnesse of his object. But if shee speake, he will take it upon his death that is best, the quintessence of each word, being distilled downe into his affected soule. (A 369)

Just how memorable this description is may be indicated by Shakespeare’s use of it in The Winter’s Tale, when Florizel rises to the heights of poetry in his praise of Perdita’s beauty: What you do Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, I’ld have you do it ever, when you sing, I’ld have you buy and sell so, so give alms; Pray so; and for the ord’ring of your affairs, To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you A wave o’ th’ sea, that you might ever do Nothing but that, move still, still so, And own no other function. Each your doing (So singular in each particular) Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, That all your acts are queens. (4.4.135–46)

Although C. B. Mount, as long ago as 1893, mentions ‘‘a possible source in the Arcadia,’’28 apparently no one has recognized Sidney’s own source in Tibullus’s De Sulpicia (3.8.7–12).29 Sidney follows Tibullus closely in the first two sentences of his description; then he substitutes silence and speech for the contrast of flowing or dressed locks in his original. Shakespeare, for his part, after referring to Perdita’s speech and pastoral buying and sell-

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ing, dwells on the musical effect of her singing and motion. Both offer a copia on Tibullus’s lines: illlam, quidquid agit, quoquo vestigia movit, componit furtim subsequiturque Decor. seu solvit crines, fusis decet esse capillis; seu compsit, comptis est veneranda comis. urit, seu Tyria voluit procedere palla; urit, seu nivea candida veste venit. [Whatsoever she does, whithersoever she turns her steps, Grace follows her unseen to order all aright. Hath she loosed her hair? Then flowing locks become her. Hath she dressed it? With dressed hair she is divine. She fires the heart if she chooses to appear in gown of Tyrian hue; she fires it if she comes in the sheen of snowy robes.]30

It is Junius who enlightens us on this borrowing. Although he does not do more than underline the passage in the Arcadia, if we turn to his Painting, we find him using the same topos and citing its source in a poem by Tibullus in praise of Sulpitia’s beauty: ‘‘seeing she could do nothing, she could stir no where, but that her beauty was still waited upon by a certain kind of lovely grace, which did stealingly accompany her in all her actions, adding a most sweet and pleasing life to her native perfections’’ (P 3.6.1). Here Junius and Sidney join hands in their common allegiance to a classical ideal of beauty. It is but one more indication of how Junius’s citation of his ancient sources, along with his annotation of his copy of the Arcadia, can help with our understanding of Sidney’s own reading; in turn, we are brought to see how The Painting of the Ancients is enriched by the author’s sense that the poets, as well as the painters, of his own time were busy reviving ancient ideals, possessed both of the spirit of play and of serious concerns with ideal life and behavior.31 Junius’s use of ancient poets illustrates his attention to the beauty of bodies as comparable to the beauties of art. Indeed, physical beauty provides the model for artists in their imitation of nature. The poets also give a sense of emotional response both to bodies and to works of art. Especially since they are not arguing strictly as rhetoricians—and not even Horace’s Ars poetica does this—they convey something of the reader’s or viewer’s response, which in turn forms an essential part of Junius’s treatise on the goals and methods of art. He needs the poets for their con-

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cern with the quality of experience. Thus Statius’s description of Parthenopaeus, Atalanta’s son, in the Thebaid, 6.570–73, is quoted for the emphasis on physical beauty: ‘‘his limbes shewed themselves . . . when he unbuckled his riding coat, the whole cheerfulnesse of his members did lie open: his brave shoulders, his brests that might very well be compared with his bare cheekes, yea the beautifull countenance of his visage was drowned by the beauty of his body’’ (P 3.2.4). Junius’s use of this passage is in keeping with his constant reference to ‘‘absolute beauty’’ as the model for the artist to aspire to, a model always existing first in the mind but occasionally to be found, or at least approximated, in living beings. Comparing the beauty of bodies to the beauty of art,32 Junius, with the help of various ancient writers, notes: ‘‘Wherefore as the true pulchritude of naturall bodies is no where found, without this concinnitie of Harmonie; the right imitation of them consisteth in the due observation of the same Proportion’’ (P 3.2.3). Martial confirms for Junius the importance of grace as the quality that transcends the beauty of the parts of a person or a work of art. He refers to the epigram on Claudia Rufina (11 53.1–8), to whose ‘‘extraordinary gifts of nature’’ are added ‘‘all the Graces which either Greece or Rome were able to affoord.’’ Once again Junius draws a parallel between physical beauty and the work of art: ‘‘The case standeth even thus with picture: unlesse there bee in the worke that same ayre and comely Grace, which is made up by the concord and agreement of several accomplished parts, it cannot please the beholder’’ (P 3.6.1). The whole concept is wonderfully summed up in Junius’s quotation, in his treatise, from Sidney’s song on the relationship of the part to the whole.33 So taken is he with the expression of this idea that he underlines a parallel line in another song in the Arcadia: ‘‘She is her selfe of best things the collection’’ (A 75). But what Junius calls ‘‘a lively and forcible grace,’’ or power of attraction in poetry or painting, can only come from an artist who responds to his own inner visions. Borrowing from Horace and Quintilian, he notes: ‘‘Whatsoever therefore wee would have prevaile with others must first prevaile with us: and wee shall endeavor in vain to moove others unlesse wee do find our selves first moved’’ (P 3.4.4). He answers his own question of what will move us by referring to ‘‘Phantasie,’’ which ‘‘doth so represent unto our mind the images of things absent, as if we had them at hand,

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and saw them before our eyes.’’ Sidney, too, ascribes the power to draw children from play and old men from the chimney corner to the visual image in fiction. On a loftier note, he stresses the moving power of the image because he wants to argue for it as an instrument of moral reformation. Criticism is thus based on what attracts the viewer or reader, rather than on what may be merely sound and respectable style or doctrine. Poems are for delight: ‘‘What Horace saith here of Poets, may also be applied to painters and statuaries, seeing their industry doth intend nothing else by ‘the recreation of our eyes,’ as Maximus Tyrius speaketh’’ (Ars poet. 374–78; Maximus Tyrius 15.3; P 2.10.2).

IV If beauty is the recreation of the mind or eye, the seriousness of Sidney and Junius demands that it somehow be related to morality. It is subtly hinted at in Junius’s use of a passage from Petronius: ‘‘Snow doth continue longer in rough and untilled ground . . . but wheresoever the ground is tilled, there doth the slender frost vanish away whilest you are yet speaking: even so doth anger fix her seat in our brests, occupying rude and fierce minds, but passing by the learned and gentle ones’’ (Satyricon 99.3; P 1.5.9). An instinctive love of beauty, coupled with a cultivated understanding, has the effect of detaching the mind from the grosser animal instincts.34 From Propertius, Junius also draws the lesson that works of art clear the mind of one unhappily in love. Alluding to this poet, he has in mind a passage that remarks on how ‘‘bright pictures shall delight my eyes, or masterpieces wrought in ivory or bronze’’ (3.21.29–30). Junius argues that time spent in art galleries is time well spent, for ‘‘these most commendable recreations’’ are ‘‘the meanes wee doe understand the true beautie of created bodies, a ready way to the consideration of our glorious Creator’’(P 1.5.9). Works of art teach us how to praise God; they also ‘‘bridle the most violent passions of love and anger.’’ Junius’s interest in Sidney lies largely in the humanist’s response to the representation of various relationships between beauty, which attracts love, and morality. Fraught as life is with all kinds of passions, he finds in the Arcadia the universality of these passions. To Sidney’s description of the love between Arga-

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lus and Parthenia, he adds three references to Propertius.35 One serves as a comment on Parthenia’s rejection of Demagorgas, the suitor favored by her mother because of his wealth: ‘‘nescit Amor magnis cedere divitiis’’ [Love knows no yielding to enormous wealth] (Propert. 1.14.8). Beside Sidney’s words, ‘‘The chaunge was no more straunge, then unpleasant to the mother,’’ he places a reference to Propertius 2.8. 7–8: ‘‘omnia vertuntur: certe vertuntur amores: / vinceris aut vincis: haec in amore rota est’’ [All things change, and loves not least of all: conqueror thou art or conquered, so turns the wheel of love]—this because Parthenia had earlier acquiesced in her mother’s choice of a suitor for her (A 17). The horrible punishment inflicted on her by the man who had once loved her, the poison he rubbed over her face to disfigure it, reminds Junius of another line in the same elegy: ‘‘nullae sunt inimicitiae nisi amoris acerbae’’ [No enmities are savage compared with those of love] (2.8.3; A 18). But love, as Plato says in the Symposium, is always love of beauty. Taking pleasure in the inspiration poets derive from love, Junius underlines two lines from the First Eclogues (A 73): ‘‘As without breath no pipe doth move, / No musicke kindly without love,’’ noting beside them Martial 8.73: ‘‘si dare vis nostrae vires animosque Thaliae / et victura petis carmina, da quod amem’’ [if thou wouldst give strength and spirit to my Muse, and lookest for poems that shall live, give me something to love].36 Martial also gives a list of the poets who have been inspired by love, such as Propertius and Catullus. It seems that Junius, with the classical tradition behind him, could be no narrow-minded puritan: he is happy with the idea of love as both deriving from beauty and as leading to creation. He does not hesitate to confront directly the kind of criticism put forward by puritanical writers of his own day. For his purposes, a quotation from Terence is pertinent. In Terence’s The Eunuch there is a reference to a picture of Jupiter coming in a shower of gold to Danae in her tower and how it inflamed a character in the play, Chares. Junius adds the comment of Donatus on ‘‘what hurt the life of man receiveth by the fabulous tales forged by Poets when they do suggest examples of naughtinesse unto them that are readie to offend’’ (P 3.1.14). The last part of this statement deserves attention: only those who are ready to offend receive a harmful message from such paintings. Junius’s discussion of the morality of art includes a well-known

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example from Petronius. It concerns the incitement to lust offered to an already lustful youth but now ‘‘set all a fire upon the sight of some pictures containing the rape of Ganymedes, the repulse of an importunate Nais, solliciting Hylas, Apollo his griefe for Hyacinthus’’ (Petronius 83). The poet’s conclusion is: ‘‘So even the gods feel love.’’ Junius uses this passage several times (P 3.1.14; P 3.3.10; P 3.4.6) for different purposes, ranging from an example of lust to an example of the perfection of art and handling of line. Evidently, he separates artistic excellence from moral impact, according to the viewer’s predisposition—once again, the beholder’s share—or the context in which the picture is viewed. Still, the decadence of art comes in for its share of his criticism. In the Satyricon of Petronius, the love of money is blamed for the degeneracy of the arts: ‘‘Myron, who did in a manner enclose the soules of men and wilde beasts in brasse, could find no heire. . . . Doe not wonder therefore that picture is lost, seeing all the gods and men think a lumpe of gold better than all that Apelles and Phydias a couple of doting Grecians have made’’ (Petronius 88; P 2.9.6). So money’s triumph over art is art’s decay; the implication is that in some way art represents a higher spiritual value than a lump of gold. Here Junius cites Pliny the Elder: ‘‘Arts were overthrowne by idlenesse: and because there are no images of our mindes, the images of our bodies are also neglected’’ (Nat. Hist. 35.2.5; P 2.13.1). The seventeenth-century translation by Philemon Holland helps to explain this sentence: ‘‘when we have no respect or care in the world to leave good workes behind us, as the images of our minds, we doe neglect the lively portraiture and similitudes also of our bodies.’’ In other words, when good works are neglected, the art of portraiture also suffers, so close is the link between moral behavior and the art that ought to fashion images of noble persons.37 Nowhere does Junius demonstrate more clearly his commitment to the artistic expression of the human heart and, at the same time, his conviction that art is the truest revealer of the inner life than in one of his Virgilian references in The Painting of the Ancients. He cites Aeneas’s reaction to the wall-painting of Troy, in the temple to Juno, that he sees on his arrival in Carthage: ‘‘Here hath a new occasion lessened his feare, giving him some hope of safetie,’’ sayth Virgil . . . he seeth the whole description of the most

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famous Trojan warre painted in a very good order. . . . Standing still therefore, and weeping. ‘‘What place is there now, O Achates,’’ sayth he, ‘‘what Countrey is there that is not filled with the fame of our labours? Looke, here is Priamus, here is the reward for praise, and teares also for the miseries of mortall men: put away all feare: this fame shall bring us some safetie.’’ Having thus spoke, he fed his eyes with the represented picture, fetching many a deepe grone, and watering his cheekes with a large river of teares. (Aeneid 1.450–65; P 1.5.9)

Junius goes on to quote Servius’s ‘‘commending’’: ‘‘for as many as doe paint such kinde of warres cannot but love vertues and be touched with a most lively commiseration of the grievous misfortunes of other men.’’ The whole passage in Painting draws attention to the moral effect of art that moves the viewer to ‘‘commiseration’’ and to ‘‘love of vertues.’’ Sidney held exactly the same view of the function of poetry. Both see the value of imitation as resting in this power to move in a way that could be understood as cathartic and clarifying. It is Junius’s response to Virgil’s account of Aeneas’s response that sums up the role of art in civilization. People who commemorate noble deeds by means of art must offer ‘‘some hope of safetie’’ to Aeneas and his followers In effect, the games played by poets and painters have the power to create order in the emotional life not only of the artist but of the reader and viewer. The playful style of ancient poets left its mark on the writings of both our authors. Is it that they sense that this approach is most in tune with works of the imagination? The human being at play may be at his most profound. As Plato said, nothing in life should be taken seriously except God, and of all man’s activities, art is the most playful.38 The defenses of art that we are considering underline the serio ludens mode of painting and poetry, in which one pretends to be the other, and both pretend to represent the human experience.39 From ancient poets Junius takes an understanding of art that, as we have already noted, is summed up in a quotation from Theophylactus Simocatus: ‘‘the play of Poets is full of all manner of wisdome, the same is averred also of painters and Carvers.’’ There was some novelty in attributing wisdom to painters and sculptors, since they had for so long stood apart from the liberal arts, with all that implied. In Junius’s dedication of his first Latin edition to Charles I, he spoke of the king as setting an example

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in his attention to the fine arts: ‘‘You daily offer a model of the enjoyment of innocent pleaures, for when You wish to refresh Your mind after the arduous duties of government, You ever show us that leisure cannot be more worthily occupied than in the contemplation of the fine arts. Certain it is that in former ages men thus cleansed their souls.’’40

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which to erect both fiction and rational discourse. This humanistic bond they share lies behind Junius’s annotations to Sidney’s Arcadia as well as behind both their defenses of art. We can even find intuitions in Sidney’s writings that are borne out by Junius’s knowledge of ancient writers whom Sidney did not know. Most notable for the argument in favor of ekphrasis and the relationship between verbal description and picture are the Philostrati and Callistratus. And for the whole understanding of poetic expression in literature and, by analogy, in painting, Longinus supplies an extra-rhetorical dimension to whatever Sidney and Junius believed about the sister arts. But these three writers do not appear in the annotations. They were unknown to Sidney, but because of their importance to our whole subject, they will be discussed in the appendixes. The annotations to be considered here include references to ancient writers of prose and are primarily concerned with ‘‘sentences,’’ generalizations about human life and behavior. They are not concerned directly with art, yet they imply a framework within which art has a role. But before turning to the annotations, let us consider two authors who have an important place in our two defenses of art.1 Plutarch is one of these, helping to supply a crucial definition 134

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of poetry as a speaking picture in Sidney’s Defence. The definition is actually metaphorical, as Sidney emphasizes by his interpolated phrase ‘‘to speak metaphorically’’; it thus makes more vivid the relation of poetry to painting than the pervasive Renaissance allusion to Horace’s ut pictura poesis.2 The speaking picture also reinforces Aristotle’s definition of poetry as mimesis, a key to Sidney’s whole defense of imitation as naturally appealing to human beings. Picture, after all, was viewed as the imitative art; to compare poetry to its sister art was therefore to give it a similar power over the imagination of the reader or hearer. Junius notes that Simonides, as quoted by Plutarch, sums up ‘‘that same great affinitie there is betwixt Painting and Poesie’’ and expresses ‘‘somewhat neatlier’’ what is stated by Philostratus and Dio Chrysostom, that ‘‘Picture is a silent Poesie, as Poesie is a speaking Picture . . . and he is the the best Historian that can adorne his Narration with such forcible figures and lively colours of Rhetorike, as to make it like unto a Picture’’ (Mor. 346F–47A; P 1.4.2).3 Both Sidney and Junius support the theory that imitations are pleasing in themselves by referring to the example of how we are pleased by the representation of even foul things. Sidney refers directly to Aristotle: ‘‘that imitation whereof Poetrie is, hath the most conveniencie to Nature of all other; in so much that, as Aristotle saith, those things which in themselves are horrible, as cruel battles, unnaturall monsters, are made in poetical imitation, delightfull’’ (D 502). This thought is echoed in Astrophel and Stella 34: ‘‘Oh, cruel fights well pictured forth doe please.’’ Emphasizing imitation as the goal of the artist, Junius subordinates beauty of subject matter to artistic skill in the representation of nature: ‘‘Seeing then that in the contemplation of the rare workes of Art, we are not so much taken with the beautie it selfe, as with the succesfull boldnesse of Art provoking Nature to a strife, it falleth out that not onely the Imitation of faire but of foule things also doth recreate our mindes. ‘We love to see a painted Lizard,’ sayth Plutarch, ‘or an Ape, or the face of Thersites; not for any beautie there is in them, but in regard of the similitude: for though every foule thing by nature is hindred from seeming faire; yet is the Imitation alwayes commended, whether shee doth expresse the similitude of things foule or faire’ ’’ (Mor. 18A; P 1.5.7). These powerful opposites of foul and fair appear everywhere in Elizabethan literature, including in Shakespeare and Spenser. To bring

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them together through the principle of imitation suggests an aesthetic more sophisticated than one might imagine from such a universal dichotomy. At the same time, this acceptance of ugly subject matter coexists in our authors with an emphasis on the moral value of the arts. Diverging from Aristotle’s view of imitation as an end in itself, they argue for ‘‘the true knowledge of perfect beauty’’ as fostered by contrast with the representation of ‘‘foul things.’’ Sidney, for example, argues that right and wrong must be taught together just ‘‘as in Geometrie, the oblique must be knowne as well as the right, and in Arithmetick, the odde as well as the even, so in the actions of our life, who seeth not the filthinesse of evill, wanteth a great foile to perceive the beautie of vertue’’ (D 504). The word ‘‘foile,’’ taken from the jeweler’s art, implies that virtue and vice have aesthetic, as well as moral, properties. Plutarch’s analogies from the visual arts to elucidate moral questions give Junius a number of examples to illustrate his concern with the education of the eye. A story told by Plutarch to show the difference between a flatterer and a true friend refers to a painter who ‘‘painted cockes most unluckily’’: he ‘‘gave his boy great charge, to chase away the true cockes away from his picture,’’ lest his badly painted one be shown up in all its deficiencies. Similarly, flatterers drive away true friends, lest they, the flatterers, be shown up for what they are. Ben Jonson used this story in one of his poems to illustrate the evil of flattery.4 Junius, omitting the moral lesson drawn from the analogy between painting and flattery, uses the story to illustrate how important it is always to compare the painted image with the actual thing (Mor. 65C; P 3.4.6). Again, he borrows from Plutarch’s essay on curiosity (Mor. 520C) but changes the context of discussion. Plutarch is criticizing the many at Rome ‘‘which doe nothing at all care for good Pictures and Statues, but a man may finde them alwayes upon the monster-market, where they stand and stare upon such maimed creatures as want either legges or armes . . .’’ (Mor. 520C; P 1.3.12). Whereas Plutarch is criticizing idle curiosity as filling minds with an unlovely record-box of evils—their own memory—Junius uses the passage to support his criticism of grotesques or ‘‘phantastically capricious devices’’ that depart from the truth of nature. One aspect of Plutarch’s contribution to Junius’s thinking

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about the arts is a certain playfulness in the ancient author’s discussion of artistic illusion. He treats this kind of deceptiveness in a pleasantly paradoxical way but with profound implications (Mor. 15C–D and 348C): ‘‘of Tragedies doth Gorgias also say very properly, ‘that they are a kinde of deceit, by which the deceiver is more just then he that doth not use such deceit; and the deceived likewise is wiser then he that is not deceived’ ’’ (Mor. 15C–D and 348C; P.1.4.3). This is a tribute to imitative art that emphasizes its potential for moral value. Sidney, on the other hand, exposes the deceptiveness for what it is—not really a deception at all. He shows artistic illusion to be a game understood by all the participants. It is as if he is countering the criticism of more literalminded people, using down-to-earth allusions to the theater and to the game of chess.5 But perhaps closer to Plutarch’s allusion to Gorgias’s statement is Sidney’s contrast between history and poetry, that ‘‘as in historie looking for truth, they may go away full fraught with falshood: so in Poesie, looking but for fiction, they shall use the narration but as an imaginative groundplat [groundplot] of a profitable invention’’ (D 508). Here the word ‘‘invention’’ refers not to composition of a speech or literary work but to composition within the mind as part of the meditative process. This process has the potential to transform a person’s life. The story of Nathan the prophet, to which Sidney has just alluded, like other biblical parables is to be meditated on and absorbed into the fertile ground of the imagination and memory, where invention lies. In turn, the higher powers of the mind become engaged, not in the restrictive sense of interpreting moral allegory, but as a transforming psychic experience.6 No doubt Junius held to a similar understanding of what the beauty of pictures and statues may contribute to the soul of the viewer. As he says in his dedication to Charles I, they have the power ‘‘to cleanse the soul.’’ Although Junius, like Sidney, is writing a defense of art, he has another interest in his treatise: the education of the eye. Not himself a connoisseur of the visual arts, as he admits, he nevertheless wants to provide advice for the discriminating viewer. It is a sign of how far seventeenth-century England had become aware of these arts through the collecting activities of noblemen and the monarch, and through the growing number of treatises that had become available, either as homegrown or as imported, such as Haydocke’s translation of Lomazzo or Aglionby’s of Vasari.7

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While not alluding to contemporary treatises and instead concentrating on ancient sources, Junius is part of the community that seeks to understand and to discriminate among the superior and inferior productions of the human hand. If Sidney appears to have been ahead of many of his contemporaries in his knowledge of the visual arts, his central interest lies in poetry; hence he is more concerned with the analogies that the visual arts provide for his own verbal art than in the education of the eye. Junius finds in Plutarch’s essays passages originally intended as analogies for human behavior and morality but that lend themselves to his purpose, such as the following: As for the common sort of people, of them saith a certaine Painter very well in Plutarch, that ‘‘rude spectators and such as are nothing at all acquainted with matters of Art, are like them that salute a great multitude at once; but that neat spectators on the contrarie, and such as are studious of good Arts, may be compared with them that salute one by one: the first namely doe not exactly looke into the workes of the Artificers, but conceive onely a grosse and unshapen image of the workes; where the others going judiciously over every part of the worke, looke upon all and observe all what is done well or ill.’’ (Mor. 575B; P 1.5.3)

This same ability to discriminate that is necessary to the competent spectator is required of the artist. As Junius, citing Plutarch, notes, ‘‘The first designes of art . . . are grosse and imperfect; but every part receiveth afterwards a more particular perfection.’’ (Mor. 636B–C; P 2.11.9). It is our minds, more than our senses, that delight in the skill of the craftsman. This emphasis on mind both in the artist and in the viewer is important for the analysis of why we take pleasure in imitations. Every imitation will include mind because of the need to select methods by which the illusion of reality will be created and to use judgment in ordering details. Working in a different medium from nature’s own, the artist perforce uses whatever means are available to him to render a speaking likeness. Junius likes one account in particular of an adjustment made by an artist: ‘‘Plutarch doth report that a certaine Artificer who made the statue of Jocasta, found a way to mixe in her face some silver with the brasses, knowing that the brass would draw from the languishing silver such a colour as might serve the present occasion’’ (Mor. 674A; P 3.4.5). In the original context, Plutarch is discussing how

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‘‘it is not in our sight or our hearing but in our minds that we receive pleasure from sights and sounds.’’ For this reason, we can take pleasure in a painting of Philoctetes or a statue of Jocasta, both of whom suffered so greatly. In an adjacent passage not quoted by Junius but completely in accord with his own understanding of the role of the visual arts in human life, Plutarch uses the analogy of a bee seeking honey to describe how a human being ‘‘born with a love of art and beauty is by nature disposed to welcome and cherish every product or action that bears the stamp of mind and reason’’ (Mor. 673E). Citing Plutarch directly, Junius notes that the ‘‘passion of our sense . . . doth not alike moove our minde when it is not accompanied with an opinion that the worke is well and studiously performed’’ ( Mor. 674B–C; P 2.14.3). The educated eye is necessary to the artist and, equally, to the viewer. Junius likes the story that Plutarch repeats of the ancient artist Nichomachus, who ‘‘answered an idiot, that could see no beautie in that same famous Helena painted by Zeuxis: ‘Take my eyes,’ sayd Nichomachus, ‘and you shal think her to be a goddesse’ ’’ (Mor. frag. 134; P 1.5.3). From here, Junius goes on to the need for ‘‘ ‘eruditos oculos,’ that is ‘learned eyes,’ as Tullie termeth them.’’ Tully or Cicero is the other crucial authority for both Sidney and Junius. His analysis of the means of expression, or rhetorical skills, provides Junius with much of his vocabulary for discussing the means and ends of art.8 But let us look at the one quotation from Cicero that both our authors use. It is the famous description, or definition, of history from De oratore 2.9.36. Sidney puts the words into the mouth of his imaginary historian as though to mock his self-assurance: ‘‘I am Testis temporum, lux veritatis, vita memoriae; magistra vitae, nuncia vetustatis’’ (D 497). Junius translates, praising history as an inspiration to both poets and painters: ‘‘History, ‘the witness of times, the light of truth, the life of memory, the schoole-mistresse of our actions,’ as Tulliy tearmeth her, cannot but inspire magnanimous thoughts into our breasts, when shee placeth us upon her Theatre . . .’’ (P 3.1.15). Poetry, too, ‘‘ ‘being haughty and of a lofty stile,’ as Lucian speaketh [Hist. Conscr. 45], is able to inlarge our conceits.’’ The last three words are key to the goal of ‘‘magnificence’’ in art, which is only to be attained by drinking at the fountain of antiquity. Great examples inspire both great art and great deeds. The difference of purpose between our two writers, despite

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what they have in common, accounts for the larger use of quotations from Cicero in Junius’s treatise. He is providing not only a defense of painting, like Sidney’s defense of poetry, but also a guide to artists and well-wishers of art, or what we might call connoisseurs. He sets out to extract from ancient writers anything that will be helpful to them in understanding and achieving the best. The artistic analogies Cicero uses in order to explain the principles of good writing and speaking contain many insights into the workings of art in general. The senses are the indispensable instruments by which we perceive; yet Cicero, as Junius cites him, refers to the safeguards and preconditions under which we view pictures: ‘‘We may then trust our sences best,’’ sayth he, ‘‘when we find them to be sound and healthy, and when all those things are remooved that may hinder them. We do therfore change the light often, we change the situation also of the things we mean to see; we do deduct and contract the distances, leaving nothing unattempted that may assure unto us the judgment of our eyes.’’ (Academica 2.7.19; P 3.7.4.)

Junius does not quote the whole of Cicero’s advocacy of the senses, but it accords with his own emphasis on ‘‘learned eyes’’: But when we add practice and artistic training, to make our eyes sensitive to painting and our ears to music, who is there can fail to remark the power that the senses possess?9

Here there is a more direct reliance on the senses than Sidney anywhere proposes.10 His is the inner sight of the poet. In fact, he refers to Cicero and Plato for this very emphasis and for the priority of the mental image: ‘‘if the saying of Plato and Tully bee true, that who could see vertue, would be wonderfully ravished with the love of her beautie . . .’’ (D 505).11 Like his reference to how the good painter would depict Lucretia so as to show the beauty of her virtue, Sidney does not give explicit directions either for creating or viewing works of visual art. Cicero of course moves back and forth between the theoretical and the practical in his discussion of oratory, and he treats physical sight as analogous to inner sight. The delicacy of perception that ‘‘Lovers and well-willers of Art’’ have is illustrated by Cicero’s rhetorical question: ‘‘how

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many things doe Painters see in the shadows and eminences . . . the which we cannot see?’’ (Ac. 2.7.20). Junius adds the comment of Plutarch: ‘‘the minds of Painters by Art [are] exercised to discerne beautie in all kinde of shapes and figures’’ (Mor. frag. 134; P 1.5.3.) It is significant that the word ‘‘mind’’ should be used here in a context that deals with acuity of the senses. It is by the light of reason that fineness of perception occurs. For the poet, the tuning of the ear is an essential part of his training to reach what Sidney called ‘‘the planet-like music of poesy.’’ Thus the senses, important as they are in themselves, are always transcended in the apprehension of any kind of art. Yet the analogy between physical sight and mental sight is constant in both our writers. For this reason Junius devotes some attention, in the later untranslated chapters of his De pictura, to bodily beauty. Again, nature provides the example by harmonious proportions in the beautiful body for the artist to follow. He borrows from Cicero to explain this particular role of nature that makes artists of us all: Tullie calleth it ‘‘an agreement of parts’’ and ‘‘an apt composition of the members,’’ for which he doth speake of the great dignitie of man, ‘‘of all these things that are perceived by seeing,’’ sayth he, ‘‘there is no other creature that is sensible of pulchritude, comelinesse and convenience of parts.’’ And againe, in the same place, ‘‘the pulchritiude of the bodie draweth our eyes by an apt composition of the members and delighteth us with nothing so much as that all the parts agree among themselves with a certain kinde of pleasantnesse.’’(De officiis 1.4.14; P 3.2.1)

It may be that this awareness of bodily beauty is the very foundation of the belief that in some sense all people are able to judge works of art. Not that all can judge with equal discernment, but room is left for the many who have at least the germ of an artistic perception based on the innate structure of the human mind, such as a natural preference for symmetry, or at least harmoniousness. As we will see, a paradox is involved in the whole question of who is fit to judge. Only those who can detect the difference between a fraud and a true imitation have the necessary ability. Some who fake old things ‘‘with a counterfeit shew of antiquitie’’ will deceive those without ‘‘a faculty of judging’’ (P 3.7.11–12). Junius is taking one of Cicero’s visual analogies—in this case, on

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the decline of an orator, ‘‘as color fades on an old picture’’—to stress that only ‘‘a learned and intelligent judge’’ would notice the difference (Brutus 93.320). This ability to judge allows the viewer to discriminate not only ancient from modern but also between originals and copies. Two features in particular join artists and ‘‘judicious spectators.’’ One is the imagination, which we constantly find emphasized in both Sidney and Junius; the other, the ability to judge, which is more crucial to Junius’s purpose than to Sidney’s. As he says, ‘‘It is not enough an artificer should paint well after his owne liking, but after the liking of accurate and judicious spectators; neither may hee thinke himselfe to have painted well, unless skilfull men thinke him to have done so . . . according to the true rule and law of art’’ (P 2.10.3). Although Sidney repeatedly expresses his contempt for unskillful poets and dramatists, he does not lay out in such a general way the training needed by a reader or listener, as well as by the writer. To repeat, connoisseurship is not at the heart of his treatise, as in many ways it is at the heart of Junius’s. In Painting, words are seen as evoking mental images that serve as the true model for painters and sculptors. This emphasis on the literary origins of visual art joins our authors in their mutual concern for how words generate pictures. Junius cites the famous example of Phidias, who supposedly drew upon Homer’s description of Zeus for his statue of the god: ‘‘Hence it is that Phidias, when he made Jupiter, did not cast his eyes upon any thing generated, but he fetched the patterne of his worke out of a Jupiter conceived after Homers description’’ (Proclus, In Platonis Timaeum 28a–b; P 1.2.2). This statement is followed by a reference to Cicero to the effect that even with the images of Phidias, ‘‘we can imagine something fairer yet . . . although our eyes cannot behold any thing fairer in that kinde’’ [Orat. 2.8ff. and 3.10; P 1.2.2). Because the poet provides a mental image only, he can act as an inspiration to the painter or sculptor; the image in the mind is always more perfect than the work of art.12 Yet, though the ‘‘learned Inventions’’ of artists may not be fully understood by the layman, or casual spectator, Junius quotes Cicero on the strangeness of the fact that ‘‘there being so great a difference of working between the skilfull and unskilfull, that there should be so small a difference of judging’’ (De orat.

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3.51.197; P 1.5.4). What Junius has in mind, as he explains by means of another quotation from De orat. (50.195), is: ‘‘All do by a silent feeling without any art or reason discerne what there is well or amisse in the Arts; they doe the same also in Pictures and Statues, and other workes, to the which by nature they are not sufficiently instructed.’’ The point is further developed by reference to people’s ability to judge an actor’s performance, although they themselves may not be able to act at all. There is thus an intuitive judgment in all people but a more informed judgment in those instructed in the arts. Junius’s stress on learned eyes keeps him close to Cicero. He uses the story of how Apelles both sought the judgment of the public on one of his pictures, concealing himself nearby in order to hear their comments, and rejecting their judgment when they were not well informed: ‘‘ ‘it is a most idle thing,’ sayth Tullie, ‘to expect great matters from an assembly of those, whom we contemne one by one as handy-crafts-men and barbarians’ ’’ (Tusc. 5.36.104; P 2.12.4). The allusion is to the shoemaker who, not content with criticizing the incorrect way Apelles painted a sandal, passed judgment on the way the artist painted the leg. The story as told by Pliny turned into the proverb: ‘‘Ne Sutor Ultra Crepidam,’’ or ‘‘the cobbler should stick to his last.’’13 It is the accurate and judicious spectator that must be pleased; the ability to judge is based both on native intelligence and ‘‘the image in the mind,’’ and on the practical experience of examining antique masterpieces. It is the emphasis on the power of discrimination that most of all Junius takes from Cicero. In practical terms, the judicious spectator will be able to detect copies from originals and old from new. Even though the primitive may have a certain charm, as Sidney himself admits, it is but an early attempt at perfection. The idea of progress in the arts, clearly laid out in Vasari’s Lives of the Artists, is present both in Sidney and in Junius. But for Junius in particular, there is a fear that the moderns may not measure up to the ancients; he does not have the confidence of Vasari on this issue. Sidney, criticizing his contemporaries, simply cannot see into the future. He could have no idea that a Shakespeare would make his appearance on the world stage and rival the ancients. Nothing in the literature of England up to his own time prepared Sidney for this.

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II Against the background of our two defenses of art and the important use they make of two ancient authors, we may now turn our attention to Junius and his marginal allusions to other ancient authors. Junius’s use of Pliny the Younger’s letters in his treatise and in his annotations suggest what was already implicit in our discussion of Ovid, that he finds in the writings of the ancients both an understanding of human behavior and of art. The relationship between the two may be summed up as mimetic, with art mirroring human life. Both art and life are governed by immutable laws of cause and effect, of order and disorder. On the tension between the latter pair, writers and artists of all kinds concentrate their efforts to understand and to depict. Sidney’s and Junius’s allusions to the image of a labyrinth, which will be treated in the next chapter, may stand for the artistic use of apparent disorder. For all aspects of art, rhetoricians supply the analytical vocabulary.14 They overtly relate their art to human behavior and to audience response, as well as to justice and the needs of a civil society. To Junius, fascinated by Sidney’s use of the wisdom of the ancients, the English poet’s allusions must have seemed like a bridge from the classics to the present. In Junius’s own effort to establish general rules for all art, Pliny the Younger’s remarks on art and its relationship to life provide a model of the whole search for order. Among the annotations to the Arcadia is a reference to a letter of Pliny’s (5.19.5–6), which states: ‘‘Est enim ita natura comparatum, ut nihil aeque amorem incitet et accendat quam carendi metus’’ [It seems a law of nature for nothing to excite and intensify love so much as the fear of losing its object] (A 235).15 This is placed beside Sidney’s account of how Pamela’s love for Dorus was increased by the fear that he had been destroyed. This fear ‘‘bred such tendernesse of kindnesse in her toward him, that she could no longer keep love from looking out through her eyes, and going forth in her words. . . .’’ So central to Sidney’s narrative are the effects of love that he provides many opportunities for Junius to recall what the ancients said on the subject. Beside the shepherds’ attribution of their music to their love of Urania, Junius notes Pliny’s description of a maiden who has set his verses to music and sings them

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to the accompaniment of her lyre: ‘‘non artifice aliquo docente, sed amore qui magister est optimus’’ [with no musician to teach her but the best of masters, love] (4.19.4). In Sidney’s words, ‘‘hath not the only love of her made us (being silly ignorant shepheards) raise up our thoughts above the ordinary levell of the world. . . ?’’ (A 2). But the shepherds deal with other aspects of the emotional life: ‘‘how prettily [they] will deliver out, sometimes joyes, sometimes lamentations, sometimes chalengings one of the other, sometimes under hidden formes uttering such matters, as otherwise they durst not deale with’’ (A 15). Beside this passage, Junius notes Pliny’s reference to the recreation of composing light verse: ‘‘Nam mirum est ut his opusculis animus intendatur remittatur. Recipiunt enim amores odia iras misericordiam urbanitatem . . .’’ [For it is remarkable how the mind is both stimulated and relaxed by these trifles. They comprise our loves and hatreds, our indignation, compassion, and wit . . .] (7.9.13). The kind of release offered by poetry is different from that offered by prose, as Pliny goes on to explain. While verse is restrictive in form, it is playful in its expression; prose, on the other hand, is freer in form than verse but may also deal with serious matters of public concern. We hear the rhetorician and lawyer speaking here in his evaluation of the respective values of prose and verse both for the writer and for his various audiences. Among the sequences of cause and effect in the letters is that noble behavior in adversity leads to admiration, and admiration in turn leads to love. Junius notes Pliny’s allusion to Titus Aristo: ‘‘Mirareris si interesses, qua patientia hanc ipsam valetudinem toleret’’ [His patience throughout this illness, if you could only see it, it would fill you with admiration] (1.22.7). Kalander similarly describes ‘‘a behaviour so noble, as gave a majestie to adversitie’’ (A 8). Pliny also speaks of coming to love someone through admiration of the person (3.3.1 and 4.17.4–5), just as Sidney has Kalander’s steward tell Palladius, the guest, that he knows not whether his master’s ‘‘love, or admiration [towards him] be greater’’ (A 16). Everywhere, in both these writers, people are shown to be drawn to one another by similarity of character or manners: ‘‘cum sit ad conectendas amicitias vel tenacissimum vinculum morum similitudo’’ [since there is no stronger bond in friendship than similarity of character]. In Sidney’s words, ‘‘likenesse of maners is likely in reason to draw liking with affection’’ (4.15.2–3; A 17).

