an intuitive eye. He is a critic as well as a connoisseur. The
conclusions he draws are clear and convincing, because they are taken
from the things themselves. He is not a fanatic, a dupe, or a slave; for
the habit of seeing for himself also disposes him to judge for himself.
The most sensible men I know (taken as a class) are painters; that is,
they are the most lively observers of what passes in the world about
them, and the closest observers of what passes in their own minds. From
their profession they in general mix more with the world than authors;
and if they have not the same fund of acquired knowledge, are obliged
to rely more on individual sagacity. I might mention the names of Opie,
Fuseli, Northcote, as persons distinguished for striking description
and acquaintance with the subtle traits of character.(3) Painters in
ordinary society, or in obscure situations where their value is
not known, and they are treated with neglect and indifference, have
sometimes a forward self-sufficiency of manner; but this is not so much
their fault as that of others. Perhaps their want of regular education
may also be in fault in such cases. Richardson, who is very tenacious of
the respect in which the profession ought to be held, tells a story of
Michael Angelo, that after a quarrel between him and Pope Julius II.,
'upon account of a slight the artist conceived the pontiff had put upon
him, Michael Angelo was introduced by a bishop, who, thinking to serve
the artist by it, made it an argument that the Pope should be reconciled
to him, because men of his profession were commonly ignorant, and of no
consequence otherwise; his holiness, enraged at the bishop, struck him
with his staff, and told him, it was he that was the blockhead, and
affronted the man himself would not offend: the prelate was driven
out of the chamber, and Michael Angelo had the Pope's benediction,
accompanied with presents. This bishop had fallen into the vulgar error,
and was rebuked accordingly.'

Besides the exercise of the mind, painting exercises the body. It is a
mechanical as well as a liberal art. To do anything, to dig a hole in
the ground, to plant a cabbage, to hit a mark, to move a shuttle, to
work a pattern,--in a word, to attempt to produce any effect, and to
_succeed,_ has something in it that gratifies the love of power, and
carries off the restless activity of the mind of man. Indolence is
a delightful but distressing state; we must be doing s