YALE UNIVERSITY
ART AND ARCHITECTURE
LIBRARY

MODERN PAINTERS.

A GRADUATE OF OXFORD.

"Accuse me not
Of arrogance, ....
If, having walked with Nature,
And offered, far as frailty would allow.
My heart a dally sacrifice to Truth,
I now affirm of Nature and of Truth,
Whom I Have served, that their Divinity
we volts, offended at the ways of men.
Philosophers, who, though the human soul '
Be of a thousand faculties composed,
And twice ten thousand Interests, do yet prize
This soul, and the transcendent universe
No more than as a mirror that reflects
To proud Self-love her own Intelligence." WORDSWORTH.

PART I.-II.

YOL. I. /rK

NEW TORK:
JOHN WILEY & SONS,
No. 15 Astok Place.
1887.

TO
THE LANDSCAPE ARTISTS OF ENGLAND
IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED,
BY IHEIR SINCERE ADMIRER,
The AUTHOR.

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

The work now laid before the public originated in indigna
tion at the shallow and false Griticism of the periodicals of the
day on the works of the great living artist to whom it princi
pally refers. It was intended to be a short pamphlet, reprobat
ing the matter and style of those critiques, and pointing out
their perilous tendency, as guides of public feeling. But, as
point after point presented itself for demonstration, I found
myself compelled to amplify what was at first a letter to the
Editor of a Review, into something very like a treatise on art,
to which I was obliged to give the more consistency and com
pleteness, because it advocated opinions which, to the ordinary
connoisseur, will sound heretical. I now scarcely know whether
I should announce it is an Essay on Landscape Painting, and
apologize for its frequent reference to the works of a particular
master ; or, announcing it as a critique on particular works,
apologize for its lengthy discussion of general principles. But
of whatever character the work may be considered, the motives
which led me to undertake it must not be mistaken. No zeal
for the reputation of any individual, no personal feeling of any
kind, has the slightest weight or influence with me. The repu
tation of the great artist to whose works I have chiefly referred,
is established on too legitimate grounds among all whose admira
tion is honorable, to be in any way affected by the ignorant
sarcasms of pretension and affectation. But when public taste
seems plunging deeper and deeper into degradation day by day,
and when the press universally exerts such power as it possesses
to direct the feeling of the nation more completely to all that is
theatrical, affected, and false in art ; while it vents its ribald
buffooneries on the most exalted truth, and the highest ideal of
landscape, that this or any other age has ever witnessed, it be
comes the imperative duty of all who have any perception or
¦JAN 7 1920 1 4 i

X PKEFACE TO THE FIEST EDITION'.
knowledge of what is really great in art, and any desire for its
¦advancement in England, to come fearlessly forward, regardless
of such individual interests as are likely to be injured by the
knowledge of what is good and right, to declare and demon
strate) wherever they exist, the essence and the authority of the
Beautiful and the True.
Whatever may seem invidious or partial in the execution of
my task is dependent not so much on the tenor of the work, as
on its incompleteness. I have not entered into systematic criti
cism of all the painters of the present day ; but I have illus
trated each particular excellence and truth of art by the works
in which it exists in the highest degree, resting satisfied that if
it be once rightly felt and enjoyed in these, it will be discovered
¦ and appreciated wherever it exists in others. And although I
have never suppressed any conviction of the superiority of one
artist over another, which I believed to be grounded on truth,
and necessary to the understanding of truth, I have been cau
tious never to undermine positive rank, while I disputed relative
rank. My uniform desire and aim have been, not that the
present favorite should be admired less, but that the neglected
master should be admired more. And I know that an increased
perception and sense of truth and beauty, though it may inter
fere with our estimate of the comparative rank of painters, will
invariably tend to increase our admiration of all who are really
great ; and he who now places Stanfield and Callcott above Tur
ner, will admire Stanfield and Callcott more than he does now,
when he has learned to place Turner far above them both.
In three instances only have I spoken in direct depreciation
of the works of living artists, and these are all cases in which
the reputation is so firm and extended, as to suffer little injury
from the opinion of an individual, and where the blame has
been warranted and deserved by the desecration of the highest
powers. Of the old masters I have spoken with far greater freedom ;
but let it be remembered that only a portion of the work is now
presented to the public, and it must not be supposed, because in
that particular portion, and witbT reference to particular excel
lencies, I have spoken in constant depreciation, that I have no
feeling of other excellencies of which cognizance can only be
taken in future parts of the work. Let me not be understood
to mean more than I have said, nor be made responsible for con-

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. XI
elusions when I have only stated facts. I have said that the old
masters did not give the truth of Nature ; if the reader chooses,
thence, to infer that they were not masters at all, it is his con
clusion, not mine.
Whatever I have asserted throughout ~the work, I have en
deavored to ground altogether on demonstrations which must
stand or fall by their own strength, and which ought to involve
no more reference to authority or character than a demonstration
in Eudid. Yet it is proper for the public to know, that the
writer is no mere theorist, but has been devoted from his youth
to.the laborious study of practical art.
Whatever has been generally affirmed of the old schools of
landscape-painting is founded on familiar acquaintance with
every important work of art, from Antwerp -to Naples. But it
would be useless, where close and immediate comparison with
works in our own Academy is desirable, to refer to the details
of pictures at Rome or Munich ; and it would be impossible to
speak at once with just feeling, as regarded the possessor, and
just freedom, as regarded the public, of pictures in private gal
leries. Whatever particular references have been made for illus
tration, have been therefore confined, as far as was in my power,
to works in the National and Dulwich Galleries.
Finally, I have to apologize for the imperfection of a work
which I could have wished not to have executed, but with years
of reflection and revisal. It is owing to my sense of the neces
sity of such revisal, that only a portion of the work is now pre
sented to the public ; but that portion is both complete in itself,
and is more peculiarly directed against the crying evil which
called for instant remedy. Whether I ever completely fulfil my
intention, will partly depend upon the spirit in which the pres
ent volume is received. If it be attributed to an invidious
spirit, or a desire for the advancement of individual interests, I
could hope to effect little good by farther effort! If, on the
contrary, its real feeling and intention be understood, I shall
shrink from no labor in the execution of a task which may tend,
however feebly, to. the advancement of the cause of real art in
England, and to the honor of those great living Masters whom
we now neglect or malign, to pour our flattery into the ear of
Death, and exalt, with vain acclamation, the names of those who
neither demand our praise, nor regard our gratitude.
The Author.

;-.;•

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.

It is allowed by the most able writers on naval and military
tactics, that although the attack by successive divisions abso
lutely requires in the attacking party such an inherent superi
ority in quality of force, and such consciousness of that superi
ority, as may enable his front columns, or his leading ships, to
support themselves for a considerable period against overwhelm
ing numbers ; it yet insures, if maintained with constancy, the
most total ruin of the opposing force. Convinced of the truth,
and therefore assured of the ultimate prevalence and victory of
the principles which I have advocated, and equally confident
that the strength of the cause must give weight to the strokes of
even the weakest of its defenders, I permitted myself to yield to
a somewhat hasty and hot-headed desire of being, at whatever
risk, in the thick of the fire, and began the contest with a part,
and that the weakest and least considerable part, of the forces
at my disposal. And I now find the volume thus boldly laid
before the public in a position much resembling that of the
Royal Sovereign at Trafalgar, receiving, unsupported, the broad
sides of half the enemy's fleet, while unforeseen circumstances
have hitherto prevented, and must yet for a time prevent, my
heavier ships of the line from taking any part in the action. I
watched the first moments of the struggle with some anxiety for
the solitary vessel, — an anxiety which I have now ceased to feel,
—for the flag of truth waves brightly through the smoke of the
battle, and my antagonists, wholly intent on the destruction of
the leading ship, have lost their position, and exposed them
selves in defenceless disorder to the attack of the following col-
ums. If, however, I have had no reason to regret my hasty ad
vance, as far as regards the ultimate issue of the struggle, I have
yet found it to occasion much misconception of the character,

XIV preface to the sec8nd EDITION".
and some diminution of the influence, of the present essay.
Por though the work has been received as only in sanguine mo
ments I had ventured to hope, though I have had the pleasure
of knowing that in many instances its principles have carried
with them a strength of conviction amounting to a demonstra
tion of their truth, and that, even where it has had no other in
fluence, it has excited interest, suggested inquiry, and prompted
to a just and frank comparison of Art with Nature ; yet this
effect would have been greater still, had not the work been sup
posed, as it seems to have been by many readers, a completed
treatise, containing a systematized statement of the whole of my
views on the subject of modern art. Considered as such, it sur
prises me that the book should have received the slightest atten
tion. Por what respect could be due to a writer who pretended
to criticise and classify the works of the great painters of land
scape, without developing, or even alluding to, one single prin
ciple of the beautiful or sublime ? So far from being a com
pleted essay, it is little more than the introduction to the mass
of evidence and illustration which I have yet to bring forward ;
it treats of nothing but the initiatory steps of art, states noth
ing but the elementary rules of criticism, touches only on merits
attainable by accuracy of eye and fidelity of hand, and leaves for
future consideration every one of the eclectic qualities of pic
tures, all of good that is prompted by feeling, and of great that
is guided by judgment ; and its function and scope should the
less have been mistaken, because I have not only most carefully
arranged the subject in its commencement, but have given fre
quent references throughout to the essays by which it is intended
to be succeeded, in which I shall endeavor to point out the sig
nification and the value of those phenomena of external nature
which I have been hitherto compelled to describe without refer
ence either to their inherent beauty, or to the lessons which may
be derived from them.
Yet, to prevent such misconception in future, I may perhaps
be excused for occupying the reader's time with a fuller state
ment of the feelings with which the work was undertaken, of its
general plan, and of the conclusions and positions which I hope
to be able finally to deduce and maintain.
Nothing, perhaps, bears on the face of it more appearance of
folly, ignorance, and impertinence, than any attempt to dimin
ish the honor of those to whom the assent of many generations