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Another cause-effect relationship in human society is that, as Pliny, quoting Xenophon says, praise is very sweet to hear, ‘‘especially if it is felt to be deserved’’—utique si te mereri putes (Mem. 2.1.31; Pliny 7.32.2). Of Kalander’s good works, Sidney remarks, ‘‘so that it seemes no Musick is so sweet to his eare as deserved thanks’’ (A 5). Among his praiseworthy actions is the hospitality he offers. Pliny describes how his own income is small or precarious, ‘‘sed quod cessat ex reditu, frugalitate suppletur, ex qua velut fonte liberalitas nostra decurrit’’ [but its deficiencies can be made up by simple living. This is the spring from which my well of kindness is supplied] (2.4.3). Kalander in turn ‘‘knew that provision is the foundation of hospitalitie and thrift the fewell of magnificence’’ (A 7). Junius considered this statement important enough to underline it, as well as to cite Pliny. Above all, to have a healthy mind and body is the mainstay of the good life. Pliny describes an old man who takes a three-mile walk every day to exercise both body and mind (3.1.4). Sidney’s Kalander also advises: ‘‘you will never live to my age, without you keepe your selves in breath with exercise, and in heart with joyfulnesse: too much thinking doth consume the spirits, and oft it falles out, that while one thinks too much of his doing, he leaves to do the effect of his thinking’’ (A 33). Had Hamlet been reading this letter, one wonders. Perhaps Sidney’s Pyrochles too had one of Pliny’s letters in mind when he defended his solitariness against Musidorus’s accusation that it is self-indulgent indolence. According to Pyrochles, ‘‘my solitariness perchance, is the nurse of these contemplations. Eagles we see flie alone, & they are but sheepe which alwayes heard together’’ (A 31). Pliny describes such ‘‘contemplations’’: ‘‘Clausae fenestrae manent; mire enim silentio et tenebris ab iis quae avocant abductus et liber et mihi relictus, non oculos animo sed animum oculis sequor, qui eadem quae mens vident, quotiens non vident alia’’ [My shutters stay closed, for in the stillness and darkness I feel myself surprisingly detached from any distractions and left to myself in freedom; my eyes do not determine the direction of my thinking, but, being unable to see anything, they are guided to visualize my thoughts] (9.36.1). The ‘‘eye of mind,’’ so much at the center of both Sidney’s and Junius’s thinking about the arts, has a strong defender in Pliny the Younger. If we turn to these letters in Painting, we find a different use

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for them. They are now introduced less as examples of proverbial wisdom and personal reflections than as supporting evidence for the value and significance of the visual arts. Yet, in effect, since Junius’s sources are literary, he continues to speak of painting as though it were synonymous with literature. Both forms of art represent life. All Junius’s discussion of art is thus metaphoric, so that, for example, symmetry is not merely an artistic desideratum but symbolic of the balanced life. Key to the value of the visual arts, as of literature, is the notion of imitation and the conviction that therein lies their justification. The best things are to be imitated that they may serve as inspiration for life in this world. Citing Pliny, Junius notes: ‘‘ ‘It is a most foolish thing in my opinion, that a man should not study to imitate the best things,’ sayth the younger Pliny’’ (1.5.13; P 3.2.5). He also refers to Pliny’s view that ‘‘ ‘Statues, images, pictures’—no matter what the subject—‘being but comely, may be esteemed much better for being great’ ’’ (1.20.5; P 3.2.4). That is to say, large subjects, and the daring they require on the part of the artist, are more admirable. But the difficulty of imitating anything is ever present to Junius. He generalizes: ‘‘ ‘For, as it is hard to hit a similitude after the life,’ sayth the same Pliny elsewhere, ‘so is the imitation of an imitation [or a copy of a picture or statue] much more hard and difficult’ ’’ (4.28.3; P 3.7.10). Transferring what Pliny says about imitating the verse of a good poet, Junius comments that ‘‘Painters ‘represent a faire and absolute face most commonly to the worst’ ’’ (5.15.1). Trying to emulate the ancients, anyone may fall into despair. But Junius advises the moderns not to kill off ‘‘the generous hope.’’ Here he calls in Pliny to say, ‘‘I am one of them . . . that doe admire the ancients, and yet can I not finde in my heart to despise the wits of our age, as some use to doe: for Nature is not so much wearie’d and worne out, that shee should now bring forth no praise-worthy thing’’ (6.21.1; P 2.13.1). The daring of the artist in this enterprise of creating something great is all-important. Just as Longinus supports the sublime or lofty style, so Pliny the Younger supports a notion that Junius believes in deeply: ‘‘there is a great difference, as the younger Pliny speaketh, ‘Whether we do note blameworthy or excellent things. All men perceive what sheweth it selfe above other; but it is to be discerned by a most earnest intention of the minde, whether that be excessive or lofty, whether it be high or enor-

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mous and altogether out of square’ ’’ (9.26.6; P 3.7.3). The mean is always best, but here again, Pliny comes to Junius’s aid in distinguishing between the artist ‘‘ ‘who doth lesse then the matter requireth’ ’’ and who therefore ‘‘ ‘keepeth the meane as little as another who doth more. The one may be sayd to have exceeded the matter, the other on the contrary may be sayd not to have answered it to the full: both are to blame; but the one offendeth of weaknesse, the other of too much strength: which though it be no sign of a more polished, yet is it a marke of greater wit’’ (1.20.4; P 3.1.4). Finding the right balance between the extremes of timidity and rashness is as essential to art as to life. Just as Horace used the image of rope-dancers to stand for the daring of the artist, so Pliny adds his voice to this theme, even using the same image, in a passage that Junius cites: ‘‘ ‘a great many Arts . . . are most of all commended for things dangerous: so do we daily see what great shouting rope-dauncers put spectatours to, when they handsomly recover themselves . . . so hath not the vertue of a pilot an equall esteem, when hee faileth in a calme, and in a boisterous sea . . . when the mast bendeth, when the sterne groaneth, then is he extolled and judged to come neere the Gods of the sea’ ’’ (9.26.4; P 1.3.10). We are reminded of the difficulty that Michelangelo famously grappled with.16 But who is fit to judge an artist’s work? The constant references to judgment in Junius’s treatise have their parallels in seventeenth-century literary criticism, such as the debate over whether wit includes judgment or is separate from it.17 As David Summers points out, the word ‘‘taste’’ has tended in modern times to supplant the word ‘‘judgment’’ as it was used in the classical tradition.18 Judgment, being associated with prudence, has rational connotations that ‘‘taste,’’ a more subjective concept, does not have. Junius quotes the younger Pliny: ‘‘none but an Artificer can judge of a Painter, Carver, Caster in brasse, or worker in clay’’ (1.10.4; P 1.5.5). Nevertheless, for Junius, the ‘‘wellexercised Imaginative facultie is able to conferre his conceived Images with the Pictures and Statues that come neerest unto Nature.’’ This stress on the power of the imagination means that the all-important task of comparing the represented image with the viewer’s mental image is more crucial than the ability to compare one work of art with another. Implicit in this view is that the standard of judgment must always be nature, which the ‘‘well-

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exercised imagination’’ constantly draws upon and refines from sensuous experience. Another much-debated aspect of judgment is whether the judgment of the many is more reliable than the judgment of the individual. Junius refers to the younger Pliny’s statement, in another echo of the story of Apelles and the shoemaker, that ‘‘nothing can satisfie my care. . . . I thinke still how great a matter it is to publish any thing: neither can I perswade my selfe otherwise, but that we are to peruse often and with many, what wee wish might please all men and alwayes’’ (7.17.15; P 2.12.1).19 But whatever the approbation of the masses is worth, ultimately it is the discernment and discrimination of those who have both imagination and reason that will determine the value of a work of art. When Junius enters into a more detailed discussion of the various aspects of a work of art, these almost always have a moral dimension, just as larger considerations of art have. Sometimes, following rhetorical precedent, he treats such features as ornament in a metaphorical sense. Taking his cue from Pliny, among other ancients, he considers ornament as lending grace, so long as it does not turn to affectation: ‘‘Neither can it be denied, but that a decent grace of colors comemndeth a picture very much; but when it followeth the nature of things of it selfe, and not when it is drawne in by an importunately odious affectation’’ (P 3.3.12). This is close to Sidney’s rejection of a ‘‘courtesan-like painted affectation,’’ in his Defence. To follow ‘‘the nature of things’’ is key to decorum. Sometimes what is required is a florid style, sometimes a simple one. Enhancement by various kinds of rhetorical means is necessary, especially perhaps because of the frailty of mankind in desiring sensuous gratification. No doubt, Junius, like Pliny, has a dream of a style that would reflect ‘‘the sinewes of art,’’ but for now, the colors of art, whether literal or rhetorical, are designed to appeal to the viewer’s or reader’s imagination.20 Thus light and shadow give relief to a picture, just as, in rhetorical theory, it was held that the sublime cannot be sustained without relief (P 3.3.6). Given Junius’s habit of transferring statements originally made about oratory or poetry to painting, he is really intent on drawing up universal rules for the arts, based primarily on their expressiveness within what are perceived as natural limits of order and decorum. In this, he follows the practice of the ancients, including Pliny the Younger, whom

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he quotes: ‘‘Light is most of all commended in a picture by the shadow’’ (3.13.9). The same principle could be extended to all human behavior, as Castiglione demonstrates in his Book of the Courtier.21 It is contrast that captures attention not only in the arts but in life. Here again, we find a law of nature parallel to a law of art. What the Elder Pliny, in his history of art, treated simply as part of the progress of the art of painting, in making it more realistic through relief, takes on more universal significance in Junius’s consideration of the unity of the arts. Another of these universals is symmetry, which more obviously has moral implications with its metaphorical suggestion of the well-balanced temper. Citing Pliny the Younger, Junius says that he ‘‘seemeth to expresse the force of this Greeke word [symmetria] by the names of congruence and equalitie. ‘If you did see a head or any member parted from his statue,’ sayth he, ‘it may be you should not be able to finde out by that the whole congruence and equalitie, yet you should be able to judge whether it be elegant and neate in itselfe’ ’’ (2.5.11; P 3.2.1). That is to say, the part may suggest the artistic coherence of the whole. Morally, symmetry implies the integrity of the individual: the four-square man, as Aristotle describes him.22 When Aristotle included drawing among the liberal arts, he argued that it had the value of teaching students to improve their judgment of works of art and to recognize the beauty of bodies. Junius links these two together to explain the ancients’ fondness for naked bodies: ‘‘As it is then cleare that Symmetrie was anciently esteemed to be the highest point of Art, so cannot we think it strange that the ancients did most of all delight in naked bodies, ‘which doe not hide what is faultie, and doe not sparingly set forth what is praise-worthie,’ as the younger Pliny speaketh’’ (3.6.2; P 3.2.9). Once more, puritanical attitudes give way to a classical ideal, and again, the parallel between art and nature is underlined. While causation in the universe seems to be central in the annotations to Sidney, analogy lies more at the heart of Junius’s use of Pliny the Younger’s letters. Still, the conditions for art are important enough for Junius at times to suggest a causal relationship. He quotes Pliny: ‘‘For no man hath so excellent a wit as to make himselfe immediately knowne, unlesse he meeteth with matter, occasion, and a favourable commender’’ (6.23.5; P 2.14.1). But though Fortune has a role to play, fame does not depend entirely on her, ‘‘seeing it is

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needfull that an Artificer should first open the doore of fame unto himselfe before he may looke for any preferment.’’ He must learn his craft in order to be ready to seize the opportunity when it arises.

III Even less well-known writers provide Junius with material both for amplifying his treatise and his annotations. A minor instance of the extent to which the same authors feature in the annotations to the Arcadia and in Painting is Nazarius the Rhetor. A passage in his Panegyric of Constantine (321 A.D.) expresses in general terms that in time of peace, ‘‘Vacat remissioribus animis delectamenta pacis adhibere’’ [There is leisure for more relaxed spirits to employ the amusements of peace].23 Junius takes up the idea that only at such a time can the arts flourish. He underlines Sidney’s description of ‘‘sports of wit’’ in Arcadia: ‘‘Once ordinary it is amongst the meanest sort, to make songs and dialogues in meeter, either love whetting their braine, or long peace having begun it; example and emulation amending it’’ (A 14). The marginal reference thus expands the words ‘‘long peace,’’ placing them in a more universal context, including the Pax Romana and the erecting of magnificent buildings. Typically, Junius seizes upon anything that he can use to strengthen the value of the visual arts. Thus when he finds Nazarius commenting on the greater impact of the visual over the auditory in the context of processions to celebrate the victories of Constantine, he makes this part of his defense of painting. In turn, Sidney tries to claim for poetry all the advantages of painting. Both are standard uses of the paragone. Granting that picture seems to stir up a great many to courage, Junius cites Nazarius: ‘‘ ‘things that sinke into our hearts by the means of our eares,’ sayth Nazarius, ‘doe more faintly stirre our minde, then such things as are drunke in by the eyes’ ’’ (4.32.4; P 1.4.4).24 This commonplace of ancient and Renaissance thought was regularly used to defend the visual arts.25 Another passage that Junius takes from Nazarius for use in Painting has a military and ethical context, but is transferred to the artistic question of rising to a great occasion: ‘‘Things passing great are placed first, seeing ‘it is certaine that vertue tempereth

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her courage according to the measure of the businesse in hand: shee is in small things so remisse and slacke, that shee doth hardly avoide the opinion of securitie: shee straineth her selfe somewhat more in things indifferently great: but when there are offered things that are great indeed, she raiseth her selfe, to the height of the work in hand,’ sayth Nazarius’’ (4.23.2; P 3.1.2). When Junius incorporates this passage into his discussion of artistic achievement, the original context, which involves courage in military exploits, is forgotten, and only the daring of artists when they have a great commission to execute is remembered. Such analogies are essential to Junius’s argument in Painting; they equally characterize his annotations to Sidney. And they carry weight because they assume that the same principles apply to all human activity. Another writer not ostensibly writing about art but who lends his voice in support of Junius’s theory of art is Tacitus. But whereas Junius uses the Dialogue on Oratory several times in Painting, he uses only Tacitus’s historical writings in his annotations. The reason is not far to seek: in Painting, since the subject is art, he makes use of discussions of oratory as analogous to the art of painting; in the annotations, he deals more directly with warfare and with the moral issues of human behavior as manifest in the action of the Arcadia. The beauty of eloquence is analogous to the beauty of the body. Believing that ‘‘the first grounds of art [are] out of the imitation of the fairest bodies’’ (P 3.2.5), Junius quotes from Tacitus, Dialogus de oratoribus 21: ‘‘The body of a man is onely faire . . . wherein the veins doe not appeare, and the bones cannot bee counted: but temperate and good bloud filleth up the members, and raiseth the muscles, covering also the sinewes with rednesse, and commending them with comelinesse’’ (P 3.2.4). It is, however, not simply health but strength and vitality that attest the spirit within. Boldness as manifested in extemporaneous speaking is the natural outcome of this inner strength. Above all, profound meditation is required: ‘‘for it is impossible that any one should apprehend so many different and profound things . . . unlesse upon knowledge there follow meditation, upon meditation abilitie, upon abilitie force: and it is gathered out of these things that there is but one and the same way of conceiving what we are to expresse, and expressing what we have conceived’’ (Tacitus Dialogus 34; P 2.11.5).26 Large concerns and great subjects alone produce great works of art.

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But preparation for the great work is essential. Junius finds in Livy (35.28.1ff.) an analogy for the ‘‘profound meditation’’ of the artist. He uses a long quotation concerning a general called Philopaemen who made all his preparations for battle in his mind, not only in wartime but also in times of peace. ‘‘With these cares and imaginations had he from his youth so exercised his minde, that nothing in such a case could be new unto him.’’ Junius comments that the general ‘‘hath by his own daily practise propounded unto the Students of any liberall Arts whatsoever a most forcible example of this same provident care’’ (P 1.2.5). He goes on to say that this principle of due preparation is not only applicable to ‘‘all other Arts and Science, [but] so likewise to these Arts of Imitation.’’ Though we cannot be drawing and painting all the time, we can at all times be nurturing our imagination to ‘‘digest the conceived things in some kinde of order.’’ Invention, thus conceived in the mind, will be so complete that ‘‘nothing more but the hand of the Artificer seemeth to be required to the perfection of the worke.’’ This is close to Leonardo’s statement that the invention must first be in the mind of the artist and then in his hands.27 Here too is Sidney’s emphasis on the poet’s idea as the precondition for his work. Nothing could indicate more succinctly the universality of general principles for life and art than Junius’s extension of the military preparedness of the general to the preparation of the artist for his work. Turning to the Annals, Junius finds support for his concern with emulation: ‘‘The love of emulation is stronger then the feare of punishment threatned by lawes’’ (3.55; P 2.5.1). Still, the arts require certain conditions. Referring to Tacitus’s Annals 15.16, he notes: ‘‘The secure pleasantnesse of flourishing times doth . . . feed and encrease heat of Emulation, and desire of Glory’’ (P 2.13.2). If one is fighting for mere survival, there is no room for competition with others in the field. In this respect, artists are no different from warriors in the search for glory. In tune with these two passages there are quotations from Livy that reinforce the parallel between artists and warriors. For both these writers, emulation is not only with their contemporaries but ‘‘also with the famous men of all ages’’ (Livy 28.43.6; P 2.5.1). If one thinks of Renaissance artists, certainly they were viewed as in competition with the ancients, as well as with their own contemporaries. The application of the same laws to art as to life in general is manifest in Junius’s reference to the need for boldness of action.

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He never advocates too much caution in the seeker after glory. It is, he says, borrowing from Tacitus, ‘‘in our wits, as well as in our fields, though many things are carefully planted and laboured, yet use those things to be more acceptable unto us, which doe grow of their own accord’’ (Dial. 6.6; P 3.1.5). Junius is arguing that too much study ‘‘hindereth and quaileth that same ready forwardnesse of our mindes.’’ One must strike when the iron is hot or lose the heat of invention. Sometimes it is best to follow ‘‘extemporall thoughts,’’ rather than attempting to fit them to some plan. Yes, it is in art as in life. In the annotations to the Arcadia, Junius draws not on the Dialogus but on the Annals and Histories of Tacitus to amplify Sidney’s treatment of human nature in love and war. Over all the actions of people presides the divinity that must be respected, rather than inquired into, as in the story of Basilius’s foolish attempt to thwart the message of the oracle that he consulted. Junius quotes from Tacitus’s Germania 34: ‘‘sanctius ac reverentius visum de actis deorum credere quam scire’’ [It was voted more religious and more reverent to believe in the works of Deity than to comprehend them].28 This reference is placed beside a passage in Philanax’s letter to Basilius: ‘‘the heavenly powers to be reverenced, and not serched into; and their mercies rather by praiers to be sought, then their hidden counsels by curiositie’’ (A 12). As Sidney notes in the Arcadia, any form of religion is better than none; it is the precondition to goodness in life and in art, an argument implied throughout Junius’s treatise. For now, it is the virtues and their opposites, the vices, that specifically apply both to life and to art. Since the Arcadia is more concerned with providing a mirror of life than with the defense of art, Junius’s references to Tacitus in the annotations refer, for example, to the need for courage in the conduct of war or other human activities. Beside Sidney’s generalization ‘‘nothing is atchieved before it be throughlie attempted, and that lying still doth never go forward’’ (A102), we find a reference to Annals 15.59: ‘‘Multa experiendo confieri, quae segnibus ardua videantur’’ [Many things which to the timid looked arduous were accomplished on attempt].29 The same virtue is often mentioned as essential to the artist: he must have a ‘‘temerary boldness’’ if he is to accomplish great things. There is no room in art for timidity. Neither is there room for falsity. Sidney’s brief reference to

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‘‘that poysonous sugar of flattery’’ (A 210) evokes Junius’s memory of a passage in Tacitus’s Histories 1.15: ‘‘inrumpet adulatio, blanditiae et pessimum veri adfectus venenum, sua cuique utilitas. . . . nam suadere principi quod oporteat multi laboris, adsentatio erga quemcumque principem sine adfectu peragitur’’ [Flattery, adulation, and that worst poison of an honest heart, self-interest, will force themselves in. . . . For to persuade a prince of his duty is a great task, but to agree with him, whatever sort of prince he is, is a thing accomplished without any sort of feeling].30 We recall Plutarch’s attack on flattery and Sidney’s condemnation of false rhetoric in his Defence. So general is the application of this rule against falsity of appearances that it includes such relatively minor manifestations as false modesty. Beside Sidney’s comment (A 157) on a woman who appears to flee—‘‘such a chase as only fled to be caught’’—Junius adds a reference to the Annals 1.3.: ‘‘specie recusantis flagrantissime cupiverat’’ [under a veil of reluctance, a consuming desire]. In life, as in art, truth is the standard by which to judge. Even the order of the state can be matched with the order of art. In his Defence, Sidney had argued for invention that includes, ‘‘art, imitation, and exercise’’—in other words, discipline; Junius, in Painting, constantly stresses the controlling mind that makes use of phantasy but always in the service of an ordered and complete work of art. Sidney, describing the rebellion of the Helots in Arcadia, has his spokesman, Pyrochles/Zelmane say to the rebels, ‘‘Do you thinke them fooles, that saw you should not enjoy your vines, your cattell, no nor your wives & children, without government; and that there could be no government without a Magistrate, and no Magistrate without obedience, and no obedience where every one upon his own private passion, may interpret the doings of the rulers?’’(A 202). Junius not only underlines this passage but places in the margin a reference to Tacitus in his Histories 1.83.: ‘‘Si cur iubeantur quaerere singulis liceat, pereunte obsequio etiam imperium intercidit’’ [For if individuals may inquire the reason for the orders given them, then discipline is at an end and authority also ceases]. We return to the idea of hierarchy, which we have already seen in the idea of reverence for the gods. Although Basilius is a king, he has above him the power of the god whom he professes to worship. One cannot consider either Junius’s treatise or Sidney’s Defence or the Arcadia without encountering this emphasis on

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hierarchy as including religious faith. Without hierarchy, there can be no values, only anarchy, in art as in life. While this view may not be congenial to modern readers or artists, it is central to the thinking of the two writers we are considering.

IV One of the most remarkable features of Junius’s use of ancient writers is that he turns their moral statements into artistic statements, thus reversing the use of analogies from the visual arts in ancient authors. Nowhere is this more true than in his borrowings from Seneca the Younger. Underlying all Junius’s use of analogies between nature and art, or painting and poetry, is a conviction that the unity of nature and art derives from God’s form-giving presence in the universe. The same laws govern human behavior in its relationship to virtue and the creation of art in relationship to the divine order. Hence Junius can apply the moral lessons in Seneca to works of art, just as Seneca can use analogies from art to illustrate moral principles. A unified system that includes the laws of nature and both human behavior and art is the context in which poetry and painting observe the same rules. On the surface such a scheme might suggest a rigid application of rules, but, in fact, so complex is the assumed order that it allows for disorder and constant innovation. As Seneca says, in answer to the question of what the wise man has found out, ‘‘Primum verum naturamque. . . . Deinde vitae legem, quam ad universa derexit nec nosse tantum sed sequi deos docuit’’ [First of all, there is truth and nature. . . . In the second place, there is the law of life, and life, he [God] has made to conform to universal principles; and he has taught us, not merely to know the gods, but to follow them] (Epist. 90.34).31 But he goes on to say, ‘‘Non enim dat natura virtutem; ars est bonum fieri’’ [Nature does not bestow virtue; it is an art to become good] (90.45). This whole vision is congenial both to Junius and to Sidney, forming, as it were, a bond between them. The equation of virtue and art is of crucial importance to their thinking. As one of the faculties important both to life and to art, memory obeys a rule that associates it with a particular place. This constitutional link is of course utilized in the theory of artificial memory, but for Junius and Sidney, it has an emotional and artis-

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tic significance. Junius comments on the grief of the two shepherds, Claius and Strephon, as it is renewed by the sight of the place from which the beloved Urania departed (fig. 9). Junius first puts a marginal note: ‘‘Descriptio hominum absentis gratissimae rei memoria cruciatorum’’ [description of men aggrieved by the memory of a very pleasant matter now absent] (A 1). He then generalizes in another note: ‘‘Amantes non nisi cum tacito timidae reverentiae horrore memoriam Amatarum prosequi solent atque ipsi sibi somnia fingunt; praesertim iis in locis quem felix earum praesentia aliquando beavit’’ [Lovers do not usually recall in detail the memory of their beloved unless with the silent tremor of a timid reverence; and they fashion dreams for themselves, especially in those places which their presence once graced]. Sidney himself had described the grief renewed for the two shepherds by the place from which Urania had departed. He brings place and memory together in the words of Strephon: ‘‘as our remembrance came ever cloathed unto us in the forme of this place, so this place gives new heate to the feaver of our languishing remembrance’’ (A 1). In this heavily annotated first page of the Arcadia, Junius goes on to add a reference to the story of Ceyx and Alcyone in Ovid’s Metamorphoses: how she sought her empty bedroom, and how it and her bed made her weep again with the memory of what she had lost.32 Finally, Junius includes a reference to Seneca: ‘‘tamen repositum in animo nostro desiderium loca interdum familiaria evocant nec extinctam memoriam reddunt, sed quiescentem irritant, sicut dolorem lugentium, etiam si mitigatus est tempore, aut servulus familiaris amisso aut vestis aut domus renovat’’ [sometimes familiar places bring forth a longing which has been placed in our mind. They do not restore a forgotten memory, but they stir one that is dormant. Thus by means of the reminders of a childhood friend, of a garment, or of home, it renews the grief of those who weep, even if that grief has been eased by time] (Epist. 49.1). Further references are to Pliny the Younger 6.1: ‘‘quod ipsa loca in quibus esse una solemus acrius me tui commonent’’ [the very places where we used to be together remind me more keenly of you];33 and Cicero, De legibus 2.4: ’’movemur enim nescio quo pacto locis ipsis in quibus eorum, quos diligimus aut admiramur, adsunt vestigia’’ [for we are affected in some mysterious way by places about which cluster memories of those whom we love and admire].34

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Fig. 9 Sir Philip Sidney, The Countesse of Pembrokes Arcadia (London: Waterson, 1613) p. 1. Leiden University Library, 766 A 16.

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For Junius, the significance of memory in the creation of works of art is that, like phantasy, it begins in sensation but passes sense experience through the filter of the mind, forming images through which we understand our world and ourselves. In fact, he scarcely troubles to distinguish between memory and phantasy as they contribute images to the life of the mind. If he does draw the distinction, it is in the greater emphasis that he gives to phantasy or imagination in invention. ‘‘It is,’’ he says, ‘‘not onely profitable but also necessary, that an Artificer should by a daily practice carefully provide himselfe of such kind of Images, as might be ready at his call when he is to imitate things absent, and such things as never came before his eyes’’ (P 1.2.4). He constantly refers to the importance of ‘‘the remembrance of many things’’ and especially of things ‘‘rightly apprehended’’ (P 1.1.9). Memory is also associated with learning, the indispensable knowledge required of the good artist. This ‘‘enriching of our memory,’’ in a sentence borrowed from Sidney, is followed by ‘‘enabling of our judgment.’’35 Over and over, he stresses the need to possess the knowledge of all antiquity as a kind of memory that will enable an informed judgment. But most of the Seneca annotations in the Arcadia are concerned with the emotions and their relationship to virtue, or the art of being good. Analogies often seem in the Renaissance to carry the weight of proof in the context of a unified worldview. And so it is that the principles of virtue are treated as artistic principles. As Musidorus says to Pyrochles: ‘‘A mind well trained and long exercised in vertue . . . doth not easily change any course it once undertakes, but upon well-grounded and well-waied causes. . . . Even the very countenance and behaviour of such a man doth shew forth Images of the same constancy, by maintaining a right harmony betwixt it and the inward good, in yeelding it selfe sutable to the vertuous resolution of the mind’’ (A 30). A parallel in Seneca’s epistle 50.9, as noted by Junius, says: ‘‘virtutes receptae exire non possunt’’ [virtues, when admitted, cannot depart]. The countenance is like a portrait revealing the inner life of the person, and so Musidorus proceeds to interpret Pyrochles’: ‘‘your countenance troubled (which surely comes not of vertue, for vertue like the cleare heaven is without clouds) . . .’’ (A 31). Seneca gives the same emphasis to virtue: ‘‘Sola virtus praestat gaudium perpetuum, securum’’ [Virtue alone affords everlasting and peace-giving joy] (Epist. 27.3). Pamela, too, has absorbed

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stoic lessons. In her greatest trouble—the imprisonment and trial of her beloved Musidorus—she shows ‘‘a countenance more princely then she was wont, according to the wont of highest hearts (like the palme tree striving most upward when he is most burthened)’’ (A 421). Beside this passage, Junius notes Seneca’s Epistle 13.3: ‘‘Multum enim adicit sibi virtus lacessita’’ [For manliness gains much strength by being challenged]. Elsewhere, Musidorus, relating the story of the shipwreck that he and Pyrochles suffered, describes the nobility of Pyrochles in adversity: ‘‘high honor is not onely gotten & borne by paine and danger, but must be nurst by the like, or else vanisheth as soone as it appeares to the world’’ (A 133). Junius compares Seneca’s Epistle 39.3: ‘‘Quemadmodum flamma surgit in rectum, iacere ac deprimi non potest . . . ita noster animus in motu est, eo mobilior et actuosior, quo vehementior fuerit’’ [Just as the flame springs straight into the air and cannot be cabined or kept down . . . so our soul is always in motion, and the more ardent it is, the greater the motion and activity]. But the potential for nobility is always hindered by self-love and the human susceptibility to flattery. Gynecia, the deluded queen, had half persuaded herself that Pyrochles loved her, but the narrator comments, ‘‘For such, alas! we are all, in such a mould are we cast, that the too much love we beare our selves, being first our own flatterers, wee are easily hooked with others flattery, we are easily perswaded of others love’’ (A 354). Underlining this passage, Junius adds a reference to Seneca’s preface to book 4 of Natural Questions, where the natural appeal of flattery is described in order to put us on our guard against it. Far from being easy, the art of being good is shown in the Arcadia to be difficult, just as Seneca also illustrates this generalization in the details of his comments on human nature. A similar treatment of flattery, this time drawn from De tranquillitate 1.15, is treated in the context of art in Painting. Junius, citing Seneca, notes ‘‘that wee are sooner overthrowne by our owne flattery, then by the flattery of others’’ (P 2.12.3). What in Seneca was a moral message now takes its place as advice to an artist. We need to ‘‘shake off this importunate presumption that will not give us leave to looke impartially upon our owne workes’’; hence we need to listen to the judgment not only of other artists but of all sorts of men. One of the ancient stories about Apelles is mentioned here, as in other Renaissance con-

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texts, as an instance of how even a very great artist did well to listen to the criticism of others. As regularly in Junius’s treatise, he finds a way to convert a moral statement into an artistic one. Another borrowing from Seneca shows Junius taking one of Seneca’s comparisons for virtue and vice and transferring it to a discussion of light and shadow in picture: ‘‘ ‘nothing can be bright,’ as Seneca speaketh, ‘without the mixture of light.’ ’’ (P 3.3.9). In Seneca’s original context, light stands for virtue, as darkness stands for vice: ‘‘Quemadmodum sine mixtura lucis nihil splendidum est, nihil atrum, nisi quod tenebras habet aut aliquid in se traxit obscuri . . . ita honesta et turpia virtutis ac malitiae societas efficit’’ [Just as nothing gleams if it has no light blended with it, and nothing is black unless it contains darkness or draws to itself something of dimness, . . . so it is the association of virtue and vice that makes things honourable or base] (Epist. 31.5). Evidently Ben Jonson also was drawn to this passage, for he marked it in his copy of Seneca’s works.36 But whereas Jonson appears to be interested only in the moral aspect of the statement, Junius removes the statement of analogy and treats it as if it were an observation drawn from nature and therefore useful to painters as part of a commentary on the use of chiaroscuro. The most significant use that Junius makes of Seneca in Painting is the treatment of invention. First of all, God is seen as the source of all arts, and Nature as the best painter: ‘‘Insita sunt nobis omnium aetatium, omnium artium semina, magisterque ex occulto deus producit ingenia’’ [In us are implanted the seeds of all ages, the seeds of all the arts, and it is God, our master, who draws forth from the secret depths of our being our various talents] (De beneficiis 4.6.6). In Junius’s words, ‘‘ ‘the seeds of all Arts are deeply graffed in us, and God by a secret mastership doth bring the witts to light,’ sayth Seneca‘‘ (P 2.1.3). That is, the artistic impulse is inborn and will be brought to light in the fullness of time. On the next page (2.1.4), Junius cites Seneca on the nature of nature: ‘‘ ‘what is Nature else,’ sayth Seneca, ‘but God and a divine power infused into the whole world and every part of the world’ ’’ (De beneficiis 4.7.1). Or, referring to specific examples of the artistry of nature, such as the ornamental patterns on shells or on leopards, Junius says, ‘‘Nature hath sometimes brought forth out of her rich bosome perfect patterns of Art’’ (P 2.1.6).37 But in order to create the best in human art, man must study and acquire knowledge as a preparation for invention; he must

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have a solid foundation on which to build. Again, Seneca provides a sentence: ‘‘ ‘Such things as doe grow up without any foundation,’ sayth Seneca, ‘are subject unto ruine’ ’’ (De ira 1.20.2; P 2.11.2). This is a constant theme in Painting: ‘‘a good Artist may justly be esteemed a wise man, not in such a sence onely, as every tradesman was anciently called wise, but in regard of his invention, seeing therein is something more than is conceived at the first. All arts and studies must concurre to make up that same general well grounded knowledge, whereby we are fitted and prepared to produce a good invention’’ (P 3.1.6). One must have ‘‘drunke in from his childehood all manner of good arts and sciences.’’ But, as Seneca indicates, ‘‘ ‘I am of opinion . . . that many should have attained unto wisedome, if they had not conceived themselves to be wise alreadie’’ (De tranquill. 1.16; P 2.12.1). The fruit of good knowledge joined to natural gifts is a readiness of invention. The primary importance of invention, or the idea for a work of art, is emphasized in the third book of Junius’s treatise. Although there may be rules for the other stages of carrying out an artistic project, invention rests in the artist’s own mind. Junius finds support in Seneca: ‘‘Invention doth justly challenge the first and principall place, seeing ‘no man, though he hath all his colours at hand,’ sayth Seneca, ‘can make a similitude, unlesse he be resolved what to paint’ ’’ (Epist. 71.2; P 3.1.1). Ease of execution is proof of the artist’s preparedness. Again, Seneca offers a useful statement: ‘‘ ‘An Artificer handleth his instruments with ease,’ sayth Seneca, ‘the master of a shippe knoweth how to turne the sterne: the Painter doth nimbly marke many and severall colours that are set before him to make a similitude, bestirring himselfe with a ready looke and a quicke hand between his wax and work’ ’’ (Epist. 121.5; P 3.3.1). (The Loeb translation says ‘‘between his palette and canvas.’’) Above all, the good artist must be a discoverer, not just a follower of those who have gone before him. Junius never allows his reader to think that the art of painting is simply the following of certain rules. He cites Seneca: ‘‘Such as never endeavour to stand upon their own legges,’’ sayth Seneca, ‘‘follow their predecessors, first in such things as were never called in question, afterwards in such things as doe require further search. It is in the meanetime certaine that we shall finde nothing, if

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we doe content our selves with what was found alreadie. He likewise that followeth the steppes of any other man, doth even as much as if he did follow nothing at all; neither doth he find anything because he doth not so much as seeke anything.’’ (Epist. 33.10; P 1.3.2)

Knowing what he seeks is the artist’s first step. Seneca offers other observations on such subjects as the value of emulation, or fame as the spur to virtue, where again we find virtue equated with art. There are also useful comments on the psychology of the artist, including the fact that the act of painting is more pleasurable than the finished work. Again, Junius has transferred a general statement about human behavior—here, the art of making friends—to a specifically artistic context. All he needed to do was omit the statement of analogy: ‘‘ ‘It is more delightfull to an Artificer,’ sayth Seneca, ‘to paint, then to have done painting: our solicitude, as long as shee busieth her selfe about the worke, taketh a singular great pleasure in the occupation it selfe: he is nothing neere so much delighted, that hath already acccomplished the worke: for he doth now enjoy the fruit of his Art, whereas before, whilest he did paint, he enjoyed the Art itself’ ’’ (Epist. 9.7; P 2.7.1). Junius’s slight expansion brings to life one term of Seneca’s analogy and thus causes his reader to reflect on the artist’s enjoyment of exercising his craft. Seneca’s original subject—friendship—is simply omitted, although if we take note of it, we have a broad sense of what is common to all forms of art, including social skills. It is the Roman author’s gift for making sound generalizations about human nature and its creativity in relationship to divine creativity that makes him so valuable to Junius in his argument about the place of painting in human life. The importance of Seneca to Junius both in his treatise and in his annotations may be indicated by his use of the same passage from Seneca’s Epistle 33 in both places. What is perhaps surprising is the different interpretations he gives to this same passage in differing contexts. Beside Sidney’s comment on the all-round excellence of the young prince Pyrochles—‘‘wonders are no wonders in a wonderfull subject’’ (A 124)—Junius notes Seneca’s Epistle 33.1, a passage in which a warning is given to Lucillus not to try to make excerpts from his reading of an author such as Epicurus, where everything is equally good. In Seneca’s words, ‘‘Inaequalitatem scias esse, ubi quae eminent, notabilia sunt.

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Non est admirationi una arbor, ubi in eandem altitudinem tota silva surrexit’’ [There is unevenness, you know, when some objects rise conspicuous above others. A single tree is not remarkable if the whole forest rises to the same height]. This seems straightforward enough, but Junius uses the same passage in Painting 3.3.8 with a different interpretation. Now, instead of praising something where all elements are equally outstanding, making it impossible to select anything as more remarkable than the rest, Junius links the passage to one from Quintilian in which there is a criticism for the lack of contrast that ‘‘heightened things do deserve’’ (Institut. 8.5.29). Junius chooses both passages to lead into his discussion of light and shade and the principle of contrast in picture. As he says, ‘‘an uniforme picture cloyeth us withall.’’ On the same page, he quotes another passage from Seneca, which we have already noted, that ‘‘Nothing can be bright . . . without the mixture of light.’’ Junius thus fuses two different passages from the epistles with one from Quintilian to strengthen an argument for variety that is quite different both from Seneca’s in 33.1 and from the Sidney passage annotated. Such a difference of interpretation is typical of the way he adapts his ancient authors to his purpose. Junius has his own internal consistency, to which his ancient authors must sometimes bend. Keeping to his view that the harmony of the whole matters as it involves contrasting elements, he cites another passage from the same epistle (33.5) that deals with the beauty of women. The relevance to works of art depends on the analogy between the works of nature, such as the beauty of human beings, and pictures or statues. The passage in question reads: ‘‘That woman is not instantly counted faire,’’ saith Seneca, ‘‘whose leg or arme deserveth to be praised: but whose whole face leaveth nothing in the other members that may seem admirable’’: unlesse he will esteeme that woman fairer, whose beautifull face is the least part of the handsomenesse that sheweth it selfe in all the parts of her most absolute body. (P 3.2.4)

The words ‘‘absolute body’’ echo Junius’s references to the ‘‘absolute painter,’’ describing someone who achieves perfection in his art. The thought of the passage coincides, as well, with his use

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of Sidney’s song on the flowers that keep their separate beauty, yet blend into one surpassing unity of effect. Along with Seneca’s emphasis on the importance of judging the whole, whether of a text or of a woman, is a criticism of those who rely on excerpts and such pithy sentences as may be entered into a commonplace book. When a person composes a work, it is the projection of his spirit, ‘‘of which a man can dismember nothing without the ruine of the whole.’’ Especially for an old man, ‘‘or such a one as is stept in years,’’ it is a base thing ‘‘to be wise in nothing but his Note-booke.’’38 Despite his looking to the past for the wisdom of the ancients, Junius must surely have agreed with Seneca’s conclusion to this epistle: ‘‘Truth is open unto all men: she is not as yet borne among all; there is much of her left for Posteritie to find out.’’ The laws of nature and of art supply frames within which invention has the freedom to create endless new patterns.

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6 The Wit of Narrative I

JUNIUS’S MARGINAL PLOT SUMMARIES, THOUGH SIMPLER IN STYLE than Sidney’s more complex sentences, closely follow his narrative sequence. Reading them together, one sees how carefully the stages of the action are marked. Yet, beyond mere plot summaries, these marginalia reveal particular concerns: beauty, pathos, skill, wit, reason, passion, the drama of good and evil. By his annotations, Junius is intent on grasping both the plot as it sustains the rhetoric of the Arcadia, and the rhetoric as it gives significance and pattern to the plot. This is painting as not only the poet understands it but as the Renaissance narrative painter in his composition also does.1 Attention is drawn, too, often by Junius’s underlining, to rhetorical figures, such as descriptive set pieces and metaphors. Instruction in making a commonplace book actually included the noting of rhetorical excellencies under categories such as metaphor, simile, irony, parenthesis, and so on, with examples drawn from Latin authors.2 John Hoskins, in his Directions for Speech and Style, recommends, for example, marking the metaphors in the Arcadia with an ‘‘M’’ in the margin.3 Such figures as noted by Junius in his marginalia are related to his plot summaries by virtue of the fact that all of them are designed to make the narrative more vivid. The difference in general is that rhetorical glosses have the effect of stopping the action for analysis. References to description, for example, follow such schemes as topographia, prosopographia, cronographia; they have spatial and static implications, whereas the plot summaries follow a chronological order. Yet even these summaries give a picture of emotional and moral experience as interpreted by the mind. In the ordering by art, everything is passed through the mind; the ap166

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peal for Junius is that the immediacy of sense experience and its affective qualities should translate into verbal patterns, just as the painter creates a pictorial composition. In turn, the images of the artist whether these are verbal or painted, affect the mind of the reader or viewer. Anything in Sidney’s narrative that reminds Junius of his own scholarly interests, including language and the relationships among eye, ear, and mind, is likely to be underlined. One passage that might well have summed up for him his own quest for knowledge concerns Dorus’s falling in love: from a huge darknesse of sorowes, I am crept, I cannot say to a lightsomnesse, but to a certaine dawning, or rather peeping out of some possibilitie of comfort: but wo is me, so farre from the marke of my desires, that I rather think it such a light, as comes through a small hole to a dungeon, that the miserable caitife may the better remember the light, of which he is deprived; or like a scholler, who is only come to that degree of knowledge, to find himselfe utterly ignorant: but thus it stands it with me. . . . (A 101)

The marginal comment simply records the stage of the action that Junius has reached at this juncture in his reading: ‘‘Dorus conqueritur se tam parvum adhuc profecisse ad summam rei ut iam longius a desideriis sua proposita videatur abesse quam cum primum inciperet’’ [Dorus complains that he has made so little progress to this point toward the completion of the matter that now it seems that his objectives are farther away from his wishes than when he first began]. No reference is made to the comparison with a scholar. In general, Junius’s plot summaries divest Sidney’s text of metaphor, in the interest of attending to the sequence of events as they involve the characters. That the persons of the Arcadia were seen to represent certain abstract qualities is evident from John Hoskins’s account of how to describe a person: first ‘‘set down an humor, a virtue or vice.’’4 He goes on to give examples from the Arcadia: For men: pleasant idle retiredness in king Basilius, and the dangerous end of it; unfortunate valor in Plangus; courteous valor in Amphialus; proud valor in Anaxius; hospitality in Kalander; the mirror of true courage and friendship in Pirocles and Musidorus; miserableness and ingratitude in Chremes; fear and fatal subtlety in Clinias;

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fear and rudeness, with ill-affected civility, in Dametas. And through the story, mutual virtuous love: in marriage, in Argalus and Parthenia; out of marriage, in Pirocles and Philoclea, Musidorus and Pamela. . . .’’

Junius, for his part, not only underlines a description of Philoclea but notes in the margin: ‘‘Quomodo Philocleae simplex animus, vitiorum ignorantione ad virtuem promissimus paullatim Zelmanes amore imbutus fit’’ [How the simple mind of Philoclea, most inclined to virtue because of her unacquaintance with vices, became filled with love for Zelmane] (A111). Later, when Zelmane reveals her true identity as the Prince Pyrochles, Junius again underlines a generalization about the divided mind and gives his own marginal description of Philoclea’s dilemma. First, the underlined sentence: ‘‘Alas, how painefull a thing it is to a divided mind to make a well-joyned answer?’’ (A 168). Beside this, Junius writes in the margin: Philoclea post varios animi dubii astus verecunde respondet, non obscure innvens se iam dudum ardentissime Zelmanas amore, vicissim flagrasse, solummodo flagitat ut mutuum hunc erga se amorem caste habere velit [After various indecisions of her wavering mind, Philoclea responds modestly, nodding, that she had for some time burned with ardent love for Zelmane, only now she chastises herself that she wants chastely to have this love for her to be mutual].

The moral dilemmas of the characters interest Junius, and perhaps the actual plot is of interest to him only insofar as it reveals these dilemmas. On a satirical level, Junius describes the character of Mopsa, the fitting daughter of the ridiculous Dametas and the horrid Miso: ‘‘Mopsa filia, quam ad vivum utrumque parentum consummatis virtutibus expresserit’’ [Mopsa the daughter conformed to the faults and everywhere expressed the virtues of her parents] (A 10). Such characterizations follow Sidney’s as closely as possible and do not suggest any difference between Junius’s judgment and his author’s. For a description of a wicked monarch, both underlining and marginal comment emphasize the salient characteristic of such a ruler and his favored kind of servant. In the margin, Junius writes, ‘‘Regis maligne suspicacis et Sycophantarum opera abutentis elegantissima descriptio’’ [Most elegant de-

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scription of a malignant and suspicious king who is abusive of the works of Sycophants] (A 127). The underlined part of Sidney’s description is subtle and witty in expression: ‘‘suspecting, or rather condemning all men of evill, because his mind had no eye to espie goodnesse.’’ Here the wordplay of ‘‘eye’’/’’espie’’ reinforces the charge of moral blindness in this king. As indicated earlier, Junius’s references to ancient sources are not simply to give information but are themselves a form of commentary, noting his own response to the text. By contrast, his bare plot summaries seem designed more to keep track of a complicated and confusing plot; they do not necessarily record any particular response, and they thus do not hold the interest of his other types of annotation. But they do indicate how fully engaged he is with the text, that he should bother to note the action stepby-step. Of course this is not always done to the same degree; we cannot draw any particular conclusions from the random appearance of these summaries. The length of the Arcadia alone was enough to tire him long before the end. To take just one page as an example of Junius’s plot summaries, let us consider page 54 (fig. 10). There are three marginal summaries recording phases of Zelmane’s love entanglements. The first reads: ‘‘quam fatuis modis Basilius Zelmanen ad amorem sui pellicere conatus sit’’ [Basilius tries to inveigle Zelmane in a fatuous way to be his love]. The second draws attention to the more difficult problem of Gynecia’s love for Zelmane and the fact that the queen sees through her disguise as an Amazon: ‘‘Gynecia quoque ardet amore Zelmanes, quae ex eo non leve sibi imminere periculum videbat’’ [Gynecia, however, burns with love of Zelmane, who saw that great danger threatens herself from him]. The third passage notes the conversation between the two young princes on how to arrange their meetings in secret: ‘‘Zelmane et Musidorus statuunt inter se de loco in quo subinde se mutuo conveniere possint, et unde Musidorus harum Nympharum formam ex occulto lustrare posset’’ [Zelmane and Musidorus decide in what place they can meet, and whence Musidorus will be able to survey the beauty of the nymphs from a hidden place]. These statements are objective, matching Sidney’s account but without his flourishes and detailed analysis. It must be said that the summaries are functional for grasping the plot. The only evaluative comments follow Sidney and are directed to the moral and emotional character of the participants.

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Fig. 10 The Countesse of Pembrokes Arcadia (London: Waterson, 1613) p. 54. Leiden University Library, 766 A 15.

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Plot summaries of a story made famous by Shakespeare in his treatment of Gloucester, in King Lear, show how attracted Junius is to subjects of pathos. The first reads: ‘‘miserabilis historia de notabili pietate filii regis Paphlagonum, qui summa a patre injuria affectus et occidi jussus, patrem nihilominus regno ejectum, senem et caecum, omni officiorum genere prosequitur’’ [The sad story concerning the notable piety of the son of the king of the Paphlagonians, who, though greatly wronged by his father and ordered to be killed, nevertheless follows him, old and blind, with dutiful action in everything, after he was thrown out of the kingdom] (A 134). This summary is followed by another one on the action taken by Musidorus and Pyrochles: ‘‘qua occasione Musidorus et Pyrochles hunc Paphlagoniae regem una cum pientissimo filio pristinae dignitati restituerint’’ [By what occasion Musidorus and Pyrochles restored the king of Paphlagonia to his original dignity, together with his most pious son] (A 136). No doubt Junius, like Sidney, would have had in mind the filial piety of Aeneas. In a passage that closely follows this one, though not marked by Junius, the significance of the story is stated in one sentence: ‘‘The matter in it self lamentable, lamentablie expressed by the old Prince (which needed not take to himselfe the gestures of pitie, since his face could not put off the markes thereof ) greatly moved the two Princes to compassion, which could not stay in such hearts as theirs without seeking remedy.’’ Here, on the one hand, is the picture created by means of gesture—though here the opposite of theatrical—and, on the other hand, the humane reaction of the princes. This encounter, as Sidney describes it, evokes the natural response to suffering that mattered so much to Shakespeare, as well as to Sidney and Junius.

II As the description of the king of Paphlagonia shows, Sidney was well aware of gesture as the painter’s chief means of making his figures speak; he must be able to represent motion in his pictures.5 All we need do, Junius says, is to look at Nature and follow her ‘‘seeing the whole studie of these Arts is principally bent to imitate the several actions of our minde with a decent and comely grace’’ (P 3.4.1). In keeping with the ekphrastic tradition, he

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stresses the need for painters to study bodily gesture as an expression of the mind. He illustrates by describing various movements of the head, the eyebrows, the hands, the neck and shoulders, as well as changes of countenance, such as blushing. In all this, he follows the art of oratory as laid down by Quintilian, so that the rhetorical aspect of nonverbal communication is clear. For the expression of the eyes, however, Junius turns to Ovid in the Metamorphoses and to the descriptions of pictures and statues by the Philostrati and Callistratus. In all forms of painting, including the verbal, the passions of the mind can only be shown through gesture, but a true grasp of these passions and their physical expression derives from the artist’s ability to enter into the feelings of others. Paraphrasing Horace’s ‘‘si vis me flere,’’6 Junius says, ‘‘A minde rightly affected and passionated is the onely fountaine whereout there doe issue forth such violent streames of passions, that the spectator, not being able to resist, is carried away against his will . . . withersoever the force of such an Imperious Art listeth to drive him’’ (P 3.4.4). This ability he attributes to Phantasy or the imagination: only this faculty allows the artist to feel the emotions he is depicting. As a painter with words, Sidney pays attention to the gestures of his characters. These passages are often marked by Junius, both in the form of underlinings and in his plot summaries, as well as in his classical references. He notes, for example, the account, given by Helen, queen of Corinth, as she describes to Palladius her love for Amphialus. Just as Dido hung on the moving lips of Aeneas, so Helen exclaims, ‘‘O Lord, how did my soule hang at his lippes while he spake’’ (A 39). Junius notes Aeneid 4.79: ‘‘pendet narrantis ab ore’’ [she hangs on the speaker’s lips]. Passions dictate the same patterns of behavior from age to age, and expression finds a similar metaphoric language. In painting, as Junius points out, gesture and countenance take the place of words to reveal a person’s inner life.7 Interested as he is in the inner turmoil of characters in the Arcadia, Sidney is alert to the bodily expression of their troubles. For Gynecia’s behavior at the beginning of book 2, Junius not only underlines Sidney’s description of how a guilty conscience reveals itself, but he adds a marginal summary. Just how closely he generally stays with Sidney’s words is clear. Having underlined Sidney’s description of the woman, ‘‘going up and downe with such unquiet motions, as a grieved and hopelesse minde is

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wont to bring forth,’’ he writes in his plot summary: ‘‘Gynecia nimio amoris illiciti oestro percita summo mane stratis relictis solitudines intrat, ubi malis noxiae conscientiae terroribus aliquamdum vexata pravos animi sui motus miseranda prorsus oratione deflet, neque eo minus ad desperata se consilia, amori suo nimio plus indulgens, accingit’’ [In the morning Gynecia, too much excited by the frenzy of her illicit love, abandons her bed and goes out to lonely places, where, for some time troubled by the dreadful fears of her hurtful knowledge, she laments in truly pitiable words the despicable imaginings of her mind; nor does she prepare herself any the less for desperate measures by indulging her love so much more] (A 96). Speaking to herself, Gynecia denounces Philoclea; the jealous mother threatens her own daughter with death for captivating the beloved Zelmane. But the mother comments: ‘‘In shame there is no comfort, but to be beyond all bounds of shame’’ (A 97). Junius has underlined this sentence for the kind of paradox of which Sidney is such a master. Among Gynecia’s other gestures is her tearing at her hair, again noted in a marginal summary (A 98). She sinks to the ground with her hands over her face in a typical gesture of despair as noted in handbooks for painters and depicted by them in countless paintings and prints.8 In an earlier passage Zelmane reveals to Musidorus her fears concerning Gynecia’s passion for her: ‘‘all her countenances, words, and gestures, are even miserable portraitures of a desperate affection’’ (A 54). The following sentence is underlined as a neat summing up of the ways that the inner life becomes manifest to those who can read the signs: ‘‘Wherby a man may learne, that these avoydings of company, doe but make the passions more violent, when they meete with fit subjects.’’ Here Zelmane’s interpretation of Gynecia’s behavior has a particular interest for Junius as a seeing beyond surface appearances. Gynecia, described as if she were a picture, still needs an observer to read the signs of ‘‘her countenances, words, and gestures.’’ Great painting itself is designed to lead the viewer beyond appearances to their meaning. References to countenance are frequent in the Arcadia and are often marked by Junius. Musidorus rebukes Zelmane for succumbing to love and taking on the appearance of a woman: ‘‘your countenance troubled (which surely comes not of vertue) for vertue like the cleare heaven is without clouds’’ (A 31).9 On the same

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page, Junius underlines another reference to countenance: ‘‘looking with a countenance, as though hee desired hee should know his mind without hearing him speake.’’ The countenance speaks before the tongue does, and Junius with his knowledge of classical rhetoric looks for relationships between bodily and verbal expression to reveal what is hidden in the mind. But while the rhetoric of the body tends to be spontaneous in the drama of human life, the other rhetoric of the tongue is often more calculated to influence the listener. In another passage commenting on what countenance reveals, Sidney describes Philoclea’s difficulty in concealing her love for Zelmane. For now indeede love puld of his maske, and shewed his face unto her, and told her plainly, that she was his prisoner. Then needed she no more paint her face with passions; for passions shone through her face; then her rosie colour was often encreased with extraordinairie blushing: and so another time, perfect whitenesse descended to a degree of paleness; now hot, then cold, desiring she knew not what, nor how, if she knew what. (A 112)

The face is viewed as a mask that passion removes; its speech is there for all to read. It may also be viewed as a portrait, as when Junius underlines the following: ‘‘anger already began to paint revenge in many colours’’ (A 138). He must have seen how close Sidney is to Ovid in such accounts of the effect on the countenance of changing emotions. Even nature has an expressive countenance. Junius takes note of one of Sidney’s set pieces, writing in the margin ‘‘Tempestatis descriptio’’: But by that the next morning began a litle to make a gilden shewe of a good meaning, there arose even with the Sunne, a vaile of darke cloudes before his face, which shortly (like inke powred into water) had blacked over all the face of heaven: preparing (as it were) a mournful stage for a Tragedie to be played on. (A 125)

The same theatrical metaphor is used earlier when Queen Helen of Corinth recounts the sad tale of the death of her lover: ‘‘Though my heart be nothing but a stage for Tragedies; yet I must confesse it is even unable to beare the miserable representation thereof’’ (A 40). In the next paragraph, Junius has under-

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lined another part of Queen Helen’s lament: ‘‘But not my tongue, though daily used to complaints; no nor if my heart (which is nothing but sorow) were turned to tongues, durst it under-take to shew the unspeakablenes of his [Amphialus’s] griefe.’’ (The latter had unintentionally killed Philoxenus, the son of Timotheus, who dies of grief.) Extravagance of metaphor is needed to express the extremity of grief. Influenced as Sidney is by Ovid, he dwells on the inarticulateness of the overburdened heart. He underlines a description of a knight who has just seen his brother’s overthrow in battle with Zelmane. This character, Anaxius, is described as running to Zelmane, with no speech ‘‘but such a groning crye as often is the language of sorrowful anger’’ (A 331). Junius seldom overlooks any reference to language, whether of speech or of the body. In summary fashion, he notes Sidney’s description of the signs of love in Pyrochles as observed by his friend Musidorus. In the margin is the note: ‘‘Amantis vultus, vox, gestus, etc.’’ [The countenance, voice, gesture of the lover, etc.] (A 32). This is written next to a metaphorical description of Pyrochles’ tears, which Junius has underlined: But Musidorus had all this while held his looke fixed upon Pyrochles countenance; and with no lesse loving attention marked how his words proceeded from him: but in both these he perceived such strange diversities, that they rather increased new doubts, then gave him ground to settle anie judgement: for besides his eyes sometimes even great with teares, the oft changing of his colour, with a kind of shaking unstayednesse over al his body, he might see in his countenance some great determination mixed with feare; and might perceive in him store of thoughts, rather stirred then digested; his words interrupted continually with sighes (which served as a burthen to each sentence) and the tenor of his speech (though of his wonted phrase) not knit together to one constant end, but rather dissolved in it selfe, as the vehemency of the inward passion prevailed. . . . (A 32)

One of Sidney’s more concise descriptions of the language of the body links it directly to the language of oratory, though in a wittily ironical way. When Musidorus first encounters his friend Pyrochles, now disguised as an Amazon, he is struck dumb. Pyrochles, for his part ‘‘would have formed a substantiall excuse; but his insinuation being of blushing, and his division of sighes, his whole oracion stood upon a short narration, what was the causer

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of this Metamorphosis’’ (A 43). Junius underlines this passage both because of his own interest in language and because of the wit of the metaphor. The words ‘‘insinuation,’’ ‘‘division,’’ ‘‘oration,’’ and ‘‘narration’’ all have rhetorical significance. For us, the word ‘‘insinuation’’ has a more snaky significance than it has here. In Sidney’s day, it could refer to ‘‘a kind of exordium to a speech, designed artfully to win over the hearers.’’ The OED follows this definition with an example from Leonard Cox’s Rhetorique (1530): ‘‘There is yet an other maner, to begin by insinuation.’’ The ‘‘division’’ ‘‘sets forth points stipulated (agreed by both sides) and points to be contested.’’ The ‘‘narration’’ ‘‘sets forth the facts.’’ But the wit of the analogy, underlined by use of paronomasia or repetition of syllables—the ‘‘or’’ of ‘‘oration,’’ ‘‘short,’’ Metamorphosis’’—shows Sidney’s acceptance of euphuistic wordplay, here to identify the meaning of bodily expression and enhance the wit of his rhetorical style. Just how normal it was for Sidney to use metaphors drawn from rhetoric in any context dealing with expression may be suggested by the scene where Musidorus demands a full account of Pyrochles’ falling in love with Philoclea: ‘‘But (said he) let us leave off these flowers of new begun friendship; and now I pray you againe tell me, but tell it me fullie, omitting no circumstance, the storie of your affections, both beginning, and proceeding . . .’’ (A 48). The words ‘‘flowers,’’ ‘‘circumstance,’’ ‘‘storie’’ all have rhetorical connotations, though ‘‘storie’’ does not have such an obvious technical ring as the other two words. In the margin, Junius writes: ‘‘Musidorus postulat plenissime sibi narrari omnem Amoris istius historiam’’ [Musidorus begs to be told fully the whole story of that love]. Junius has condensed Sidney’s account, omitting the rhetorical terms except for ‘‘historiam,’’ the essential part of Musidorus’s request. On the same page, he underlines another passage dealing with the inability of words to capture the emotions of the human heart. Pyrochles recounts how his heart ‘‘received quickly a cruell impression of that wonderfull passion, which to be defined is impossible, because no words reach to the strange nature of it; they only know it, which inwardly feele it, it is called love.’’ Having fallen in love with the picture of Philoclea, the young man naturally wishes to see the original, giving as an excuse that he wishes to be judge ‘‘of the Painters cunning.’’ As he describes his ‘‘unquiet longings’’ to his friend Musidorus, Junius notes in the

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margin: ‘‘Animi amantis taciti motus’’ [the silent stirrings of the lover’s soul] (A 49). The limitations of words to describe emotional states is a theme in the Arcadia that always attracts the attention of Junius, the philologist. The only proper language for the lover is song, as Pyrochles explains, in a passage underlined by Junius: ‘‘For after I had run over the whole petigree of my thoughts, I gave my selfe to sing a litle, which, as you know, I ever delighted in, so now especially, whether it be the nature of this clime to stirre up Poeticall fancies, or rather as I thinke, of love, whose scope being pleasure, will not so much as utter his griefes, but in some forme of pleasure’’ (A 49). It is interesting that Pyrochles should emphasize pleasure even in expressing the woes of love.10 Accepting pleasure as an essential aspect of the appeal of poetry and painting, Junius, like Sidney, sees his task as reconciling it with morality, in keeping with the Horatian dictum that poetry should teach as well as delight. Certainly, his reading of the Arcadia brings him face-to-face, so to speak, with the sensuousness of human experience. He takes note of the role of the eyes in love as both drinking in and speaking. Zelmane, the disguised prince, tells Musidorus about a splendid banquet given by Basilius in his garden. She describes a revolving table at which they sat and wonders at how little pleasure she took in the sport: ’’since Philoclea (being also set) was carried still in equall distance from me, & that only my eyes did overtake her? which when the table was stayed, and we began to feed, dranke much more eagerly of her beautie, then my mouth did of any other liquor’’ (A 53). Beside this passage, Junius writes: ‘‘Vide hic vivide admodum expressos amantium mores, amatae formam oculis suis avidissime haurientium’’ [see here very vividly expressed the customs of lovers, eagerly drinking in the beauty of the beloved with their own eyes].

III One passage on the behavior of lovers is specially relevant to our present study, since it refers to the custom of marginal annotation in books. Zelmane takes the hand of Philoclea, ‘‘and with burning kisses setting it close to her lips (as if it should stand there like a hand in the margine of a booke, to note some saying

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worthy to be marked) began to speak these words, O Love, sith thou art so changeable in mens estates, how art thou so constant in their torments?’’ (A 69). In the margin of his own book, Junius writes here: ‘‘Zelmane Philocleam amabili modo et gestu alloquitur; et vixdum inchoato sermone leo et ursus impetum in eos faciunt [Zelmane in the mode and gesture of a lover is speaking to Philoclea, and scarcely had their conversation begun, when a lion and bear attack them]. Sidney’s account of all aspects of lovers’ behavior and speech is like a textbook of rhetoric as far as Junius is concerned. He takes special note of the emotions that lie behind speech: ‘‘[it] was easie to be seene, the construction of their speech might best be made by the Grammer rules of affection’’ (A 71). Beside this passage, he notes Ovid in the Metamorphoses, 6.469, ‘‘Facundum faciebat Amor,’’ on how love bestowed eloquence.11 Certainly Sidney’s understanding of the psychology of expression, especially metaphor, makes his work worth studying.12 Describing how Dorus decided to pretend to be in love with the horrible Mopsa as a front for his real love for Pamela, Sidney has the young prince use the language of rhetoric to mark the stages of arriving at this plan. The word ‘‘invention’’ appears, but the part that Junius underlines is: ‘‘never ceasing to assemble all my conceits, one after another, how to manifest both my mind and estate’’ (A 102). As Dorus pursues this plan, ‘‘still looking on Mopsa but thinking on Pamela,’’ and constantly addressing Mopsa, another statement is underlined: ‘‘to Mopsa it seemed stil that mine eye conveyed my tongue.’’ This striking metaphor draws Junius’s attention for its description of nonverbal expression. He also took note of the jewel that Dorus presented to Mopsa, with its witty emblematic significance: ‘‘I tooke a Jewell made in the figure of a Crab-fish, which, because it lookes one way and goes another, I thought it did fitly patterne out my looking to Mopsa but bending to Pamela’’ (A 108). Beside this pasage, in the margin, Junius summarizes: ‘‘Dorus Pamelae insignem gemmam Mopsae offerendam tradit’’ [Dorus gives to Pamela a remarkable jewel to be offered to Mopsa]. He consistently looks for images that will represent the contradictions or paradoxes of human life in a patterned style. Besides metaphors and symbolic jewels, Sidney has other means of representing experience. A striking method of putting the passions onstage is his use of personification.13 Musidorus, for

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example, describes his relationship, in his borrowed guise of a shepherd, to the princess Pamela: ‘‘I saw straight, Majestie (sitting in the throne of Beautie) draw forth such a sword of just disdaine, that I remained as a man thunder-striken, not daring, no not able to behold that power (A 101).’’ It is a familiar representation of majesty, such as appears in many emblematic handbooks, prints, and pictures. Here, its visual quality helps to express an individual’s state of mind. When the impulse to give expression to what Junius calls ‘‘the inward commotions of the minde,’’ leads the young prince Musidorus to write a letter to the beloved Pamela, Junius marks the whole of the letter with a vertical black line in the margin but no comment. He must have enjoyed the rhetoric of such sentences as this: ‘‘Therefore mourne boldly my inke; for while she lookes upon you, your blacknesse will shine: cry out boldly my lamentacion; for while she reades you, your cries wil be musick’’ (A 118). The daring metaphors, the paradoxes of transformation—black into bright, cries into music—attest the artful revelation of an inner passion. While confessing the inarticulateness of the lover they, at the same time, reveal his passion. His highly rhetorical letter expressing his love and pain includes much repetition of words and syllables, such as ‘‘plaine’’/‘‘complaine,’’ and many parentheses to convey his troubled emotional state, such as: ‘‘o happie messenger of a most unhappie message.’’ This is the art of expressing the inexpressible, and it shows how a patterned use of language, in its very artificiality, can serve the emotional needs of the speaker. On a broader scale, the whole relationship of poetry and painting, as Sidney and Junius treat it, calls for metaphoric or synesthetic expression.14 The passages that Junius singles out for underlining, and sometimes comment, often link in some way the eye and the ear, the tongue and the ear, and all of them with the mind. Such synesthetic descriptions often require the use of extravagant metaphor. One of these, underlined by Junius, occurs in the account of how Palladius (Dorus), accompanied by Clitophon, goes searching through Arcadia for his missing friend Daiphantus (Zelmane): ‘‘making their eyes, their eares, and their tongues serve almost for nothing, but that enquiry’’ (A 35). Their purpose, an action of the mind, is assisted by two of their senses and by the organ of speech. While the eyes and ears are receptive, the tongue is expressive and can give voice to what the senses have provided as it

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is filtered through the common sense to the rational part of the mind. All these relationships are of course at the center of Junius’s Painting, since he is vitally concerned with the psychology of art, both for artists and for viewers. In another underlined remark, the role of the tongue is defined: ‘‘thoghts are but outflowings of the mind, and the tongue is but a servant of the thoughts’’ (A 352). Gynecia is explaining, with the help of the figure epanalepsis15 —a repetition of the beginning and ending words of a sentence—why her words seem to contradict each other: it is because her mind is itself divided. What the passions do to the mind is always reflected in the speech of the characters; rhetoric can shape the expression but cannot alter the source within the mind. Junius follows Sidney as a guide both to expression and to the interpretation of human life in terms of moral principles. Metaphors referring to language are common in Sidney’s descriptions of his characters’ behavior, no doubt because of his own rhetorical training and because they seem to put into comprehensible form emotional complexities. To them, Junius is immediately responsive. One of the underlined passages comments on how distrust overcame a father’s affection for his son: ‘‘all Plangus [the son’s] actions began to be translated into the language of suspicion’’ (A 160).16 Sidney’s wit is the measure of his skill in describing gesture, as well as speech. Junius notes, for example, Pamela’s description of Musidorus’s horsemanship: ‘‘exercitissimi equitis descriptio’’ [description of a most skillful horseman]. Singling out one statement in this passage for underlining, he is struck by a metaphor that sums up the relationship of rider and horse: ‘‘he ever going so just with the horse, either forth right, or turning, that it seemed as hee borrowed the horses body, so he lent the horse his mind’’ (A 117). We may be reminded of Sidney’s praise of horsemanship in the Defence, and how he half wished himself a horse (D 491). Here, the antithesis of body and mind is used as a variation on the centaur image—‘‘he, as if Centaurlike he had been one peece with the horse’’—to suggest the unity of man and beast in this display of equestrian prowess.17

IV So famous was Sidney for the wit of his style that—to mention only two—he was constantly cited in such rhetorical handbooks

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as John Hoskins’s Directions for Speech and Style (1599) and Abraham Fraunce’s Arcadian Rhetorike (1588), and in such compilations as Nicholas Ling’s Politeuphia, Wits commonwealth (1598). One of the features of Sidney’s style that resembles John Lyly’s but that is used more sparingly and discriminatingly is sententiae. Hoskins objects to the overuse of this figure in euphuistic prose, agreeing with Quintilian that a sentence is ‘‘a pearl in discourse; but is it a good discourse that is all pearl?’’ (39). He alludes, as Sidney does in a passage just cited, to the common practice of marking sentences, both in printed and in handwritten marginalia, with a pointing hand: ‘‘And if a sentence were as like to be an hand in the text as it is commonly noted with a hand in the margent, yet I should rather like the text that had no more hands than Hercules than that which had as many as Briareus’’ (39).18 After mentioning some of Sidney’s generalizations in the form of a memorable sentence, Hoskins goes on to cite the use of sentences to define character in the Arcadia: There be also sentences particular to some men as well; as Amphialus, to whom abused kindness became spiteful rage; fearfulnesse (contrary to all other vices) making Clinias think the better of another, the worse he found himself; Euarchus making his life the example of his laws, his actions arising out of his deeds. Which all may be taken for rule and commonplaces by putting the general name for the special. . . . (40)

But too much of this leads Hoskins to ask why ‘‘writers of these days imprison themselves in the straitness of these maxims’’ (40). Sidney, however, seemed much more judicious in his use of this ornament of style than Lyly. That is to say, he subordinated his sentences, with all their wit, to his argument, as well as giving them point by use of such figures as alliteration, paronomasia, and antithesis. In the Arcadia, Sidney could be said to follow Erasmus’s advice in his De Copia, that sentences provide ‘‘a not inconsiderable source of copia, which at the same time will lend your speech weight or attractiveness.’’19 In underlining Sidney’s sentences, often in heavy ink, Junius showed his admiration for them. For example, he likes the way rhetorical skill is used to enhance a commendation of love: what doth better become wisdome then to discerne what is worthy the loving? what is more agreable to goodnesse, then to love it so dis-

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cerned? and what to greatnesse of hart, then to be constant in it once loved? (A182)

The order of climax, using the word ‘‘love’’ in three different grammatical forms (polyptoton) ensures that this sententious question would stand out in the reader’s mind. The marking of passages suggests how much Junius’s attention is on Sidney’s wit and his apt use of ‘‘sentences.’’ He underlines some expressions more heavily than others. On page 54, for example, he gives extra emphasis to this one: ‘‘a noble cause doth ease much a grievous case.’’ Not only is this a pithy statement but it is made more memorable by the wordplay of ‘‘cause’’/’’case.’’ Once again, it is paronomasia that creates the parallelism with a difference that appealed so much to Sidney and that delighted Junius for its wit, having roots as it does in classical rhetoric.20 On the next page, Junius has underlined heavily one sentence describing the fourfold love in which Zelmane is involved: ‘‘Their affection increased their conversation; and their conversation increased their affection. The respect borne bred due ceremonies; but the affection shined so through them, that the ceremonies seemed not ceremonious’’ (A55). The epanalepsis of ‘‘affection’’ and ‘‘conversation’’; the polyptoton of ‘‘ceremonies’’/’’ceremonious’’ give a witty pattern to what might otherwise be considered a chaotic and slightly ridiculous love situation. In the margin, just above this passage, Junius has written, ‘‘Amoris admirables et varii ludi’’ [the astonishing and varied games of love], a neat summing up of Sidney’s playful description of the antics of lovers. A sentence that includes metaphor is the more striking, leaving a deeper impression on the mind,21 and Junius pays tribute to this type by his underlining and sometimes additional marginal comment. One that clearly appeals to him is Pamela’s generalization advising the supposed shepherd Dorus to ‘‘imitate so excellent a Prince as Pyrochles was’’: ‘‘Whosoever shootes at the midday Sun, though he be sure he shall never hit the mark; yet as sure he is, he shal shoote higher, then who aimes but at a bush’’ (A 120). Beside this, Junius writes, ‘‘excellentissima quaque imitanda nobis ipsis proponere debemus’’ [We ourselves ought to put before us to be imitated the very finest things]. This idea is familiar in all kinds of contexts, including not only the moral example to be imitated but also the artistic one. An emblem by Denis Lebey de Batilly, for example, shows a painter at work on a pic-

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ture of a beautiful woman; the motto alludes to the story of how Zeuxis painted Helen of Troy: ‘‘Ex Optimis Praestantiores Vitae Magistros Imitandos’’ [From the best, one should imitate the most outstanding teachers of life].22 Although Junius might seem here to be making a personal comment, it is far more likely that he is simply stating the essence of Pamela’s advice to Dorus for its general applicability. In Painting, Junius applies the same principle to the art of painting. Following Quintilian on the need to imitate the best masters, he says: ‘‘It is then required here that we should not onely bend our naturall desire of Imitation towardes the best thing, but that we should likewise study to understand wherein the excellence of the same things doth consist . . .’’ (P 1.3.7). He also alludes, as Pamela does, to the need to aim high: ‘‘although the highest step of perfection were denied us, yet are they likelyer to lift themselves up higher who resolve to strive and to take paines, then such as at the first beginning are driven backe by a faint-hearted despaire’’ (P 1.3.10). He uses the metaphor of a race, as do Ovid and Martial: ‘‘it is then requisite that such also as doe not covet to be the first, should for all that rather study to outgoe then to follow; for he that striveth to goe before, may by chance keepe an even pace with the formost, although he cannot out-run him’’ (P 1.3.2). Once again, emulation is the key to excellence, whether in life or in art. The moral and the artistic intersect.

V One may wonder why Junius in his treatment of invention, and the kind of images with which the artist’s mind must be stored, moves from examples of landscape and all kinds of human activities to a lengthy account of the storming of a great city (P 1.4.2). The reason is that this was a heroic subject, one that could turn painting into the equivalent of epic poetry, the highest of genres both for the ancients and for the Renaissance. For the same reason, Sidney’s New Arcadia gives much greater emphasis to battle scenes than his Old Arcadia with its predominantly pastoral milieu. In combining epic and pastoral in his revised version, he follows his own principle as stated in his Defence: ‘‘some have mingled matters Heroicall and Pastorall, but that commeth all to

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one in this question, for if severed they be good, the conjunction cannot be hurtfull’’ (D 503). In writing his account of a great battle, Junius follows the rhetorical example of Quintilian, who speaks of vivid description as a way to move the listeners: So too we may move our hearers to tears by the picture of a captured town. For the mere statement that the town was stormed, while no doubt it embraces all that such a calamity involves, has all the curtness of a dispatch, and fails to penetrate to the emotions of the hearer. But if we expand all that the one word ‘‘stormed’’ includes, we shall see the flames pouring from house and temple, and hear the crash of falling roofs and one confused clamour blent of many cries. . . . (8.3.67–68)

Junius, with various examples of such scenes from ancient authors, including Livy and Sallust, piles up details, even the noise of battle, for a synesthetic effect: the crackling noise in the meane time of the houses that are a pulling downe doth encrease the feare: the crie also out of the severall voices of them that doe fright and are frighted, the noise of rumbling drummes and shrill trumpets, the shouting of them that doe overcome, the wailing of them that are overcome, together with the weeping of women and children, one sound being made up out of divers clamours, doth confound all. . . . (P 1.5.2)

He also makes full use of the visual: But here also presenteth it selfe in the open fields a great and fearefull spectacle: some fierce conquerours, not abiding any should ecape, are instantly at their heeles, persecuting, wounding, taking and killing them they tooke when others were offered: there lie every where scattered upon the bloudy ground all manner of weapons, dead bodies, whole joynts cut off: and wheresover valour and anger reentring into the minds of some of the conquered, cause them to disdaine that a few by so hot a pursuit should drive them like sheep. . . .

If one wonders why Junius devotes so much space to his descriptive enumeration of the ‘‘expugnation,’’ or storming of a town, it may be noted that when Henry Peacham discussed the figure pragmatographia, or a description of an action, in his Garden of

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Eloquence, he gave as his main example just such a scene as Junius describes so vividly.23 A recent commentator on the 1694 version of De pictura veterum remarks of this battle scene that ‘‘poetic as it is, this description is also a painting.’’24 By writing in the present tense, Junius does indeed imply that he is describing a painting, one with the drama, the copiousness, and the variety that Alberti recommends in the istoria. He is intent on identifying the emotional dynamics of the whole scene, very much in the ekphrastic tradition. Interestingly, Leonardo da Vinci challenged the poet to describe a battle with anything like the immediacy of a painter, who ‘‘with his medium can represent it at once,’’ rather than sequentially. In a painting, he says, there will be ‘‘nothing lacking except the noise of arms, the shouts of terrifying victors, the cries and plaints of the frightened, again things which the poet cannot represent to the sense of hearing.’’25 As if to rise to this challenge, Sidney too composes a battle scene for both sight and sound. The difference between his account and Junius’s is that he is not simply enumerating, or piling up details as Junius does, but, using the past tense, ordering them as a work of art. His stylized composition is nonetheless affecting for the congruence of sound and thought. His wordplay comes into its own as an enhancer of tragedy through his pervasive ironies: The clashing of armour, and crushing of staves, the justling of bodies, the resounding of blowes, was the first part of that ill agreeing musicke, which was beautified with the grislinesse of wounds, the rising of dust, the hidious falles and grones of the dying. The very horses, angrie in their maisters anger, with love and obedience brought foorth the effects of hate and resistance, and with minds of servitude, did as if they affected glory. Some lay dead under their dead maisters, whom unknightly wounds had unjustly punished for a faithfull duty. Some lay upon their Lords by like accidents, and in death, had the honour to be borne by them, whom in life they had borne. . . . The earth it selfe (wont to be a burial of men) was now (as it were) buried with men: so was the face thereof hidden with dead bodies, to whom death had come masked in diverse manners. In one place lay disinherited heades, dispossessed of their natural seigniories. . . . There lay armes, whose fingers yet moved, as if they would feele for him that made them feele: and legges which, contrary to common reason, by being discharged of their burden, were grown heavier. (A 255–56)

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Sidney is writing narrative and doing so with such a use of daring metaphors that he is compelled to safeguard them, often with the phrase ‘‘as it were.’’26 Junius, on the other hand, is using vivid and factual description to make a point, that narrative is implied in the highest kind of painting. Thus it is that this kind of painting is most related to literary examples. For us, Sidney’s rhetorical art may seem contrary to nature, if we understand nature as untrammeled and even disorderly, but his conception of nature, like Junius’s, is of experience as passed through the mind of the painter or poet to become artifact. What is stored in the imagination—the sensuous details derived primarily from ancient authors such as Quintilian and Livy—is then ordered to mirror nature with a difference that makes sense of the inchoate. Our two authors are agreed on this, though Sidney’s battle scene is interpreted through the additional lens of irony. Alongside such great themes as battles are small, seemingly incidental details that Junius calls parerga. It is with one of these that he chooses to end his English version of De pictura veterum. Calling them ‘‘by-workes,’’ he cites, among others, Quintilian: ‘‘Parerga are called such things . . . as are added to the worke for to adorne it’’ (2.3; P 3.7.13). Galen calls them ‘‘some little images over and above the use of the work.’’27 Junius goes on to explain that because artificers ‘‘goe over these workes slightly and with a light hand, so is it that we doe likwise for the most part examine them more negligently.’’ As usual, he relates what the artist does to how the viewer responds. Pleasurable as these ‘‘by-workes’’ are, we are not to give them the attention we give to the main subject of a picture. He refers to the story of how Protogenes painted a picture of Jaylsus, which was hung near another of his pictures, this one of a satyr near a pillar with a partridge on top. Growing annoyed with the way the public flocked to see the realistically painted partridge, he asked permission to paint it out. And this he did, so that the public would give their attention where it was due and not to a playful ‘‘by-worke.’’ Here Junius ends his Painting of the Ancients, no doubt to remind his readers of hierarchy in the arts and the decorum of response. All the same, Junius does not hesitate to take note of Sidney’s own parerga in the Arcadia. Beside one of these, he writes, ‘‘elegans descriptio canis villosi querquedulae imminentis’’ [an elegant description of a hairy dog pursuing a duck]. The two princesses,

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having come to bathe in ’’so privileged a place’’ as the river Ladon, ‘‘yet for the more suretie, they looked round about and could see nothing but a water spaniell, who came downe the river shewing that he hunted for a duck, & with a snuffling grace, disdaining that his smelling force could not as well prevaile thorow the water as thorow the aire, & therefore wayting with his eye, to see whether he could espie the duckes getting up againe: but then a litle below them failing of his purpose, he got out of the river, & shaking off the water (as great men do their friends, now he had no further cause to use it), inweeded himselfe so, as the Ladies lost the further marking his sportfulnesse. . . .’’ (A 139–40)

The sportfulness of the dog is shared by the onlookers—the two princesses and Zelmane—and by Sidney and the reader. Though such pictures need to be kept in the perspective of the larger pictures, as Junius advised, they contribute to the whole and are therefore not to be despised as ornaments.