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. XV
has assigned a throne ; for the truly great of later times have,
almost without exception, fostered in others the veneration of
departed poAver which they felt themselves, satisfied in all
humility to take their seat at the feet of those whose honor is
brightened by the hoariness of time, and to wait for the period
when the lustre of many departed days may accumulate on their
own heads, in the radiance which culminates as it recedes../ The
envious and incompetent have usually been the leaders of attack,
content if, like the foulness of the earth, they may attract to
themselves notice by their noisomeness, or,' like its insects, exalt
themselves by virulence into visibility. While, however, the
envy of the vicious, and the insolence of the ignorant, are occa
sionally shown in their nakedness by futile efforts to degrade the
dead, it is worthy of consideration whether they may not more
frequently escape detection in successful efforts to degrade the
living, — whether the very same malice may not be gratified, the
very same incompetence demonstrated in the unjust lowering of
present greatness, and the unjust exaltation of a perished power,
as, if exerted and manifested in a less safe direction, would have
classed the critic with Nero and Caligula, with Zoilus and Per-
rault. Be it remembered, that the spirit of detraction is de
tected only when unsuccessful, and receives least punishment
where it effects the greatest injury ; and it cannot but be lelt
that there is as much danger that the rising of new stars should
be concealed by the mists which are unseen, as that those
throned in heaven should be darkened by the clouds which are
visible. / There is, I fear, so much malice in the hearts of most men,
tnat they are chiefly jealous of that praise which can give the
greatest pleasure, and are then most liberal of eulogium when it
can no longer be enjoyed.^ They grudge not the whiteness of
the sepulchre, because by no honor they can bestow upon it can
the senseless corpse be rendered an object of envy ; but they are
niggardly of the reputation which contributes to happiness, or
advances to fortune. They are glad to obtain credit for gen
erosity and humility by exalting those who are beyond the reach
of praise, and thus to escape the more painful necessity of doing
homage to a living rival. They are rejoiced to set up a stand
ard of imaginary excellence, which may enable them, by insist
ing on the inferiority of a contemporary work to the things that
have been, to withdraw the attention from its superiority to the

Xvi PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
things that are/The same undercurrent of jealousy operates ;
in our reception of animadversion. Men have commonly more
pleasure in the criticism which hurts than in that which is n> j
nocuous, and are more tolerant of the severity which breaks
hearts and ruins fortunes, than of that which falls impotently
on the grave. / . -a-, -, '>
And thus well says the good and deep-minded Richard
Hooker : " To the best and wisest, while they live, the world is
continually a froward opposite ; and a curious observer of their
defects and imperfections, their virtues afterwards it as much
admireth. And for this cause, many times that which deserv-
eth admiration would hardly be able to find favor, if they which
propose it were not content to profess themselves therein schol
ars and followers of the ancient. Por the world will not endure
to hear that we are wiser than any have been which went be
fore. "—Book v. ch. vii. 3. He therefore who would maintain
the cause of contemporary excellence against that of elder time,
must have almost every class of men arrayed against him, The
-generous, because they would not find matter of accusation
against established dignities ; the envious, because they like
not the sound of a living man's praise ; the wise, because they
prefer the opinion of oenturies to that of days ; and the foolish,
because they are incapable of forming an opinion of their own.
Obloquy so universal is not lightly to be risked, and the few
who make an effort to stem the torrent, as it is made commonly
in favor of their own Works, deserve the contempt which is their
only reward. Nor is this to be regretted, in its influence on the
progress and preservation of things technical and communica
ble. Respect for the ancients is the salvation of art, though it
sometimes blinds us to its ends. It increases the power of the
painter, though it diminishes his liberty ; and if it be sometimes
an incumbrance to the essays of invention, it is oftener a pro
tection from the consequences of audacity. The whole system
and discipline of art, the collected results of the experience of
ages, might, but for the fixed authority of antiquity, be swept
away by the rage of fashion, or lost in the glare of novelty ; and
the knowledge which it had taken centuries to accumulate, the
principles which mighty minds had arrived at only in dying,
might be overthrown by the frenzy of a faction, and abandoned
in the insolence of an hour.
Neither, in its general application, is the persuasion of the

Preface to the second edition. xvii
superiority of former works less just than useful. The greater
number of them are, and must be, immeasurably nobler than
any of the results of present effort, because that which is best of
the productions of four thousand years must necessarily be in
|ts accumulation, beyond all rivalry from the works of any given
generation ; but it should always be remembered that it is im
probable that many, and impossible that all, of such works,
though the greatest yet produced, should approach abstract per
fection ; that there is certainly something left for us to carry
farther, or complete ; that any given generation has just the
same chance of producing some individual mind of first-rate
calibre, as any of its predecessors ; and that if such a mind
should arise, the chances are, that with the assistance of experi
ence and example, it would, in its particular and chosen path,
do greater things than had been before done.
We must therefore be cautious not to lose sight of the real
use of what has been left us by antiquity, nor to take that for a
model of perfection which is, in many cases, only a guide to it.
The picture which is looked to for an interpretation of nature is
invaluable, but the picture which is taken as a substitute for
nature, had better be burned ; and the young artist, while he
should shrink with horror from the iconoclast who would tear
from him every landmark and lignt which has been bequeathed
him by the ancients, and leave him in a liberated childhood,
may be equally certain of being betrayed by those who would
give him the power and the knowledge of past time, and then
fetter his strength from all advance, and bend his eyes back-
. ward on a beaten path — who would thrust canvas between him
and the sky, and tradition between him and God.
And such conventional teaching is the more to be dreaded,
because all that is highest in art, all that is creative and imagina
tive, is formed and created by every great master for himself,
and cannot be repeated or imitated by others. We judge of the
excellence of a rising writer, not so much by the resemblance of
his works to what has been done before, as by their difference
from it ; and while we advise him, in his first trials of strength,
to set certain models before him with respect to inferior points,
' — one for versification, another for arrangement, another for
treatment, — we yet admit not his greatness until he has broken
away from all his models, and struck forth versification, arrange
ment, and treatment of his own.

XV111 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. •
Three points, therefore, I would especially insist upon aa
necessary to be kept in mind in all criticism of modern art.
First, that. there are few, very few of even the best productions
of antiquity, which are not visibly and palpably imperfect in
• some kind or way, and conceivably improvable by farther
study ; that every nation, perhaps every generation, has in all
probability some peculiar gift, some particular character of
mind, enabling it to do something different from, or something
in some sort better than what has been before done ; and
that therefore, unless art be a trick, or a manufacture, of which
the secrets are Jost, the greatest minds of existing nations,
if exerted with the same industry, passion, and honest aim as
those of past time, have a chance in their particular walk of
doing something as great, or, taking the advantage of former
example into account, even greater and better. It is difficult
to conceive by what laws of logic some of the reviewers of
{he following Essay have construed its first sentence into a
denial of this principle, — a denial such as their own conven
tional and shallow criticism of modern works invariably im
plies. I have said that '" nothing has been for centuries con
secrated by public admiration without possessing in a high
degree some species of sterling excellence." Does it thence fol-.
low that it possesses in the highest degree every species of ster
ling jexcellence ? "Yet thus," says the sapient reviewer, "he
admits the fact against which he mainly argues, — namely, the
superiority of these time-honored productions." As if the pos* j
session of an abstract excellence of some kind necessarily im
plied the possession of an incomparable - excellence of every :
kind ! There are few works of man so perfect as to admit of no
conception of their being excelled,* — there are thousands which
have been for centuries, and will be for centuries more, con
secrated by public admiration, whicli are yet imperfect in many
respects, and have been excelled, and may be excelled again,r|
Do my opponents mean to assert that nothing good can ever be '
bettered, and that what is best of past time is necessarily best of
all time ? Perugino, I suppose, possessed some species of ster- ,
* One or two fragments of Greek sculpture, the works of Michael
Angelo, considered with reference to their general conception and power
and the Madonna di St. Sisto, are all that I should myself put into such a '
category, not that even these are without defect, but their defects are such as
mortality could never hope to rectify.