VI As a form of adornment, parerga are related to the whole conception of style that animates Sidney’s Arcadia and that Junius is so deeply appreciative of. Quintilian has a succinct description of ornament: The ornate is something that goes beyond what is merely lucid and acceptable. It consists firstly in forming a clear conception of what we wish to say, secondly in giving this adequate expression, and thirdly in lending it additional brilliance, a process which may correctly be termed embellishment. (8.3.61)28

He goes on to speak of vivid illustration, or enargeia, as ‘‘something more than mere clearness, since the latter merely lets itself be seen.’’ One could say that all the expressive devices are used to set the subject onstage. So skilled is Sidney in this task that examples from the Arcadia are found for virtually every type of figure that Abraham Fraunce discusses in his Arcadian Rhetorike. John Hoskins, too, in his Directions for Speech and Style, makes considerable use of Sidney’s writings to illustrate the fig-

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ures. Both these writers of handbooks think in terms of elocution, or the adornment of style. Abraham Fraunce, for example, defines a figure as ‘‘a certaine decking of speech, whereby the usual and simple fashion therefor is altered and changed to that which is more elegant and conceipted’’ (26). The decking of Sidney’s language by wordplay, such as paronomasia, by sententiae, by parentheses and other forms of elaboration of thought and style, all take second place to his use of metaphor, at least, to judge by Junius’s underlining of particular expressions.29 The handbooks of rhetoric invariably praise metaphor ‘‘by reason of the delight and pleasant grace’’ it gives. As if all of life were governed by a hidden rhetoric, the body itself becomes a book to be read. It is noticeable that Junius’s underlining grows heavier when he comes across such a metaphoric description as the following, in a song composed by the griefstricken Plangus mourning the death of his beloved Erona: ‘‘A Shop of shame, a Booke where blots be rife, / This bodie is . . .’’ (A 147). As always, any reference to the written or spoken word catches Junius’s attention. He is reading Sidney to gain a deeper insight not only into the human heart but into the means of expression. Sidney’s narrative thus becomes not just a source for the figures that writers of handbooks like to illustrate but a textbook of rhetoric as it epitomizes the art of representation. An unrecognized borrowing in The Painting of the Ancients, taken directly from the Arcadia with a marginal comment beside the passage, suggests how Junius’s close reading of this work contributed to the writing of his treatise. In his illustration for the way artists ‘‘enrich their Phantasie with lively impressions of all manner of things,’’ Junius describes a locus amoenus with unacknowledged quotations both from Spenser and Sidney.30 The one from Sidney is: ‘‘It was indeed a place of delight; for through the middest of it there ran a sweet brooke, which did both hold the eye open with her azure streames, & yet seeke to close the eye with the purling noise it made upon the pibble stones it ranne over . . .’’ (A 66; P 1.5.2). Beside this, in the margin, Junius notes: ‘‘amoenissimi campi delineatio’’ [depiction of a most beautiful field]. In Junius’s borrowing, very little is changed: ‘‘sweet brooks running with a soft murmuring noise, holding our eyes open with their azure streames, and yet seeking to close our eyes with the purling noise made among the pebble-stones.’’ There could scarcely be a clearer indication that he had read his 1613

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Arcadia with care before writing his English translation of De pictura, probably completed in 1636. The eloquence of this passage rests on the expression of a paradox: the alternating appeal of the streams to eye and ear, the senses that in complementary fashion link poetry and painting as each attempts to claim some of its rival’s province. For Junius, it is all-important that these arts should transcend the limitations of their own medium in an experience of synesthesia.31 Anything to do with beauty interests our annotator. Although, as far as we know, he himself had no romantic attachments, he pays close attention to this all-powerful subject in the Arcadia. One reason is that he accepts the Platonic conviction that beauty inspires love. Hence he marks Musidorus’s address to Zelmane on ‘‘what love can do’’: O Zelmane, who will resist it, must eyther have no wit, or put out his eyes: can any man resist his creation? certainly by love we are made, and to love we are made. Beasts only cannot discerne beauty, and let them be in the roll of Beasts that doe not honor it. (A 65)

Never forgotten by Junius is the relationship of physical beauty to the beauty of art—this is the reason he constantly pays tribute to the beauty of bodies, particularly in the chapters he did not translate for Lady Arundel.32 For all his references to Platonic ideas, his view of art is firmly grounded in the appeal to the senses. Over and over he marks both in the margins of his text, and by underlining, allusions to physical beauty and its relationship to art. For instance, Zelmane’s hair, as noted by Musidorus in his first sight of his friend Pyrochles, now transformed into an Amazon, exemplifies this intertwining: Well might he perceive the hanging of her haire in fairest quantitie, in lockes some curled, and some as it were forgotten, with such a carelesse care, and an art so hiding art, that she seemed she would lay them for a pattern, whether nature simply, or nature helped by cunning, be the more excellent. . . . (A 42)

Underlining this sentence, Junius takes note of Nature’s own patterning, which, according to a different, more rational, principle of order, art emphasizes and highlights. In Painting, Junius draws attention to the importance of the art that hides art:

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To be short; a good Imitator standeth in need of learned and well exercised eyes; not onely, because hidden things cannot be seen unlesse they are first searched out; but also, because the things apparant are very often so cunningly contrived and joyned, that none but quicksighted Artificers and teachers can perceive them. And this is the true reason why these Arts doe alwayes at the first require the helpe of a faithfull Master . . . who may informe us by what shew of dissimilitude the similitude of things neerely resembling is to be concealed; for a good Imitator must by all meanes be a concealer of his Art. . . . (P 1.3.6)

In his treatment of this principle of the art that hides art, he echoes what Castiglione says in The Book of the Courtier about the casualness or nonchalance that is an aspect of grace. In art, the great exemplar was Apelles, who knew when to withdraw his hand from a picture so that it should not be so laborious as to draw attention to itself as art, but rather as an imitation of nature.33 Another related artistic principle implied in these passages is disorderly order. This paradox describes how art will more closely resemble nature if its underlying structure is hidden. The apparent carelessness with which Zelmane’s hair is dressed—the uncertainty over how much is art, how much nature—not only works to conceal art but makes it appear more natural by a pleasing irregularity of form. Junius is attracted to another passage in the Arcadia where there is what he calls an ‘‘elegans descriptio amoenissimi hortis’’ [an elegant description of a most pleasant garden] behind Kalender’s house: The backside of the house was neither field, garden, nor orchard; or rather it was both field, garden, and orchard: for as soone as the descending of the staires had delivered them downe, they came into a place cunningly set with trees of the most tast-pleasing fruits: but scarcely they had taken that into their consideration, but that they were sodainly stept into a delicate greene: of each side of the greene a thicket, and behind the thickets againe new beds of flowers, which being under the trees, the trees were to them a Pavillion, and they to the trees a Mosaicall floore: so that it seemed that Arte therein would needs be delightfull, by counterfeyting his enemie Errour, and making order in confusion. (A 8)

The latter part of this description is underlined. Beside it, Junius notes: ‘‘Labyrinthi descriptio’’ [description of a labyrinth]. The

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pleasure of a labyrinth or maze is exactly this: that all seems confusion but there is a hidden order to be discovered. It so happens that Junius uses the word ‘‘labyrinth’’ in his Painting but with negative connotations. Discussing the needs of beginners in the fine arts, he says that they require simple precepts to get them started, rather than ‘‘a misleading labyrinth of confused and intricate precepts. . . . It is then expedient that we should not wander, but rather follow a setled short way, easie both for learners and teachers’’ (P 1.1.6). There is a difference between the disorderly order of the designed labyrinth and other forms of confusion, such as the labyrinth of the human heart as portrayed in the Arcadia. Junius is perfectly clear on this matter. Artistic principles, like moral ones, invariably attract his attention in his marginal comment and in his underlining. He enjoys the whole description of this garden, with its ‘‘Fons elegantissimus’’ [most elegant fountain] and the pictures in the summerhouse. But, as already noted, he particularly singles out the picture of Atalanta, ‘‘the posture of whose limmes was so lively expressed, that if the eyes were the only judges, as they be the only seers, one would have sworn the very picture had run.’’34 He likes the metaphor that captures the artist’s skill in turning a static figure into a running one; this indeed is a triumph of art. Another picture, this one a portrait of an old man, a middleaged lady, and a young maid between them, reminds Sidney of the skill of a painter who bestowed beauty on the pictures of goddesses; here the beauty of the young girl, Philoclea, ‘‘bestowed new skill of the Painter’’ (A 9). Next to this description Junius writes ‘‘scitissima pictura’’ [a most skillful picture]. Its effect on the young prince Pyrochles, in causing him to fall in love with Philoclea, gives a practical demonstration of how pictures can arouse the same feelings as the originals. In Richard Haydocke’s translation of Lomazzo, this fact is stated: ‘‘Neither doe these motions, thus lively imitating nature in pictures, breed only an eie-pleasing contentment, but do also performe the selfe same effects which the natural do. . . .’’35 One of the most heavily marked passages of the Arcadia is the scene that first shows Pamela engaged in some needlework and then in debate with her tormenter Cecropia, who is trying to persuade the princess to marry her son, Amphialus. The description of the purse Pamela is embroidering again shows art competing with nature and, at the same time, it reflects the decorous bal-

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ance of the heroine’s mind. Sidney here revels in metaphors to convey the miracle of art: For the flowers she had wrought, caried such life in them, that the cunningest painter might have learned of her needle: which with so pretty a maner made his careers to & fro through the cloth, as if the needle it selfe wold have bin loth to have gon froward such a mistresse, but that it hoped to return thitherward very quickly againe: the cloth looking with many eyes upon her, & lovingly embracing the wounds she gave it. . . . And if at any time she put her mouth to bite it [the thread] off, it seemed, that where she had bin long in making of a rose with her hands, she wold in an instant make roses with her lips, as the lillies seemed to have their whitenesse, rather of the hand that made them, then of the matter whereof they were made. . . . (A 265)36

The familiar Petrarchan praise of a lover shines through in the pretense that inanimate objects love the beautiful person, but the mirroring of Pamela in her work becomes more significant when Sidney turns to the relationship of foreground and background: But the colours for the ground were so well chosen, neither sullenly darke, nor glaringly lightsome, and so well proportioned, as that, though much cunning were in it, yet it was but to serve for an ornament of the principall worke; that it was not without marvell to see, how a mind which could cast a carelesse semblant upon the greatest conflicts of Fortune, could command it selfe to take care for so small matters. (A 265)37

The well-tempered character of the princess is mirrored in her workmanship. Even her attire and hair are so arranged as to reflect her own worthiness: ‘‘For wel one might perceive she had not rejected the counsell of a glasse, and that her hands had pleased themselves, in paying the tribute of undeceiving skill, to so high perfections of nature.’’ ‘‘Undeceiving skill’’ sums up the right use of art. No attempt is made in such art to pretend to be other than it is: the enhancer of beauty. Elsewhere, Junius made a marginal comment: ‘‘Pamelae generosus animus et forma decora’’ [the noble spirit and seemly beauty of Pamela] (A51). The mirror, emblematic of what art should aspire to, is introduced at the end to draw a parallel between the artistry used to enhance Pamela’s personal appearance and the skill of her embroidery.

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The cooperation of art and nature is as important to Sidney as to Junius. Junius, discussing color in painting, warns against its indecorous use: ‘‘Neither can it be denied, but that a decent grace of colors commendeth a picture very much, but when it followeth the nature of things of it selfe, and not when it is drawne in by an importunately odious affectation’’ (P 3.3.12). As always, faithfulness to nature is the true test of art.38 In the ensuing debate between Pamela and her jailer, Cecropia, the purpose of beauty is discussed. Unlike the wicked Cecropia, who commends Pamela’s beauty and argues that it should be put to use by marrying her son, Pamela distinguishes between outward and inward beauty: Truly (sayd Pamela) I never thought till now, that this outward glasse intitled Beautie, which it pleaseth you to lay to my (as I thinke) unguiltie charge, was but a pleasant mixture of naturall colours, delightfull to the eye, as musike is to the eare, without any further consequence: since it is a thing, which not only beasts have: but even stones and trees many of them greatly excell in it. (A 266)

So interested is Junius in this debate that he underlines many passages, including this one. It is as if beauty has such an important role to play in the divine scheme of things that its right use must always be considered. Given its sensuous appeal, it must either be classed with bodily senses or recognized for its divine origin and its service to divinity. Cecropia answers that ‘‘Beautie, Beautie . . . is the crowne of the feminine greatnesse’’ and should be used to make another happy by joining beauty to love. ‘‘Beauty,’’ she says, ‘‘[is] nothing without the eye of Love behold it’’ (A 267). Further, she adopts the carpe diem argument that, since there is nothing after death, Pamela should enjoy the April of her youth. But, finally, Cecropia, seeing that such an argument in itself has no influence on her young listener, begins to realize that she must undermine Pamela’s religious faith more directly if she is to win her over. Impressed as Junius is with Pamela’s answer to the atheistic argument, he not only writes in the margin: ‘‘gravissima reprehensio atheotetos’’ [a weighty reprehension of atheism] (A 268), but he makes a cross-reference at the beginning of his book: ‘‘gravissima et subtilissima adversus hor-

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rendas Atheorum blasphemias’’ (268) [a weighty and subtle argument against the horrendous blasphemies of atheists].39 In his Painting, Junius begins the subject of art by a religious reference to the ancient link between the word ‘‘cosmos’’ and ‘‘ornament.’’ Ficino had stated that God bestowed the ‘‘ornament of forms’’ on the universe,40 thus interpreting Plato’s recognition of God as the great artist, whom earthly artists strive to emulate, though the impossibility of ever achieving perfect beauty and similitude, or likeness, is always assumed (P 1.1.7).41 It is in this religious context that the distinction between the physical beauty of nature and the inward beauty of soul is drawn. No wonder Junius found Pamela’s use of the distinction so appealing. In nature, there are all kinds of pictures, but it is the artist’s task both to copy these and improve upon them. On the other hand, poor imitators and superficial people who do not have before them in their mind’s eye some image of true beauty ‘‘seeme onely for the outward lines and colours to come somewhat neere their paterne’’ (P 1.3.6). Cecropia’s praise of beauty is thus only of surface beauty, while Pamela’s is the luster of inner beauty. Both Sidney and Junius share the same religious faith within which true beauty is recognized. In what may well be a response to Prynne’s attack on works of art that proclaim the beauty of God’s creation, Junius says: Let them know . . . that they are not well advised when they goe about to brand these most commenadable recreations with the nick-name of baren and unprofitable delights: for how can that same contemplation deserve the opinion of an unfruitfull and idle exercise, by whose means wee doe understand the true beautie of created bodies, a ready way to the consideration of our glorious Creator? besides that this same exercise like a most sweet Musick to the eye, doth cleare up all heavinesse and sullen drowsiness of the mind. . . . (P 1.5.9)

It is interesting that the expression ‘‘a most sweet Musick to the eye’’ is a daring metaphor based on Pamela’s reference to outward beauty as ‘‘but a pleasant mixture of naturall colours, delightfull to the eye, as musike is to the eare.’’ Evidently, it caught Junius’s eye, for he underlines the entire passage in which this simile occurs. Interesting too is that he turns the negative context in which it occurs, as part of Pamela’s expressed contempt for her own physical beauty, into a positive description of the value of pictures.

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To give articulation to the pictures of the Arcadia, Sidney uses all kinds of methods, from sententiae and metaphors to the shaping of his periods, with their characteristic parentheses. All this is designed for beauty as well as expressiveness. If the style seems too artificial, this is the high style deemed suitable to romance epic; its ornateness is to be treasured for its appropriateness to the subject. Sidney knows how to vary it, for example, in his speeches as compared with his more straightforward narrative. To appreciate his style fully, one would have to read it as Junius does, sentence by sentence. This is not the way we are accustomed to read novels; it is a style designed for beauty and pathos, a high style, unlike the middle style of argument used in the Defence of Poesie. But nowadays the ‘‘jeweled style’’ has fallen out of favor.42 While we find in Hoskins or Fraunce the excerpting of passages to illustrate the use of various figures, in Junius’s annotations we find both the story and the figures that illuminate it and make it expressive. A rare lesson in how a late sixteenthcentury text would be read by an early seventeenth-century reader is here for the taking.

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7 The Enriching of Memory and the Unity of the Arts I

IN HIS ROMANCE, SIDNEY PUTS INTO PRACTICE WHAT JUNIUS ADVOcates; that is, the learned and informed pursuit of beauty in the imitation of nature. Rhetoric is at the core of this conception of art, and the ancients who had so mastered in theory and practice the expressive and eloquent function of language provided the inspiration for both of them.1 It is a method of composition and also a method of analysis. The logic that proceeds from invention, or originating idea, to disposition, or arrangement, to elocution, or ornamentation, constitutes a map to guide us on our way through Sidney’s Defence and Junius’s Painting, as well as through the Arcadia. In writing fiction, Sidney deliberately uses rhetoric to shape the reader’s response. He is the storyteller who patterns his every sentence and never lets us forget that he controls the way the story is told. There is no pretense that he lets the story tell itself as in, say, the type of modern novel in which the author appears to have withdrawn himself from the text so that events may speak for themselves. Even in his Defence of Poesie, Sidney uses the pronoun ‘‘I’’ frequently and shows openly his wit and irony. Junius, on the other hand, is concerned with the authority deriving from the ancients in defense of art. His overt personal remarks are few and are largely confined to his statement of purpose in the Argument prefixed to his treatise: My purpose is, by Gods assistance, to set forth the Art of painting, as in old times it hath begun, as it was promoted, as it came to that wonderfull perfection mentioned in ancient Authors. . . . Seeing also that many Artificers seeme to have drawne that same love of new-

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fangled conceits from Poets, I did not thinke it amisse to shew what affinitie there is between Poesie and Picture, adding upon the same occasion, how they are to prepare themselves that would willingly attaine to some skill in judging the workes of excellent Masters. (P 9)

This is a much less oratorical purpose than Sidney’s. He, after all, designed his Defence on the lines of a classical oration, with a limited aim: to defend poetry by asserting its value for the health of the human soul. Junius writes more discursively and informally, endeavoring to construct a theory of art from fragmentary references in ancient literature and to teach readers how to judge works of art. Nevertheless, he takes pains to organize his material in three books, which in turn are subdivided into chapters, and, finally, into sections.2 This order receives Rubens’s praise in his letter thanking Junius for sending him a copy of De pictura veterum. He commends not only the author’s ‘‘diligence’’ in ‘‘digging out again . . . this immense treasure from all of antiquity,’’ but his zeal in ‘‘making it available to the public in such excellent order. . . . The entire work is laid out perfectly in proper sequence, and filed and polished with unusual care, from head to foot’’ (P 1.327). Rubens uses a sculptural metaphor as a reminder of the ancient statues that had been dug up. Hugo Grotius, Junius’s friend, in his prefatory letter to the Dutch edition of De pictura,3 uses the metaphor of a mosaic to describe the way Junius fits quotations from ancient authors together to form a pattern. If the order of a cento is perhaps hard for us to grasp, Rubens and Grotius are content to praise, by means of artistic analogies, what Junius has accomplished. Everywhere, through his selection of passages and his commentary, Junius indicates his personal beliefs. His reference to ‘‘Gods assistance’’ is a reminder that he regards his work as a sacred duty. His whole discussion assumes, even when it does not directly state, the place of art within a comprehensive and divine scheme of things. In defending an art in which he himself is not directly involved, he is carrying out an assignment from his employer, but one which, given his convictions about art in general, commands his attention and loyalty on all levels. The question of how to defend the arts is central to the treatises of both Sidney and Junius. Quite naturally, they turn to the Bible for what support they can find there. It must be said that it gives a stronger sanction for poetry than for painting. As already

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noted, Sidney refers to the Junius-Tremellius edition of the Bible for the classification of certain parts of the Old Testament as poetical. Specifically, he refers to the Psalms of David as ‘‘a divine Poem,’’ both because they are written in meter (‘‘although the rules be not yet fully found’’) and for ‘‘his handling his prophecie, which is meerely Poeticall’’: For what else is the awaking his musicall instruments, the often and free changing of persons, his notable Prosopopoeias, when he maketh you as it were see God comming in his majestie, his telling of the beasts joyfulnesse, and hilles leaping, but a heavenly Poesie, wherein almost he sheweth himself a passionate lover of that unspeakable and everlasting beautie, to be seene by the eyes of the mind, onely cleared by faith? (D 493–94)

The expression ‘‘to be seene by the eyes of the mind’’ reveals Sidney’s conviction that the right use of words in poetry evokes pictures and hence confirms the analogy between poetry and painting. But he also links poetry to the divine, stating that whoever looks more closely into poetry ‘‘shall find the end and working of it such, as being rightly applied, deserveth not to be scourged out of the Church of God.’’4 Sidney, himself a translator of some of the Psalms, might well have had in mind the reference Tremellius and the Elder Junius make to the Holy Ghost as the composer of the Psalms for our comfort in our state of sin. Calvin’s description of the Psalms is similar: there is not an emotion of which any one can be conscious that is not here represented as in a mirror. Or rather, the Holy Spirit has here drawn to the life all the griefs, sorrows, fears, doubts, hopes, cares, perplexities, in short all the distracting emotions with which the minds of men are wont to be agitated.5

Remarkably, in view of Sidney’s emphasis on the visual effect of poetry, Calvin uses two pictorial metaphors to describe the method of expression in the Psalms: by saying ‘‘as in a mirror,’’ he alludes to the favorite Renaissance comparison between a picture and an image in a mirror;6 he then refers specifically to the art of portraiture when he says that the Holy Spirit ‘‘has here drawn to the life all the griefs’’ and other emotions of human life. Just as Rubens and Grotius felt compelled to use artistic analo-

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gies to describe Junius’s accomplishment, so Calvin uses similar analogies to describe the effect of the Psalms. These metaphorical descriptions of verbal art are designed to praise it in terms not only of a shaped perfection but also in terms of its appeal to the ‘‘eye of mind,’’ or the imagination, the true source of a perception that moves the reader to action. Junius too turns to the Bible for instances of God’s direct involvement in the visual arts. His examples are familiar: the pattern of the Temple, the pattern of the Tabernacle. A less familiar one that had some currency is concerned with how ‘‘The prophet Ezekiel, to the end he might propound more lively unto the inhabitants of Jerusalem what dangers there did hang over their heads, received a command from God to pourtray the citie of Jerusalem upon a tile, and lay siege against it, and build a fort against it, etc.’’ (Ezekiel 4:1; P 2.1.2). The emblem book of Laurentius Haechtanus includes the same text under a picture of the origins of painting in a shepherd’s tracing of a shadow on a rock.7 The implication is that, besides Pliny the Elder’s account of how the art of painting first began, the Bible shows that this art can serve the Lord. Summing up the significance of his examples of divine sanction for images, Junius says: For as much then as Almightie God hath vouchsafed us so many examples of the Art of painting and casting, commending these Arts not onely by his own example and command unto us, but enabling also the Artificers thereunto by his Spirit, wee may very well affirm with Theodoretus, that God is the author and supporter of these Arts: neither were the heathen men ignorant of the truth of this point: ‘‘the seeds of all Arts are deeply graffed in us, and God by a secret mastership doth bring the witts to light,’’ saith Seneca. . . . (De Providentia 4; De beneficiis 4.6.6; P 2.1.3)

Junius needed biblical references as a justification for the visual arts at a time when religious thought in some Protestant circles could still condemn these arts for their potential to encourage both idolatry and lascivious behavior. He argues that the abuse of them does not justify their abolition. When Sidney took on Plato in his defense of poetry, he too argued that it was only the abuse of poetry that the philosopher condemned. The rest of this paragraph in Painting asserts that the practice of the arts is a God-given and innate gift, like flight for birds or swimming for fish. From here it is but a short step to a descrip-

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tion of nature’s own art, as manifest in her power to paint flowers and to sculpt stones—‘‘the miracles of all-atchieving Nature’’ (P 2.1.4.). The emphasis on nature as God’s own art is both part of the religious argument in defense of art and an adherence to the humanistic principles derived from ancient authors, such as Seneca.

II It is these ancient sources that provide Junius with his chief arguments in favor of the purpose and methods of the visual arts. Central as ut pictura poesis is to his task, because of his perceived need to link the visual arts to their literary counterparts, he devotes a chapter, divided into six sections, in the first book of his treatise, to what painting and poetry have in common. He introduces in support of his thesis a generalization from Cicero: ‘‘All Arts . . . that doe belong to humanitie, have a common band, and are ally’d one to another, as by a kind of parentage’’ (Pro Archia 1.2; P 1.4.1). This metaphorical statement helps Junius to construct a theory of art based on the relationship between poetry and painting, a theory that in turn helps to give painting a place among the humanistic disciplines. The first parallel concerns the complementariness of nature and art in both poetry and painting: An artist ‘‘must deliberate about the framing of his worke, not only with the common precepts of art, but also with his own nature.’’ The priority of nature in the artistic activity is indicated with Junius’s own statement: ‘‘Both doe follow a secret instinct of Nature: for we do daily see, that not Poets onely, but Painters also are possessed with the love of those Arts, not so much by a fore-determined advise, as by a blind fit of a most violent and irresistible fury.’’ This is a novel way to speak of the painter, formerly regarded as simply a craftsman, and now regarded as governed less by art than by ‘‘nature’’—specifically, the artistic imagination. To understand why Junius feels the need to refer to divine inspiration, we may turn to his treatment of the Muses. Like earlier humanists, such as Alberti, Junius can best prove the high status of painters and sculptors by associating their works with those of poets, who already had their Muses, as well as their relationship to the respectable disciplines of rhetoric,

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logic, and grammar. While conceding that poets are born, not made, and that poetry is a divine gift, Sidney for his part is cautious about the poet’s inspiration. In his response to Plato’s Ion, used to counter the Plato of The Republic, he says: ‘‘hee attributeth unto Poesie more then myselfe doe, namely, to be a very inspiring of a divine force, farre above mans wit’’ (D 511). Only the Bible could be said to be directly inspired by God. Sidney was particularly suspicious of the doctrine of divine inspiration as justifying untutored poets. On the contrary, he believed that the poet needs: ‘‘Arte, Imitation, and Exercise’’—in other words ‘‘a Dedalus to guide him’’ (D 513). As for the Muses, Sidney’s references to them are partly jocular: ‘‘For now as if all the Muses were got with child, to bring forth bastard Poets, without any commission they do post over the banks of Helicon, till they make the Readers more wearie then post-horses’’ (D 513). But he also says that the poet, instead of citing ‘‘authorities of other histories,’’ ‘‘even for his entrie, calleth the sweete Muses to inspire into him a good invention’’ (D 508). As a playful figure of speech for the unknowable in the poetic gift, the Muses have a symbolic value and, of course, they serve for invocations that may be more than conventional, such as Spenser’s in The Faerie Queene. There were no Muses assigned to the visual arts, but Junius, after mentioning how poets invoke them ‘‘in the first entrance of their workes,’’ says that ‘‘Artificers may likewise, before they doe goe about this worke, very fitly salute the sweet company of the nine learned Sisters; not so much to aske of them a good and prosperous successe of what they take in hand, as well to observe out of the proper signification of their names the severall steps that lead a Novice into the right way of perfection’’ (P 1.1.9). The word ‘‘learned’’ is a reminder that Mnemosyne, Memory, was the mother of the Muses. He proceeds to interpret all nine of them symbolically, from Clio to Calliope, for their importance to the painter as the stages of learning and knowledge. Borrowing his interpretation from Fulgentius, he summarizes the ‘‘whole connexion’’ among them: The first degree is, that wee desire knowledge: the second, that we delight in this desire: the third, that we doe eagerly follow the thing wee thus delight in: the fourth, that we doe apprehend the thing followed: the fift, that wee remember what we once apprehended: the

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sixt, that wee doe invent something like unto the remembred apprehensions: the seventh, that wee examine and discerne our inventions: the eight, that wee choose the best of those things we have judged and discerned: the ninth, that wee doe well expresse the things well chosen. (Fulgentius, Mythologiae 1.15; P 1.1.9)

Memory is twice mentioned in the context of invention: ‘‘that wee remember what we once apprehended’’; ‘‘that wee doe invent something like unto the remembred apprehensions.’’ The role of memory in the creation of a work of art is ever-present to Junius’s thought. Indeed, it is his memory of the ancients that supplies him with both his argument and his evidence. The key to Junius’s linking of poetry and painting is the notion of imitation, which is discussed in the second part of his comparison. It is used both by Plato and Aristotle to describe poetry but, at least in the case of Plato, not always with a favorable sense. Sidney, however, happy to make use of Aristotle’s Poetics, gives this definition: ‘‘Poesie therefore, is an Arte of Imitation: for so Aristotle tearmeth it in his word mimesis, that is to say, a representing, counterfeiting, or figuring forth, to speake metaphorically, A speaking Picture, with this end, to teach and delight’’ (D 495). Just before this passage, he equates the word ‘‘imitation’’ with ‘‘fiction,’’ and the main emphasis of his argument is on narrative literature. When Junius gives his marginal plot summaries for the Arcadia, he implicitly affirms that the fiction has value. Moreover, by writing these summaries in the present tense, whereas Sidney uses the past tense for his narrative, Junius is treating the events of the story as a series of pictures. One of the distinctions that he, adapting a passage from Plutarch, draws between poetry and painting is that literature treats events in the past tense, and painters in the present tense.8 Speaking of them both, Junius emphasizes the imitation of actions in particular: ‘‘Both busie themselves about the imitation of all sorts of things and actions.’’ He cites Dio Chrysostom (12.45ff.) on the rivalry of poets and painters: Painters and Carvers . . . when they were to resemble the Gods, departed not one inch from the Poets; not onely to shun the punishment offenders in such a kinde undergoe; but also because they saw themselves prevented by the Poets, and that now the manner of Images made after their conceit went currant, as being upholden by antiquitie: neither would they seeme to be troublesome and unpleasant by

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lying novelties, but they have for the most part made their Images after the example of Poets . . . professing themselves to have an emulation with Poets about the same Art of imitation, endeavouring likewise to lay open before the eyes of more and poorer spectators, what Poets have plainly rehearsed to the eares of men (P 1.4.2).9

To the often-repeated words of Simonides, ‘‘silent poesie’’ and ‘‘speaking picture,’’ he adds Plutarch’s comment that ‘‘Painters doe expresse with colours what Writers doe describe with words; so is it that they doe but differ in the matter and manner of Imitation, having both the same end: and he is the best Historian that can adorne his Narration with such forcible figures and lively colours of Rhetorike, as to make it like unto a Picture’’ (Mor. 346F; P 1.4.2). Although Junius here speaks of narrative as the genre of poets and painters, a similar statement occurs in one of Sidney’s letters to his brother concerning the historian, who is at once a philosopher, an orator, and a poet.10 As a poet, he paints ‘‘forth the effects, the motions, the whisperings of the people.’’ Not professing any art—that is, the knowledge of a particular skill—‘‘he deals with all arts which, because it carrieth the life of a lively example, it is wonderful what light it gives to the arts themselves.’’ In other words, it is a two-way street, with arts or skills that by their example illuminate the narrative, and also that illuminate the arts themselves. As Junius reads his Arcadia, it is with an eye to the knowledge revealed of all kinds of arts, including the art of warfare and the art of painting. It is also part of the representative function of narrative, whether the poet’s or the historian’s, that it should make use of the wisdom of the ancients: ‘‘be it a witty word of which Tacitus is full, sentences of which Livy, or similitudes whereof Plutarch.’’ This letter of Sidney to his brother also includes advice on keeping a commonplace book. Everything gleaned from reading a history is to be laid up ‘‘in the right place of his storehouse as either military, or more specially, defensive military, or more particularly, defensive by fortification.’’ That is, general headings are to be created and subdivisions within those. Sidney speaks of his own practice and that of many others in noting ‘‘much with our pen [rather] than with our mind.’’ It is not enough to trust to memory alone. Just as the mind’s eye is important in Sidney’s theory of

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poetry—for example in his treatment of how a good painter would depict Lucretia, ‘‘whom he never saw’’—so it is important in Junius’s theory of painting. His view of imitation is based on the premise that it is the inward image that the painter copies, even though this image should be based on his experience of the visible world: And as it is a very great matter to carry in our mind the true images both of living and lifelesse creatures, so is it a greater matter to worke out a true and lively similitude of those inward images; especially if the Artificer doth not tie his imitation to some particular though never so faire a body; but followeth rather the perfection of an inward image made up in his mind by a most earnest and assiduous observation of all such bodies as in their owne kind are most excelling. (P 1.1.3)

Junius also cites St. Augustine on the ideal model within the mind and how it must dictate the outward shape of the artist’s creation: ‘‘through the presentation of the sense without, please the judge within’’ (De libero arbitrio 2.16; P 3.2.2). Elsewhere Junius explains that even invisible things must bear a resemblance to the visible: ‘‘neither doth our Imitation at any time fasten upon things invisible, but (as it hath been said before) with a relation to what is really existing and visible’’ (P 1.1.2). Alberti would have agreed.11 Significantly, Junius underlines in the Defence two references to poets as makers. One refers to the etymology of the word ‘‘poet,’’ which Sidney relates to the Greek poiein, that is, to make, ‘‘wherein I know not whether by lucke or wisedome, wee Englishmen have met with the Greekes in calling him a Maker’’ (D 494). Having underlined the word ‘‘Maker’’ here, Junius also underlines Sidney’s further explanation, on another page, of the etymology: ‘‘being indeede makers of themselves, not takers of others’’ (D 512). Evidently, this emphasis on the creative source of the poet’s works struck Junius and, in his thinking about the relationship of the arts, encouraged him to think of them all as activities emanating from the imagination of the artist. Imitation thus becomes a more godlike activity, less a copying of created nature (natura naturata) than an emulating of nature as it creates (natura naturans).12 From the imitation of either kind that is the common goal of poets and painters, Junius moves, in the third section, to the de-

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light in the deception that art offers. This is really a defense of fiction. Like Sidney, Junius denies that artists tell lies, citing Gorgias, as quoted by Plutarch, to the effect that ‘‘the deceiver is more just then he that doth not use such deceit; and the deceived likewise is wiser then he that is not deceived’’ (Mor. 15C–D and 348C; P. 1.4.3). Gorgias, no doubt responding to Plato’s criticism of the imitative arts, was referring specifically to tragedies, and stage plays, which were often considered the model of artistic deception.13 But this kind of deception in its wisdom is what Sidney calls ‘‘a divine delightfulnesse’’ (D 510), or Junius, ‘‘an unsensible delight of admiration.’’ It casts a spell over the listener or the viewer by reason of its close imitation of nature. They rested their cases on the notion that the image, issuing from the imagination of the artist, in turn delights and moves the imagination of the reader or viewer—ideally, toward the virtuous life. In Sidney’s words, ‘‘as in historie looking for truth, they may go away full fraught with falshood: So in Poesie, looking but for fiction, they shall use the narration but as an imaginative groundplat of a profitable invention’’ (D 508). This is a rephrasing of Aquinas’s assertion that the intelligibilia can only be reached through the sensibilia.14 The fourth point of comparison is the moving power of the image, compelling ‘‘our minds to severall Passions’’ (P 1.4.4). Here, Junius takes part in a well-known paragone about whether poetry or painting is superior in the ability to move. From this capacity derives the moral influence of the arts, their power to affect human behavior. Even though Leonardo da Vinci did not directly concern himself with the moral impact of painting, he had no doubt about which art was superior in immediacy of effect. For him, words could not compete with the painted image and the appeal to the eye, the sense that above all affects the soul. He asserts that painting, unlike poetry, presents its subject ‘‘in one instant through the sense sight, through the same organ that transmits the natural objects to the mind.’’15 Sidney argued for the visual effect of poetry because he wanted to claim that it too appeals to sight, but in this case, an inner sight of the mind. This debate was important as an aspect of thinking about the similarities and differences among the arts.16 For Junius in the context of his treatise, it is essential to use the same kind of argument as Leonardo uses, though the very attention he gives to Sidney shows that, in another context, he would have taken a different

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side in the debate. Like Ben Jonson, he was willing to recognize the validity of both sides in the whole question of which art best imitates nature. Both he and Jonson quote a passage from Quintilian that sets picture above eloquence: ‘‘ ‘Picture,’ sayth he, ‘[is] a silent worke, and constantly keeping the same forme, doth so insinuate it selfe into our most inward affections, that it seemeth now and then to be of greater force then Eloquence it selfe’ ’’ (Inst. Orat. 11.3.67; P 1.4.4).17 This is a telling tribute by writers to picture; indeed, it recognizes picture as the model of illusionistic art, to which poetry also aspires. Both Sidney and Junius refer to the story of Abraham and Isaac as a notable example of the power and value of picture (D 509). Junius has the fuller account, drawing upon Saint Gregory of Nyssa: ‘‘I saw often in a picture . . . the image of this fact, neither could I looke upon it without teares, so lively did Art put the historie before my eyes’’ (De Deitate Filii et Spiritus Sancti oratio; P 1.4.4). Although Sidney refers to certain morally valuable pictures, he more constantly refers to being moved by images conveyed by words, such as the story of how Aeneas carried the old Anchises on his back from the ruins of Troy. With the fifth parallel, we are reminded of the role of the arts in commemorating great men. This is such a familiar theme that Junius does not need to devote much space to it here; it recurs throughout his treatise. Sidney accepted as a topos the ‘‘eternising’’ value of poetry, stating toward the end of his Defence that the poets ‘‘wil make you immortal by their verses’’ (D 518). Shakespeare promises to eternize his young friend by his sonnets: ‘‘Not marble nor the gilded monuments / Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme’’ (Sonnet 55). Junius in this section first cites tributes to this power of poetry; he then turns to similar references to the visual arts, such as Pliny the Elder’s statement that the art of sculpture ‘‘hath made famous men more famous’’ (Nat. Hist. 34.19.74). Given the importance of memory, this was an argument favored by painters and sculptors, though challenged by poets. Of more vital concern, because more open to argument, is the kinship of poetry and painting as both indebted to the imagination. Here, in this sixth and final section, the words of Philostratus the Younger are apropos: ‘‘the Art of Painting . . . is found to be a kin to Poesie; seeing both do therein agree, that as well the one as the other requireth a forward Phantasie’’ (Phil. the

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Younger, proem.6).18 Junius’s chief illustration for the workings of the imagination is drawn from Ovid’s story of Phaethon in Met. 2.19–328.19 He proceeds to draw the parallel with the imagination of painters. Yet the wildness of the imagination, ‘‘these commotions of our mind,’’ which are ‘‘by all means to be drawne out of the truth of nature,’’ still need ‘‘to be fashioned and directed by discipline’’ (Quint. 11.3.61ff.; P 1.4.6). With this caution, Junius turns to a contrast between painting and poetry drawn from Longinus’s contrast between orators and poets. He refers to ‘‘some difference between the Imaginations of Poets that doe intend onely ‘an astonished admiration,’ and of Painters that have no other end but ‘Perspicuitie.’ ’’ Continuing with Longinus, Junius explains the difference: ‘‘what the Poets conceive, hath most commonly a more fabulous excellencie and altogether surpassing the truth; but in the phantasies of Painters nothing is so commendable as that there is both possibilitie and truth in them’’ (Longinus 15.2; P 1.4.6).20 This contrast brings painting closer to nature in its mode of imitation, a point that Leonardo strongly endorses in his Paragone. For Junius, however, the kinship of poets and painters is more important than the contrast between them. He ends this final section with a reference to his repeated theme of the need for viewers, as well as readers, to possess an imagination capable of responding to the works of poets and painters. Those that would view ‘‘the works of excellent masters with the contentment of a sound and well-grounded judgment . . . have need to stir up all the powers of fancie that are in them’’ (P 1.4.6). Without this power of imagination in the viewer, the greatest works will lie lifeless before him. Junius’s attention to the way in which the work of art in turn affects the reader’s or viewer’s imagination echoes Sidney, who speaks of ‘‘planting an image’’ and ‘‘wearing’’ in the tablet of one’s memory such notable images as that of Aeneas or ‘‘the divine narration of Dives and Lazarus, which would ‘‘more constantly, as it were, inhabit both the memory and judgment’’ than ‘‘the morall common places of uncharitableness and humbleness.’’ In his memorable words, such stories ‘‘plant goodnese even in the secretest cabinet of our soules’’ (D 498). The inwardness that governs action is so central to the thinking of Sidney and Junius that it would be a mistake to read their defenses simply in terms of Reformation Protestantism. As the

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preceding chapters have indicated, their aims are much broader and, one may say, epistemological: to show the role that art plays in shaping the imagination, the pathway to higher knowledge. Their arguments thus move beyond the immediate social or political context to refer to how the human mind works. In Junius’s words, ‘‘our mind maketh up the conceivable or intelligible things out of the sensible’’ (Strabo, The Geography, 2.5.11; P 1.2.1). As repositories of images, the imagination and memory make the sensible available to the higher powers of the mind. This is where the seeds of the moral life are sown, ‘‘in the secretest cabinet of our soules.’’ Spenser, sharing the same psychology as Sidney and Junius, like them is intent on showing that inwardness is the mainspring of action. In the prologue to the last completed book of The Faerie Queene (6.proem.5), he writes: ‘‘But Vertues seat is deepe within the mynd, / And not in outward shows, but inward thoughts defynd.’’ Whatever fictitious means poets and painters employ, their real object is to portray truth. In this claim lies the most serious defense of these arts. Yet this need not imply a narrow didactic purpose for poetry or painting. Both Sidney and Junius in their heartfelt convictions are in a position to enjoy the sceptical and derogatory remarks made by playful poets about the nature of these arts: Poore Painters oft with sillie Poets joyne, To fill the world with straunge but vaine conceits: One brings the stuffe, the other stamps the coine, Which breeds nought else but glosses of deceits. (A 155)

When Junius placed a marginal reference to Horace’s ut pictura poesis beside this passage, he was using his own memory to supply a context for his reception of Sidney’s words, just as Sidney was using his own memory of Horace to invent this poem.21 But if Sidney and Junius were lacking in humor, like their opponents, such as Gosson and Prynne, they could not delight in these four lines that make ignorant poets the bringer of subject matter in the form of lies, and incompetent painters, the stamper of these lies, as if they were false coins. As Sidney more seriously defending true poetry, says, ‘‘the Poet never maketh any Circles about

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your imagination, to conjure you to beleeve for true, what he writeth’’ (D 508). In the political context of the Arcadia, however, Sidney takes a still graver view of the circles of the imagination. In a passage that Junius underlines, these words are spoken by Euarchus, the just judge: what assurance can I have of the peoples will? Which, having so many circles of imaginations, can hardly be inclosed in one point? Who knowes a people, that knows not sudden opinion makes them hope, which hope if it be not answered, they fall in hate, chusing and refusing, erecting, and overthrowing according as the presentnesse of any fancie caries them. (A 439)

It is uncertain whether even a good and strong leader would be able to limit the circles of imagination of the fickle mob. A similar cautiousness about the use of the imagination in art characterizes Junius’s approach to painting. He notes that whatever he has said ‘‘in the former, and also in the present chapter, about the raising of our thoughts and conceits, may not be understood of all sorts of idle and giddie-headed Imaginations, but only of such Phantasies as are grounded upon the true nature of things’’ (P 1.3.12). The ‘‘true nature of things’’ acts as a restraint on the imagination and is the basis of judgment both in art and in politics. Junius has come full circle in his six parallels between poetry and painting: from the priority of nature in the artist’s creativity, because ‘‘our mind maketh up the conceivable or intelligible things out of the sensible,’’ to the specific emphasis on the imagination, where works are conceived. All his statements relating the sister arts are necessarily metaphorical, just as Sidney’s were. At the same time, by listing and discussing these six parallels, he bestows a kind of order on the perceived relationship of the arts.

III Closely linked as the imagination is to the senses, it has a share in their unreliability, especially through its ability to make new combinations that do not exist in nature. While it ought to be a

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clear mirror reflecting the higher truths for which the senses provide only the flawed basis, this mirror can have a distorting effect, with consequences for the whole mind and reason. As Puttenham states: And this phantasie [or imagination] may be resembled to a glasse as hath beene sayd, whereof there be many tempers and manner of makinges, as the perspectives doe acknowledge, for some be false glasses and shew things otherwise than they be in deede, and others right as they be in deede, neither fairer nor fouler nor greater nor smaller. There be againe of these glasses that shew thinges exceeding faire and comely, others that shew figures very monstruous & illfavored. Even so is the phantasticall part of man (if it be not disordered) a representer of the best, most comely and bewtifull images or apparances of thinges to the soule and according to their very truth.22

Junius, too, calls for an imagination like ‘‘a pure, bright looking-glasse, the which also being of an accurat center, sheweth the true images of things even as it receiveth them, not admitting any distorted, false-coloured, otherwise shaped figures’’ (Lucian, Historia quomodo conscribenda 50; P 1.3.12). Those who believe in the value of the imagination must at the same time believe in the value of the senses; but once the sensuous is passed through the ‘‘common sense’’ to the imagination, it will undergo a transformation that, if not exactly a purification and abstraction, reaches the intellect in usable form.23 This notion is central to Sidney’s and Junius’s defense of the imagination and of art. Junius explains how the senses are related to reason: Sence therefore as it findeth confused things, and things approaching unto the truth, so doth it receive his integritie from reason: but reason, as it findeth the integritie, so doth it receive from sense a confused similitude and a similitude approaching unto the truth . . . reason, on the contrary doth discerne and determine. (Boethius, De institutione musica 5.2; P 3.7.5)

Hence the imagination as it derives from sense experience needs to work hand in hand with reason in the making of a work of art. On the other hand, but most essentially, the emotions attach themselves to these sense images and, in turn, move the reader or viewer. But just as Horace says there can be no moving unless the writer first feels the emotions himself, so Sidney, by the vigor

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of his imagination, puts himself in the place of his characters and their setting. The artifice of his sentences constitutes a patterning, which is, at the same time, a slowing down, for the sake of showing the direction he wishes to lead the reader in; it helps to articulate his meaning. Yet this artifice need not militate against the emotional reality of the fiction except for those who by inclination or training reject an ornamental style. In fact, this style reflects Sidney’s contention that the poet writes with an allegorical or figurative meaning in mind.24 In short, the artifice of Sidney’s sentences conduces both to delight—through ornament—and to fulfillment of his conception and purpose. If we cannot reconstruct his original audience—though here Junius is a considerable help—we can perhaps respond to the wit of his narrative and the images it offers for the imagination and memory. For Renaissance art in general, both pictorial and verbal, emotion is to be contained in suitable molds or articulated by certain conventions in order to be compatible with beauty.25 Grounded as beauty is in the senses, it nevertheless can only reach the soul when passed through, not simply the imagination, but reason or the cognitive faculty. George Chapman, in his Ovids Banquet of Sence, sums up this relationship: The sence is given us to excite the minde, And that can never be by sence excited But first the sence must her contentment finde, We therefore must procure the sence delighted, That so the soule may use her facultie.26

Junius would have agreed. The pleasure implied in this topos, the ‘‘Banquet of Sense,’’ need not stop merely with gratification of the senses, as Chapman obliquely shows.27 If Shakespeare describes this banquet in terms only of the senses in his Venus and Adonis, it is because he is speaking through the goddess Venus, whose mission in the world does not go beyond the senses. Citing Horace’s comparison of poems with banquets, Junius comments that ‘‘Poemes, which being invented to delight and recreate the mind, are esteemed most base if they doe but swarve a little aside from the height of grace they should have’’ (Ars poetica 174–78). He continues: ‘‘What Horace saith here of Poets may also be applied to painters and statuaries, seeing their industry doth intend

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nothing else by ‘the recreation of our eyes,’ as Maximus Tryrius speaketh’’ (Dissertationes 15.3; P 2.10.2). The distinction drawn by Aristotle between the fine arts and the useful arts is that the fine arts are for pleasure only. But the distinction between higher and lower pleasures, depending on which senses are involved, holds. The purification of the senses as information from them passes through the imagination, memory, and reason is essential to Sidney’s and Junius’s defenses. It is apparent that the hierarchy of the senses and the parts of the human mind,28 as described by what may be broadly termed ‘‘faculty psychology,’’ provided a model for the relationship of the senses to the soul and therefore for the place of the fine arts in human life. Accepting the notion of ‘‘the mind’s eye,’’ neither Sidney nor Junius questions the nature of these images, whether they are autonomous or induced verbally or pictorially.29 They are prepared to leave them as illusory—shadowy remnants of sense experience—but shaped to the mind’s needs, and of implicit power. This is not an argument for picture-writing or any one-to-one correspondence between image and what it stands for. If the love of beauty is a natural instinct in man, if it is good for the soul, then art has a larger part to play in reforming society than a simple didactic equation of the sensible to the intelligible. Important though the senses are to our perception of the world around, they form the lowest rung of the ladder by which we ascend to the heavenly.30 Beyond the sensuous emphasis in their defenses of poetry and painting, Sidney and Junius associate these arts with learning. Sidney’s definition of learning—‘‘This purifying of wit, this enriching of memory, enabling of judgement and inlarging of conceit, which commonly we call learning’’—is repeated by Junius but for a different purpose. Instead of Sidney’s emphasis on the value of learning to the soul, Junius speaks of its value to an understanding of ‘‘the drift of an historical invention aright.’’ The difference in the way they end this sentence is a measure of the difference between Sidney’s lofty vision for the role of poetry in human life and Junius’s more pragmatic concern with informed judgment of works of art. Yet implicit in this very capacity to judge is a recognition of the part that art has to play in educating the soul. Through the purposeful use of images, the artist affects the mind and heart of the reader or viewer. Sidney, contrasting the

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poet with the historian and the philosopher, notes that the poet ‘‘coupleth the generall notion with the particular example’’ by giving a perfect picture: A perfect picture (I say) for he yeeldeth to the powers of the mind an image of that whereof the Philosopher bestoweth but a wordish description, which doth neither strike, pierce, nor possesse the sight of the soule so much as that other doth. (D 498)

These inward images are the source both of artistic creation and of the artistic response in viewer or reader. No iconoclasm can do away with them. When Junius goes to the trouble of annotating the Arcadia, he is tacitly acknowledging the value of images initially meant for the imagination alone. Speaking of the pleasurable teaching of the poet, Sidney says that the poet beginneth not with obscure definitions, which must blurre the margent with interpretations, and load the memorie with doubtfulnesse: but he commeth to you with words set in delightfull proportion, either accompanied with, or prepared for the well enchaunting skill of Musick, and with a tale forsooth he commeth unto you, with a tale, which holdeth children from play, and old men from the Chimney corner. (D 502)

Once again, he seems to be criticizing the philosopher for the abstractness of a language that necessitates interpretation of no certain validity, contrasting this mode of teaching with the method of the poet who uses pleasing descriptions and music— sensuous means—to imply deep moral truths and move the reader toward action based on them.

IV To defend the arts, it is necessary to defend their sensuousness, as both Sidney and Junius realize. But when poetry is described in terms of painting, and painting in terms of poetry, there is something beyond the sensuous that is being identified. No wonder Sidney prefixed to his definition of poetry as ‘‘a speaking picture’’ the words ‘‘to speak metaphorically.’’ Similarly for painting to be described as ‘‘silent poesie,’’ as Junius, following Plutarch’s quotation from Simonides does, a metaphor must be

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implied. Why these metaphorical descriptions of one art in terms of another were so important for the Renaissance is central to our whole inquiry into the relationship of Sidney and Junius. These authors make clear that every art transcends its limits by aspiring to the condition of another art. Leonardo gives just such a metaphorical interpretation of the analogy between painting and poetry: ‘‘La pittura `e una poesia che si vede e non si sente, e la poesia `e una pittura, che si sente e non si vede. adonque queste due poesie, o vuoi dire due pitture, hanno scambiati li sensi, per li quali esse dovrebbono penetrare all’intelletto’’ [Painting is poetry which is seen and not heard, and poetry is a painting which is heard but not seen. These two arts, you may call them both either poetry or painting, have here interchanged the senses by which they penetrate to the intellect].31 This is not exactly the same as saying that word and image were considered to be interchangeable. Rather, it is the poet’s or painter’s artistic skill that allows them to triumph over the limitations of their own medium. Beyond the iconography shared by the sister arts—witness, for example, the use of Ripa’s Iconologia as a sourcebook for both poets and painters—it is the miracle of art to which Sidney and Junius attest.32 There are thus two levels to which ut pictura poesis applies: on the one hand, a shared subject matter, such as Junius asserts when he borrows from Spenser’s descriptions to illustrate the variety of nature and to encourage painters in their following of mental images; on the other hand, an almost incredible ability on the part of great artists to make words paint pictures or to make pictures speak poetically. This is a true synesthetic experience of the sort that is intrinsic to the way memory operates: we both see and hear images in their fullness. In Sidney’s creation of synesthetic images, it is apparent that he is seeking ‘‘the enrichment of memory,’’ for such images startle the reader into new awareness, and, potentially, new creativity. Any conjunction of eye and ear in Sidney’s descriptions or speeches catches Junius’s attention. Given the psychology of art that he and Sidney share, the workings of the senses hold a considerable interest for them as these relate to the imagination, memory, and invention. In particular the relationship of eye and ear constitutes a paragone similar to that of painting and poetry.33 These two senses may cooperate, they may conflict, or they may be confused with one another.

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Yet even when the senses are bent to one object, they may be so overwhelmed by emotion that they are blurred in the separateness of their function. Junius underlines the description of Pyrochles’ joy at the immediate prospect of seeing his beloved Philoclea again after a separation: as he found extremitie of joy, so well found he that extremitie is not without a certaine joyfull paine, by extending the heart beyond his wonted limits, and by so forcible a holding all the senses to one object, that it confounds their mutuall working, not without a charming kind of ravishing them, from the free use of their owne function. (A 368)

Perception itself becomes confused, just as synesthesia occurs under the stress of an overwhelming experience. The word ‘‘mutuall,’’ a favorite with Junius to describe the separate but equal functions of painting and poetry, now is negated in the confusion of one sense with another. This passage is the prelude to a song sung by Philoclea in which she laments her own state of confusion. In turn, this song, overheard by Pyrochles, is the prelude to another underlined commentary on love that is the prelude to Junius’s marking of the whole passage from Tibullus in praise of a lady: ‘‘force of love to those poor folke that feele it, is many wayes verie strange but no way stranger, then that it doth so enchaine the lovers judgement upon her that holdes the raines of his mind, that whatsoever she doth is ever in his eyes best’’ (A 368).34 In the Arcadia, Sidney comments on the way images from eye and ear are received by the mind together with the emotions that attach to them. Junius regularly marks these passages. Having given a rhetorical gloss to a set piece with the words ‘‘Tempestatis descriptio’’ [description of a tempest], for example, he underlines on the same page the part that holds the most psychological interest for him: there is no daunger caries with it more horror, then that which growes in those floting kingdomes. For that dwelling place is unnaturall to mankinde, and then the terriblenesse of the continual motion, the desolation of the far-being from comfort, the eye and the eare having ougly images ever before it, doth still vexe the mind, even when it is best armed against it. (A 125)

Note that the ear, as well as the eye, is described as receiving ‘‘ougly images.’’ The word ‘‘images’’ could, in fact, refer to any of

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the senses, especially as they all passed through the sensus communis in the brain, which implied a synesthesia, or merging of the senses into one another. Sidney and Junius, it is clear, share the same interest in the power of images to move the viewer, whether that viewing is a response to external reality or whether to the images presented by poets or painters. Through the imagination, all experience turns metaphoric or symbolic, but Junius pays particular attention to Sidney’s visual metaphors in the Arcadia as they are used to describe the quality of experience. When Philoclea is torn between her love for Pyrochles and her maidenly virtue, she asks herself what deceptions she may be led to practice: ‘‘shall I labour to lay marble colours over my ruinous thoughts?’’ (A 168). This question is underlined for the sake of its metaphor, which may well have appealed to Junius for the novelty of the way it captures the essence of deception, and, at the same time, alludes to the ruins of antiquity, a compelling interest for the time. The daring of some of Sidney’s metaphors, and the pleasure these give by surprising the reader into a new apprehension, prompts Junius to underline them. Among the numerous novel metaphors in the Arcadia is the description of the shepherds who rescue the apparently lifeless Musidorus who is clinging to a board from the wreck of the ship in which he was traveling: ‘‘so as the boord seemed to be but a beere to carrie him a land to his Sepulcher’’ (A 3). Drawn ashore, the young man, though naked, ‘‘nakedness was to him an apparel.’’ The translation of the literal to the metaphorical through the burial image captures the fear in the hearts of the onlookers. A similar paradoxical form of metaphor appears a little later in a description of Pamela: ‘‘she did apparell her apparell, and with the pretiousnes of her body made it most sumptuous’’ (A 51). The hyperbole is justified by the surpassing physical beauty of Pamela. Such metaphors may seem, to the modern reader, themselves precious and mannered. To the Elizabethans, and to Junius, who underlines them, they are daringly witty in conveying the emotional coloring of the image. Sidney’s imagination is at work in fusing together disparate concepts for greater expressiveness. There are not enough words for things. As Aristotle and Cicero point out, metaphor is necessary to identify the hitherto unnamed experience.35 Other forms of metaphor, such as personification, are underlined in Junius’s Arcadia. Sidney has, for example, a vivid peri-

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phrastic description of the coming of night: ‘‘But indeed the chiefe parter of the fray was the night, which with her black armes pulled their malicious sights one from the other’’ (A 24). Another underlined metaphor is more complex because it is used to describe, not an event, but a state of mind: ‘‘solitarie Sorrow, with a continuall circle in her selfe, going out at her owne mouth to come in againe at her own eares’’ (A 286). Personification turns dramatic as mouth and ear form a continuous circle, with the mind somewhere in the middle. It almost seems that Renaissance readers had a more visual, or at least, stronger, response to metaphor than we have. John Hoskins not only recommends that his pupil mark the metaphors in the Arcadia with an ‘‘M’’ in the margin but he also has a valuable discussion of metaphor and its uses: A Metaphor, or Translation, is the friendly and neighborly borrowing of one word to express a thing with more light and better note, though not so directly and properly [correctly] as the natural name of the thing meant would signify. . . . Besides, a metaphor is pleasant because it enricheth our knowledge with two things at once, with the truth and with similitude . . . (8)

The limits of similitude are obvious. Likeness alone will not enlighten. But metaphor captures the essence or truth of experience. It interprets by giving a new dimension to the otherwise bare facts of a situation. Not only the ornate and beautiful style of the Arcadia, which engraves itself on the memory, appeals to Junius, but Sidney’s subject matter of beauty. He constantly underlines, as we have seen, references to beauty. A description of Queen Helen that includes metaphor is marked: ‘‘a Lady of great beauty, & such a beauty, as shewed forth the beames both of wisedom and good nature, but all as much darkned, as might be, with sorrow’’ (A 36). Beside this underlined passage, Junius writes in the margin: ‘‘post patratam hanc caedem, vehiculum istud accedentes, vident matronam pulcherrirmi vultus, sed prorsus confusi prae doloris vehementia. . . .’’ [after this slaughter was finished, approaching the carriage, they see a lady of very beautiful countenance, but right away are disturbed at the intensity of [her] grief]. Omitting the metaphor, ‘‘darkened,’’ as he does in general, Junius simply summarizes the situation.

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A more direct description of the effect of beauty on the viewer occurs when Pyrochles tries to defend his love for Philoclea to his reproving friend Musidorus, arguing that ‘‘all eyes did degenerate from their creation, which did not honor such beautie’’ (A 49). Junius underlines this, as he does Musidorus’s later confession to Pyrochles that he too has found love in Arcadia: ‘‘all is but lipwisedome, which wants experience’’ (A 65). He will now try ‘‘what love can do . . . who will resist it, must eyther have no wit, or put out his eyes: can any man resist his creation? certainly by love we are made, and to love we are made. Beasts only cannot discerne beauty, and let them be in the roll of Beasts that doe not honor it.’’36 Junius not only underlines all this but adds a plot summary: ‘‘Zelmane Musidoro vicissim nunc mutati habitus crimen impingens, invenit confitentem reum’’ [Zelmane in turn now charging Musidorus with changed clothes finds a confessing defendant].37 He also adds two words in the margin, like the motto of an emblem: ‘‘Amoris vis’’ [the force of love]. The eyes of love are in fact like the eyes of the artist who as a perceiver of beauty will recognize what others may miss.38 In Painting, at the beginning of book 1, Junius, like Sidney’s Musidorus, distinguishes man from beast: ‘‘Man is not made after the image of God to resemble the wilde beasts in following of their lusts, but that the memory of his originall should lift up his noble soul to the love of vertuous desire of glory.’’ The same section includes a quotation from Cicero, who, Junius says, comes ‘‘a great deal neerer to the point we have in hand’’ than many other authors: ‘‘man himselfe . . . is borne to contemplate and to imitate the world; not being any manner of way perfect, but onely a small parcell of what is perfect’’ (De natura deorum 2.37; P 1.1.1). Here is the basis, derived both from the Bible and the ancients, for the argument that man ought to imitate the beauty of creation in his art, as well as in his life. It follows that Junius criticizes those who ‘‘goe about to brand these most commendable recreations with the nick-name of barren and unprofitable delights: for how can that same contemplation deserve the opinion of an unfruitfull and idle exercise, by whose meanes wee doe understand the true beautie of created bodies, a ready way to the consideration of our glorious Creator?’’ (P 1.5.9). Sidney, too, in his Defence (D 493–94), put the emphasis on ‘‘that unspeakable and everlasting beautie, to be seene by the eyes of the mind, onely cleared by faith.’’ Both of them have thus

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more in common with Archbishop Laud’s belief in ‘‘the beauty of holiness’’ than with the kind of puritan for whom beauty is nothing more than a snare and a delusion.39

V Besides Junius’s interest, as indicated by his underlinings, in the descriptive and metaphoric use of language, he pays attention to any comment on its expressive potential. For example, he underlines a passage in which Kalander describes the young Musidorus’s modesty in speaking: ‘‘an eloquence as sweet in the uttering, as slow to come to the uttering, a behaviour so noble, as gave a majestie to adversitie’’ (A 8). The adjectives move from the ‘‘sweet’’ and ‘‘slow’’ of speaking to the ‘‘noble behavior’’ and ‘‘the majestie in adversitie.’’ The repetition of the word ‘‘uttering,’’ the echo of sound in ‘‘majestie’’ and ‘‘adversitie,’’ help to create an eloquent rhythm to match the subject. In another passage, Kalander describes his own old age: which in the very disposition of it, is talkative: whether it be (said he smiling) that nature loves to exercise that part most, which is least decayed, and that is our tongue: or, that knowledge being the onely thing whereof we poore olde men can brag, we cannot make it knowne but by utterance; or, that mankind by all meanes seeking to eternize himselfe so much the more, as he is neare his end, doth it not onely by the children that come of him, but by speeches and writings recommended to the memorie of hearers & readers. (A 14)

Junius underlines all this, placing quotation marks beside each line, to indicate the sententious quality; he also has a summary: ‘‘cur senes ut plurimum sint verbosiores’’ [why old men should be talkative to such an extent]. For greater inclusiveness, he has, too, a marginal reference to Symmachus: ‘‘Trahit nos vitium senile verbositas’’ [Verbosity, the vice of old age, draws us] (Epistles 8.48). As Junius’s marginal comment emphasizes, Sidney gives the reason for the talkativeness of old age; the reference to Symmachus, on the other hand, describes it as a vice. The contrast in interpretation indicates that there were two ways of looking at this characteristic behavior. But, whether it is treated as a vice or a virtue, the need of old men to talk is typical of the general need for people to express

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themselves. Poets especially must give vent to their emotions. Junius underlines Sidney’s description of these men, ‘‘whose liberall pennes can as easily travaile over mountaines, as molehills: and so like well disposed men, set up everything to the highest note; especially when they put such words in the mouthes of one of these fantastically mind-infected people, that children & Musitians call Lovers’’ (A 33). Such a comment by the poet of Astrophel and Stella is delightfully ironic. The inadequacy of words also draws Junius’s attention. He underlines a passage in which Pyrochles praises the beauty of beautiful and virtuous women, a subject too high for words: But to tell you true, as I thinke it superfluous to use any words of such a subject, which is so praised in it selfe as it needs no praises, so withall I feare least my conceit (not able to reach unto them) bring forth words, which for their unworthinesse may be a disgrace to them I so inwardly honour. (A 45)40

The paronomasia of ‘‘words’’ and ‘‘worthinesse’’ makes sound echo sense, always exciting Junius’s admiration. As we have already seen, this inadequacy of language could sometimes result in nothing but groans and inarticulate sounds. Junius takes care to underline the description of how Anaxius, whose brother had been slain by Zelmane, comes running to her ‘‘with no speech,’’ but ‘‘such a groning crye as often is the language of sorrowful anger’’ (A 331). Similarly, Pyrochles in his lovelorn state, confronted by his friend Musidorus, stands ‘‘looking with a countenance, as though hee desired hee should know his mind without hearing him speake’’ (A 31). On the other hand, the older and more rational Musidorus, himself in love with the virtuous Pamela, tells his friend how he never ceased ‘‘to assemble all my conceits, one after another, how to manifest both my mind & estate’’ (A 102). The numerous references in the Arcadia to the ‘‘conceits’’ of the mind as the prelude to speech generally attract Junius’s underlining. They—the conceits—are an amalgam of visual and verbal elements and are the source of invention, whether in the form of speech or in the form of picture, as he makes clear in Painting. Toward the end of the Arcadia, when the wise Euarchus comes to act as judge in the trial of the two young princes, his metaphorical allusion to the conceits of the mind is underlined as an apt

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description of the mental activity before speech: ‘‘even among the best men are diversities of opinions, which are no more in true reason to breed hatred, then one that loves black, should be angrie with him that is clothed in white, for thoughts and conceits are the verie apparell of the mind’’ (A 440). Many Renaissance writers link the mind and expression through the intermediary of conceits. John Hoskins, for example, begins his Directions for Speech and Style with this statement: ‘‘The conceits of the mind are pictures of things and the tongue is interpreter of those pictures’’ (2).41 For all Junius’s interest in eloquent expression, he is more strongly drawn to truth, even in the failure of speech. Thus he underlines two phrases in Pyrochles’ defense of himself at his trial: ‘‘remembering that truth is simple and naked’’ (A 456) and ‘‘using truth as my best eloquence’’ (A 457). Mindful of the deceptions of language and with his strong sense of morality, Junius marks statements that reflect his own convictions. One has to say that the scholar here always responds in accordance with his moral principles.

VI The importance of memory in the thought of Sidney and Junius has been implicit in all the preceding discussion. On a metaphysical level, Junius’s reference to ‘‘the memory of his originall,’’ alluding to the idea that man is made in the image of God and should therefore both contemplate and imitate God’s creation, sets the stage at the beginning of his argument in defense of artistic endeavor. More specifically, he makes the images held in the memory the standard both for fashioning a work of art and for judging it. The internal images of the human mind are derived from experience, and they supply the models by which we judge the truth of a picture or a poem.42 Augustine speaks of the ‘‘huge repository of the memory,’’ where ‘‘are treasured innumerable images brought in there from objects of every conceivable kind perceived by the senses,’’ on which he can draw ‘‘to form imaginary pictures which resemble the things I have myself experienced or believed because my own experience confirmed them, and weave these together with images from the past.’’43 Although Junius

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does not quote this particular passage, his whole view of mental images and their role in the inner life, as well as in art, closely resembles Augustine’s. Interestingly, all three—Augustine, Sidney, and Junius—take for granted that reading evokes images. Indeed, we cannot think without images.44 For an understanding of the importance of these images, as well as the innate concepts with which our minds are furnished, Junius is helpful, not so much through his annotations as through his treatise, with its broader concern with the imitation of nature. He tells us how to judge the success of a work of art in its symmetry and harmony and, above all, in its truth to the nature that we carry within us in the form of images. In his words, as he cites St. Augustine: Artificers, whose trade is to fashion and to produce bodily figures . . . have in their Art certaine numbers and ideall perfections, by which they fit and square their workes; and withdraw not their hands and tooles from the fabricating thereof, untill that which is outwardly fashioned, compared to that internall light of number and perfection, be found as absolute as is possible; and through the presentation of the sense without, please the judge within, seeing it comformable to his exemplarie and supernall numbers. (De libero arbitrio 2.16; P 3.2.2)

Augustine alludes here to the unmediated knowledge that does not require sensory experience but exists within the human mind as a standard by which to judge.45 In his Confessions, he speaks of some memories that are not images, ‘‘but the things themselves,’’ such as mathematical principles or the artistic and ethical principles of symmetry or justice. In a passage from the De libero arbitrio not cited by Junius but adjacent to the one just quoted, Augustine notes that, looking into oneself, ‘‘you will understand that you could neither approve nor disapprove of anything you perceive through the bodily senses unless you had within yourself certain laws of beauty to which you refer every beautiful thing that you see outside yourself.’’46 Memory thus not only preserves external experience but retains inwardly some kind of innate knowledge, a theory closely related to Plato’s of the preexistence of the human soul. But Sidney, in the Arcadia, also touches on the life after death when images will no longer be required. Junius writes in the margin: ‘‘an alter alterum in futuram vitam cognituri simus’’

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[whether we shall know one another in a future life] (A 444). First, Musidorus in the debate with his friend Pyrochles over the life after death—for they are expecting execution—links memory to the senses and states that ‘‘with the death of bodie and sences (which are not onely the beginning, but dwelling and nourishing of passions, thoughts and imaginations) they fayling, memorie likewise failes, which riseth onely out of them; & then is there left nothing, but the intellectuall part or intelligence.’’ Pyrochles, for his part, expresses more faith that their friendship will persist even after death referring to ‘‘that second delivery of ours; when void of sensible memory or memorative passion, we shall not see the colours, but lifes of all things that have bene or can be’’ (A 445).47 They agree, however, that in this life, memory depends on the senses and to that extent is of the body. Junius does not mark this passage but he underlines the whole of the song that follows, sung by Musidorus; it affirms the clarity of vision that is available only after death: ‘‘Our owly eyes, which dimm’d with passions be, / And scarce discern the dawne of comming day. / Let them be clearde, and now begin to see / Our life is but a step in dustie way’’ (A 445). The arts, having their origin in the senses but ordered by the intellect, are like a preview of the knowledge that will come with death. In this life, Sidney and Junius make clear, we cannot do without this glimpse of ultimate knowledge to refine our souls. It is within the perspective of a certain psychological and moral hierarchy that art must not only be created but be judged. In this whole endeavor, the indispensable key, and one that presupposes comparison—of natural images with inner images, and painted with poetic images—is emulation. The ‘‘mutuall relation’’ between poetry and painting has its roots in the psychology that Sidney and Junius inherited. It allows for the integration of sense and soul in the interplay of images and words as one fertilizes the other in the memory and imagination. It may be that Junius’s most important contribution to art theory is that he transforms the paragone of poetry and painting from a competitive comparison, such as Leonardo presented, into an idea of equality, or, more accurately, a unity of the arts. At the same time, emulation supplies intention and purpose for artistic expression. Junius, citing Plutarch, extends the emulation of artists with one another to their ultimate competition with nature: ‘‘Seeing then that in the contemplation of the rare

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workes of Art, we are not so much taken with the beautie it selfe, as with the successfull boldnesse of Art provoking Nature to a strife, it falleth out that not onely the Imitation of faire but of foule things also doth recreate our mindes’’ (Moralia 18A; P 1.5.7). Shakespeare had absorbed the same conception of art. In his Venus and Adonis, he describes art as at strife with nature: ‘‘Look when a painter would surpass the life / In limning out a well-proportioned steed, / His art with nature’s workmanship at strife . . .’’ (289–91). Sidney too is at strife with nature, with other writers, and with painters. If we understood this fully, perhaps we would be in a better position to understand his style with all its patterned descriptiveness, in which rhetorical emphasis, with its repetition of syllables and words, antithesis and parallels, is Sidney’s way of not only painting with words but of commenting on, and supplying markers, for the reader’s interpretation.48 One could even say that all Junius’s marginalia have no other purpose than to act as markers for his own memory.49 By giving visual, written form to his memories, he fixes in his mind the narrative flow of the Arcadia, as well as locating individual moments in a classical and rhetorical context. Busy as he is in detecting networks of allusion that only someone well educated in the classics would find, he is turning reading into a kind of game, like completing a crossword puzzle. Sidney’s own allusiveness suggests a similar playfulness. Only those in the know could play this game, whether in composing or in reading As Junius’s annotations make clear, he is intent on placing the Arcadia in the great tradition of the classics.50 It is therefore deeply embedded in the culture of its time and the revival of classical literature. Unlike printed marginalia, however, these do not close off interpretation but open it up to another dimension of thought. Whether allusions to ancient authors, rhetorical gloss, or plot summaries, Junius’s marginalia enrich his own reading, setting up trains of association; they are not designed specifically to shape anyone else’s response. The very fact that he is not consistent in annotating all parts of the work suggests how personal this activity is to him. When we turn to The Painting of the Ancients, ancient authors are no longer in the background, but center stage. Junius uses the kind of references he has in his marginalia as authorities for his argument in favor of the value of painting. As he writes in his dedication of his De pictura veterum to Charles I:

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A keen desire took hold of me to collect the lessons of the Ancients, which are now, as it were, severed from the body of the theory of art and bit by bit dispersed among the literary remains of Classical Antiquity, and to arrange the pieces in such a way as to arrive at the contours of true art; my hope being that once I had, to some degree at least, grasped in my mind the likeness of the art of the Ancients, or at least a shadow of its likeness, I might the better become equipped to comprehend the beauty of these most commendable arts themselves. (Aldrich, Fehl, and Fehl, 1:319)

Though there never was a written comprehensive theory of art in antiquity, Junius imagines that it existed in the minds of the ancients, and could be deduced from their writings on a great variety of subjects. His work, then, is a pious act, a restoration of memory, a rebuilding of a broken edifice. Junius praises the monarch for his patronage of the arts both through his collections and through his support of artists ‘‘who emulate the glory of the ancients,’’ among whom he would place Rubens. Arundel, Junius’s own patron, by collecting both antiquities and works of contemporary art created what can only be described as a treasure-house of memory. The gathering together of ancient inscriptions, for example, resembles the restoration of the dismembered body of Osiris. A similar pious act is represented by Junius’s assembling and editing of Anglo-Saxon manuscripts. His contacts with the Society of Antiquaries, which included among their number Sir Henry Spelman, William Camden, Matthew Prior, Sir Robert Cotton, and John Selden, is testimony to the conviction he shared with them that the past is worth preserving.51 Rubens’s letter to Junius, as already mentioned, refers to ‘‘the great honor to our art’’ done ‘‘by digging out again with such diligence, this immense treasure from all of antiquity, and by making it available to the public in such excellent order.’’52 Junius himself in his Painting praises Arundel for commissioning prints to be made of works in his collection so that they might be made available to the public. The desire to share the memory of the past, the educational element in the enterprise of Arundel and Junius, is a corollary of their hope to domesticate antiquity in England.53 What Sidney and Junius do with this treasure is to bring the past into the present in new configurations: ‘‘from known shapes, he fashions a thing unknown.’’54 In a sense, Junius, though not,

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like Sidney, inventing a work of art, is nevertheless making something new both in his treatise on painting and in his marginalia, which supply a new context for interpreting the Arcadia. We in our turn may make a commentary on the commentary, thus helping the seed propagated by Sidney to keep growing.55 What kind of memory does such a tale as the Arcadia, told in such a way, stir in the listener? It will remind him of buried memories; it will bestow new memories for the future. It will not speak in abstractions that elude the soul by offering precepts powerless to change behavior. As an imitation of life, a story holds the mirror up to nature. It is not simply a picture-language or schematic allegory but a transforming experience, moving, rather than simply teaching. The common goal of the arts, as Sidney and Junius agree, is to ‘‘teach, delight, and moove.’’ Citing Cicero, Junius states as the duty of the arts ‘‘that they should teach; it is for their owne credit that they should delight; it is altogether requisite that they should moove and stirre our minde. Witty things teach us: curious things delight us: grave things moove us: and he is the best Artist, who is best provided of all these things’’ (Cicero, De optimo genere oratorum 1.3ff., 2.5ff.; P 3.7.2). This passage reads like a summary of Sidney’s argument in his Defence of Poesie. It is a statement that implies both purpose and hierarchy, in which delighting and teaching are instrumental in moving the mind of the recipient. Such a test of art puts it squarely in competition with nature, in its fullest sense, as it impinges on us and moves us in our daily lives. To this end, the efforts of poet and painter are equally bent. Yet, if their works imitate nature, it is a nature ordered and comprehensible, a nature that gives us a memory with a frame around it.56

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Appendix I Longinus

IN HISTORIES OF CRITICISM IN ENGLAND, ONE LOOKS IN VAIN FOR A reference to the earliest use of Longinus’s treatise Peri hupsous, best known in English translations as On the Sublime. No doubt this omission is due to the fact that the earliest use appears in Junius’s De pictura veterum (1637) and his translation, The Painting of the Ancients (1638). A book on Longinus and English Criticism, published in 1934 by T. R. Henn, makes no mention of Junius.1 Even when Junius is cited for his place in the development of artistic theory in the eighteenth century, as in Lawrence Lipking’s 1970 book The Ordering of the Arts in EighteenthCentury England,2 no reference is made to the significance of his use of Longinus. A standard modern text with English translation, originally published in 1899 by W. Rhys Roberts, contains an appendix with brief accounts of the history of Longinus in various countries. For England, it is stated that the first edition, by Robert Langbaine, appeared in 1636 and that it was translated into English by John Hall, a disciple of Milton, in 1652.3 But apart from a passing reference to Longinus in a list of ancient critics drawn up by Milton in his Tractate of Education (1644), it seems that England had to wait for Boileau’s French translation of 1674 to become aware of Longinus’s importance for criticism. Before that, it is assumed that if he was known at all in England, it was only as one of a number of ancient rhetoricians. Credit must be given, however, to a short article published by T. B. J. Spencer in 1957 entitled ‘‘Longinus in English Criticism: Influences before Milton.’’4 He not only cites a number of passages from Junius’s treatise but also one from George Chapman’s Epistle Dedicatory’’ to his Odysses in 1612. This latter reference shows Chapman taking issue with Longinus for denigrating the Odyssey in comparison with the Iliad. It is followed, in Spencer’s article, by three pages consisting mainly of quotations from Jun227

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ius but with little assessment of their importance. The one real exception to the general dearth of commentary on this subject is the recent edition of The Painting of the Ancients, by Keith Aldrich, Philipp Fehl, and Raina Fehl. In the words of the editors: ‘‘It was through Junius that this master of the sublime was first introduced to modern readers who cared about art and the love of beauty’’ (lxiv). As Junius argued in the concluding remarks to both the Latin editions of his work—1637 and 1694—he was justified in applying passages from ancient works on oratory or the art of poetry, such as those of Cicero, Horace, and Quintilian, to the visual arts because of ‘‘the close affinity which joins these arts one to another.’’5 It is because of this ‘‘close affinity’’ that he applies the words of Longinus to the visual arts, putting painting in the place of oratory. Moreover, this affinity was attested by numerous ancient writers themselves, in the form of passing analogies. In the Renaissance, thanks in part to great achievements in art and literature, ut pictura poesis took on new significance as a humanist ideal for both poetry and painting. Sidney had made this principle the cornerstone of his defense of poetry on grounds that it affirmed the moving power of the poetic image; he had also drawn attention to the imagination as the source of the poet’s invention. The poet’s ‘‘idea’’ was to take precedence over the imitation of nature; in fact, Aristotelian mimesis, although present, is now strongly colored by a Neoplatonic notion of the artist as outdoing nature. Even without the benefit of Longinus, Sidney, perhaps with the help of Italian art theorists such as Lomazzo and Zuccaro, had developed a concept of invention as primarily the work of the imagination or fantasia.6 No longer is it the inventio of rhetoricians or the finding of materials to make a convincing argument. Apart from Longinus, Junius, like Sidney, had Quintilian’s discussion of phantasiai or visiones: ‘‘things absent are presented to our imagination with such extreme vividness that they seem actually to be before our very eyes . . . Some writers,’’ he continues, ‘‘describe the possession of this power of vivid imagination, whereby things, words and actions are presented in the most realistic manner, by the Greek word euphantasiotos.’’7 In this kind of imaging, there is, however, a test to be met. Junius, following Longinus, distinguishes true magnificence, or sublimity of style, from false magnificence. It is assumed, as

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everywhere in the classical tradition, that there is such a thing as the unchanging human heart and the sanity that sets bounds to fantasy; what is depicted must have ‘‘a relation to what is really existing and visible,’’ or be ‘‘grounded upon the true nature of things’’ (P 1.3.12). The test of greatness in art is that ‘‘which doth still return unto our thoughts, which we can hardly or rather not at all, put out of our minde, but the memorie of it sticketh close on us and will not be rubbed out’’ (7.3–4; P 3.1.15). False magnificence, on the other hand, ‘‘seemes rather to arise out of a tumultuous distemper of troubled and disturbed phantasies’’ (Longinus 3.1; P 3.1.15). What impresses at first may turn out, when examined ‘‘in a true light,’’ to be contemptible. A display of immoderate passion, as of one besotted with drink, is treated as an indecorum that reminds us of Hamlet’s advice to the players, not to ‘‘saw the air too much’’ with their hands or ’’tear a passion to tatters’’ (3.2.4–10). With this caution, in which Junius follows Longinus closely, let us turn to an example of the prophetic trance as it affects poets: ‘‘the Poets impelled by the sudden heate of a thoroughly stirred Phantasie, or rather transported as by a propeticall trance, doe cleerely behold the round rings of prettily dancing Nymphs, together with the ambushes of lurking lecherous Satyrs . . .’’ (P 1.4.6). Now painters had not generally been thought of in terms of prophetic trances, either in the ancient world or in the Renaissance.8 Their technical skill and powers of invention in terms of mimesis, or the imitation of nature, were more important. Michelangelo, it is true, spoke of ‘‘l’alta fantasia’’ as his inspiration.9 But there were still lingering doubts about how reliable phantasia was. Ripa’s 1625 description of this personified concept refers to her as a powerful force, able to control the other faculties, while self-absorbed in isolation from external reality. Spenser too describes the room of Phantastes in the Castle of Alma, as full of ‘‘idle thoughts and fantasies, / Devices, dreames, opinions unsound / . . . And all that fained is, as leasings, tales, and lies’’ ( FQ 2.9.51). Junius, like Sidney, is careful to put controls on the operations of the imagination. Nevertheless, the first stage of composition, invention, was more and more being assigned to the imagination and less and less viewed as the finding of materials already in existence. Longinus, whose Peri hupsous was first printed in Basel by Francesco Robortelli in 1554, is rediscovered at a time in history when the

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individual inspiration of the artist or his genius was in demand.10 Longinus notes that the term phantasia had come into fashion ‘‘for the situation in which enthusiasm and emotion make the speaker see what he is saying and bring it visually before his audience. . . . rhetorical visualization has a different intention from that of the poets; in poetry the aim is astonishment, in oratory it is clarity. Both, however, seek emotion and excitement’’ (15.1).11 Substituting painting for oratory, Junius keeps this distinction, arguing that painters aim more at ‘‘perspicuitie’’: ‘‘what the Poets conceive, hath most commonly a more fabulous excellencie and altogether surpassing the truth; but in the phantasies of Painters, nothing is so commendable as that there is both possibilitie and truth in them’’ (15.8; P 1.4.6). As Junius says elsewhere, ‘‘the ancient Artificers’’ did not ‘‘neglect Similitude: ‘it is expected that Statues resemble a man,’ sayth Longinus’’ (36.3; P 3.2.7). Here he omits the rest of Longinus’s statement contrasting the aim of similitude, or likeness, for visual artists with the ‘‘something higher than human’’ that is sought in literature. To illustrate how the imagination enters into the writing of poetry, Junius refers to Ovid’s story of Phaethon and the way it seems like an eyewitness account.12 He repeats Longinus’s commentary on Euripides’ lost tragedy Phaethon to emphasize this point, that the dramatist could never ‘‘have conceived the least shadow of this dangerous enterprise, if he had not been as if it were present with the unfortunate youth’’ (15.4; P 1.4.6). The imagination of the poet transforms words into picture, just as Sidney and Junius argue. Even contemporary references to the difference between picture and epigram in emblems indicate that picture appeals to those who are less educated and who require a visual presentation of the subject. Or, put more positively, as Leonardo argues, painting ‘‘gives as much pleasure to the noblest sense [sight] as any work created by nature,’’ whereas poetry, less directly, has to reach the imagination ‘‘through the inferior sense of hearing.’’13 The paragone, or rivalry of the arts, led to much speculation about which art best imitates nature.14 Intent on defending the high calling of the painter, Junius refers to ‘‘that same Perspicuitie, the brood and only daughter of Phantasie, so highly commended by Longinus, for whosoever meeteth with an evident and clear sight of things present, must needs bee mooved as with the [actual] presence of things’’ (P

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1.4.6). His use of the word ‘‘perspicuitie’’ suggests another rhetorical term—enargeia, the vividness of description sought by both orators and poet in their use of words, and which Quintilian had directly related to phantasy. Above all, phantasy, according to Junius, can accomplish what imitation cannot: ‘‘these Arts would alwayes have been at a stay, or rather growne worse and worse if Phantasy had not supplied what Imitation could not performe’’ (P 1.3.2). It is, as Sidney explains, a matter in the one case, of forming an image of the visible, or what the artist has before him to copy; in the other, of forming an image of the invisible, as, for example, to paint a picture of Lucretia, whom the painter never saw but must try to represent in all her virtue. Here phantasy comes to the aid of the painter who has no immediate model or who must so transfigure his model that he or she becomes a compelling image. Taking up the idea in Plato’s Ion of a chain that links the divine, the artist, and the viewer or reader, Junius calls upon Longinus to explain how ‘‘Art by the helpe of that same Perspicuitie doth seeme to obtaine easily of a man what shee forceth him to, and though she doth ravish the minds and hearts of them that view her workes, yet doe they not feel themselves violently carried away, but think themselves gently led to a liking of what they see’’ (15.1; P 1.4.6). In Socrates’ words, ‘‘the Muse herself makes people possessed, and from these possessed persons there hangs a chain of others, possessed with the same enthusiasm. . . . You know then that the spectator is the last of the rings which I described as taking their force from the Heraclean stone’’ [the magnet].15 One of Longinus’s chief contributions to artistic theory is the emphasis he places on the imagination of the audience or viewer as essential to the artistic experience. No longer are they considered simply passive recipients but rather active participants in the re-creation of the work of art. The effect of the inspirational chain is also evident in the transmission of ancient works to modern people. Junius cites Longinus as rightly saying: Many are carried away by another mans spirit as by a divine inspiration . . . even as the report goeth that Pythia the Priest of Apollo is suddenly surprised when she approacheth unto the trivet . . . and that the priest filled with this divine power, doth instantly prophecie by inspiration. Even so do we see, that from the loftiness of the Antients

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there doe flow some little streames into the mindes of their imitators, so that they find themselves compelled to follow their greatnesse for company, though else of their owne accord, they are very little given to these enthusiasticall fitts. (13.2.4; P 3.1.15)

This statement alters the ordinary sense of imitation to make it less a copying of style or theme and more an inspiration to produce something that emulates the spirit of the ancients. Invention now comes to include all aspects of the work of art, not simply the initial stage of finding the fitting means to express a subject. Junius shows how the whole air of a work, comprising its subject, disposition, and ornamentation, must be unified by a comprehensive vision of the work. He quotes Longinus, saying he ‘‘speaketh well to the purpose when he sayth, ‘We see the skil of invention, the order and disposition of things, as it sheweth it selfe, not in one or two parts only, but in the whole composition of the work, and that hardly [with difficulty] too’ ’’(1.4; P 3.7.1). When all the elements are united, the effect is one of ‘‘this inimitable grace, equally diffused and dispersed through the whole worke, as it is not had so easily, cannot be discerned so easily.’’ From Longinus, Junius draws the essence of his analogy between poetry and painting, their mutual dependence on the imagination, however much they differ in their means of representation and expression. By transferring Longinus’s remarks on poetry and oratory to poetry and painting, he compels us to see, as well, their difference, not in Lessing’s terms of space-arts and timearts, but in terms of the impact on the viewer or listener: the difference between perspicuity and astonishment. Yet, since both are the offspring of phantasy, even this difference is bridged as we consider the transformation of the mind of viewer or reader by the work of art: ‘‘our minde must in a manner bee transformed unto the nature of the conceived things’’ (P 3.1.5). This, more than any modern account of collapsing the distance between author and audience, is a startling and graphic way of describing the overwhelming impact of the artist’s imagination on the recipient.16 These arts share the same basis in the imagination, which enables readers or listeners to translate words into images, and viewers to interpret colored marks on a canvas or a white marble statue as a living reality. The foundation of the ut pictura poesis principle lies, not simply in a common subject matter, but deep

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within the mind—what Junius calls ‘‘the inward Imaginations.’’ The idea of a chain reaching from the Muse to the spectator or reader, with the artist as intermediary, continues to be a metaphor of value in any consideration of the inexplicable power of genius. Although Junius is using Longinus primarily to support his theory of fine art, his argument is just as valid for literary criticism. In stressing the eyewitness account, or representation by symbolic means, such as word, paint, or marble, he necessarily involves the viewer or reader in the process of creating an ostensible reality. Like the ancients, he assumes that the images produced by the imagination are analogous to sensory images. As he says, ‘‘it is the nature of phantasy to lay up the prints delivered to her by sence’’ and to seal them up in the memory after ‘‘the visible things are gone out of sight.’’ In the alembic of the imagination or phantasy, there is a constant interaction between these images, in their ever-shifting forms, and the words that identify, name, and interpret them. Junius helps to give us a psychology of art, based on classical rhetoric, but going beyond it, with the help of Longinus, to raise such ultimate questions as what constitutes grace and greatness in art.