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. XIX
ling excellence, but Perugino was excelled by Raffaelle ; and so
Claude possesses some species of sterling excellence, but it fol
lows not- that he may not be excelled by Turner.
The second point on which I would insist is that if a mind
were to arise of such power as to be capable of equalling or ex
celling some of the greatest works of past ages, the productions
of such a mind would, in all probability, be totally different in
manner and matter from all former productions ; for the more
powerful the intellect, the less will its works resemble those of
other men, whether predecessors or contemporaries. Instead of
reasoning, therefore, as we commonly do, in matters of art, that
beeause such and such a work does not resemble that which has
hitherto been a canon, therefore it must be inferior and wrong
in principle ; let us rather admit that tliere is in its very dissim-
. ilarity an increased chance of its being itself a new, and per
haps, a higher 'canon. If any production of modern art can be
shown to have the authority of nature on its side, and to be
based on eternal truths, it is all so much more in its favor, so
much farther proof of its power, that it is totally different from
all that have been before seen.*
The third point on which I would insist, is that if such a
mind were to arise, it would necessarily divide the world of
criticism into two factions ; the one, necessarily the largest and
loudest, composed of men incapable of judging except by pre
cedent, ignorant of general truth, and acquainted only with
such particular truths as may have been illustrated or pointed
out to them by former works, which class would of course be
violent in vituperation, and increase in animosity as the master
departed farther from their particular and preconceived canons
* This principle is dangerous, but not the less true, and necessary to be
kept in mind. There is scarcely any truth which does not admit of being
wrested to purposes of evil, and we must not deny the desirableness of
originality, because men may err in seeking for it, or because a pretence to
it may be made, by presumption, a cloak for its incompetence. Never
theless, originality is never to be sought for its own sake — otherwise it will
be mere aberration — it should arise naturally out of hard, independent study
of nature ; and it should be remembered that in many things technical, it
is impossible to alter without being inferior, for therein, as says Spencer,
" Truth is one, and right is ever one ;" but wrongs are various and multi
tudinous. "Vice," says Byron, in Marino Faliero, "must have variety;
but "Virtue stands like the sun, and all which rolls around drinks life from
her aspect."

XX PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
Of right,— thus wounding their vanity by impugning their judgj.
ment ; the other, necessarily narrow of number, composed of
men of general knowledge and unbiassed habits of thought, who
would recognize in the work of the daring innovator a recorflj
and illustration of facts before unseized, who would justly ani j
candidly estimate the value of the truths so rendered, and would
increase in fervor of admiration as the master strode farther anf J
deeper, and more daringly into dominions before unsearched or
unknown ; yet diminishing in multitude as they increased in
enthusiasm : for by how much their leader became more im
patient in his step — more impetuous in his success — more exalt
ed in his research, by so much must the number capable of fol<
lowing him become narrower, until -at last, supposing him never
to pause in his advance, he might be left in the very culminat
ing moment of his consummate achievement, with but a faithful
few by his side, his former disciples fallen away, his forme|
enemies doubled in numbers and virulence, and the evidence of
his supremacy only to be wrought out by the devotion of men'P
lives to the earnest study of the new truths he had discoverei
and recorded.
Such a mind has arisen in our days. It has gone on from
strength to strength, laying open fields of conquest peculiar to
itself. It has occasioned such schism in the schools of criticisi
as was beforehand to be expected, and it is now at the zenith'o:
its power, and, consequently, in the last phase of declining pop
ularity. This I know, and can prove. No man, says Southey, was
ever yet convinced of any momentous truth without feeling in
himself the power, as well as the desire of communicating
In asserting and demonstrating the supremacy of this great mas
ter, I shall both do immediate service to the cause of right art,
and shall be able to illustrate many principles of landscape
painting which are of general application, and have hitherto
been unacknowledged.
Por anything like immediate effect on the public mind, I do
not hope. " We mistake men's diseases," says Richard Baxteil
" when we think there needeth nothing to cure them of then-
errors but the evidence of truth. Alas ! there are many disteml
pers of mind to be removed before they receive that evidence."
Nevertheless, when it is fully laid before them, my duty will be
done. Conviction will follow in due time.

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. Xxi
I do not consider myself as in any way addressing, or having
to do with, the ordinary critics of the press. ( Their writings are
not the guidgjjiut the expression, of _ public^opinioji, J A writer
for a newspaper naturally and necessarily endeavors to meet, as
nearly as he can, the feelings of the majority of his readers ; his
bread depends on his doing so. Precluded by the nature of his
occupations from gaining any knowledge of art, he is sure that
he can gain credit for it by expressing the opinions of his read
ers. He mocks the picture which the public pass, and bespat
ters with praise the canvas which a crowd concealed from him.
Writers like the present critic of Blackwood's Magazine*
deserve more respect — the respect due to honest, hopeless, help
less imbecility. There is something exalted in the innocence of
their feeblemindedness : one cannot suspect them of partiality,
for it implies feeling ; nor of prejudice, for it implies some pre
vious acquaintance with their subject. I do not know that even
in this age of charlatanry, I could point to a more barefaced in
stance of imposture on the simplicity of the public, than the in
sertion of these pieces of criticism in a respectable periodical. We
are not insulted with opinions on music from persons ignorant
of its notes ; nor with treatises on philology by persons unac
quainted with the alphabet ; but here is page after page of criti
cism, which one may read from end to end, looking for some
thing which the writer knows, and finding nothing. Not his
own language, for he has to look in his dictionary, by his own
confession, for a word f occurring in one of the most important
chapters of his Bible ; not the commonest traditions of
the schools, for he does not know why Poussin was called
* It is with regret that, in a work of this nature, I take notice of criti
cisms, which, after all, are merely intended to amuse the careless reader,
and be forgotten as soon as read ; but I do so in compliance with wishes
expressed to me since the publication of this work, by persons who have
the interests of art deeply at heart, and who, I find, attach more importance
to the matter than I should have been disposed to do. I have, therefore,
marked two or three passages which may enable the public to judge for
themselves of the quality of these critiques ; and this I think a matter of
justice to Hyhose who might otherwise have been led astray by them — more
than this I cannot consent to do. I should have but a hound's office if I
had to tear the tabard from every Rouge Sanglier of the arts— with bell and
bauble to back him.
t Chrysoprase, (Vide No. for October, 1842, p. 502.)

XXli PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
" learned ;" * not the most simple canons of art, for lie prefers .
Lee to Gainsborough ; f not the most ordinary facts of nature,
* Every school-boy knows that this epithet was given to Poussin in allu
sion to the profound classical knowledge of the painter. The reviewer,
however, (September, 1841,) informs us that the expression refers to his skill
in " Composition."
t Critique on Royal Academy, 1842. " He" (Mr. Lee) " often reminds
lis of Gainsborough's best manner ; but he is superior to him always in sub
ject, composition, and variety. "—Shade of Gainsborough I— deep-thoughted,
solemn Gainsborough,— forgive us for re- writing this sentence ; we do so to
gjbbet its perpetrator forever,— and leave him swinging in the winds of the
Fool's Paradise. It is With great pain that I ever speak with severity of
the works of living masters, especially when, like Mr. Lee's, they are well
intentioned, simple, free from affectation or imitation, and evidently painted
with constant reference to nature. But I believe that these qualities will
always secure him that admiration which he deserves — that there will be1
many unsophisticated and honest minds always ready to follow his guid.
ance, and answer his efforts with delight ; and therefore, that I need not
fear to point out in him the want of those technical qualities which are
more especially the object of an artist's admiration. Gainsborough's power
of color (it is mentioned by Sir Joshua as his peculiar gift) is capable of tak
ing rank beside that of Rubens ; he is the purest colorist — Sir Joshua him
self not excepted — of the whole English school ; with him, in fact, the art
of painting did in great part die, and exists not now in Europe. Evidence
enough will be seen in the following pages of my devoted admiration of
Turner ; but I hesitate not t6 say, that in management and quality of single
and particular tint, in the purely technical part of painting, Turner is a
child of Gainsborough. Now, Mr. Lee never aims at color ; he does not
make it his object in the slightest degree — the spring green of vegetation is
all that he desires ; and it would be about as rational to compare his works
with studied pieces of coloring, as the modulation of the Calabrian pipe to
the harmony of a full orchestra. Gainsborough's hand is as light as the
sweep of a cloud — as swift as the flash of a sunbeam ; Lee's execution is
• feeble and spotty. . Gainsborough's masses are as broad as the first division
in heaven of light from darkness ; Lee's (perhaps necessarily, considering
the effects of flickering sunlight at which he aims) are as fragmentary as
his leaves, and as numerous. Gainsborough's forms are grand, simple, and
ideal ; Lee's are small, confused, and unselected. Gainsborough never
'oses sight of his picture as a whole ; Lee is but too apt to be shackled by
its parts. In a word, Gainsborough is an immortal painter ; and Lee,
though on the n^ht road, is yet in the early stages of his art ; and the man
who could imagine any resemblance or point of comparison between-them,
is notonly a novice in art, but has not capacity ever to be anything more. He
may be pardoned for not comprehending Turner, for long preparation and
discipline are necessary before the abstract and profound philosophy of that
artist can be met ; but Gainsborough's excellence is based on principles of.
art long acknowledged, and facts of nature universally apparent ; and I
insist more particularly on the reviewer's want of feeling for his works