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Appendix 2 The Philostrati and Callistratus

THE PHILOSTRATI AND CALLISTRATUS, SOPHISTS OF THE THIRD CENtury A.D., were important sources for Junius in developing his theory of painting. Their descriptions of works of art, whether real or imaginary, provided him with key examples not only of the dignity and purpose of the visual arts but also of the proper way to respond to them. He may well be the first to use these authors for purposes of criticism, rather than simply as descriptions of ancient art.1 Ekphrasis was part of the progymnasmata, exercises in composition for schoolboys.2 Vivid description, bringing the scene before the eyes of the listener, was considered essential to oratory and is discussed by Cicero and Quintilian as essential to moving an audience. In fact, ekphrasis was not originally defined as a description of a work of art but, rather, a description of a person, place, time, or event—everything required in narrative.3 In particular, events such as battles would require a chronological sequence in the description. As a method of amplification, Erasmus discusses ekphrasis, or evidentia (vividness) as not simply ‘‘setting out a subject in bare simplicity, [but] we fill in the colours and set it up like a picture to look at, so that we seem to have painted the scene rather than described it, and the reader seems to have seen rather than read.’’4 He explains that in order to present a clear picture to the audience, we must first ‘‘mentally review the whole nature of the subject and everything connected with it, its very appearance in fact.’’ A similar emphasis on the primacy of the mental image is to be found in Junius’s account of painting, both for the artist himself and for the viewer. In general, the narrative function of ekphrasis continues to dominate even in descriptions of static works of art. What this means is that the imagination is called into play because the speaker necessarily goes beyond the visible in order to give the 234

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whole story as it is implied in the art object. Emotional appeal, as in Quintilian’s references to vivid description (6.2.29–36), remains inseparable from the description. As we shall see, Junius turns to the Philostrati and Callistratus precisely for their emphasis on the moving power of the image. And this power derives from the imitation of nature, not in a narrowly interpreted copying of features of person, place, or action, but in an imaginative comprehension of their character. To Junius, himself a literary scholar, the rhetoric of the ekphrasis is transcended in its lively representation, so that words create pictures to move an audience. Listeners or readers turn into viewers.5 From one point of view, these are rhetorical exercises in the art of description but from Junius’s point of view, they are alive as documents of the imaginative response to painting and sculpture; they lend a voice to the ‘‘dumb poesy’’ of these arts. He considered that the affinity of the two arts as stated by the Younger Philostratus in the proem to his Imagines is incontrovertible: ‘‘the Art of Painting . . . is found to be a kin to Poesie; seeing both do therein agree, that as well the one as the other requireth a forward Phantasie’’ (Phil. the Younger, proem.6; P 1.4.6). Junius continues with the same author’s words: ‘‘The Poets bring the presence of the Gods upon a stage, and all what is pompous, grave, and delightfull. The painters likewise doe designe as many things upon a boord, as the Poets possibly can utter.’’ Although ekphrasis is today, in general, no longer highly regarded as a method of art criticism, it has for Junius the value of representing in words what painters and sculptors have accomplished in more tangible media. The equivalence of words and paint or marble or bronze in his eyes gave the descriptions of the Philostrati and Callistratus an exemplary value: ekphrasis is itself a work of verbal art and, at the same time, a valuable form of criticism for the visual arts. Junius finds in their comments on the art of painting—which in the Renaissance includes sculpture and all the arts of pictorial representation—the wisdom of the ancients, for which he is no more than a conduit. Yet in weaving together passages from these writers and in interpreting them by means of translation, paraphrase, and his own reflections on them, he offers a study of the workings of the imagination in the arts that is important not only for art criticism but for literary criticism. Asserting the dignity of picture at the beginning of his treatise,

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he finds support in two passages from Philostratus that were also considered important enough by Ben Jonson to be included in his critical treatise known as the Discoveries. In the first of these passages, Junius quotes Philostratus on imitation as ‘‘an ancient invention, and altogether agreeing with Nature’’ (Phil., 1.proem.l; P 1.1.4). As an art of imitation, painting necessarily has as its subject Nature, but this word, which appeared not to need defining by Junius, may for us need some explanation. It is clear from the various contexts in which he uses it that he means not only the visible world but the invisible, or what exists only in the mind. The relationship of phantasy or imagination to the visible world is important to him, especially for the part played by memory in storing up sense images that can be used both in creating works of art and in judging them. These mental images help to provide a measure of the truth of a depiction. Words, pictures, or statues equally imitate nature. For Junius, the Philostrati and Callistratus illustrate this equivalence in their descriptions of works of art. Interspersed, as well, in these display pieces are comments on the workings of illusionistic art: how the imagination of the viewer becomes involved in the transformation of paint or marble or bronze into flesh and blood and other natural phenomena. One of the statements from the elder Philostratus that summed up the relationship between poetry and painting in their mutual concern with truth appears as part of Junius’s defense of painting: ‘‘Whosoever doth not embrace Picture . . . wrongeth the truth, he wrongeth also the wisedome of the Poets; seeing both are alike busie about the shapes and deeds of the Worthies’’ (Phil. 1.1.l–4; P 1.4.2). Here, the Worthies are the heroes who have earned lasting fame; they stand for the moral purpose of art. Ben Jonson also liked this statement, although he chose to include in his parallel of poetry and painting the usual paragone as interpreted by poets, that ‘‘the Pen is more noble than the Pencil. For that can speak to the understanding; the other, but to the Sense.’’6 The deceptions of painting were considered to be even more compelling than those of literary fictions, because they appealed directly to the sense of sight rather than having to pass through the intermediary of words. Another of Philostratus’s comments on the value of painting is adduced in Junius’s treatise to defend the deceptions of art: ‘‘ ‘This deceit,’ sayth Philostratus, ‘as it is pleasant, so doth it not

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deserve the least reproach: for to be possessd with things that are not, as if they were; and to be so led with them, as that wee (without suffering any hurt by them) should thinke them to be; cannot but be proper for the reviving of our minde, and withall free from all manner of blame’ ’’ (Phil. the Younger, proem.4; P 1.4.3). Deception in a good sense was one of Junius’s parallels between poetry and painting.7 It particularly challenged the literalism of moralists who condemned the arts because it asserted the value of artistic illusion for educating the soul. Consideration of the morality of art, and hence an argument in its defense, sometimes included a reference to its divine origins. Here too Junius is able to quote Philostratus, who traces the origins of art to the gods: ‘‘ ‘Certainly,’ saith Philostratus, ‘if any man will speake after the manner of Sophists, Picture is an invention of the Gods, as well for that same painting which the severall seasons of the yeare doe paint the meads withall, as for those things that doe appear in the skie’ ’’ (Phil. 1 proem. 1; P 2.1.1). The deus artifex who makes of nature a beautiful picture is a favorite topos of such Renaissance writers as Vasari and Castiglione, for nothing could better indicate both the antiquity of painting and its divine origin. With book 3 of The Painting of the Ancients, Junius finds even more occasion for making use of the Sophists’ descriptions of works of art. He has now set himself the task of considering the means of expression, as well as the ordering of the whole, which he calls grace and which constitutes the perfection of art. For almost all the topics of book 3, he finds a suitable quotation from the Philostrati, and occasionally from Callistratus, in support of his argument on the methods and aims of pictorial artists. These are: invention, or choice of subject and the appropriateness of the manner in which it is to be treated; design, or what Junius calls proportion or symmetry, which includes perspective to make a good likeness to nature; color and the art of painting in light and shade; motion or life, or character manifested in action; disposition or an ‘‘Oeconomical placing and ordering of the whole worke’’ (P, Argument to book 3). Beyond these is the grace that unites all features of a picture. To illustrate the importance of invention in its relationship to nature,8 Junius refers specifically to Philostratus’s Imagines: ‘‘And as we perceive here that all such kinde of ignorance [that is, of nature] turneth to the discredit of the Artificer, so may we

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learne out of Philostratus, what a readie way of Invention the perfect knowledge of naturall things suggesteth unto us.’’ He proceeds to cite Philostratus’s description of a bridge, which the painter has, with decorum, accommodated to the beauty of nature in his picture of marshes by having a male palm tree lean across the water in longing for a female palm. Here, says Junius, the painter ‘‘fetcheth a sudden Invention out of the nature of Palme-trees: see Philostratus his description of that and other Pictures’’ (Phil. 1.9.6; P 3.1.8). The pretense that Philostratus uses in these descriptions is that the speaker is showing a tenyear-old boy around an art gallery and telling him what to notice in a picture. What the speaker has to say in turn becomes helpful to all would-be connoisseurs. Indeed appreciation of art and its practice were considered to require the same kind of knowledge. Thus Junius finds in the Younger Philostratus an emphasis on another aspect of nature; that is, human nature: ‘‘Whosoever meaneth to doe any good with Painting . . . must understand the nature of man thoroughly, and know how to expresse the markes of every one, his manner, guise, behaviour, in them also that say and doe nothing; he must discerne what force there is in the constitution of his cheekes, in the temperature of his eyes, in the casting of his eye-browes. To be short, he must observe all such things as doe helpe a mans judgement’’ (Phil. the Younger, proem 3; P 3.1.8). Junius continues the quotation with its list of the different emotional types whom the painter should know how to depict. As a dumb poesie, painting must make a picture speak through the expressive features of a person or place. Thus, instead of characterizing Bacchus by means of his usual attributes, such as the ivy he wears or the thyrsus he carries, the painter who represents him by the love shown in his face for Ariadne receives special praise from Philostratus and provides an example for Junius of fit characterization. Ancient artificers knew the properties of natural passions and affections, setting the example for Renaissance painters to emulate. ‘‘ ‘Picture is ever most carefull of the truth,’ sayth Philostratus’’ (Phil. 1.23.2; P 3.1.12). Junius goes on to say that ‘‘Picture in the expressing of the Truth’’ observes two rules: ‘‘shee refuseth to expresse what is not in nature, and loveth not to omit what is in nature.’’ So important to Junius is the truth of art, or its faithfulness to nature, that he gives as an example Philostratus’s description of the horses in the picture of Amphiaraus, one

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of the Seven Against Thebes, in which truth matters more than beauty: ‘‘the sweating horses being all overlaid with a thinne kinde of dust . . . did seeme lesse faire, but yet truer’’ (Phil. 1.27.2; P 3.1.12). In another example of when beauty should be subordinated to truth in picture, Junius cites the description by the younger Philostratus of a picture of Hesione, about to be devoured by a sea monster: ‘‘the occasion doth not permit . . . to make an accurate expression of her beautie, seeing the feare of her life, and the agony of those things shee saw before her eyes, as it did corrupt the flower of nature, so did it for all that leave unto the beholders sufficient markes to conjecture her perfection by the things present’’(Phil. the Younger 12.8; P 3.1.13). In other words, even in her distressed state, the perfection of her beauty may be deduced. In treating invention in the visual arts, Junius cannot overlook the importance of poetry. Alberti, writing for the benefit of Renaissance artists, had advised them to turn to the poets for their inventions; Junius finds in the ancients the same emphasis. He notes, for example, that Callistratus in his description of a statue by Praxiteles of Bacchus ‘‘tooke his invention out of Euripides,’’ as did other sculptors when they portrayed Medea (P 3.1.15). But the most famous example of an artist’s drawing inspiration from a poet is Phidias’s statue of Olympian Zeus, which he declared came from Homer. Junius alludes to this story more than once, not only in the context of its most familiar source in Dio Chrysostom but also as it is used by other writers, particularly Cicero (P 1 .2.2).9 The next topic that Junius takes up, design or true proportion, again leads him to Philostratus for the notion that by symmetry or harmony, ‘‘a due composition and agreement of all the parts among themselves draweth and delighteth the eyes.’’ Beyond this delight, there is a deeper meaning: ‘‘ ‘By Symmetrie, Art draweth neere unto Reason,’ sayth Philostratus’’ (Phil. 1.proem.l; P 3.2.3). But art also draws close to nature when it keeps ‘‘Harmonie within a measure agreeable to Nature’’ by aiming, for example, at reasonable proportions in the representation of the human body. There is no suggestion either in Philostratus or in Junius of subscribing to a theory of mathematical proportions but only of striving for convincing illusion.10 One aspect of proportion or harmony is what Junius calls ‘‘analogy’’ or what we would call perspective. He gives two exam-

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ples from Philostratus. The first is taken from the picture of Pelops, who received a golden chariot from the sea in answer to his prayer to Poseidon: ‘‘Let us consider the laborious paine of the painter,’’ sayth he, ‘‘for it is no small trouble, in my opinion, to geare foure horses together, and not so much as to confound any of their legges, howsoever their gentlenesse be not without fiercenesse. The one standeth stil, shewing himself loth to stand: the other goeth about to carvet [prance]. In the third you may see a ready willingnesse to obey. The fourth rejoyceth in Pelops his beauty, inlarging his nosthrils as if he were a neighing, etc.’’ (Phil. 1.30.lff; P 3.5.12)

The emphasis of this description is more on variety of expression than on perspective, but it is clear that without clarity of disposition, there could be no convincing illusion. A more detailed description of figures in perspective is contained in Philostratus’s description of the siege of Thebes, which Junius quotes and which may well have influenced Shakespeare in his description of the wall-painting in his Rape of Lucrece:11 ‘‘The painters device is very sweet and pleasant,’ sayth the elder Philostratus,’’ ’‘for having filled the city wals with armed men, he maketh it so that some are seen at their ful length, the legs of some are hidden, others do but shew their halfe bodies, their brests, their heads, their head-pieces, their spear-heads. These things are nothing els but a certaine kinde of Proportion [perspective], seeing the eye must be beguiled after this manner whilst it passeth on through and with a convenient distance of such circles.’’ (Phil. 1.4.2; P 3.5.12)

Although the explanation of the procedure is perhaps not crystal clear in Junius’s translation, or in Philostratus, for that matter, he values perspective as a method of securing illusion in picture, and he goes on to give two more examples from the Philostrati: the description of the sea monster in the picture of Hesione, where parts of the body are underwater, and the description of Olympus’s reflection as he gazes into a pool of water. But always the technical means of expression are less noted both by the Philostrati and by Junius than the expression itself and the wonder of the illusion created. The active engagement of the viewer with the pictures described leads to a questioning of what is going on, as if indeed it were happening before one’s eyes. A spatial con-

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figuration is turned into a chronological, reminding us of the rhetorical links between ekphrasis and narrative. Only occasionally, in keeping with the ancient tradition of ekphrasis as a literary genre, is attention drawn to the artist’s method of depiction.12 What is less usual about the Imagines of the Elder and Younger Philostratus is that their ekphrases are not set in a larger narrative context, such as an epic but rather exist independently of one another as pictures.13 Their importance to Junius is that they show the viewer how to respond to pictures both as emotional expression and as works of art. They remind us of what we already know from our own experience. As he prepares to discuss color in pictures, Junius first speaks of ‘‘lineall pictures,’’ that is, those dependent on line and using black and white only. He sees them as ‘‘the first draught only of what is further to be garnished with pleasant and lively colours’’ (P 3.2.12).14 He notes how these pictures require ‘‘good and proportionable designe’’ (disegno), and how they reflect the judgment of the artist as he tries out his mental image on paper.15 He seems to agree with Philostratus’s praise of painting above sculpture, in another version of the paragone: ‘‘Those that cast in brasse cannot attaine to the least part of that vigorous force which is in the eye: but picture knoweth how to imitate a brown, gray, or black eye; she knoweth how to expresse the severall colours of golden, of ruddy and of bright flaxen haire, the colour of cloaths also and of armour. She knoweth how to represent Bedchambers, houses, forrests, mountaines, fountaines, the aire at length, which incloseth all these things’’ (Phil. 1.proem.2; P 3.3.2). From color, Junius moves to light and shadow as giving relief in a picture. Here he takes note of Philostratus’s comment on a picture of an ivory Venus: ‘‘ ‘The goddesse will not seeme to be painted,’ sayth he, ‘she sticketh out so much as to make one thinke that it were an easie matter to take hold of her’ ’’ (Phil. 2.1.1; P 3.3.6). He also quotes the Younger Philostratus’s reference to the use of shadow to suggest depth, in the picture of Pyrrhus: ‘‘ ‘The brownenesse of the ditch,‘ sayth he, ‘is cunningly wrought by the Artificer, who intended by this meanes to signifie what deepenesse it had’ ’’ ( Phil. the Younger 10.15; P 3.3.7). Painters who, on the other hand, aspire to show the brilliance of precious stones do so more by making them appear bright than by imitating their color. Similarly, gold, which in a picture is, ac-

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cording to Philostratus, ‘‘pleasant to the heart and eie of the beholders,’’ is not to be shown by means of gilding but by ‘‘the most exact art of imitating gold it selfe in lively colours’’ (Phil. 2.31.1; P 3.3.8).16 But in every kind of picture, says Junius, there should be some brightness ‘‘intermingled for ornament’’; it can hardly please the eye, ‘‘unlesse there appeare in it some bright spots tempting and rowsing our sight with their sudden, quicke, and flickring light.’’ The next aspect of color that Junius discusses is the imperceptible transition from one color to another, which he calls Harmoge. One of his illustrations is the color of a rainbow; another is the combination of man and horse in the centaur, for which he draws on Philostratus’s description of Chiron, the tutor of Achilles: ‘‘Chiron is painted,’ sayth Philostratus, ‘after the manner of a Centaure: though it be no great wonder to joyne a horse with a man; but to joyne and to unite them so cunningly as to impart unto them both the same beginning and ending, yea to beguile the eyes which goe about to know where the man parteth with the horse, is in my opinion the worke of an excellent Painter’ ’’ (Phil. 2.2.2; P 3.3.9).17 For the topic of motion, or the manifestation of character in action, Junius finds a great many examples both in the Philostrati and in Callistratus, since this is the aspect of painting and sculpture that most makes it speak to the viewer and lends itself to the kind of description that these writers provide. Of particular importance is what the eyes in painted figures reveal; he borrows Philostratus’s expression ‘‘the meaning and intention of the eyes’’ to sum up both the character and the emotional state of the person represented (Phil. 2.9.5; P 3.4.3). Similarly, he cites Callistratus: ‘‘For it is not enough that carved and painted images resemble the proportion and colour of the life, unlesse there doe likewise discover it selfe in the demeanour of the whole body, but especially in the cast of the eyes, some kinde of vigour answerable unto the severall occasions and circumstances of the represented history’’ (Cal. 5.4; P 3.4.3). For however static a statue in its physical condition, it must imply action. Junius continues, ‘‘Callistratus therefore had good reason to call Statuarie ‘an Art of counterfeiting manners,’ seeing it is not her onely worke to expresse the true lineaments of the bodies imitated, but to represent also their severall demeanours, according to the difference of the resembled persons’’ (Cal. 10.2; P 3.4.3). A list of

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examples from Philostratus follows: ‘‘Ulysses is manifestly discerned by his austeritie and vigilancie . . . ; Menelaus by his gentle mildenesse; Agamemnon by a certaine kinde of divine Majesty. . . .’’ (Phil. 2.7.2; P 3.4.3). There are too many examples, even for Junius, who fears that he will be ‘‘too tedious’’ if he transcribes ‘‘all such expressions.’’ After mentioning the pictures of Amphion playing on the harp and Olympus piping, ‘‘as described in Philostratus,’’ he adds, ‘‘Callistratus maketh likewise a most lively description of a piping satyr,’’ and he refers the reader to these authors for more examples of expressive posture and gesture, or what he calls ‘‘this life of manners.’’ Lacking it, ‘‘the whole labour of art . . . is but a dry, barren, and unpleasant toile, without either soule or spirit’’ (P 3.4.4). To suggest how lifelike good painting is, Junius quotes Philostratus’s way of describing paintings of the sleeping Ariadne or a sleeping satyr in the picture of Midas: ‘‘ ‘the Satyr sleepeth,’ sayth he, ‘let us speake softly, least he doe awake out of his sleepe, and spoile the whole sight’ ’’ (Phil. 1.22.1; P 3.4.4).18 This is a metaphoric way of describing a convincing illusion—the only way, in fact, that the illusion created by art can be described. Since Callistratus lays particular stress on overcoming the limitations of marble in his descriptions of statues, Junius recommends the study of these as ‘‘worth your paines’’: ‘‘you shall learne that it is a singular perfection of Art, when there is in the worke such a lively expression of passion, when there is in the whole bodie such a sweet swelling softnesse, and such a neere resemblance of the truth that the image cannot well be discerned from the thing it self whose image it beareth’’ (P 3.4.6). It is the expressiveness of a work of art, rather than a mere copying of features, that most concerns the Philostrati and Callistratus and that leads Junius to them. They are trying to educate the reader even as they show their literary skill in description. Everything all three have to say resolves itself into a copia on truth in art. The last aspect of the artist’s craft that Junius deals with is disposition. Here he touches on the critical question of how the painter is to represent the passage of time within the limits of his frame: ‘‘ ‘Picture pourtrayeth what is alreadie done, what is adoing, and what as yet is to be done,’ sayth Philostratus’’ (Phil. 1.12.5; P 3.5.5 ). This is what later became known as the painter’s choice of the critical moment,19 the moment that will imply both past and future action. Junius stresses the need to unify the ele-

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ments of a picture by subordinating all to the central theme. He notes, for example, Philostratus’s description of a volcanic island: ‘‘ ‘The Painter hath shed a mist about the other things . . . that they might rather resemble things alreadie done, then things that are a doing’’(Phil. 2.17.4, 5; P 3.5.6). He also quotes with approval the comment by the Younger Philostratus on a picture of five hunstmen: ‘‘ ‘Good gods,’ sayth he, ‘how wonderfull and how sweet is the perspicuitie of the picture! it is easie to see therein every one his fortune’ ’’(Phil. the Younger 3.3ff; P 3.5, 11). As Junius frequently says, in drawing attention to the difference that exists between poetry and painting, for all their similarity, it is perspicuity or clarity that the painter aims at, whereas the poet aims at ‘‘astonishment.’’ Again and again he sends his reader to the Elder and Younger Philostratus, in whose writings one may see ‘‘many most accurat expressions of pictures commendable for their elegancie of disposition.’’ Here the word ‘‘accurat’’ implies perspicuity but it is balanced by the word ‘‘elegancie’’ in order to stress that clarity of disposition requires artistic sense. In the final two chapters of The Painting of the Ancients, Junius considers that a picture may have all the excellences of invention, proportion, color, life, disposition, and yet lack ‘‘that comely gracefulnesse, which is the life and soule of Art’’ (P 3.6.1). Apelles surpassed all other painters in this quality; unlike the laborious Protogenes, he knew when to take his hand from the picture.20 The similarity of this quality of grace to the sprezzatura of Castiglione’s ideal courtier is evident when Junius refers to it as a ‘‘bold and carelesse way of art, or it must at least make a shew of carelesnesse in many things.’’ He illustrates with an example from Philostratus of ‘‘this same secure and unlaboured Facilitie’’ in the picture of ‘‘many little Cupids wantonly hunting a hare, and carelesly tumbling on heaps for the eagernesse of their sportfull chace’’ (Phil. 1.6.5; P 3.6.3). Junius comments ‘‘that the Grace of this picture was infinitely graced with the confused falls of the lascivious and pampered little ones, as they were negligently represented in the worke by such another seeming error of a temerary and confidently carelesse Art; ‘the Cupids doe laugh and fall downe,’ sayth he [Philostratus], ‘one on his side, another on his face, some on their backes, and all of them in postures shewing how they missed their prey.’ ’’ The expressions ‘‘seeming error’’ and a ‘‘confidently carelesse Art’’ are reminders of Junius’s praise of ‘‘disorderly order’’ and of the art that conceals art. Once

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again, the parallel between art and nature is crucial to such a judgment.21 For the proper response to the surpassing achievements of illusion in art, Junius cites various examples, including ones of small things delicately represented, such as the spider and her ‘‘laborious net’’ as Philostratus describes them to be: ‘‘the worke of a good Artificer, and of such a one as is well acquainted with the truth of things’’ (Phil. 2.48; P 3.6.5). But this little spider—a parergon22—appears in a larger picture of Penelope and her web, or tapestry. Nothing is so strict in Junius’s response to small details, whether in the Arcadia or in a description of a picture, that he disdains the artistic skill with which they are shown. Yet he knows how to keep everything in perspective, so that he does not praise small perfections at the expense of larger ones. To show the wonder of marble in capturing the life of Narcissus, Junius turns again to Callistratus’s description of the response of viewers: ‘‘it cannot be expressed with words . . . how a stone should be so loosened as to represent the good plight of youthfull vigour, exhibiting a bodie contrary to its owne substance’’ (Call. 3.2). The way a spectator may be ravished by the beauty of a work of art is conveyed with the help of a quotation from Damascius about a Venus he saw: ‘‘I felt my soule so much touched with the lively sense of delightsomenesse, that it was not in my power to goe home, and when I went, I found my selfe forced to caste backe mine eyes now and then to the sight’’ (Photius, Bibliotheca 242; P 3.6.5). The image, that is to say, lives on in the viewer’s memory; a compulsion keeps it there. As he draws to a close, Junius advises his readers that ‘‘The true way how to consider pictures and statues, is most plainly set downe in the books of Images made by the elder and younger Philostratus, as also in Callistratus his Description of statues; whoseover readeth their workes with attention, shall questionlesse finde his desire fully satisfied’’ (P 3.7.6). The guidance that Philostratus gives in responding to a picture is illustrated by his address to the boy who accompanies him on his tour of an art gallery. When they come to a picture of islands, he suggests that they imagine that they are on a ship sailing around the islands. Junius comments, ‘‘Mark here, I pray, how Philostratus, a man exceeding well skilled in these things, taketh the spectator along with himselfe a ship boord, willeth him forget the shore and view every one of the represented circumstances as out of a ship; es-

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teeming that his mind could not apprehend the severall parts of the picture rightly, unlesse with an imaginary presence it should first saile about, conferring the fresh and newly conceived Images with the picture it selfe’’ (Phil. 2.17.1; P 3.7.8). In this example, Junius sums up the beholder’s share: how the viewer must compare his mental images with the picture itself.23 From the ekphrases of the Philostrati and Callistratus, he is able to draw very precise lessons on the appreciation of art. We may well marvel at Junius’s ability to find something beyond mere rhetorical exercises in these descriptions. But then he reads them with eyes learned in the classical literature of art; in compiling his treatise he has developed a sense of what imitation means both for the artist and for the viewer. Above all, he has shown the role of the imagination both in the creation of the work of art and in our response to it. In this understanding, he believed that these ancient authors pointed us in the right direction. The very rhetorical nature of their approach to the visual arts, the demonstration that words by themselves can create pictures, is testimony to the power of the imagination to set onstage an imitation of life. In helping to bring these arts into relationship with literature, they made them part, not only of human experience, but of human understanding. Although Sidney did not know the works of the Philostrati and Callistratus, he intuitively understood their defense of painted fictions, just as he understood Longinus’s defense of the imagination without ever having read this author.24

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Notes PREFACE 1. Frances A. Yates, ‘‘Broken Images,’’ review of John Phillips, The Reformation of Images: Destruction of Art in England 1535–1660 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1974), reprinted from New York Review of Books, May 30, 1974, in her Collected Essays: Ideas and Ideals in the North European Renaissance (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1984), 41. This statement occurs in various forms throughout her Art of Memory (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1966). See, for example, ‘‘Imagination is the intermediary between perception and thought’’ (46). 2. Elizabeth Cropper, The Ideal of Painting: Pietro Testa’s Du ¨ sseldorf Notebook (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), 161. She also notes that Junius’s treatise is ‘‘an attempt to establish the ancient tradition, or art, of painting, as the basis for the new.’’ 3. For an interesting modernist argument that ‘‘there is no essential difference between poetry and painting, no difference, that is, given for all time by the inherent natures of the media, the objects they represent, or the laws of the human mind,’’ see W. J. T. Mitchell, ‘‘Going Too Far with the Sister Arts,’’ in Space, Time, Image, Sign: Essays on Literature and the Visual Arts, ed. James A. W. Heffernan (New York: Peter Lang, 1987), 2. At the same time, he argues that ‘‘there are always a number of differences in place in a culture which allow it to sort out the distinctive qualities of its ensemble of signs and symbols.’’

INTRODUCTION 1. The catalog number is 766A15. 2. See my article ‘‘ ‘A Mutuall Emulation’: Sidney and The Painting of the Ancients,’’ in Franciscus Junius F.F. and His Circle, ed. Rolf H. Bremmer Jr. (Amsterdam and Atlanta: Rodopi, 1998), 71–92. This was my preliminary account of the annotations. In note 1, I mention that as long as these were considered the work of Isaac Vossius, they received no particular attention. To cite part of my note: ‘‘Surprisingly, the late Jan van Dorsten, a notable Sidney scholar at the University of Leiden, never published any study of these annotations. Yet a note in Jean Robertson’s edition of The Old Arcadia (Oxford, 1973), li.n2, indicates his interest: ‘Dr. J. A. van Dorsten has drawn my attention to a copy of [16]13 in the University of Leiden Library with the Waterson imprint, an inscription ‘‘Ex Bibliotheca Viri Illust Isaaci Vossii,’’ and numerous annota-

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tions in Latin which may be by Vossius himself.’ ’’ Bremmer has a preliminary list of books from the Vossius library that are annotated by Junius, in his Franciscus Junius F.F. and His Circle, 232–34. This list is also being expanded by other scholars. 3. As Junius uses the word ‘‘painting,’’ it has a much more inclusive meaning than it now has; it includes sculpture, as well as tapestries and embroideries. 4. See J. A. van Dorsten, ‘‘Sidney and Franciscus Junius the Elder,’’ in The Anglo-Dutch Renaissance: Seven Essays (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1988), 46–57. 5. For Sidney’s relationship to the Leiden humanists, see J. A. van Dorsten, Poets, Patrons, and Professors: Sir Philip Sidney, Daniel Rogers, and the Leiden Humanists (Leiden: University of Leiden Press, 1962). Van Dorsten reprints all the poems in memory of Sidney, in appendix 1. 6. For a survey of Junius’s life, see The Literature of Classical Art, ed. Keith Aldrich, Philipp Fehl, and Raina Fehl 2 vols. (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1991), 1:xxvi–xlix; Franciscus Junius, De pictura veterum libri tres (1694), ed. and trans. Colette Nativel (Geneva: Droz, 1996), 1:25–80. For more specific aspects of his life, see C. S. M. Rademaker, ‘‘Young Franciscus Junius: 1591–1621,’’ in Franciscus Junius F.F. and His Circle, 1–17, and Rolf H. Bremmer, Jr., ‘‘Retrieving Junius’s Correspondence,’’ in ibid., 199– 235. 7. I owe this information to Stephen Massil of the Huguenot Library, University College, London. 8. All quotations from Junius, The Painting of the Ancients, will be taken from The Literature of Classical Art, vol. 1. The present quotation is from P 1.5.1. Junius refers to Ovid, Tristia 1.1.41: ‘‘Poesie doth require retirednesse of the writer and leisure.’’ 9. See Sophie van Romburgh, ‘‘Why Franciscus Junius (1591–1677) Became an Anglo-Saxonist, or, the Study of Old English for the Elevation of Dutch,’’ in Appropriating the Middle Ages: Scholarship, Politics, Fraud, ed. Tom Shippey with Martin Arnold (Studies in Medievalism 11 [2001]: 12–13). 10. Junius was, in fact, buried in St. George’s Chapel and commemorated by a tablet, the tribute of Oxford University to him. 11. See Colette Nativel, ‘‘A Plea for Franciscus Junius as an Art Theoretician,’’ in Franciscus Junius F.F. and His Circle, 30–31. 12. On Arundel as a collector, see David Howarth, Lord Arundel and his Circle (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985). See also Christopher White, Anthony van Dyck: Thomas Howard, the Earl of Arundel (Malibu, CA: Getty Museum Studies on Art, 1995); David Jaffe´ et al., The Earl and Countess of Arundel: Renaissance Collectors, exhibition catalog, J. Paul Getty Museum, May 2– October 10, 1995 (Malibu, CA: Getty Museum, 1995); Stephen Orgel, ‘‘Idols of the Gallery: Becoming a Connoisseur in Renaissance England,’’ in Early Modern Visual Culture: Representation, Race, and Empire in Renaissance England, ed. Peter Erickson and Clark Hulse (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000), 251–83. 13. For a study of terms used in ancient references to Greek art, see J. J. Pollitt, The Ancient View of Greek Art: Criticism, History, and Terminology (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1974). 14. See the introduction to Literature of Classical Art, 1:lvi.n78: ‘‘The range

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of Junius’s reading in modern writers on the visual arts is difficult to assess. Similarities between his and their works are not necessarily a sign of Junius’s dependence on them. The similarities more readily bespeak a similar, if not identical comprehension of the nature of beauty and the corresponding significance of key passages in classical texts.’’ On Junius’s possible reading in more modern works, though these are not particularly well-known texts, see 1:lxiv–v. 15. Translation of the conclusion of De pictura veterum. See Franciscus Junius, in The Literature of Classical Art, 1:358. 16. For the significance of the expression for Renaissance art, see Rensselaer W. Lee, Ut Pictura Poesis: The Humanistic Theory of Painting (New York: W. W. Norton, 1967); repr. from The Art Bulletin 22 (1940): 197–269. 17. Henry Peacham, The Compleat Gentleman (1634; repr., Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1906), 107. Cf. Sir Francis Bacon, who ‘‘coming into the Earl of Arundel’s Garden, where there were a great number of Ancient statues of naked Men and Women, made stand, and as astonish’d, cryed out: ‘The Resurrection’’’ (T. Tenison, Baconiana [London, 1679], 57). 18. Peacham, 112. 19. Not even the splendid edition by Aldrich, Fehl, and Fehl identifies Junius’s handwritten corrections to the presentation copy (G.2674) in the British Library. A knowledge of Junius’s distinctive hand makes it possible to identify at least one important change in the printed text, on page 271. He has also corrected by hand one other copy in the British Library. 20. ‘‘Life of Titian,’’ in Giorgio Vasari, The Lives of the Artists: A Selection, trans. George Bull (London: Penguin Books, 1987), 1:443. 21. D. E. L. Haynes, The Arundel Marbles (Oxford: Ashmolean Museum, 1976), 9–10. Most of Arundel’s collection of ancient sculpture is now in the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford. In 1628 John Selden published the Marmora Arundelliana, on the ancient inscriptions in this collection. 22. For the Rubens letter to Junius, see The Literature of Classical Art, 1:325–30. The Van Dyck letter is much more perfunctory. See Aldrich, Fehl, and Fehl, 1:lxiv–lxvi. 23. A summary of these three strands may be found in Michael Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators: Humanist Observers of Painting in Italy and the Discovery of Pictorial Composition, 1350–1450 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), 97. 24. See The Elder Pliny’s Chapters on the History of Art, trans. K. Jex-Blake; intro. and commentary by E. Sellers (London: Macmillan, 1898). In Carel van Mander’s Het Schilder-Boeck (1604), the account of ancient artists derives from Pliny’s Natural History, book 35. Junius may well have known this work, written as it is by a fellow countryman. 25. See The Literature of Classical Art, 1:319. 26. See chapter 7 below for a discussion of these parallels. 27. For the term paragone, see Leonardo da Vinci, Paragone, trans. Irma A. Richter (London: Oxford Universitty Press, 1940); Claire J. Farago, Leonardo Da Vinci’s Paragone: A Critical Edition with a New Edition of the Text in the Codex Urbinas (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1992), chapter 1. See also Leatrice Mendelsohn, Paragoni: Benedetto Varchi’s Due Lezzioni and Cinquecento Art Theory (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982); David Summers, Michelangelo and the Language of Art (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981), pt. 1, chap. 19.