PREFACE^ TO THE SECOND EDITION. Xxiii
for we find him puzzled by the epithet " silver," as applied to
the orange blossom, — evidently never having seen anything sil
very about an orange in his life, except a spoon. Nay, he leaves
us not to conjecture his calibre from internal evidence ; he can
didly tells us (Oct. 1842) that he has been studying trees only
for the last week, and bases his critical remarks chiefly on his
practical experience of birch. More disinterested than our
friend Sancho, he would disenchant the public from the magic
of Turner by virtue of his own flagellation ; Xanthias-like, he
would rob his master of immortality by his own powers of endur
ance. What is Christopher North about ? Does he receive his
critiques from Eaton or Harrow — based on the experience of a
sveek's birds '-nesting and its consequences ? How low must art
and its mterests sink, when the public mind is inadequate to the
detection of this -effrontery of incapacity ! In all kindness to
Maga, we warn her, that, though the nature of this work pre
cludes us from devoting space to the exposure, there may come
a time when the public shall be themselves able to distinguish
ribaldry from reasoning, and may require some better and
higher qualifications in their critics of art, than the experience
of a school-boy, and the capacities of a buffoon.
It is not, however, merely to vindicate the reputation of
bhose whom writers like these defame, which would but be to
anticipate by a few years the natural and inevitable reaction of
the public mind, that I am devoting years of labor to the devel
opment of the principles on which the great productions of
recent art are based. I have a higher end in view — one which
may, I think, justify me, not only in the sacrifice of my own
time, but in calling on my readers to follow me .through an in
vestigation far more laborious than could be adequately rewarded
by mere insight into the merits of a particular master, or the
spirit of a particular age.
It is a question which, in spite of the claims of Painting to be
because it proves a truth of which the public ought especially to-be assured
that those who lavish abuse on the great men of modern times, are equally
incapable of perceiving the real excellence of established canons, are igno
rant of the commonest and most acknowledged principia of the art, blind to
the most palpable and comprehensible of it's beauties, incapable of dis
tinguishing, if left to themselves, a master's work from the vilest school
" copy, and founding their applause of those great works which they praise,
either in pure hypocrisy, or in admiration of their defects.

XXIV PREFACE TO THE 8ECOND EDITION.
called the Sister of Poetry, appears to me to admit of considera-
ble doubt, whether art has ever^ except in its earliest and rudest >
stages, possessed anything like efficient moral influence on man
kind. Better the state of Rome when " magnorum artificum
frangebat pocula miles, ut phaleris gauderet equus," than when
her walls flashed with the marble and the gold, " nee cessabat
luxuria id agere, ut quam plurimum incendiis perdat." Better
the state of religion in Italy, before Giotto had broken on one
barbarism of the Byzantine schools, than when the painter of
the Last Judgment, and the sculptor of the Perseus, sat revel
ling side by side. It appears to me that a rude symbol is oftener
more efficient than a refined one in touching the heart, and that
as pictures rise in "rank as works of art, they are regarded with
less devotion and more curiosity.
But, however this may be, and whatever influence we may be
disposed to admit in the great works of sacred art, no doubt
can, I think, be reasonably entertained as to the utter inutility
of all that has been hitherto accomplished by the painters of
landscape. No moral end has been answered, no permanent
good effected, by any of their works. They may have amused
the intellect, or exercised the" ingenuity, but they never, have
spoken to the heart. Landscape art has never taught us one
deep or holy lesson ; it has not recorded that which is fleeting,.
nor penetrated that which was hidden, nor interpreted that
which was obscure ; it has never made us feel the wonder, nor
the power, nor the glory, of the universe ; it has not prompted
to devotion, nor touched, with awe ; its power to move and exalt
the heart has been fatally abused, and perished in the abusing.
That which ought to have been a witness to the omnipotence of
God, has become an exhibition of the dexterity of man, and
that which should have lifted our thoughts to the throne of the
Deity, has encumbered them with the inventions of his crea
tures. If we stand for a little time before any of the more cele
brated works of landscape, listening to the comments of the
passers-by, we shall hear numberless expressions relating to the
skill of the artist, but very few relating to the perfection of na
ture. Hundreds will be voluble in admiration, for one who will
be silent in delight. Multitudes will laud the composition, and
depart with the praise of Claude on their lips,— not one will feel

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. XXV
as if it were wo composition, and depart with the praise of God\
in his heart.
These are the signs of a debased, mistaken, and false school
of painting. The skill of the artist, and the perfection of his
art, are never proved until both are forgotten. The artist has
done nothing till he has concealed himself, — the art is imperfect
Which is visible, — the feelings are but feebly touched, if they
permit us to reason on the methods of their excitement. In the
reading of a great poem, in the hearing of a noble oration, it is
the subject of the writer, and not his skill, — his passion, not his
power, on which our minds are fixed. We see as he sees, but we
see not him. We become part .of him, feel with him, judge, be
hold with him ; but we think of him as little as of ourselves.
Do we think of JEschylus while we wait on the silence- of Cas
sandra,* or of Shakspeare, while we listen to the wailing of
Lear ? Not so. The power of the masters is shown by their
self-annihilation. ' It is commensurate with the degree in which
they themselves appear not in their work. The harp of the
minstrel is untruly touched, if his own glory is all that it
records. Every great writer may be at once known by his guid
ing the mind far from himself, to the beauty Which is not of his
creation, and the knowledge which is past his finding out.
And must it ever be otherwise with painting, for otherwise it
has ever been. Her subjects have been regarded as mere themes
on which the artist's power is to be displayed ; and that power,
be it of imitation, composition, idealization, or of whatever
other kind, is the chief object of the spectator's observation. It
is man and his fancies, man and his trickeries, man and his
inventions, — poor, paltry, weak, self-sighted man, — which the
connoisseur forever seeks and worships. Among potsherds and
'dunghills, among drunken boors and withered beldames,
through every scene of debauchery and degradation, we follow
* There is a fine touch in the Frogs ih Aristophanes, alluding probably
to this part of the Agamemnon. " 'Ey& 6" lxalP0V Tv «uirj nal jie rovr'
Irepirev ovk fyrrov % vvv 6c ^.aXovvTet;." The same remark might be well
applied to the seemingly vacant or incomprehensible portions of Turner's
canvas. In their mysterious and intense fire, there is much correspondence
between the mind of ^schylus and that of our great painter. They share
at least one thing in common — unpopularity. T> driuoc hveflba itplmv notelv.
SA. 6 tuv navoipyuv ; Al. vri Aj, ovpdviov y* &eov. SA. per' AloxvAov 6'
ovk i/aav Irepoi ovfijiaxot ; Al. &%iyov rb xpiardv tariv.

XXVi PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
the erring artist, not to receive one wholesome lesson, not to be
touched with pity, nor moved with indignation, but to watch
the dexterity of the pencil, and gloat over the glittering of the
hue. I speak not only of the works of the Flemish School— I wage^
no war with their admirers ; they may be left in peace to count
the spicule of haystacks and the hairs of donkeys— it is also of
works of real mind that I speak,— works in which there, are evi
dences of genius and workings of power, — works which have
been held up as containing all of the beautiful that art can
reach or man conceive. And I assert with sorrow, that all
hitherto done in landscape, by .those commonly conceived its
masters, has never prompted one holy thought in the minds of
nations. It has begun and ended in exhibiting the dexterities.
of individuals, and conventionalities of systems. Pilling the
world with the honor of Claude and Salvator, it has never once -
tended to the honor of God.
Does the reader start in reading these last words, as if they
were those of wild enthusiasm, — as if I were lowering the dig
nity of religion by supposing that its cause could be advanced
by such means ? His surprise proves my position. It does 4
sound like wild, like absurd enthusiasm, to expect any definite
moral agency in the painters of landscape ; but ought it so to
sound? Are the gprgeousness of the visible hue, the glory of
the -realized form, instruments in the artist's hand so ineffec- •
tive, that they can answer no nobler purpose than the amusement
of curiosity, or the engagement of idleness ? Must it not be
owing to gross neglect or misapplication of the means at his
command, that while words and tones (means of representing \
nature surely less powerful than lines and colors) can kindle and '
purify the very inmost souls of men, the painter can only hope "
to entertain by his efforts at expression, and must remain for- a
ever brooding over his incommunicable thoughts ?
The cause of the evil lies, I believe, deep-seated in the sys
tem of ancient landscape art ; it consists, in a word, in the
painter's taking upon him to modify God's works at his pleas-^|
ure, casting the shadow of himself on all he sees, constituting
himself arbiter where it is honor to be a disciple, and exhibiting
his ingenuity by the attainment of combinations whose highest^
praise is that they are impossible. We shall not pass through a
single gallery of old art, without hearing this topic of praise'

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. , XXVil
confidently advanced. The sense of artificialness, the absence
-of all appearance of reality, the clumsiness of combination by
which the meddling of man is made evident, and the feebleness
of his hand branded on the inorganization of his monstrous
creature, is advanced as -a proof of inventive power, as an evi
dence of abstracted conception ; — nay, the violation of specific
form, the utter abandonment of all organic and individual
character of object, (numberless examples of which from the
works of the old. masters are given in the following pages,) is
constantly held up by the unthinking critic as the foundation of
the grand or historical style, and the first step to the attainment
of a pure ideal. Now, there is but one grand style, in the treat
ment of all subjects whatsoever, and that style is based on the
perfect knowledge, and consists in the simple, unencumbered
rendering, of the specific characters of the given object, be it
man, beast, or flower. Every change, caricature, or abandon
ment of such specific character, is as destructive of grandeur as
it is of truth, of beauty as of propriety. Every alteration of the
features of nature has its origin either in powerless indolence or
blind audacity, in the folly which forgets, or the insolence which
desecrates, works which it is the, pride of angels to know, and
their privilege to love.
We sometimes hear such infringement of universal laws
justified on the plea, that the frequent introduction of myth
ological abstractions into ancient landscape requires an imagi
nary character of form in the material objects with which they
are associated. Something of this kind is hinted in Reynolds's _
14th Discourse ; but nothing can be more false than such rea
soning. If there be any truth or beauty in the original concep
tion of the spiritual being so introduced, there must be a true
and real connection between that abstract idea * and the fea-
* I do not know any passage in ancient literature in which this connec
tion is more exquisitely illustrated than in the lines, burlesque though they
be, descriptive of the approach of the chorus in the Clouds of Aristophanes,
— a writer, by the way, who, I believe, knew and- felt more of the noble
landscape character of his country than any whose works have come down
to us except Homer. The individuality and distinctness of conception — ihe
visible cloud character which every word of this particular passage brings
out into more dewy and bright existence, are to me as refreshing as the real
breathing of mountain winds. The line " Sta rdv koIIuv Kal r&v daaeav,
irX&yitii," could have been written by none but an ardent lover of hill
scenery— one who had watched, hour after hour, the peculiar oblique, side-

XXVlii PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
tares of nature as she was and is. The woods and waters whicM
were peopled by the Greek with typical life were not different
from those which now wave and murmur by the ruins of _ his
shrines. With their visible and actual forms was his imagina
tion filled, and the beauty of its incarnate creatures can only be
understood among the pure realities which originally modelled
their conception. If divinity be stamped upon the features, or
apparent in the form of the spiritual creature, the mind" will
not be shocked by its appearing to ride upon the whirlwind^
and trample on the storm ; but if mortality, no violation of the ;.
characters of the earth will forge one single link to bind it to
the heaven.
Is there then no such thing as elevated ideal character of
landscape ? Undoubtedly ; and Sir Joshua, with the great mas
ter of this character, Nicolo' Poussin, present to his thoughts, I-
ought to have arrived at more true conclusions respecting its
essence than, as we shall presently see, are deducible from his
works. The true ideal of landscape -is precisely the same as that
of the human form ; it is the expression of the specific — not the
individual, but the specific — characters of every object, in their
perfection ; there is an ideal form of every herb, flower, and
tree : it is that form to which every individual of the species
has a tendency to arrive, freed from the influence of accident or
disease. Every landscape painter should know the specific
characters of every object he has to represent, rock, flower, or
cloud ; and in his highest ideal works, all their distinctions wiljg
be perfectly expressed, broadly or delicately, slightly or com
pletely, according to the nature of the subject, and the degree of
attention which is to be drawn to the particular object by the
part it plays in the composition. Where the sublime is aimed at,
such distinctions will be indicated with severe simplicity, as ,
the muscular markings in a colossal statue ; where beauty is the
object, they must be expressed with the utmost refinement of
which the hand is -capable.
This may sound like a contradiction of principles advanced
by the highest authorities ; but it is only a contradiction of a
particular and most mistaken application of them. Much evil *
long action of descending clouds, as they form along the hollows and ">
ravines of the hills. There are no lumpish solidities — no pillowy protuber
ances here. All is melting, drifting, evanescent, — full of air, and light, and
dew.

PREFACE TO THE SECQND EDITION. XXiX
has been done to art by the remarks of historical painters on
landscape. Accustomed themselves to treat their backgrounds
slightly and boldly, and feeling (though, as I shall presently
show, only in consequence of their own deficient powers) that
any approach to completeness of detail therein, injures their
picture by interfering with its principal subject, they naturally
lose sight of the peculiar and intrinsic beauties of things which
to them are injurious, unless subordinate. Hence the frequent
advice given by Reynolds and others, to neglect specific form in
landscape, and treat its materials in large masses, aiming only at
general truths, —the flexibility of foliage, but not its kind ; the
rigidity of "rock, but not its mineral character. In the passage
more especially bearing on this subject (in the eleventh lecture
of Sir «L Reynolds), we are told that " the landscape painter
works not for the virtuoso or the naturalist, but for the general
observer of life and nature." This is true, in precisely the same
sense that the sculptor does not work for the anatomist, but for
the common observer of life and nature. Yet the sculptor is
not, for this reason, permitted to be wanting either in knowl
edge or expression of anatomical detail ; and the more refined
that expression can be rendered, the more perfect is his work.
That which, to the anatomist, is the end,— is, to "the sculptor,
the means. The former desires details, for their own sake ; the
latter, that by means of them, he may kindle his work with life,
and stamp it with beauty. And so in landscape ; — botanical or
geological details are not to be given as matter of curiosity or
subject of search, but as the ultimate elements of every species
of expression and order of loveliness.
In his observations on the foreground of the St. Pietro
Martire, Sir Joshua advances, as matter of praise, that the plants
are discriminated " just as much as was necessary for variety,
and no more. " Had this foreground been occupied by a group
of. animals, we should have been surprised to be told that the
lion, the serpent, and the dove, or whatever other creatures
might have been introduced, were distinguished from each other
just as much as was necessary for variety, and no more. Yet is
it to be supposed that the distinctions of the vegetable world are
less complete, less essential, or less divine in origin, than those
of the animal ? If the distinctive forms of animal life are meant
for our reverent observance, is it likely that those of vegetable life
are made merely to be swept aw" ay ? The latter are indeed less

XXX PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
obvious and less obtrusive ; for which very reason there is less
excuse for omitting them, because there is less danger of their,
disturbing the attention or engaging the fancy.
But Sir Joshua is as inaccurate in fact, as false in principle.-
He himself furnishes a most singular instance of the very error
of which he accuses Vaseni, — the seeing what he expects ; or,
rather, in the present case, not seeing what he does not expect.
The great masters of Italy, almost without exception, and
Titian perhaps more than any, (for he had the highest knowl
edge of landscape,) are in the constant habit of rendering every
detail of their foregrounds with the most laborious botanical!
fidelity : witness the " Bacchus and Ariadne," in' which the
foreground is. occupied by the common blue iris, the aquilegia,
and the wild rose ; every stamen of which latter is given, while
the blossoms and leaves of the columbine (a difficult flower te
draw) have been studied with the most exquisite accuracy. The
foregrounds of Raffaelle's two cartoons, — " The Miraculous
Draught of Pishes" and "The Charge to Peter,"— are covered;
with plants of the common sea colewort, (crambe mariiima,) of
which the sinuated leaves and clustered blossoms would have'
exhausted the patience of any other artist ; but have appeared^
worthy of prolonged and thoughtful labor to the great mind of
Raffaelle. It appears then, not only from natural principles, but from
the highest of all authority, that thorough knowledge of the
lowest details is necessary and full expression of them right,
even in the highest class of historical painting ; that it will not
take away from, nor interfere with, the interest of the figures $
but, rightly managed, must add to and elucidate it ; and, if
further proof be wanting, I would desire the reader to compare
the background of Sir Joshua's " Holy Pamily," in the Na-1
tional Gallery, with that of Nicolo Poussin's " Nursing of Jupi;
ter," in the Dulwich Gallery. The first, owing to the utter.
neglect of all botanical detail, has lost every atom of ideal char
acter, and reminds us of nothing but an English fashionable
flower garden ;— the formal pedestal adding considerably to the
effect. Poussin's, in which every vine leaf is drawn with con-,
summate skill and untiring diligence, produces not only a tree*]
group of the most perfect grace and beauty, but one which, in'
its pure and simple truth, belongs to every age of nature, and;
adapts itself to the history of- all time. If, then, such entire