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On the paragone as related to Leonardo and other Renaissance artists, see Rona Goffen, Renaissance Rivals: Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael, Titian (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002). 28. Scholarly interest in marginalia has been growing by leaps and bounds. See, for example, H. J. Jackson, Marginalia: Readers Writing in Books (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001). For specific discussion of Renaissance marginalia, see William W. E. Slights, Managing Readers: Printed Marginalia in English Renaissance Books (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2001). See also the excellent treatment of annotations by Continental writers in Anthony Grafton, Commerce with the Classics: Ancient Books and Renaissance Readers (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997). 29. See n. 1 of my preface for reference to Phillips’s book and Yates’s review. 30. Note that the Aldrich, Fehl, and Fehl edition of The Painting of the Ancients has as an explanatory title for the introduction: ‘‘Franciscus Junius and the Defense of Art.’’ 31. No one, to my knowledge, annotated the Arcadia in so detailed and coherent a way as Junius. See, for example, the Folger Library 1593 copy, annotated by W. Blount. Many of the commentaries from the late sixteenth and early seventeenth century refer to Sidney’s wit and eloquence, as well as to his standing as the ‘‘Pith of morall, and intellectual Vertues’’ (Gabriel Harvey, Pierces Supererogation [1593], in Sidney: The Critical Heritage, ed. Martin Garret [London: Routledge], 132). See also Brian Twyne’s summaries of the various plots of the Arcadia (Corpus Christie College, Oxford, MS 263, fols. 114v–120), in Garrett, 157–66. He records striking images, sententiae, allusions to Virgil, and so on. For a recent study of other annotations, primarily dealing with plot summaries and indexes to the Arcadia, see Heidi Brayman Hackel, Reading Material in Early Modern England: Print, Gender, and Literacy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), chapter 4. This book was not published in time to be considered in the present work. 32. Cf. Edith Wharton, The Gods Arrive (New York: D. Appleton, 1932), 38: ‘‘The other day I was haranguing you about the difference between plastic expression and interpreting things in words. Utter rubbish, of course. . . . The difference is in the mind, not in the material or the tool. If words are a man’s tools, he’s got to paint or model with them . . . or compose symphonies . . . with them . . . that’s all.’’ Cf. W. J. T. Mitchell, ‘‘Going Too Far with the Sister Arts,’’ cited in n. 3 to my preface.

CHAPTER 1. THE ART OF ANNOTATION 1. For a parallel relationship between philology and archaeology proper, see Roberto Weiss, The Renaissance Discovery of Classical Antiquity (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1969), 207: ‘‘The age stretching from 1300 to 1527 saw the beginnings and early development of archaeological science. Separated from and yet linked with philology (a word used here in its widest meaning and not as ‘linguistics’), archaeology became more and more an important part of the study of Antiquity. . . .’’ See also Allan Ellenius, De arte pingendi: Latin Art Literature in Seventeenth-Century Sweden and Its International Background (Uppsala and

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Stockholm: Almquist and Wiksell, 1960). He notes, for example, that the learned men who formed part of Junius’s circle, such as Spelman and Selden, ‘‘were all to a greater or less extent interested in Realphilologie and some were themselves collectors’’ (45). 2. MS. Junius 54. 3. C. S. Lewis, English Literature in the Sixteenth Century (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1954), 81–82. 4. The Life, Diary, and Correspondence of Sir William Dugdale, ed. William Hamper (London: Harding, Lepard, 1827), Junius’s letter, Feb. 3, 1668. 5. Lewis, 81. 6. MS Junius 9. 7. For a full study of Junius’s annotations to the Oxford Chaucer, see Rolf H. Bremmer Jr., ‘‘Franciscus Junius Reads Chaucer: But Why and How?’’ Studies in Medievalism 11 (2001): 37–72. 8. Letter of Feb. 3, 1668, to Dugdale, in The Life, Diary, and Correspondence of Sir William Dugdale. 9. Letter of May 29, 1661, to Dugdale. 10. MS Junius 81. 11. A facsimile of the Logonomia Anglica, 1621—the one Junius annotated— was published by Scolar Press in 1968 in the series English Linguistics, 1500– 1900, no. 68. A translation of the first edition by Robin C. Alston (1619), is used here. The differences between the two editions are, for our purposes, negligible. See Alexander Gill’s Logonomia Anglica (1619), Stockholm Studies in English 26 (Stockholm: Almquist & Wiksell, 1972), part 1, facsimile of the 1619 edition; part 2, the translation by Robin C. Alston, with notes by Bror Danielsson and Arvid Gabrielson. Page numbers for the translation are noted parenthetically in my text. For the Latin, I cite the edition Junius used and, again, page numbers are noted parenthetically. But I have not attempted to reproduce Gill’s unusual orthography. 12. I have quoted these lines from Sidney in modern English spelling. 13. Sidney himself made considerable use of this figure. See my article ‘‘ ‘A Light and Illuding Form’: Sidney’s Use of Paronomasia,’’ MLR 92 (1997): 273–81. 14. The edition Junius used was first published by William Ponsonby in 1595. In the same year, another publisher, Henry Olney, brought out a slightly different version under the title An Apologie for Poetrie. The quotation here is from The Defence, 495 of Junius’s volume of Sidney’s works. 15. The sentence reads: ‘‘Non te latet libros hic sordidius aliquanto compingi; quae ratio est cur satius duxerim Sidneyum incompactum ad te transmittere’’ [It is not unknown to you that books are bound rather poorly here, which is the reason why I thought it better to send Sidney to you unbound]. For the whole letter, see For my worthy freind [sic] Mr. Franciscus Junius: An edition of the correspondence of Francis Junius F.F. (1599–1677), ed. and trans. Sophie van Romburgh (Leiden: Brill, 2004), no. 68. Since this letter was an unsigned draft, it is not written with the same care as the marginalia to Sidney. 16. The title page of Junius’s copy of the Arcadia is the same as that of the 1593 edition. For a discussion of its emblematic features, see Margery Corbett and Ronald Lightbown, The Comely Frontispiece: The Emblematic Title-Page in England, 1550–1660 (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1979), chapter 2.

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17. The practice of numbering lines in all kinds of texts seems to have arisen for the purpose of easy reference and in response to the habit of copying passages into commonplace books. 18. As often, in a lengthy passage, Junius underlines only the first few words of each line, rather than the whole line. 19. See, for example, The Poems of Sir Philip Sidney, ed. William A. Ringler, Jr. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1962), xxxv. 20. Slights, Managing Readers, 84. 21. Ben Jonson’s Spenser has been discovered. See James A. Riddell and Stanley Stewart, Jonson’s Spenser: Evidence and Historical Criticism (Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press, 1995). Jonson’s marking of his copy of Spenser’s works is thin in comparison with Junius’s markings of the Arcadia. He does not, for example, give information on sources and analogues. 22. David Chytraeus, cited in Ann Moss, Printed Common-Place Books and the Structuring of Renaissance Thought (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), 161. She discusses the transition from the earlier florilegia to the commonplace book in terms of the ordering of quotations. 23. Gabriel Harvey’s Marginalia, ed. G. C. Moore Smith (Stratford: Shakespeare Head Press, 1913), 146. For an illuminating account of Harvey’s habits of annotation, see Anthony Grafton, ‘‘Discitur ut agatur: How Gabriel Harvey Read His Livy,’’ in Annotation and its Texts, ed. Stephen A. Barney (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), 108–29. 24. For Milton’s commonplace book [Index Ethicus], see The Uncollected Writings of John Milton, ed. James Holly Hanford, trans. Nelson Glenn McCrea, in The Complete Works of John Milton (New York: Columbia University Press, 1938), 8:128–219. 25. Erasmus, De Copia: Foundations of the Abundant Style, trans. and annotated by Betty Knott, in Collected Works of Erasmus (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1978), 24:635–36. 26. Robert C. Evans, Habits of Mind: Evidence and Effects of Ben Jonson’s Reading (Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell University Press, 1995), 88. 27. Anthony Grafton, on the other hand, commenting on the rhetorical aspect of annotation in the Renaissance, says, ‘‘Like rhetoric, it sought not to attain deep truths but to advance convincing arguments’’ (‘‘Discitur ut agatur,’’ 128). 28. G. E. Lessing, Laocoo¨n (1766), trans. E. A. McCormick (Indianapolis: Bobbs Merrill, 1962), 153. For a comparison/contrast of Junius’s method with that of Robert Burton in The Anatomy of Melancholy, see Ernest B. Gilman, Recollecting the Arundel Circle: Discovering the Past, Recovering the Future (New York: Peter Lang, 2003), 65–68. Gilman assesses the difference between these two authors, both of whom use centi: ‘‘Avoiding facetiousness and despair, Junius manages to steer a much calmer course through his own sources than the bipolar Burton. . . .’’ 29. Montaigne, ‘‘On educating children,’’ in The Essays: A Selection, trans. and ed. M. A. Screech (London: Penguin Books, 1981), 40. 30. Francis Bacon, De Augmentis, trans. Francis Headlam, in The Works of Francis Bacon, ed. James Spedding, B. L. Ellis, and D. D. Heath (Boston: Tagard and Thompson Press, 1864), vol. 9, pt. 5, 103–4.

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31. J. W. H. Atkins, English Literary Criticism: The Renascence (London: Methuen, 1947; repr., 1968), 314–15. 32. Junius uses this expression to emphasize the need for a great painter to have a knowledge of everything comprehended under the term ‘‘Sciences.’’ See, for example, P 3.1.9. 33. Cf. D. C. Muecke, Irony and the Ironic, 2nd ed. (London: Methuen, 1982): ‘‘The importance of being ironical, however, cannot be established without at the same time establishing the importance of being earnest’’ (4). For further discussion of playfulness in the works of Sidney and Junius, see chapter 4 below. 34. Velleius Paterculus, Res Gestae, trans. Frederick W. Shipley (London: William Heinemann, 1924), 1.xvii.6. I have modified Shipley’s translation slightly to make it correspond more closely to the Latin and to Junius’s version. 35. Here Junius seems to take up the reference in Velleius’s next section to the eloquence of the Athenians, though his author has drawn no parallel with painting. 36. The importance of emulation to Renaissance artists is discussed by E. H. Gombrich. See, for example, ‘‘The Leaven of Criticism in Renaissance Art: Texts and Episodes,’’ in The Heritage of Apelles (Oxford: Phaidon, 1976), 111– 31. See also Leatrice Mendelsohn, Paragoni: Benedetto Varchi’s Due Lezzioni and Cinquecento Art Theory (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1982).

CHAPTER 2. ENGLISH POETS 1. It is generally accepted that at least in part, Sidney was writing an answer to Stephen Gosson’s School of Abuse (1579), which had been dedicated to him. 2. William Prynne, Histrio-mastix, The Player’s Scourge; or Actors Tragedie (London, 1633), pt. 2, 901. 3. Ibid., pt. 1, 94. 4. For the relationship of Prynne to Laud, see H. R. Trevor-Roper, Archbishop Laud, 1573–1645 (London: Macmillan, 1940). 5. Junius did, however, take the trouble to underline passages on the state of the drama in England. See the Defence, 513–14, 515, 516. 6. The lines Sidney quotes are from Virgil’s Aeneid, 12.645–46, in which Turnus prefigures his own death. Geoffrey Shepherd translates: ‘‘Shall this land see him flying hence, / In such a plight is death so hard to bear?’’ See his edition of Sidney’s An Apology for Poetry (1965; repr., Manchester: University of Manchester Press, 1973), p183, l. 15ff. 7. On the history of the rhetorical tradition as it was applied to the art of painting, see Lee, Ut Pictura Poesis; also, John R. Spencer, ‘‘Ut Rhetorica Pictura: A Study in Quattrocento Theory of Painting,’’ JWCI 20 (1957): 26–44; and Wesley Trimpi, ‘‘The Meaning of Horace’s Ut Pictura Poesis,’’ JWCI 36 (1973): 1–34. 8. See appendix 2 on the contribution of the Philostrati and Callistratus to Junius’s treatise. 9. The distinction between eikastike as the likeness-making art and phantastike as the fantastic art that produces only appearances is drawn in Plato’s

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The Sophist 235–36. (I have transliterated the Greek characters.) Sidney turns the philosophical distinction into a moral one. Junius is closer to Plato in his reference to the same passage in The Sophist, simply saying that there are ‘‘two sorts of Imitation; the first medleth onely with things seene, whilest they are set before our eyes; the other on the contrary studieth also to expresse things prefigured only and represented by the phantasie’’ (P 1.2.2). 10. Junius cites Vitruvius, De architectura, 4.2.6 and Horace, Ars poetica, 1–13. For further discussion of the Horace passage, see chapter 4 below, 110. 11. Shepherd, in his edition of the Apology, endorses the notion that Sidney’s ‘‘idea’’ is similar to that of Lomazzo or Zuccaro. See 64–66. 12. Cited in Erwin Panofsky, Idea: A Concept in Art Theory, trans. Joseph J. S. Peake (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1968), 60. Raphael is modifying the ancient anecdote (Pliny, Natural History, 35, and Cicero, De inventione 3.1.1). Although neither Panofsky nor Gombrich questions the authenticity of the letter, John Shearman presents a convincing argument that the letter was actually written by Castiglione himself out of a desire to portray Raphael as a good Ciceronian Platonist. See Shearman, ‘‘Castiglione’s Portrait of Raphael,’’ Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Institutes in Florence 38 (1994): 69–97. 13. E. H. Gombrich, ‘‘Ideal and Type in Italian Renaisssance Painting,’’ in New Light on Old Masters (Oxford: Phaidon Press, 1986), 118. 14. The word ‘‘idea’’ as used by Alberti and the Raphael of the letter refers to an ideal beauty. For Vasari and others, it was closer to the word concetto, or Sidney’s ‘‘fore-conceit.’’ Significantly, Panofsky states that ‘‘In the middle of the sixteenth century, the term ‘idea’ approximated the word imagizione’’ (62). This is in accord with Sidney’s and Junius’s usage. 15. Cicero, Oratore 2.9. For other references to this famous story, see Painting, 24n7. 16. Junius cites Proclus, In Platonis Timaeum 2.81c–d. 17. Leon Battista Alberti, On Painting, trans. John R. Spencer (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1966), 91. 18. See, for example, David Summers, Michelangelo and the Language of Art, especially 221–22. 19. Leonardo da Vinci, Paragone, 52. Leonardo states: ‘‘whatsoever exists in the universe, in essence, in appearance, in the imagination, the painter has first in his mind and then in his hands.’’ 20. Horace, Ars poetica, 102–3. For further discussion of Sidney and Junius on expressiveness in art, see chapter 6, 110–11. 21. For the humanistic theory of expression, see Lee, 23–32. For the relevance of this doctrine to Rembrandt, see H. P. Chapman, Rembrandt’s SelfPortraits (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 1–20. He cites Junius. 22. Junius finds much support for his emphasis on imagination in Longinus’s On the Sublime. For the evidence, see appendix 1. Sidney, of course, did not know Longinus but intuitively grasped his principles. 23. John Hoskins, Directions for Speech and Style (1599), ed. Hoyt H. Hudson (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1935), p. 42. 24. Junius here is echoing Aelian, De natura animalium, 15.2. 25. See my article ‘‘ ‘To speak Metaphorically’: Sidney in the Subjunctive Mood,’’ Renaissance Quarterly 41 (1988): 268–87.

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26. Here I follow the note in the Aldrich, Fehl, and Fehl edition: P 284n3. They point out that in the Dutch edition of Painting, Junius, without mentioning Sidney, paraphrases his poem with its image of flowers. 27. The Elder Pliny’s Chapters on the History of Art, 121. 28. See chapter 6, 189–90 for further discussion of the art that hides art. 29. Prynne, Histrio-mastix, 586. 30. For the relationship of the senses to the imagination and to the mind in general, see chapter 7, 209–13. 31. On this subject, see my ‘‘Spenser and the Literature of Art in Renais´ tudes Anglaises 51 (1998): 3–16. sance England,’’ E 32. All quotations from Spenser are taken from The Complete Poetical Works of Spenser, ed. R. E. Dodge (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1936). E.K., who may be Edward Kirke, introduces Spenser’s Shepheardes Calender (1579) as an important new work, deserving of illustrations and scholarly glosses. It is dedicated to Sidney. 33. Composition, as defined by Alberti, ‘‘is that rule of painting by which the parts of the things seen fit together in the painting’’ (On Painting, 72). 34. Sir Kenelm Digby, ‘‘A discourse concerning Edmund Spenser,’’ B.M. MS. Harleian 4153, in Spenser: The Critical Heritage, ed. R. M. Cummings (New York: Barnes and Noble, 1971), 150. 35. Quintilian, Institutio Oratoria, trans. H. E. Butler (London: William Heinemann, 1959), 9.4.129. Cited in Junius, De pictura veterum (Rotterdam, 1694), 191. 36. Ibid. 37. Two of these analogies—architecture and sculpture—are used to illustrate disposition in Quintilian, Inst. 7.proem. 38. The Argument for the October eclogue contains the same description of poetry as a divine gift. It seems that Piers’s share of the emblem is missing and would have contained the first part of the Ovid quotation (Fasti 6.5): ‘‘Est deus in nobis,’’ while Cuddie has the second part, ‘‘agitante calescimus illo’’ [There is a god in us, by whose movement we are kept warm]. 39. Cicero, De oratore, trans. H. Rackham (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1959), 3.25.100–101. Cf. Longinus in his discussion of Demosthenes’ use of epanaphora and asyndeton: ‘‘His order becomes disorderly, his disorder in turn acquires a certain order’’ (‘‘Longinus’’: On Sublimity, trans., D. A. Russell, in Classical Literary Criticism, ed. D. A. Russell and M. Winterbottom (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), 20.3. 40. Giorgio Vasari, preface to Lives of the Most Eminent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects, trans. Gaston Du C. de Vere, 3 vols. (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1979), 1:23. 41. The Elder Pliny’s Chapters on the History of Art, 154. 42. Henry Peacham, The Compleat Gentleman (1634), 104. This statement does not appear in earlier editions. 43. Cited in Frederick Hard, ‘‘E.K.’s Reference to Painting: Some Seventeenth Century Adaptations,’’ ELH 7 (1940): 121–29. Junius’s borrowings from E.K. are noted. See also Lucy Gent, Picture and Poetry, 1500–1620 (Leamington Spa: James Hall, 1981), 26. She suggests that E.K. was influenced by Paolo Pino’s Dialogo di pittura (1548), but I have been unable to find a parallel.

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44. For borrowings from E.K., by way of Junius, in seventeenth-century writings on art, see Henry V. S. Ogden and Margaret S. Ogden, English Taste in Landscape in the Seventeenth Century (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1955), 38. 45. See Painting, 274n12 for reference to the fact that in his 1694 edition, Junius actually cites Aristotle’s Poetics, chapter 17. 46. Junius, in his hand-corrected copy of Painting, changes the word ‘‘according’’ to ‘‘accompting’’ (311), which is the word that Spenser uses. This change suggests that he was careful to follow his original where it harmonized with his own thinking. The last few words, as Junius indicates, are taken from the Imagines of Philostratus (1.12.5); they expand Spenser’s phrase ‘‘maketh a pleasing analysis of all.’’ 47. The phrase comes from Horace’s Ars poetica 148, but Aristotle discusses the issue in his Poetics. On the psychological fallacies of Lessing’s view of painting, see E. H. Gombrich, ‘‘Moment and Movement in Art,’’ in The Image and the Eye (Oxford: Phaidon, 1982), 40–62. 48. On these illustrations, see Clark Hulse, The Rule of Art: Literature and Painting in the Renaissance (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 1–18. 49. Ogden and Ogden (37) quote this passage from Junius as illustrating the demand for variety; they do not recognize that it comes from Spenser. In fact, no one seems to have noticed the source of Junius’s landscape description. 50. In the ekphrastic tradition, copia and varietas are important. Junius follows this tradition in the attempt to recreate the expressiveness of nature or of a work of art, by means of details. On this tradition, see E. R. Curtius, European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages, trans. Willard R. Trask (New York: Bollingen Foundation, 1953), especially 69, 192, 194; Jean Hagstrum, The Sister Arts (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1958); Svetlana Alpers, ‘‘Ekphrasis and Aesthetic Attitudes in Vasari’s Lives,’’ JWCI 33 (1960): 190–215; James A. W. Heffernan, Museum of Words: The Poetics of Ekphrasis from Homer to Ashberry (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993); Norman E. Land, The Viewer as Poet (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1994), especially chapter 3. Important for the early history of ekphrastic criticism in the Renaissance is Michael Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators. My appendix 2 discusses some ancient examples. 51. Junius does, however, cite Spenser by name in his Etymologicum Anglicanum (not published until Edward Lye’s edition of 1743). On the word ‘‘curtesie,’’ for example, he quotes from the proem and first stanza of book 6 of The Faerie Queene, referring to Spenser as ‘‘supergressus vates’’ [poet without peer]. 52. John Dryden, ‘‘Observations on the Art of Painting of Charles Alphonse Du Fresnoy,’’ in De Arte Graphica: The Art of Painting by C. A. Du Fresnoy with Remarks, trans. 1695; repr. in The Works of John Dryden, vol. 20, ed. A. E. Wallace Maurer (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1989), 129. Dryden mentions Junius’s work on the art of painting, 130 and 131.

CHAPTER 3. THE PAINTED POETRY 1. In the third section of this chapter, I draw upon my article ‘‘Franciscus Junius’ The Painting of the Ancients and the Painted Poetry of Ovid,’’ International Journal of the Classical Tradition 3 (1995): 159–70.

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2. On the other hand, Carel van Mander includes a study of the Metamorphoses in his Het Schilder-boeck (1604). The increasing popularity of Ovidian subjects in paintings in northern Europe, including those of Rubens and Rembrandt, in the first part of the seventeenth century, attests to a growing demand for subjects outside the biblical, and ones offering opportunities for sensual expression. 3. On Ovid as the poet that Sidney knew best, see The Poems of Sir Philip Sidney, ed. Ringler, xxxv.n1. 4. Ars amatoria, trans. J. H. Mozley, 2nd ed., revised by G. P. Goold (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979). Although Junius refers to this work as De arte, my references follow the more usual modern title. 5. In educational theory for the ancients as well as the Renaissance, these were the standard adjuncts to innate ability. See the Rhetorica ad Herennium 1.2.3. Sidney actually stays with the Latin arte, imitatione, exercitatione, whereas the Loeb translation, by Harry Caplan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989), uses the word ‘‘Theory’’ in place of ‘‘Art.’’ However, the word ‘‘Art’’ is defined as ‘‘a set of rules that provide a definite method and system of speaking’’; Sidney uses the word in this sense. 6. Remedia amoris, trans. J. H. Mozley, 2nd ed., revised by G. P. Goold (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1970). 7. Metamorphoses, trans. Frank Justus Miller, vol. 1, 3rd. ed., revised by G. P. Goold (vol. 2, 2nd ed., revised by Goold, 1984) (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1977). 8. Victor Skretkowicz in his edition of the New Arcadia (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987) writes that Isaac Vossius (the annotator as he, following Jean Robertson and van Dorsten, believes, of the Leiden Arcadia), missed ‘‘the deliberate echo of Alcyone and Ceyx in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, xi, woven prominently into Strephon’s lament on remembrance . . .’’ (xx). Junius, the actual annotator, did, in fact, refer to Ovid’s story. 9. The Diana of Montemayor, trans. Bartholomew Yong, ed. Judith M. Kennedy (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968), 12. 10. Thomas Wilson, The Arte of Rhetorique, ed. G. H. Mair (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1909), 213. Memory in the Arcadia, together with Junius’s annotations, will be treated further in chapter 5, 156–57 and chapter 7, 221–23. 11. For Themistius, see P 1.2.1n3. For Aristotle, see On the Soul, trans. W. S. Hett (London: William Heinemann, 1957), 3.3.15. 12. On Memory and Recollection, trans. W. S. Hett (London: William Heinemann, 1957), 450b. 13. On the Soul, 3.3, 427b. 14. On Memory and Recollection, 449b3. See Frances Yates, The Art of Memory for a discussion of Aristotle’s theory of memory, especially 45–50. 15. Fasti, trans. Sir James George Frazer (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979). 16. Heroides, trans. Grant Showerman, 2nd ed., revised by G. P. Goold (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1977). 17. Amores, trans. Grant Showerman, 2nd ed., revised by G. P. Goold (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1977). 18. Phaedrus 253D–254E. 19. Junius also adds a marginal reference to Seneca, Naturales quaestiones, 3.27.12, as if to strengthen the point. Redundancy is not a concern.

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20. The Riverside Shakespeare, ed. G. Blakemore Evans et al., 2nd ed. (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1997). 21. Ex Ponto, trans. Arthur Leslie Wheeler (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1959). 22. Tristia, trans. Arthur Leslie Wheeler; 2nd ed., revised by G. P. Goold (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988). 23. Alberti, On Painting, 64: ‘‘What else can you call painting but a similar embracing with art of what is presented on the surface of the water in the fountain?’’ 24. Erasmus, Convivium religiosum, in The Colloquies of Erasmus, trans. Craig R. Thompson (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1965), 52. For a stimulating discussion of this colloquy, see Terence Cave, ‘‘Enargia: Erasmus and the Rhetoric of Presence in the Sixteenth Century,’’ L’Esprit Cre´ateur 16 (1976): 5–19. 25. For ‘‘disorderly order,’’ see chapter 2, 75–76. For ‘‘labyrinth,’’ see chapter 6, 190–91. 26. For the letter, see chapter 2, 63–64 and notes 12 and 14. 27. For a discussion of Titian’s Venus and Adonis, see Philipp Fehl, ‘‘Beauty and the Historian of Art: Titian’s Venus and Adonis,’’ in Decorum and Wit: The Poetry of Venetian Painting (Vienna: IRSA, 1992), 104–14. 28. See chapter 2, 67–68 for Sidney’s and Junius’s practical arguments in favor of painting. 29. For the influence of ancient sculpture on Renaissance artists, there is more evidence. See P. P. Bober and R. Rubenstein, Renaissance Artists and Antique Sculpture (London: H. Miller, 1986). On some of the difficulties in determining the influence of ancient painted decoration on Renaissance artists, see J. Schulz, ‘‘Pinturicchio and the Revival of Antiquity,’’ JWCI 25 (1962): 35–55; and E. H. Gombrich, ‘‘The Style all’antica: Imitation and Assimilation,’’ in Norm and Form: Studies in the Art of the Renaissance (London: Phaidon Press, 1966), 122–28. 30. See, for example, George Puttenham, The Arte of English Poesie (1589), ed. G. D. Willcock and A. Walker (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1936), 239: ‘‘But if such description be made to represent the handling of any busines with the circumstances belonging thereunto, as the manner of a battell, a feast, a marriage, a buriall or any other matter that lieth in feat and activitie: we call it then the counterfait action [Pragmatographia].’’ 31. See Martin Kemp, ‘‘From ‘Mimesis’ to ‘Fantasia’: The Quattrocento Vocabulary of Creation, Inspiration and Genius in the Visual Arts,’’ Viator 8 (1977): 347–98. 32. On Sublimity, 15.4. 33. For the importance of Longinus to Junius’s theory of art, see appendix 1. 34. For the ‘‘beholder’s share,’’ see E. H. Gombrich, Art and Illusion, 2nd ed. (New York: Bollingen, 1961), 162–69. 35. See David Summers, Michelangelo and the Language of Art, especially chapter 7, ‘‘L’alta fantasia.’’ 36. Sidney, Defence, 509; Puttenham, The Arte of English Poesie, 19. 37. Here Junius draws upon Longinus’s distinction between poets and orators.

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38. See my ‘‘ ‘Arachnean Eyes’: A Mythological Emblem in the Poetry of George Chapman,’’ John Donne Journal 6 (1987), 275–83. 39. Junius includes both Arachne and Pygmalion in his Catalogus, not distinguishing between historical and mythological artists. ` eccellenti pittori, scultori ed architettori, ed. 40. Giorgio Vasari, Le Vite de’ piu G. Milanesi (Florence: G. C. Sansoni, 1878–85), 2:405. For this translation, see Bull’s Lives of the Artists: A Selection, 1:178. 41. On traditions behind this scene, see Leonard Barkan, ‘‘Living Sculptures: Ovid, Michelangelo, and The Winter’s Tale,’’ ELH 48 (1981): 63–97. 42. George Sandys, Ovid’s Metamorphosis, ed. Karl H. Hulley and Stanley Vandersall (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1970), 485. 43. ‘‘Sermon against perill of Idolatrie,’’ part 3, in Certaine Sermons, or Homilies, London (1633), 72. 44. See, for example, chapter 4, 129–31, where some of Junius’s remarks on the morality of art are considered. 45. For further discussion of Junius’s reference to this Virgilian passage, see chapter 4, 131–32. 46. See chapter 2, 74, for Spenser’s use of the same quotation. 47. These chapters are summarized and occasionally translated in Painting, 334–59. 48. On Ovidian paintings in general, see Nigel Llewellyn, ‘‘Illustrating Ovid,’’ in Ovid Renewed, ed. Charles Martindale (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 151–66.

CHAPTER 4. ANCIENT POETS 1. Virgil, Eclogues, trans. H. Rushton Fairclough, revised by G. P. Goold (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999). 2. This ability to argue on both sides of a question is exemplified by the Elder Seneca, Seneca the Rhetor, in his Controversiae. Junius cites him a number of times. See also Ernst Robert Curtius, European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages, 154–55. 3. Abraham Fraunce, The Arcadian Rhetoric (1588), ed. Ethel Seaton (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1950), 10. 4. Ben Jonson’s 1640 translation, ll. 11–12. See Ben Jonson: The Complete Poems, ed. George Parfitt (London: Penguin, 1988). 5. Cf. Otto van Veen’s emblem on this passage in Emblemata Horatiana (1607), 147, discussed in my article, ‘‘Emblems on the Art of Painting,’’ in Emblems and Art History, ed. Alison Adams, assisted by Laurence Grove (Glasgow: Glasgow Emblem Studies, 1996), 93–94. 6. Claudian, Poems, trans. Maurice Platnauer (London: William Heinemann, 1922). 7. Plautus, Cistellaria, trans. Paul Nixon (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1951). 8. Plutarch, Moralia 346F. On ut pictura poesis, see, Rensselaer W. Lee, Ut Pictura Poesis, and Wesley Trimpi, ‘‘The Meaning of Horace’s Ut Pictura

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Poesis.’’ Ben Jonson has a section in his Discoveries on this analogy. It uses some of the same sources as Junius uses. 9. The original passage reads: ‘‘cum Fulvi, Rutubaeque / aut Pacideiani contento poplite miror / proelia rubrica picta aut carbone, velut si / re vera pugnent, feriant vitentque moventes / arma viri?’’ [when I marvel at the contests of Fulvius, Rutuba, or Pacideianus, with their straining legs, drawn in red chalk or charcoal, just as lifelike as if the heroes were really waving their weapons, and fighting, striking, and parrying?] (Satires, trans. H. Rushton Fairclough [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1929], 2.7.96). The Aldrich, Fehl, and Fehl edition suggests that the word ‘‘hams’’ is a mistake for ‘‘hands.’’ In fact, ‘‘hams’’ refers to the thighs or bend of the knees and is a standard sixteenth- or seventeenth-century expression for these parts of the leg. 10. Michael Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators, 82. Baxandall is citing Manuel Chrysoloras’s letter to Demetrius Chrysoloras. 11. Statius, Thebaid, trans. D. R. Shackleton Bailey (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003). 12. Illustrating the term mirabilis, J. J. Pollitt cites this passage from Statius, Silv. 4.6.38–40): ‘‘et cum mirabilis intra / stet mensura pedem, tamen exclamare libebit, / si visus per membra feres: ‘hoc pectore. . . .’ ’’ [and although this figure stands only one foot tall, nevertheless you would fain cry out if you cast your eyes over the various parts of his body, ‘This is the chest. . . .]. He gives several other examples of descriptions referring to what I call ‘‘the miracle of art.’’ See The Ancient View of Greek Art: Criticism, History, and Terminology, 402–5. 13. See chapter 7, 204–5, where deceit is discussed as one of the six points of comparison between poetry and painting. 14. On the seriousness of play, see Johan Huizinga, Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play Element in Culture (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1950), 8: ‘‘Play turns to seriousness and seriousness to play.’’ 15. For further discussion of the role of the senses, see chapter 7, 209–13. 16. The ‘‘line of Apelles’’ was famous. Junius quotes the story drawn from Pliny 35.36.80–83 in his Catalogus, in The Literature of Classical Art, 2:38, I. 17. Gilman, in Recollecting the Arundel Circle, 89–90, makes a point of comparing Arundel with Vindex, which no doubt Junius had in mind. 18. Trans. in The Literature of Classical Art, 2:233, G. 19. Cf. Manuel Chrysoloras on how the artist disposes the stone or bronze so as to reflect the passions: ‘‘This is what we admire in these representations’’ (Baxandall, 92). 20. Cf. Michelangelo’s poem on his statue of Night. Cited in Vasari, The Lives of the Artists, 1:369. 21. On the rediscovery of the Greek Anthology in the Renaissance, see James Hutton, The Greek Anthology in Italy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1935) and The Greek Anthology in France and in the Latin Writers of the Netherlands to the Year 1800 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1946). In the latter volume, Hutton notes that Junius was an exception to other writers on ancient painting in making use of the Greek Anthology. See 212n37. 22. On Erasmus’s use of the same passage in Ausonius to praise Du ¨ rer for his ability to paint the unpaintable, see Erwin Panofsky, ‘‘ ‘Nebulae in Pariete’: Notes on Erasmus’ Eulogy on Du ¨ rer,’’ JWCI 14 (1951): 34–41. According to the

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Loeb editor of Ausonius, Hugh G. Evelyn White, the text should read: ‘‘tabulam pictam in pariete,’’ but ‘‘nebulam’’ appears in the MSS. Hence Junius’s reference is based on a misreading of the text. 23. On parerga, see chapter 6, 186–87. 24. Cf. Ben Jonson’s concern with the correctness of attributes, based on classical authors, in his court masques. For his marginal glosses to some of his masques, see Ben Jonson: The Complete Masques, ed. Stephen Orgel (New Haven: Yale University, 1969), 509–54. 25. Ben Jonson’s translation. 26. Cf. Ovid on emulation. See chapter 3, 108. 27. Homo Ludens, 7. 28. See The Winter’s Tale, ed. J. H. P. Pafford (London: Methuen, 1963), 197, note to 135–46. 29. Ringler, for example, in his edition of Sidney’s poetry says, ‘‘I have found no certain evidence of his first-hand acquaintance with Propertius or Tibullus, or with the earlier Greek poets’’ (xxxv, n. 1). 30. Tibullus, Poems, trans. J. P. Postgate, 2nd ed., revised by G. P. Goold (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988). 31. Huizinga describes the Renaissance in these terms: ‘‘The game of living in imitation of Antiquity was pursued in holy earnest’’ (180). 32. Ovid frequently uses this kind of analogy. See, for example, Met. 4.672– 75, where Andromeda bound to a cliff is described, in her beauty, as looking like a marble statue. 33. For Sidney’s song, see chapter 2, 68–69. 34. See chapter 7, 207–8 for discussion of the impact of art on the relationship between the senses and the soul. 35. Propertius, Elegies, trans. H. E. Butler (London: William Heinemann, 1939). 36. Martial, Epigrams, trans. Walter C. A. Ker (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1968). 37. See also P 2.8.3: ‘‘Such as wrote the lives of great and famous men, were wont also to joyne their painted images unto the relation made of them; that posteritie might as well view the picture of their bodies as of their mindes.’’ 38. See Huizinga, Homo Ludens, 18, citing Laws , 7.803C: ‘‘God alone is worthy of supreme seriousness.’’ 39. See Seneca, De Constantia Sapientis 12 (in Moral Essays, trans. John W. Basore [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1928]) for his comparison between children who play at being magistrates, and foolish grown-ups who ‘‘play in earnest—serio ludunt—at the same things in the Campus Martius and the forum and the senate.’’ 40. Aldrich, Fehl, and Fehl, trans., P 1:322.

CHAPTER 5. LAWS OF NATURE AND ART 1. Besides Plutarch and Cicero, Junius frequently cites Quintilian. Sidney, however, does not make direct use of him either in the Defence or in the Arcadia.

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2. Cf. my article ‘‘ ‘To speak Metaphorically’: Sidney in the Subjunctive Mood.’’ 3. Cf. Sidney’s letter to his brother Robert, cited below in chapter 7, 203. 4. See Moralia 65C, ’’How a Man May Discerne a Flatterer from a Friend.’’ For Jonson, see Underwoods 71, ll. 9–26, in Ben Jonson: The Complete Poems, ed. George Parfitt (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1988). Shakespeare also used the parallel between painting and flattery in Timon of Athens, 1.1.156–60 and passim. 5. For both Sidney and Junius, the real enemies of poetry and painting are the literalists—rather than any specific group of iconoclasts—who deny the value of the imagination. 6. Shepherd in his edition of Sidney’s Apology (201n25) cites the conclusion of Plutarch’s On listening to lectures: ‘‘Let the listener make his memory a guide to invention: looking on the discourse of others only as a kind of first principle or seed.’’ 7. Richard Haydocke, A Tracte Containing the Artes of Curious Paintinge, Carving, Painting (1598); William Aglionby, Painting Illustrated in Three Dialogues (1685). See also William Sanderson, Graphice (1658), which draws upon Junius’s Painting. 8. See, for example, Colette Nativel’s French translation and edition of the first book of the posthumous De pictura veterum (1694). The conclusion to her ` la rhe´torique s’explique commentary notes: ‘‘Cette place importante accorde´e a parce que Junius conside`re la peinture comme un langage, au meˆme titre que les arts de la parole. Il trouve chez Cice´ron et Quintilien les elements qui assimilent ars pingendi et ars dicendi . . .’’ [This important place accorded to rhetoric is explained bcause Junius considered painting as a language of the the same nature as the arts of speech. He finds in Cicero and Quintilian the elements which assimilate the art of painting and the art of speaking] (591). 9. Cicero, Academica, trans. H. Rackham (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1933), 2.7.20. 10. For a valuable discussion of the role of the senses in the art theory of the Renaissance, see David Summers, The Judgment of Sense: Renaissance Naturalism and the Rise of Aesthetics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987). See also chapter 7 below, 213–14. 11. See Plato, Phaedrus 250 and Cicero, De officiis 1.5.15. 12. On this subject, see Erwin Panofsky, Idea: A Concept in Art Theory, 11–13. 13. This anecdote from the Elder Pliny’s Natural History, 35.84–85 was popular as an example of who is fit to judge a work of art. It appears as an emblem in the Mikrokosmos of Laurentius Haechtanus (1579; Pl. 73.) See my article ‘‘Emblems on the Art of Painting: Pictura and Purpose,’’ 77–78. 14. See E. H. Gombrich, Art and Illusion: ‘‘In classical writings on rhetoric we have perhaps the most careful analysis of any expressive medium ever undertaken’’ (317). See also Brian Vickers, In Defence of Rhetoric (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988), chapter 7. 15. Pliny the Younger, Letters, trans. Betty Radice (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1969). 16. See David Summers, Michelangelo and the Language of Art, part 1, chap.