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. XXXI
rendering of specific character be necessary to the historical
painter, in cases where these lower details are entirely sub
ordinate to his human subject, how much more must it be
necessary in landscape, where they themselves constitute the
subject, and where the undivided attention is to be drawn to
them. There is a singular sense in which the child may peculiarly
be said to be father of the man. In many arts and attainments,
the first and last stages of progress — the infancy and the con
summation — have many features in common ; while the inter
mediate stages are wholly unlike either, and are farthest from
the right. ^Thus it is in the progress of a painter's handling.
We see the perfect child, — the absolute beginner, using of neces
sity a broken, imperfect, inadequate line, which, as he advances,
becomes gradually firm, severe, and decided. Yet before he be
comes a perfect artist, this severity and decision will again be
exchanged for a light and careless stroke, which in many points
will far more resemble that of his childhood than of his middle
age — differing from it only by the consummate effect wrought
out by the apparently inadequate means. So it is in many mat
ters of opinion. Our first and last coincide, though on different
grounds ; it is the middle stage which is farthest from the
truth. Childhood often holds a truth with its feeble fingers,
which the grasp of manhood cannot retain, — which it is the
pride of utmost age to recover.
Perhaps this is in no instance more remarkable than in the
opinion we form upon the subject of detail in works of art. In
fants in judgment, we look for specific character, and complete
finish — we delight in the faithful plumage of the well-known
bird — in the finely drawn leafage of the discriminated flower.
As we advance in judgment, we scorn such detail altogether ;
we look for impetuosity of execution, and breadth of effect.
But, perfected in judgment, we return in a great measure to
our early feelings, and thank Raffaelle for the shells upon his
sacred beach, and for the delicate stamens of the herbage beside
jhis inspired St. Catherine.*
Of those who take interest in art, nay, even of artists them-
* Let not this principle be confused with Fuseli's, " love for what is
called deception in painting marks either the infancy or decrepitude of a
nation's taste. " Realization to the mind necessitates not deception of the
eye.

XXXII PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
selves, there are an hundred in the middle stage of judgment*
for one who is in the last -; and this not because they are desti.
tute of the power to discover, or the sensibility to enjoy the
truth, but because the truth bears so much semblance of error-^
the last stage of the journey to the first,— that every feeling
which guides to it is checked in its origin. The rapid and pow
erful artist necessarily looks with such contempt on those who
seek minutiae of detail rather than grandeur of impression, that;
it is almost impossible for him to conceive of the great last step
in art, by which both become compatible. He has so often to
dash the delicacy out of the pupil's work, and to blot the details
from his encumbered canvas ; so frequently to lament the loss
of breadth and unity, and so seldom to reprehend the imperfect
tion of minutiae, that he necessarily looks upon complete parts
as the very sign of error, weakness, and ignorance. Thus, fre
quently to the latest period of his life, he separates, like Sir
Joshua, as chief enemies, the details and the whole, which an
artist cannot be great unless he reconciles ; and because details
alone, and unreferred to a final purpose, are the sign of a tyro's
work, he loses sight of the remoter truth, that details perfect in
unity, and, contributing to a final purpose, are the sign of the
production of a consummate master.
It is not, therefore, detail sought for its own sake, — not the
calculable bricks of the Dutch house-painters, nor the numbered
hairs and mapped wrinkles of Denner, which constitute great
art, — they are the lowest and most contemptible art ; but it is,
detail referred to a great end, — sought for the sake of the inesti; s
mable beauty which exists in the slightest and least of God's
works, and treated in a manly, broad, and impressive manner. <
There may be as much greatness of mind, as much 'nobility of
manner in a master's treatment of the smallest features, as in
his management of the most vast ; and this greatness of manner
chiefly consists in seizing the specific character of the object,;
together with all the great qualities of beauty which it has in
common with higher orders of existence,* while he utterly
rejects the meaner beauties which are accidentally peculiar to the
object, and yet not specifically characteristic of it. I cannot give
* I shall show, in a future portion of the work, that there are principles ¦
of universal beauty common to all the creatures of God ; and that it is by.
the greater or less share of these that one form becomes nobler or meaner
than another.

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. Xxxiii
a better instance than the painting of the flowers in Titian's
picture above mentioned. While every stamen of the rose is
given, because this was necessary to mark the flower, and while
the curves and large characters of the leaves are rendered with
exquisite fidelity, there is no vestige of particular texture, of
moss, bloom, moisture, or any other accident — no dew-drops,
nor flies, nor trickeries of' any kind. ; nothing beyond the simple
forms and hues of the flowers, — even those hues themselves be
ing simplified and broadly rendered. The varieties of aquilegia
have, in reality, a grayish and uncertain tone of color ; and, I
believe, never attain the intense purity of blue with which
Titian has gifted his flower. But the master does not aim at
the particular color of individual blossoms ; he seizes the type of
all, and gives it with the utmost purity and simplicity of which
color is capable.
These laws being observed, it will not only be in the power,
it will be the duty, — the imperative duty, — of the landscape
painter, to descend to the lowest details with undiminished at
tention. Every herb and flower of the fleld has its specific, dis
tinct, and perfect beauty ; it has its peculiar habitation, ex
pression, and function. The highest art is that which seizes
this specific character, which develops and illustrates it, which
assigns to it its proper position in the landscape, and which, by
means of it, enhances and enforces the great impression which
the picture is intended to convey. Nor is it of herbs and flow
ers alone that such scientific representation is required. Every
class of rock, every kind of earth, every form of cloud, must be
studied with equal industry, and rendered with equal precision.
And thus we find ourselves unavoidably led to a conclusion
directly opposed to that constantly enunciated dogma of the
parrot-critic, that the features of nature must be " general
ized," — a dogma whose inherent and broad absurdity would
long ago have been detected, if it had not contained in its con
venient falsehood an apology for indolence, and a disguise for
incapacity. Generalized ! As if it were possible to generalize
things generically different. Of such common cant of criticism
I extract a characteristic passage from one of the reviews of this
work, that in this year's Athenaeum for February 10th : " He
(the author) would have geological landscape painters, dendro-
logic, meteorologic, and doubtless entomologic, ichthyologic,
every kind of physiologic painter united in the same person )

XXXIV PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
yet, alas, for true poetic art among all these learned Thebans !^
No ; landscape painting must not be reduced to mere portrait-^
ure of inanimate substances, Denner-like portraiture of the
earth's face. ***** Ancient landscapists took a
broader, deeper, higher view of their art ; they neglected partie- 1
ular traits, and gave only general features. Thus they attained
mass and force, harmonious union and simple effect, the ele- ,
ments of grandeur and beauty."
To all such criticism as this (and I notice it only because it
expresses the feelings into which many sensible and thoughtful
minds have been fashioned by infection) the answer is simple
and straightforward. It is just as impossible to generalize gran
ite and slate, as it is to generalize a man and a cow. An ani
mal must he either one animal or another animal ; it cannot be a
general animal, or it is no animal ; and so a rock must be either
one rock or another rock ; it cannot be a general rock, or it
is no rock. If there were a creature in the foreground of a pic
ture, of which he could not decide whether it were a pony or a
pig, the Athenaeum critic would perhaps affirm it to be a- gen
eralization of pony and pig, and consequently a high example
of "harmonious union and simple effect." But i" should call
it simple bad drawing. And so when there are things in- the
foreground of Salvator of which I cannot pronounce whether
they be granite or slate, or tufa, I affirm that there is in them
neither harmonious union nor simple effect, but simple mon
strosity. There is no grandeur, no beauty of any sort or kind ;
nothing but destruction, disorganization, and ruin, to be ob
tained by the violation of natural distinctions. The elements
of brutes can only mix in corruption, the elements of inorganic
nature only in annihilation. We may, if we choose, put to
gether centaur monsters ; but they must still be half man, half
horse ; they cannot be both man and horse, nor either man or
horse. And so, if landscape painters choose, they may give us
rocks which shall be half granite and half slate ; but they can
not give us rocks which shall be either granite or slate, nor
which shall be both granite and slate. Every attempt to pro-"
duce that which shall be any rock, ends in the production of
that which is no rock.
It is true that the distinctions of rocks and plants and clouds,
are less conspicuous, and less constantly subjects of observation^
than those of the animal creation ; but the difficulty of observ-, ;

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. XXXV
ing them proves not the merit of overlooking them. It only
accounts for the singular fact, that the world has never yet seen
anything like a perfect school of landscape. Por just as the
', highest historical painting is based on perfect knowledge of the
workings of the human form, and human mind, so must the
highest landscape painting be based on perfect cognizance of
the form, functions, and system of every organic or definitely
structured existence which it has to represent. This proposi
tion is self-evident to every thinking mind ; and every principle
which appears to contradict it is either misstated or misunder
stood. Por instance, the Athenaeum critic calls the right state
ment of generic difference " Denner-like portraiture." If he
can find anything like Denner in what I have advanced as the
utmost perfection of landscape art — the recent works of Turner
— he is welcome to his discovery and his theory. No ; Denner-
like portraiture would be the endeavor to paint the separate
crystals of quartz and felspar in the granite, and the separate
flakes of mica in the mica slate, — an attempt just as far removed'
from what I assert to be great art, (the bold rendering of the
generic characters of form in both rocks,) as modern sculpture
of lace and button-holes is from the Elgin marbles. Martin
has attempted this Denner-like portraiture of sea-foam with the
assistance of an acre of canvas — with what success, I believe the
critics of his last year's Canute had, for once, sense enough to
decide. Again, it does not follow that because such accurate knowl
edge is necessary to the painter that it should constitute the
painter, nor that such knowledge is valuable in itself, and with
out reference to high ends. - Every kind of knowledge may be
sought from ignoble motives, and for ignoble ends ; and in
those who so possess it, it is ignoble knowledge ; while the very
same knowledge is in another mind an attainment of the highest
dignity, and conveying the greatest blessing. This is the differ
ence between the mere botanist's knowledge of plants, and the
great poet's or painter's knowledge of . them. The one notes
their distinctions for the sake of swelling his herbarium, the
other, that he may render them vehicles of expression and emo
tion. The one counts the stamens, and affixes a name, and is
content ; the other observes every character of the plant's color
and form ; considering each of its attributes as an element of
expression, he seizes on its lines of grace or energy, rigidity or

XXXVi PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
repose ; notes the feebleness or the vigor, the serenity or tremu-
lousness of its hues ; observes its local habits, its love or fear of
peculiar places, its nourishment or destruction by particular in
fluences ; he associates it in his mind with all the features of
the situations it inhabits, and the ministering agencies necessary
to its support. Thenceforward the. flower is to him a living
creature, with histories written on its leaves, and passions-
breathing in its motion. Its occurrence in his picture is no
mere point of color, no meaningless spark of light. It is a
voice rising from the earth, — a new chord of the mind's music,
— a necessary note in the harmony of his picture, contributing
alike to its tenderness and, its dignity, nor less to its loveliness
than its truth.
The particularization of flowers by Shakspeare and Shelley
affords us the most frequent examples of the exalted use of these
inferior details. It is true - that the painter has not the same
power of expressing the thoughts with which his symbols are
connected ; he is dependent in some degree on the knowledge
and feeling of the spectator ; but, by the destruction of such
details, his foreground is not rendered more intelligible to the
ignorant, although it ceases to have interest for the informed.
It is no excuse for illegible writing that there are persons who
could not have read it had it been plain.
I repeat then, generalization, as the word is commonly un
derstood, is the act of a vulgar, incapable, and unthinking
mind. To see in all mountains nothing but similar heaps of
earth ; in all rocks, nothing but similar concretions of solid
matter ; in all trees, nothing but similar accumulations of
leaves, is no sign of high feeling or extended thought. The
more we know, and the more we feel, the more we separate ;
we separate to obtain a more perfect unity. Stones, in the
thoughts of the peasant, lie as they do on his field, one is like
another, and there is no connection between any of them. The
geologist distinguishes, and in distinguishing connects them.
'Each becomes different from its fellow, but in differing from,
assumes a relation to its fellow ; they are no more each the repe
tition of the other, — they are parts of a system, and each implies
and is connected with the existence of the rest. That general-
zation then is right, true, and noble, which is based on the -
knowledge of the distinctions and observance of the relations of
individual kinds. That generalization is wrong, false, and con-

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. XXXVU
temptible, which is based on ignorance of the one, and disturb
ance of the other. It is indeed no generalization, but con
fusion and chaos ; it is the generalization of a defeated army
into indistinguishable impotence— the generalisation of the ele
ments of a dead carcass into dust.
Let us, then, without farther notice of the dogmata of the
schools of art, follow forth those conclusions to which we are
led. by observance of the laws of nature.
I have just said that every class of rock, earth and cloud,
must be known by the painter, with geologic and meteorologic
accuracy.* Nor is this merely for the sake of obtaining the
character of these minor features themselves, but more especially
for the sake of reaching that simple, earnest, and consistent
character which is visible in the whole effect of every natural
landscape. Every geological formation has features entirely
peculiar to itself ; definite lines of fracture, giving rise to fixed
resultant forms of rock and earth ; peculiar vegetable products,
among which still farther distinctions are wrought out by varia
tions of climate and elevation. Prom such modifying circum
stances arise the infinite varieties of the orders of landscape, of
which each one shows perfect harmony among its several fea
tures, and possesses an ideal beauty of its own ; a beauty not
distinguished merely by such peculiarities as are wrought on
the human form by change of climate, but by generic differences
the most marked' and essential ; so that its classes cannot be
generalized or amalgamated by any expedients whatsoever. The
level marshes and rich meadows of the tertiary, the rounded
swells and short pastures of the chalk, the square-built cliffs
and cloven dells of the lower limestone, the soaring peaks and
ridgy precipices of the primaries, having nothing in common
among them — nothing which is not distinctive and incommuni-
* Is not tins — it may be asked — demanding more from him than life can
accomplish? Not one whit. Nothing more than knowledge of external
characteristics is absolutely required ; and even if, which were more de
sirable, thorough scientific knowledge had to be attained, the time which our
artists spend in multiplying crude sketches, or finishing their unintelligent
embryos of the study, would render them masters of every science that
modern investigations have organized, and familiar with every form that
Nature manifests. Martin, if the time which he must have spent on the
abortive bubbles of his Canute had been passed in working on the sea
shore, might have learned enough to enable him to produce, with a few
strokes, a picture which would have smote like the sound of the sea, upon
men's hearts forever.

XXXViii PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
cable. Their very atmospheres are different — their clouds are
different— their humors of storm and sunshine are different—.
their flowers, animals and forests are different. By each order
of landscape— and its orders, I repeat, are infinite in number,
corresponding not only to the several species of rock, but to the
particular circumstances of the rocks' deposition or after treat
ment, .and to the incalculable varieties of climate, aspect, and
human interference : — by each order of landscape, I say, pecu
liar lessons are intended to be taught, and distinct pleasures to
be conveyed ; and it is as utterly futile to talk of generalizing
their impressions into an ideal landscape, as to talk of amalga
mating all nourishment into one ideal food, gathering all music
into one ideal movement, or confounding all thought into one
ideal idea.
There is, however, such a thing as composition of different
orders of landscape, though there can be no generalization of
them. Nature herself perpetually brings together elements of-
various expression. Her barren rocks stoop through wooded
promontories to the plain ; and the wreaths of the vine show
through their green shadows the wan light of unperishing snow*
The painter, therefore, has the choice of either working out
the isolated character of some one distinct class of scene, or of
bringing together a multitude of different elements, which may
adorn each other by contrast.
I believe that the simple and uncombined landscape, if
wrought out with due attention to the ideal beauty of the fea--,
tures it includes, will always be the most powerful in its appeal^
to the heart. Contrast increases the splendor of beauty, but it.;
disturbs its influence ; it adds to its attractiveness, but dimin
ishes its power. On this subject I shall have much to say here
after ; at present I merely wish to suggest the possibility, that
the single-minded painter, who is working out on broad and
simple principles, a piece of unbroken, harmonious landscape";
character, may be reaching an end in art quite as high as the
moro ambitious student who is always " within five minutes'
walk of everywhere," making the ends of the earth contribute
tp his pictorial guazzetto ; * and the certainty, that unless the
* " A green field is a sight which makes us pardon
The absence of that more sublime construction
Which mixes up vines, olive, precipices,
Glaciers, volcanoes, oranges, and ices." Don Juan.

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. XXXIX
composition of the.latter be regulated by severe judgment, and
its members connected by natural links, it must become more
contemptible in its motley, than an honest study of road-side
weeds. Let me, at the risk of tediously repeating what is universally
known, refer to the common principles of historical composi
tion, in order that I may show their application to that of land
scape. The merest tyro in art knows that every figure which is
unnecessary to his picture, is an encumbrance to it, and that
every figure which does not sympathize with the action, inter
rupts it. He that gathereth not with me, scattereth, — is, or
ought to be, the ruling' principle of his plan : and the power
and grandeur of his result will be exactly proportioned to the
unity of feeling manifested in its several parts, and to the pro
priety and simplicity of the relations in which they stand to
each other.
All this is equally applicable to the materials of inanimate
nature. Impressiveness is destroyed by a multitude of contra
dictory facts, and the accumulation, which is not harmonious,
is discordant. He who endeavors to unite simplicity with mag
nificence, to guide from solitude to festivity, and to contrast
melancholy with mirth, must end by the production of confused
inanity. There is a peculiar spirit possessed by every kind of
scene ; and although a point of contrast may sometimes enhance
and exhibit this particular feeling more intensely, it must be
only a point, not an equalized opposition. Every introduction
of new and different feeling weakens the force of what has
already been impressed, and the mingling of all emotions must
conclude in apathy, as the mingling of all colors in white.
Let us test by these simple rules one of the " ideal" land
scape compositions of Claude, that known to the Italians as "II
Mulino." The foreground is a piece of very lovely and perfect forest
scenery, with a dance of peasants by a brookside ; quite enough
subject to form, in the hands of a master, an impressive and
complete picture. On the other side of the brook, however, we
have a pie'ce of pastoral life, a man with some bulls and goats
tumbling headforemost into the water, owing to some sudden
paralytic affection of all their legs. Even this group is one too
many ; the shepherd had no business to drive his flock so near
the dancers, and. the dancers will certainly frighten the cattle-