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11. Michelangelo’s struggles to overcome the limitations of his media were viewed as a sign of his genius. 17. For the general outlines of this debate, see my ‘‘Allegory as a Form of Wit,’’ Studies in the Renaissance 11 (1964): 223–33. 18. See David Summers, The Judgment of Sense. 19. Cf. the Plutarch passage cited above, 149. 20. See P 3.3.12n84 for a reference to Junius’s quotation of Pliny the Younger (Epist. 3.18.10 in his Latin edition). 21. Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier, trans. Sir Thomas Hoby, 1561 (London: J. M. Dent, 1928), 94–95. 22. Aristotle, Politics, 8.3, describing the four subjects of a liberal education, one being drawing. Junius quotes from this passage in Painting: ‘‘the Grecians for the most parte . . . did teach their children the art of painting; least they might be deceived in the buying and selling of vessells and householde-stuffe: or rather, that they might improve themselves in the true knowledge of perfect beauty’’ (2.2.1). 23. ‘‘Panegyricus Nazarii Dictus Constantino,’’ in In Praise of Later Roman Emperors: The Panegyrici Latini, ed. and trans. R. A. B. Mynors (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1994), 4.35.4. 24. Cf. Horace, Ars poetica, 180–82: ‘‘segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem / quam quae sunt oculis subiecta fidelibus et quae / ipse sibi tradit spectator’’ [Less vividly is the mind stirred by what finds entrance through the ears than by what is brought before the trusty eyes, and what the spectator can see for himself]. 25. See, for example, Leonardo da Vinci, Paragone. 26. Junius is uncertain whether to attribute this work to Quintilian or to an unknown author. It is now given to Tacitus. See P 2.2.3n20. 27. Paragone, 52. 28. Tacitus, Germania, trans. M. Hutton, revised by E. H. Warmington (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980). 29. Tacitus, Annals, trans. John Jackson (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1937). 30. Tacitus, Histories, trans. Clifford H. Moore (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1937). 31. Seneca, Epistulae Morales, trans. Richard M. Gummere (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1917). 32. See chapter 3, 85–86 for a fuller reference to Ovid’s story. 33. I have modified the Loeb translation here, in order to follow the Latin more closely. 34. Cicero, De legibus, trans. Clinton Walker Keyes (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1928). 35. See chapter 2, 60 for the whole passage. 36. Robert C. Evans, Habits of Mind: Evidence and Effects of Ben Jonson’s Reading, 67–68. 37. Some of Junius’s examples of nature’s artistry are taken from the Elder Pliny’s Natural History. On this subject, see Martin Kemp, ‘‘ ‘Wrought by No Artist’s hand’: The Natural, the Artificial, the Exotic and the Scientific in Some Artifacts from the Renaissance,’’ in Reframing the Renaissance: Visual Culture

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in Europe and Latin America, 1450–1650, ed. Claire J. Farago (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), 176–96. 38. Thomas Lodge’s translation of The Works of Seneca (London, 1620), 226. The following quotation is also from Lodge’s translation.

CHAPTER 6. THE WIT OF NARRATIVE 1. Cf. Baxandall’s comment on Alberti’s treatment of composition: ‘‘the notion of compositio is a very precise metaphor transferring to painting a model of organization derived from rhetoric itself’’ (131). 2. See Earle Havens, Commonplace Books: A History of Manuscripts and Printed Books from Antiquity to the Twentieth Century (New Haven: Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, 2001), 25. 3. John Hoskins, Directions for Speech and Style, 9. He refers to metaphor as ‘‘the best flower, growing most plentifully, in all Arcadia.’’ 4. Hoskins, 41. He notes that Sidney had studied and translated part of Aristotle’s Rhetoric, the best book for learning the ‘‘perfect expressing of all qualities.’’ He also attributes some of Sidney’s skill in characterization to the study of Theophrastus. But besides studying these authors, Sidney’s course was ‘‘to imagine the thing present in his own brain that his pen might the better present it to you’’ (42). This remark is quite in keeping with Junius’s argument in Painting for the role of the imagination in fashioning a work of art. 5. See Alberti, On Painting, 77: ‘‘The istoria will move the soul of the beholder when each man painted there clearly shows the movements of his own soul.’’ He is extending Horace’s advice about moving the reader to the painter. 6. Ars poetica 102–3. For this point, see also 66–67 of chapter 2. 7. See P 3.4. 8. See, for example, Haydocke, A tracte concerning the artes of curious painting carving and building, 71: ‘‘Despaire hath actions betokening a privation of hope and contentment; as to beate with the hands, teare the lims and garments.’’ 9. See chapter 5, 159–60 for Junius’s marginal references to Seneca. 10. Cicero notes ‘‘Quippe, cum in illa omnia ad veritatem, Quinte, referantur, in hoc ad delectationem pleraque . . .’’ [in the former [history], the standard by which everything is judged is truth, while in the latter [poetry] it is generally the pleasure one gives . . .] (De legibus 1.1.5). 11. See chapter 3, 90–91 for the relationship of emotion to language. 12. The editor of Hoskins’s Directions for Speech and Style, cites Peter Heylen’s Microcosmus (1621), who praises the Arcadia: ‘‘a book which besides its excellent language, rare contrivances, & delectable stories, hath in it all the straines of poesy, comprehendeth the universall art of speaking, and to them which can discerne, and will observe, notable rules for demeanour both private and publike’’ (xxii). 13. Erasmus mentions how, through vivid description, the ‘‘hearer or reader is carried away and seems to be in the audience at a theatre’’ (De Copia, 577). 14. See chapter 7, 214–16 for further discussion of the synesthetic effect.

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15. Abraham Fraunce, in The Arcadian Rhetoric illustrates epanalepsis with this quotation. 16. Hoskins cites this passage as an example of Sidney’s use of periphrasis, ‘‘to keep his style from baseness’’ (47). 17. Cf. P 3.3.9 for Junius’s use of the centaur image to illustrate Harmoge, or the insensible shading of one color into another. On this subject, see chapter 3, 103. 18. Hoskins echoes Quintilian 8.5.26–34. 19. Erasmus, De Copia, 627. 20. See Frederick M. Ahl, Metaformations: Soundplay and Wordplay in Ovid and Other Classical Poets (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985). 21. Erasmus, in the introduction to the enlarged edition of his adages, notes that the majority of them ‘‘have some kind of metaphorical disguise,’’ which makes them more striking and memorable. See Adages Iil to Iv100, in Collected Works of Erasmus, vol. 31, trans. Margaret Mann Phillips, annotated R. A. B. Mynors (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1982), 17. 22. Denis Lebey de Batilly, Emblemata (Frankfort: Bry, 1596), pl. LIIII. Although the portrait of Helen is the most famous one attached to the story of the five maidens who served as models, Lebey actually follows Pliny in referring to a portrait of Hera. 23. Henry Peacham, Garden of Eloquence (London, 1593), 139–40. 24. ‘‘Mais, toute poe´tique qu’elle soit, cette descriptio est aussi une peinture’’ (Nativel, 563). 25. Leonardo da Vinci, Treatise on Painting, trans. A. Philip McMahon (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1956), 1:115–17. 26. Discussed in my article ‘‘ ‘To speak Metaphorically’: Sidney in the Subjunctive Mood.’’ 27. Junius cites Galen, De usu partium 11.13.897. 28. For the conception of ornament that had a place in Renaissance art, see Michael Baxandall, Painting and Experience in Fifteenth Century Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1972), 131–33. Other concepts used in art criticism of the period are explained. 29. On the value of ornament in guiding a reader’s response, see Mary Carruthers, The Craft of Thought: Meditation, Rhetoric, and the Making of Images, 400–1200 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 116–18. These pages contain a summary of a subject discussed throughout the book. 30. See chapter 2, 80–81. 31. See chapter 7, 214–16 for further discussion of this effect. 32. See Elizabeth Cropper, ‘‘On Beautiful Women, Parmigianino, Petrarchismo, and the Vernacular Style,’’ Art Bulletin 58 (1976): 374–94. 33. See the famous comment by Apelles that he was superior to Protogenes only in knowing when to take his hand from the board (The Elder Pliny’s Chapters on the History of Art, 121; P 3.6.3). 34. See chapter 3, 96–97. 35. Haydocke makes this statement on page 1, in the context of Horace’s famous ‘‘si vis me flere’’ passage in the Ars poetica, in which he describes what is necessary to evoke the reader’s response to a poem. Cf. Alberti, n. 5 above. 36. Hoskins alludes to this passage as an example of prosopopeia: ‘‘Sir

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P[hilip] S[idney] gives meaning and speech to the needle, the cloth and the silk . . .’’ (48). 37. Cf. Junius’s discussion of the relationship between ornament and ‘‘the principall worke,’’ 186–87 above. 38. Baxandall’s discussion of disegno and colorire is helpful here. See Painting and Experience in Fifteenth Century Italy, 137–41. 39. Junius makes two other notes at the beginning of his Sidney volume. One refers to the praise and blame of matrimony, in a poetic debate between Geron and Histor, 388; the other refers to a painstaking and ingenious poem, beginning ‘‘Vertue, beautie, and speach did strike, wound, charme,’’ on 368. 40. Marsilio Ficino, Commentary on Plato’s Symposium, trans. Sears Jayne (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1944), 129. 41. Junius cites Plato: ‘‘The facultie of Painters . . . knoweth no end in painting, but findeth still something to change or adde; and it is altogether impossible that beautie and similitude should receive such an absolute consummation, as not to admit any further encrease’’ (Laws 6.769a). 42. For an analysis of this style as it developed in ancient literature, see Michael Roberts, The Jeweled Style: Poetry and Poetics in Late Antiquity (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989).

CHAPTER 7. THE ENRICHING OF MEMORY As the title of this chapter indicates, this is not unity of the arts as Bernini conceived it; that is a combining of various arts in one setting. Rather, Junius argues for a common origin and effect of two different arts—poetry and painting. 1. Even the writing of history in the Renaissance used rhetorical techniques, including set pieces such as battles, speeches, portraits of the protagonists—all very much like Sidney’s own narrative in the Arcadia. For the influence of rhetoric on the writing of history, see Peter Burke, The Renaissance Sense of the Past (London: Edward Arnold, 1969), chapter 5. See also Nancy S. Streuver, The Language of History in the Renaissance (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1970), especially 63–100. 2. Book 1 ends with a statement about the purpose of the first two books. Books 2 and 3, however, end with an example. Clearly, a different conception of order is at work here. 3. See Aldrich, Fehl, and Fehl, 1:liin69. 4. For a discussion of Sidney’s Defence as ‘‘Protestant poetics,’’ see Andrew D. Weiner, ‘‘Moving and Teaching: Sidney’s Defence of Poesie as a Protestant Poetic,’’ Journal of Medieval and Renaissance Studies 2 (1972): 259–78. He argues that Sidney’s defense of poetry ‘‘has largely been based upon Calvinist theology’’ (277). 5. Cited in Andrew D. Weiner, Sir Philip Sidney and the Poetics of Protestantism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1978), 13. 6. The analogy may be traced back to Plato’s Republic. Leonardo da Vinci frequently alludes to it in his Treatise on Painting. 7. See my ‘‘Emblems on the Art of Painting,’’ 76–77. 8. Plutarch, Mor. 346F-47A. The Loeb translation reads: ‘‘for the actions

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which painters portray as taking place at the moment, literature narrates and records after they have taken place.’’ Trans. Frank Cole Babbitt (Cambridge, MA. Harvard University Press, 1957). 9. There seems to be an allusion here to the notion, prevalent in the Middle Ages, that pictures are more accessible to the common man than poetry is. 10. For this letter, see ‘‘Letter to Sir Robert Sidney,’’ in Sir Philip Sidney: Selected Prose and Poetry, ed. Robert Kimbrough, 2nd ed. (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1983), 92–95. 11. Alberti, On Painting, 43: ‘‘No one would deny that the painter has nothing to do with things that are not visible.’’ 12. On these two kinds of imitation, see Jan Bialostocki, ‘‘The Renaissance Concept of Nature in Antiquity,’’ in The Renaissance and Mannerism: Studies in Western Art (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1963), 19–30. 13. As David Summers notes, ‘‘the deceptions of painting and the stage were often compared’’ (The Judgment of Sense, 238). 14. Frances Yates, in The Art of Memory, discusses Aquinas’s view that ‘‘human cognition is stronger in regard to the sensibilia, and therefore ‘subtle and spiritual things’ are better remembered in the soul in corporeal form’’ (86). On Sidney’s reference to a ‘‘profitable invention,’’ see chapter 5, n. 6. 15. Leonardo da Vinci, Paragone, 60. 16. See P. O. Kristeller, ‘‘The Modern System of the Arts,’’ in Renaissance Thought, II (New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1965), 173–74. 17. For Jonson’s use of the same passage, see Timber, or Discoveries, in Ben Jonson’s Literary Criticism, ed. James D. Redwine, Jr. (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1970), 15. 18. See appendix 2. 19. For discussion of Junius’s use of the story of Phaethon in the Met., see chapter 3, 100–101. 20. See appendix 1. 21. For Junius’s annotations to this poem, see chapter 4, 110–14. 22. George Puttenham, The Arte of English Poesie (1589), 19. See also Sidney as cited 61–62 above. 23. On the relationship of the senses to the common sense and hence to the imagination, see E. Ruth Harvey, The Inward Wits: Psychological Theory in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance (London: Warburg Institute, 1973). She notes that the ‘‘inward wits stand at the point of communication between these two worlds in man, between the body and the soul, the realm of sense and the realm of intellect’’ (2). See also David Summers, The Judgment of Sense. For the various ‘‘faculty psychologies,’’ see Murray Wright Bundy, The Theory of Imagination in Classical and Mediaeval Thought (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1927), 179–98. 24. On this subject, see Weiner, ‘‘Moving and Teaching,’’ 272–77. 25. William Rossky, in ‘‘Imagination in the English Renaissance: Psychology and Poetic,’’ Studies in the Renaissance 5 (1958): 58, refers to John Davies of Hereford, Works 1:8: ‘‘Without ‘Patterns’ imagination cannot feign its ‘things unlikely.’ ’’ 26. ‘‘Ovids Banquet of Sence,’’ in The Poems of George Chapman, ed. Phyllis Brooks Bartlett (New York: Modern Language Association of America, 1941), stanza 63.

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27. On the topos, see Frank Kermode, ‘‘The Banquet of Sense,’’ in Shakespeare, Spenser, Donne: Renaissance Essays (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1971), 84–115. See also Louise Vinge, ‘‘Chapman’s Ovid’s Banquet of Sence: Its Sources and Theme,’’ JWCI 38 (1075): 234–57. 28. Rossky notes, ‘‘Ultimately, then, all knowledge, thought, and action depend upon the transmission of data through a hierarchy of powers’’ (51). 29. For a modern questioning of the significance of the word ‘‘image,’’ see W. J. T. Mitchell, Iconology: Image, Text, Ideology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986). 30. Castiglione, in The Book of the Courtier, follows Plato in making this ladder descriptive of the order that links man to the divine. 31. Paragone, 58. 32. For discussion of the miracle of art, see chapter 4, 116–17. 33. See Leonardo da Vinci, Paragone. For the paragone of the senses in Shakespeare, see my Pencils Rhetorique (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 1993), 54–63. 34. See chapter 4, 126–27 for fuller discussion. 35. Cicero, De oratore, 3.38.155. Cf. Aristotle, Rhetoric 3.10.2. 36. Cf. chapter 6, 189 for the relationship of physical beauty to the beauty of art. Cf. Sidney’s similar statement in D 509. 37. The words ‘‘crimen,’’ ‘‘confitentem,’’ and ‘‘reum’’ are legal terms. 38. Cf. the reference to the artist Nichomachus in chapter 5, 139. 39. See 194 above for the context of the Sidney quotation. For Junius’s relationship to Laud, see the index to Sophie van Romburgh’s edition of his letters, chapter 1n15 above. 40. Cf. Sidney’s Astrophel and Stella 35: ‘‘Not thou by praise, but praise in thee is rais’d: / It is a praise to praise, when thou art prais’d.’’ 41. See Hoyt Hudson’s note on this sentence with his reference to Pierre de la Primaudaye, L’Acade´mie Franc¸oise (1577–94). 42. Cf. Jeffrey M. Muller, ‘‘Rubens’s Theory and Practice of the Imitation of Art,’’ Art Bulletin 64 (1982): 229–47. He notes that ‘‘Rubens checked his memory of art in the way he measured his invented figures against the direct observation of nature’’ (247). 43. Augustine, Confessions, trans. Maria Boulding (New York: New City Press, 2002), 10.8.13–14. 44. See Aristotle: ‘‘Now for the thinking soul images take the place of direct perceptions. . . . Hence the soul never thinks without a mental image’’ (On the Soul 3.7 [431a].) 45. No doubt Augustine, when he refers to innate principles, is influenced by Plato. 46. On Free Choice of the Will, trans. Thomas Williams (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1993), 60. 47. See Jean Robertson’s note to 372–73 of her edition of the Old Arcadia. She comments that Musidorus ‘‘appears to be repeating Aristotle’s theory of memory based on his theory of knowledge expounded in the De Anima. . . . However, Pyrochles’ reply . . . departs from Aristotle and follows Plato in its assumption that there is a true knowledge not derived from sense impressions, but derives from the memory of pre-existence.’’

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48. Samuel Lee Wolff, The Greek Romances in Elizabethan Prose Fiction (New York: Columbia University Press, 1912) both places the Arcadia in the tradition of the Greek romances and distinguishes it from them by Sidney’s pervasive use of humor and irony. See, for example, 333–36. For another perspective, see Mary Carruthers, ‘‘Inventional Mnemonics and the Ornaments of Style: The Case of Etymology,’’ Connotations 2(1992): 104–14. 49. Cf. Mary Carruthers, ‘‘Marginal notations, glosses, and images are an integral part of the ‘painture’ of literature, addressing the ocular gateway to memory and meditation. Indeed, the margins are where individual memories are most active, and most invited to make their marks, whether physically . . . or only in their imagination‘‘ (The Book of Memory [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990], 245). 50. See Lina Bolzoni, The Gallery of Memory: Literary and Iconographic Models in the Age of the Printing Press, trans. Jeremy Parzen (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2001). She notes, for example: ‘‘Memory is . . . an essential component of the classicizing canon, which clearly establishes itself in the sixteenth century, thus affecting Italian literature for centuries’’ (x). See also her final chapter, ‘‘The Art of Memory and Collecting.’’ 51. On the Society of Antiquaries, see Graham Parry, The Trophies of Time: English Antiquarians of the Seventeenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995). 52. Cf. Leonard Barkan, Unearthing the Past: Archaeology and Aesthetics in the Making of Renaissance Culture (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999). 53. For other aspects of this domestication of the classical, see Albion’s Classicism: The Visual Arts in Britain, 1550–1660, ed. Lucy Gent (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995). See also my review article, ‘‘Classicism and Ideology,’’ International Journal of the Classical Tradition 4 (1998): 571–80. 54. Alcuin, Liber de animae ratione 7–8, cited in Mary Carruthers, The Craft of Thought, 120. 55. Cf. Plutarch, ‘‘On Listening to lectures,’’ as cited above, chapter 5, 262 n. 6. 56. Aristotle had compared memories with paintings: ‘‘Just as the picture painted on the panel is at once a picture and a portrait . . . so in the same way we must regard the mental picture within us both as an object of contemplation in itself and as a mental picture of something else’’ (On Memory and Recollection, in Aristotle, On the Soul, 250b).

APPENDIX 1 1. T. R. Henn, Longinus and English Criticism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1934). 2. Lawrence Lipking, The Ordering of the Arts in Eighteenth-Century England (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1970). 3. Ellenius notes that Langbaine ‘‘frequently corresponded with Selden on learned matters. It is not therefore improbable that through his connections among scholars, Junius had come to take a special interest in Longinus, leading to a wholehearted assimilation by him of the treatise on the sublime’’ (De arte

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pingendi, 78). In a note, Ellenius criticizes Luigi Salerno, ‘‘SeventeenthCentury English Literature on Painting,’’ JWCI 14 (1951): 234–58, for failing to recognize the importance for art literature of Junius’s use of Longinus. 4. T. B. J. Spencer, ‘‘Longinus in English Criticism: Influences before Milton,’’ RES n.s., 8(1957): 137–43. For an interesting comment on Milton and ‘‘the republican sublime,’’ see David Norbrook, Writing the English Republic: Poetry, Rhetoric and Politics, 1627–1660 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), especially 137–39. 5. Aldrich, Fehl, and Fehl, 1:358. 6. For a parallel in Renaissance art theory, see M. Kemp, ‘‘From ‘Mimesis’ to ‘Fantasia.’ ’’ 7. Instit. Orat. 6.2. 29–36. 8. But see the statement by Noel L. Brann, The Debate over the Origin of Genius During the Italian Renaissance (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 78: ‘‘The application of the Platonic frenzy theory to the visual arts could be justified, as in the case of their literary counterparts, by appeal to ancient authority.’’ Brann cites Callistratus’s description of a Bacchante by Scopas, which is not mentioned by Junius in Painting but is included in his account of the artist. See Catalogus, 369–70. 9. See David Summers, Michelangelo and the Language of Art, 103–43. 10. However, William Ringler shows that Longinus was known in England not long after Robortello published his edition of 1554. John Rainolds quoted and translated part of section 17.1 of On the Sublime in a lecture on rhetoric delivered at Oxford in 1573–74. See ‘‘An Early Reference to Longinus,’’ MLN 53 (1938): 23–24. As Ringler notes, this was ‘‘more than sixty years before Langbaine published his edition’’ (1636). Thus Junius would have had opportunities not only through his Continental contacts but also through his English ones for becoming aware of Longinus. 11. Trans. D. A. Russell, in Classical Literary Criticism. 12. This passage in Painting is discussed above, in chapter 3, 100–101. 13. Paragone, 60. Leonardo’s argument is a precursor of Lessing’s distinction between time-arts and space-arts, in his Laocoo¨n (1766). 14. For the term paragone, see 33–34 and n. 27 of the introduction, above. 15. Plato, Ion, trans. D. A. Russell, in Classical Literary Criticism, 533–36. Although Junius does not quote this passage directly, it is implicit in his argument for the role of the spectator in the artistic experience. In the Aldrich, Fehl, and Fehl edition of The Painting of the Ancients, see the Index Locorum Antiquorum for Plato’s Ion, where the editors note: ‘‘Passim.’’ 16. Richard Macksey, ‘‘Longinus Reconsidered,’’ MLN 108 (1993): 920.

APPENDIX 2 1. See David Carrier, ‘‘Ekphrasis and Interpretation: Two Modes of Art History Writing,’’ British Journal of Aesthetics 27 (1987): 20–21. However, this distinction is not valid for ancient and Renaissance ekphrases or any in the classical tradition. For a more sympathetic view, see Stephen Bann, The True Vine: On Visual Representation in the Western Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), and Norman E. Land, The Viewer as Poet.

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2. See, for example, the account of description in Aphthonius’s Progymnasmata, the most widely used school text (trans. R. Nadeau, Speech Monographs 19 [1952]: 264–85). He emphasizes the importance of ‘‘distinctly presenting to view the thing being set forth’’ (279). 3. Ibid. 4. Erasmus, De Copia, 577. 5. See Liz James and Ruth Webb, ‘‘ ‘To Understand Ultimate Things and Enter Secret Places’: Ekphrasis and Art in Byzantium,’’ Art History 14 (1991): 1–17. 6. Ben Jonson’s Literary Criticism, 15. 7. See chapter 7, 204–5 for reference to this parallel. 8. For the modern debate over nature versus convention—one that did not seem to occur to Leonardo, who emphasized the ‘‘naturalness’’ of the painter’s image as compared with the conventionality of the poet’s—see W. J. T. Mitchell, Iconology, chapter 3: ‘‘Nature and Convention: Gombrich’s Illusions.’’ 9. Cicero uses the story to emphasize the idea, or inner image, that is the artist’s true model (Orat. 2.8ff. and 3.10). 10. For this debate, see Luigi Salerno, ‘‘Seventeenth Century English Literature on Painting.’’ 11. E. H. Gombrich drew attention to this similarity. See Art and Illusion, 176–77. 12. Cf. Svetlana Alpers, ‘‘Ekphrasis and Aesthetic Attitudes in Vasari’s Lives.’’ 13. For the role of ekphrasis in epic poems, see Page Dubois, History, Rhetorical Description and the Epic (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1982). 14. For the significance of the terms disegno and colorire, see Baxandall, Painting and Experience in Fifteenth Century Italy, 137–41. 15. See, for example, Vasari’s life of Titian in The Lives of the Artists: A Selection, 1:443. 16. Cf. Alberti’s criticism of painters who ‘‘use much gold in their istoria, rather than using colors to imitate gold’’ (On Painting, 85). 17. Cf. chapter 6, 180 for Sidney’s use of the image in Arcadia 117. For the term Harmoge, see chapter 3, 103. 18. Cf., Michelangelo’s poem cited in Vasari’s life of the artist. Bann, in his analysis of ekphrasis, though he makes no mention of Junius, refers to the ‘‘linguistic hyperbole’’ used to describe the perfect mimesis (30). 19. See, for example, Gottold Lessing, Laocoo¨n (1766) and E. H. Gombrich, ‘‘Moment and Movement in Art,’’ 205–306. 20. Pliny the Elder’s Chapters on the History of Art, 121–22. 21. For ‘‘disorderly order,’’ see chapter 2, 74-77 and chapter 6, 189–91. For the playful in art, see chapter 4. 22. For discussion of parerga, see chapter 6, 186–87. 23. In the context of religious art, of course, the beholder’s share involves intense meditation on an interior image as stimulated by an exterior one. See Henry Maguire, ‘‘Truth and Convention in Byzantine Descriptions of Works of Art,’’ Dumbarton Oaks Papers 17 (1973): 113–40, and the article by James and Webb, above, n. 5. 24. A little later, writers, such as Samuel Daniel, Ben Jonson, and possibly Shakespeare, became familiar with at least some of the descriptions of the Philostrati.

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Index Aglionby, William, 137 Ahl, Frederick M., 265 n. 20 Alberti, Leon Battista, 29, 63–64, 66, 100, 185, 200, 204, 239, 254 n. 14, 255 n. 33, 258 n. 23, 264n n. 1 and5, 267 n. 11, 271 n. 16 allegory, 110, 211 Alpers, Svetlana, 271 n. 12 Andrewes, Lancelot, 25 Apelles, 98, 104, 143, 149, 160, 260 n. 16, 269 n. 33 Aphthonius, 271 n. 2 Apollonius of Tyana, 61–62, 100, 101 Aquinas, Thomas, 205, 267 n. 14 Arachne, 102–3, 106, 259 n. 38 Aristotle, 78, 87, 135, 150, 202, 212, 216, 223, 230, 256 nn. 45 and 47, 257 n. 14, 263 n. 22, 268 nn. 44 and 47, 269 n. 56 art: bodily beauty and, 125–29,141, 150, 152, 164–65, 189, 191–94, 218; collecting of, 30–33, 118–19, 132– 33, 269; daring and, 62, 148, 151– 52, 154; deceitfulness of, 117, 204–5, 137, 236–37, 267 n. 13; hiding of, 189–90, 244; morality of, 129–32, 136, 149, 156; perspicuity and, 207, 230–31, 244; reason and, 118, 138–39, 210; truth of, 117, 118, 208–9, 213, 222, 236, 238–39, 243 Arundel, Countess of, 34, 107, 248 n. 12 Arundel, Earl of, 29, 30–32, 54, 225, 248 n. 12, 249 n. 21 Atkins, J. W. H., 53–54 Augustine, 204, 221–22 Ausonius, 122 Bacon, Francis, 53, 249 n. 17 Bann, Stephen, 270 n. 1

Barkan, Leonard, 259 n. 41, 269 n. 52 Baxandall, Michael, 249 n. 23, 260 n. 10, 264 n. 1, 265 n. 28, 266 n. 38, 271 n. 14 beholder’s share 121, 246, 258 n. 34, 271 n. 23 Bellori, Giovanni Pietro, 12 Bialostocki, Jan, 267n 12 Bible, 197–99. See also Franciscus Junius the Elder Blount, W., 250 n. 31 Boethius, 118, 210 Boileau, Nicolas, 227 Bolzoni, Lina, 269 n. 50 Bann, Stephen, 270 n. 1 Brann, Noel, 270 n. 8 Bremmer, Rolf, Jr., 21, 41, 247–48 n. 2, 251 n. 7 Bundy, Murray Wright, 267 n. 23 Callistratus, 38, 134, 172, 239, 242– 43, 245–46 Calvin, John, 198–99 Carrier, David, 270 n. 1 Carruthers, Mary, 265 n. 29, 269 nn. 48 and 49 Castiglione, Baldassare, 63, 69, 190, 237, 244, 254 n. 12, 268 n. 30 Cave, Terence, 258 n. 24 centaur, 97, 103, 242 Chapman, George, 103, 211, 227 Charles I, 33, 132–33, 137, 224–25 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 39, 46, 251 n. 7 Cicero, 29, 33, 63, 75, 76, 139–43, 157, 200, 216, 226, 228, 271 n. 9 circumstances, 99–100, 176, 258 n. 30 Claudian, 113, 119–20, 124 commonplace books, 51–53, 203, 232 n. 17, 264 n. 2

284

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common sense, 179–80, 210, 215–16, 267 n. 23 composition, 166–67, 232 n. 17, 255 n. 33, 264 n. 1. See also disposition conceit, 63–65, 78, 123, 220–21. See also invention Corbett, Margery, and Ronald Lightbown, 251 n. 16 Cropper, Elizabeth, 12, 247 n. 2 countenance, 159–60, 172–74, 220, 238. See also expression; gesture Curtius, Ernst Robert, 256 n. 50, 259 n. 2 decorum, 149, 191–93 deus artifex, 36, 156, 218, 237 Digby, Kenelm, 72 Dio Chrysostom, 202–3, 239 disorderly order, 73–77, 96, 190, 244, 255 n. 39 disposition, 73–74, 77–79, 196, 232, 255 n. 37. See also composition Dorsten, J. A. van, 247 n. 2, 248 n. 5 Douglas, Gavin, 39, 48 Dryden, John, 81 Dubois, Page, 271 n. 13 Dugdale, William, 41 Dundas, Judith, 247 n. 2, 251 n. 13, 255 n. 31, 268 n. 33 Du ¨ rer, Albrecht, 260–61 n. 22 E. K., 71–77, 255 nn. 32 and 43, 256 n. 44 ekphrasis, 120–21, 234–35, 237, 241, 246, 256 n. 50, 270 n. 1, 271 nn. 12, 13, 18 Elizabethan homily, 59, 104 Ellenius, Allan, 250 n. 1, 269 n. 3 emblem, 58, 123, 178, 179, 199, 251 n. 16, 259 n. 5, 262 n. 13 emulation, 55–57, 123–24, 183, 223, 253 n. 36 enargeia, 187, 231 epic, 78–79, 183. See also istoria Erasmus, Desiderius, 52, 83, 96, 181, 260 n. 22, 264 n. 13, 265 n. 21 Euripides, 100–101, 230, 239 Evans, Robert C., 52, 252 n. 26

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expression, 149, 152, 180, 242–43, 256 n. 21 faculty psychology, 12, 212, 267 n. 23 Fehl, Philipp, 258 n. 27 Fraunce, Abraham, 110, 188 Fulgentius, 201–2 Gent, Lucy, 255 n. 43, 269 n. 53 gesture, 105, 171–73. See also expression; countenance Gill, Alexander, 42–45, 55, 109 Gilman, Ernest B., 252 n. 28, 260 n. 17 Gombrich, E. H., 121, 254n n. 12 and 13, 256 n. 47, 262 n. 14, 271 n. 11 Gosson, Stephen, 208, 253 n. 1 grace, 69, 98, 118, 121–28, 149, 244 Grafton, Anthony, 250 n. 28, 252 nn. 23 and 27 Greek Anthology, 121–22, 260 n. 21 Gregory of Nyssa, 206 Grotius, Hugo, 197 Hackel, Heidi Brayman, 250 n. 31 Haechtanus, Laurentius, 199 Hall, John, 227 harmoge, 103, 242, 265 n. 17 Harvey, E. Ruth, 267 n. 23 Harvey, Gabriel, 51, 252 n. 23 Haydocke, Richard, 137, 264 n. 8, 265 n. 35 Haynes, D. E., 32 Henn, T. R., 227 Homer, 64, 142 Horace, 29, 66, 78, 110, 114, 115, 123, 124, 128, 129, 135, 172, 177, 211–12, 228, 260 n. 9, 263 n. 24 Hoskins, John, 66, 166, 167–68, 181, 217, 221, 264 nn. 3 and 4 Huizinga, Johann, 125, 260 n. 14, 261 n. 31 Hulse, Clark, 256 n. 48 idea, 63–64, 228, 254 nn. 9, 11, 14, 271 n. 9. See also image idolatry, 59, 199 image, 12, 23 38, 60, 66, 67, 203–4, 212–13, 215, 221–22, 234, 243, 245. See also idea; metaphor

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imagination, 58, 61–62, 81, 87, 101–2, 115, 159, 199, 200, 204, 207, 209, 210, 235–36. See also invention; phantasy imitation: of nature, 68, 102, 140, 141, 147, 203–4, 215, 224, 228, 235–36, 238; of descriptions, 202–3, 239; of ancient statues, 258 n. 29; of models, 63–64. See also image, imagination invention, 54, 101, 115, 137, 159, 162, 228–29, 232, 239, 262 n. 6. See also conceit; idea; imagination irony, 55, 110, 114, 116, 253 n. 33 istoria, 79, 264 n. 5. See also epic Jackson, Heather, 11, 250 n. 28 Jones, Inigo, 25 Jonson, Ben, 51, 136, 161, 206, 236, 252 n. 21, 267 n. 17 judgment, 108, 114, 115, 142–43, 148– 49, 160–61, 212, 238 Junius, Francsicus the Elder, 21, 25, 45, 198, 248 n. 4 Junius, Franciscus the Younger: life of, 23–26, 248 n. 6; works: Catalogus, 26, 122; De pictura veterum (1637), 29, 33, De pictura veterum (1694), 29 79, 81, 249 n. 15, 261 n. 40; Etymologicum Anglicanum; 26; influence of, 26–28; letters, 45–46, 251 n. 15; philological works, 26; reading of, 249 n. 14 Kemp, Martin, 263 n. 37, 270 n. 6 Kermode, Frank, 268 n. 27 Kristeller, P. O., 267 n. 16 labyrinth, 190–91 Land, Norman E. 270 n. 1 Langbaine, Robert, 227 Laud, Archbishop, 25, 219, 253 n. 4, 268 n. 39 Lebey de Batilly, Denis, 182–83, 265 n. 22 Lee, Rensselaer W., 249 n. 16, 253 n. 7, 254 n. 21 Leonardo da Vinci, 65, 153, 185, 205, 207, 214, 230, 254 n. 19, 270 n. 13

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Lessing, Gotthold, 52, 79, 232, 256 n. 47, 270 n. 13 Lewis, C. S., 40 liberal arts, 36, 150 Ling, Nicholas, 161, 184 Lipking, Lawrence, 227, 269 n. 2 Livy, 153, 186 Lomazzo, G. P., 137, 228, 254 n. 11 Longinus, 37–38, 100–101, 106–7, 134, 207, 254 n. 22, 255 n. 39. Lysippus, 117, 119 Macksey, Richard, 270 n. 16 Maguire, Henry, 271 n. 23 Mander, Carel van, 249 n. 24, 257 n. 2 marginalia, 11, 34, 177–78, 213, 224, 250 n. 28, 269 n. 49 Martial, 68, 119, 123–24, 128, 130, 183 Massil, Stephen, 248 n. 7 memory, 60, 70, 85–88, 156–59, 197, 201–2, 221–23, 229, 245, 262 n. 6, 267 n. 14, 269n n. 48, 49, 54, and 56 metaphor, 38, 42, 135, 166–67, 175– 76, 213–14, 216–17 Michelangelo, 34, 229, 260 n. 20, 263 n. 11, 271 n. 8 Milton, John, 227, 252 n. 24 Mitchell, W. J. T., 247 n. 3, 250 n. 32, 268 n. 29, 271 n. 8 Montaigne, Michel de, 53 Montemayor, Jorge de, 86 Moss, Ann, 252 n. 22 Mount, C. B., 126 Muecke, D. C., 253 n. 33 Muller, Jeffrey M., 268 n. 42 Muses, 201, 231 Myron, 117 Nativel, Colette, 185, 248 n. 6, 262 n. 8 nature, 63, 69, 96, 102, 108, 135–36, 148–49, 218, 224. See also imitation Nazarius, 151–52 Norbrook, David, 270 n. 4 Ogden, Henry V. S., and Margaret S. Ogden, 256 nn. 44 and 49 Orgel, Stephen, 248 n. 12 ornament, 123, 149, 187, 194–95, 211, 217, 242, 265 nn. 28 and 29

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Ovid, 157, 172, 230, 248 n. 8, 255 n. 38, 257 n. 8, 259 n. 48, 261 n. 32 Panofsky, Erwin, 254 nn. 12 and 14, 260–61 n. 22 paragone, 33–34, 57, 151, 205, 214, 223, 230, 249 n. 27, 268 n. 33 parerga, 122–23, 186–87, 245 Parry, Graham, 269 n. 5 Peacham, Henry (the Elder), 184–85 Peacham, Henry (the Younger), 25, 30, 77 Pembroke, Countess of, 46 personification, 179, 217 perspective, 237, 239–41 Petronius, 120–21, 129, 131 phantasy, 23, 61–62, 80, 99–102, 128– 29, 209–10. See also imagination Phidias, 64, 142, 239 Phillips, John, 247 n. 1 Philostrati, 38, 134, 172, 271 n. 24 Philostratus the Younger, 61, 98–99, 206 Pirckheimer library, 32 Plato, 93, 106, 121, 130, 132, 140, 199, 202, 222, 231, 233, 253 n. 9, 254 n. 12, 266 n. 41, 268 nn. 45 and 47, 270 nn. 8 and 15 Pliny the Elder, 33, 69, 143, 150, 199, 206, 249 n. 24, 263 n. 37 Pliny the Younger, 144–51, 157 plot summaries, 166–71, 202 Plutarch, 134–39, 155, 202, 205, 223– 24, 262 n. 6 Pollitt, J. J., 248 n. 13, 260 n. 12 Praxiteles, 104, 239 Propertius, 67–68, 129–130 Protogenes, 244, 265 n. 33 Prynne, William, 58–59, 70–71, 194, 208, 253 n. 2 puritanism, 36, 58, 104–5, 150 Puttenham, George, 102, 209–10, 258 n. 30 Pygmalion, 103–4 Quintilian, 29, 33, 65, 66, 72, 76, 128, 179, 181, 184, 186, 228, 235, 261 n. 1

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Raphael, 63–64, 106, 254 n. 12 reason, 102, 114, 118, 210, 239 Rembrandt, van Rijn, 254 n. 21 Rhetorica ad Herrenium, 257 n. 5 rhetorical figures: epanelepsis, 182; metaplasm, 44; paronomasia, 89, 220, 251 n. 13; polyptoton, 182; prosopopeia, 198, 265–66 n. 36 Ringler, William, 257 n. 3, 261 n. 29, 270 n. 10 Ripa, Cesare, 214, 229 Roberts, Michael, 266 n. 42 Roberts, W. Rhys, 227 Robertson, Jean, 247 n. 2, 268 n. 47 Romburgh, Sophie van, 248 n. 9, 251 n. 15, 268 n. 39 Rossky, William, 267 n. 25, 268 n. 28 Rubens, Peter Paul, 25, 105–8, 197, 225 Salerno, Luigi, 269–70 n. 3, 271 n. 10 Sandys, George, 104 Selden, John, 30, 225 Seneca the Rhetor, 259 n. 2 Seneca the Younger, 156–65 senses, 65, 87–88, 102, 118, 140, 141, 208, 209–13, 215–16, 223, 262 n. 10, 267 n. 26, 268 n. 27 sententiae, 94, 181–82, 195 Shakespeare, 93–94, 104, 126–27, 135–36, 171, 211, 224, 229, 240, 262 n. 4 Shearman, John, 254 n. 12 Sidney, Philip: Astrophel and Stella, 135, 268 n. 40; Defence of Poesie, 55, 58–71, 83–84, 115, 116, 118, 201, 202, 204, 205, 207, 213; letter to Sir Robert Sidney, 203 Simonides, 114, 203 Spencer, T. B. J., 228 Spenser, Edmund, 42–43, 45, 46, 51, 71–81, 104, 201, 229, 252 n. 21, 256 nn. 46 and 51 Skretkowicz, Victor, 257 n. 8 Society of Antiquaries, 225, 269 n. 51 Statius, 116, 117, 128 Summers, David, 258 n. 35, 262 n. 10, 267 n. 13 Symmachus, 219

INDX

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288

INDEX

symmetry, 147, 150, 239 synesthesia, 179, 189, 214–16

Vickers, Brian, 262 n. 14 Vinge, Louise, 268 n. 27 Virgil, 39–40, 49, 60, 105, 109, 122, 131–32, 172, 253 n. 6 Vossius, Dionysius, 45–46, 251 n. 15 Vossius, Gerhard, 25 Vossius, Isaac, 21, 25, 26, 247 n. 2

Tacitus, 152–55 Terence, 130 Tibullus, 126–27 Titian, 32, 98, 106, 108, 258 n. 27 Tremellius, Emanuel, 21, 45, 198 Trimpi, Wesley, 253 n. 7 Twyne, Brian, 250 n. 31 ut pictura poesis, 29–30, 67, 214, 228, 233, 249 n. 16, 259–60 n. 8 Van Dyck, Anthony, 25, 32, 106, 249 n. 22 Varchi, Benedetto, 34 Vasari, Giorgio, 32, 66, 76, 104, 106, 137, 143, 237 Velleius Paterculus, 55–56 Veen, Otto van, 259 n. 5

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INDX

Weiner, Andrew, 266 n. 4, 267 n. 24 Weiss, Roberto, 250 n. 1 Wharton, Edith, 250 n. 32 Wilson, Thomas, 86 Winckelmann, J., 52 Wolff, Samuel Lee, 269 n. 48 Yates, Frances, 12, 247 n. 1, 257 n. 14, 267 n. 14 Zeuxis, 57, 139 Zuccaro, Federico, 228, 254 n. 11

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