xl PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
But when we look farther into the picture, our feelings receive
a sudden and violent shock, by the unexpected appearance,'
amidst things pastoral and musical, of the military : a number
of Roman soldiers riding in on hobby-horses, with a leader on
foot, apparently encouraging them to make an immediate and
decisive charge on the musicians; Beyond the soldiers is a cir
cular temple, in exceedingly bad repair, and close beside it, built
against its very walls, a neat water-mill in full work. By the
mill flows a large river, with a weir all across it. The weir has
not been made for the mill, (for that receives its water from the
hills by a trough carried over the temple,) but it is particularly
ugly and monotonous in its line of fall, and the water below:
forms a dead-looking pond, on which some people are fishing in
punts. The banks of this river resemble in contour the later
geological formations around London, constituted chiefly of
broken pots and oyster-shells. At an inconvenient distance
from the water-side stands a city, composed of twenty-five round
towers and a pyramid. Beyond the city is a handsome bridge-;
beyond the bridge, part of the Campagna, with fragments of
aqueducts ; beyond the Campagna, the chain of the Alps ; on
the left, the cascades of Tivoli.
This is, I believe, a fair example of what is commonly called
-an "ideal landscape," i.e., a group of the artist's studies from
nature, individually spoiled, selected with such opposition of
character as may insure their neutralizing each other's effect,,
and united with sufficient unnaturalness and violence of associa
tion to insure their producing a general sensation of the impos
sible. Let us analyze the separate subjects a little in this ideal
work of Claude's.
Perhaps there is no more impressive scene on earth than the
solitary extent of the Campagna of Rome under evening light.
Let the reader imagine himself for a moment withdrawn from
the sounds and motion of the living world, and sent forth alone
into this wild and wasted plain. The earth yields and crumbles
beneath his foot, tread he never so lightly, for its substance is
white, hollow, and carious, like the dusty wreck of the bones of
men.* The long knotted grass waves and tosses feebly in the
evening wind, and the shadows of its motion shake feverishly
* The vegetable soil of the Campagna is chiefly formed by decomposed
lavas, and under it lies a bed of White pumice, exactly resembling remnants
of bones.

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. xii
along the banks of ruin that lift themselves to the sunlight.
Hillocks of mouldering earth heave around him, as if the dead
beneath were struggling in their sleep ; scattered blocks of black
stone, four-square, remnants of mighty edifices, not one left
upon another, lie upon them to keep them down. A dull pur
ple, poisonous haze stretches level along the desert, veiling its
spectral wrecks of massy ruins, on whose rents the red light rests
like dying fire on defiled altars. The blue ridge of the Alban
mount lifts itself against a solemn space of green, clear, quiet
sky. Watch-towers of dark clouds stand steadfastly along the
promontories of the Apennines. Prom the plain to the moun
tains, the shattered aqueducts, pier beyond pier, melt into the
darkness, like shadowy and countless troops of funeral mourners,
passing from a nation's grave.
Let us, with Claude, make a few " ideal" alterations in this
landscape. Pirst, we will reduce the multitudinous precipices
of the Apennines to four sugar-loaves. Secondly, we will re
move the Alban mount, and put a large dust-heap in its stead.
Next, we will knock down the greater part of the aqueducts,
and leave only an arch or two, that their infinity of length may
no longer be painful from its monotony. Por the purple mist
and declining sun, we will substitute a bright blue sky, with.
round white clouds. Finally, we will get rid of the unpleasant
ruins in the foreground ; we will plant some handsome trees
therein, we will send for some fiddlers, and get up a dance, and
a picnic party.
It will be found, throughout the picture, that the same spe
cies of improvement is made on the materials which Claude had
ready to his hand. The descending slopes of the city of Rome,
towards the pyramid of Caius Cestius, supply not only lines of
the most exquisite variety and beauty, but matter for contem
plation and reflection in every fragment of their buildings.
This passage has been idealized by Claude into a set of similar
round towers, respecting which no idea can be formed but that
they are uninhabitable, and to which no interest can be at
tached, beyond the difficulty of conjecturing what they could
havelieen built for. The ruins of the temple are rendered un
impressive by the juxtaposition of the water-mill, and inexplica
ble by the introduction of the Roman soldiers. The glide of
the muddy streams of the melancholy Tiber and Anio through
the Campagna, is impressive in itself, but altogether ceases to

Slii PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
be so, when we disturb their stillness of motion by a weir, adofB
their neglected flow with a handsome bridge, and cover their
solitary surface with punts, nets, and fishermen.
It cannot, I think, be expected, that landscapes like this
should have any effect on the human heart, except to harden or
to degrade it ; to lead it from the love of what is simple, earnest
and pure, to what is as sophisticated and corrupt in arrange
ment, as erring and imperfect in detail. So long as such works
are held up for imitation, landscape painting must be a manu
facture, its productions must be toys, and its patrons must be
children. My purpose then, in the present work, is to demonstrate the
utter falseness both of the facts and principles ; the imperfection
of material, and error of arrangement, on which works such as
these are based ; and to insist on the necessity, as well as the
dignity, of an earnest, faithful, loving, study of nature as she
is, rejecting with abhorrence all that man has done to alter and
modify her. And the praise which, in this first portion of the
work, is given to many English artists, would be justifiable on
this ground only, that although frequently with little power and
desultory effort, they have .yet, in an honest and good heart,
received the word of God from clouds, and leaves, and waves,
and kept it,* and endeavored in humility to render to the world
* The feelings of Constable with respect to his art might be almost a
model for the young student, were it not that they err a little on the othei
side, and are perhaps in need of chastening and guiding from the works of
his fellow-men. We should use pictures not as authorities, but as comments
on nature, just as we use divines, not as authorities, but as comments on the
Bible. Constable, in his dread of saint-worship, excommunicates himself
from all benefit of the Church, and deprives himself of much instruction
from the Scripture to which he holds, because he will not accept aid in the
reading of it from the learning of other men. Sir George Beaumont, on
the contrary, furnishes, in the anecdotes given of him in Constable's life, a
melancholy instance of the degradation into which the human mind may
fall, when it suffers human works to interfere between it and its Master.
The recommending the color of an old Cremona fiddle for the prevailing
tone of everything, and the vapid inquiry of the conventionalist, " Where
do you put your brown tree?" show a prostration of intellect so laughable
and lamentable, that they are at once, on all, and to all, students of the
gallery, a satire and a warning. Art so followed is the most servile indo
lence in which life can be wasted. There are then two dangerous extremes
to be shunned,— forgetfulness of the Scripture, and scorn of the divine-
slavery on the one hand, free-thinking on the other. The mean is nearly as

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. xliii
that puj-ity of impression which can alone render the result of
art an instrument of good, or its labor deserving of gratitude.
If, however, I shall have frequent occasion to insist on the
necessity of this heartfelt love of, and unqualified submission to,
the teaching of nature, it will be no less incumbent upon me to
reprobate the careless rendering of casual impression, and the
mechanical copyism of unimportant subject, which are too fre
quently visible in our modern school.* Their lightness and de-
difficult to determine or keep in art as in religion, but the great danger is
on the side of superstition. He who walks humbly with Nature will
seldom be in danger of losing sight of Art. He will commonly find in all
that is truly great of man's works, something of their original, for which he
will regard them with gratitude, and sometimes follow them with respect ;
while he who takes Art for his authority may entirely lose sight of all that
it interprets, and sink at once into the sin of an idolater, and the degrada
tion of a slave.
* I should have insisted more on this fault (for it is a fatal one) in the
following Essay, but the cause of it rests rather with the public than with
the artist, and in the necessities of the public as much as in their will.
Such pictures as artists themselves would wish to paint, could not be exe
cuted under very high prices ; and it must always be easier, in the present
state of society, to find ten purchasers of ten-guinea sketches, than one pur
chaser for a hundred-guinea picture. Still, I have been often both surprised
and grieved to see that any effort on the part of our artists to rise above
manufacture — any struggle to something like completed conception — was
left by the public to be its own reward. In the water-color exhibition of
last year there was a noble work of David Cox's, ideal in the right sense— a
forest hollow with a few sheep crushing down through its deep fern, and a
solemn opening of evening sky above its dark masses of distance. It was
worth all his little bits on the walls put together. Yet the public picked up
all the little bits — blots and splashes, ducks, chickweed, ears of corn — all
that was clever and petite ; and the real picture — the full development of
the artist's mind — was left on his hands. How can I, or any one else, with
a conscience, advise him after this to aim at anything more than may be
struck out by the cleverness of a quarter of an hour. Cattermole, I believe,
is earthed and shackled in the same manner. He began his career with-
finished and studied pictures, which, I believe, never paid him — he now
prostitutes his fine talent to the superficialness of public taste, and blots his
way to emolument and oblivion. There is commonly, however, fault on
both sides ; in the artist for exhibiting his dexterity by mountebank tricks
of the brush, until chaste finish, requiring ten times the knowledge and
labor, appears insipid to the diseased taste which he has himself formed in
his patrons, as the roaring and ranting of a common actor will oftentimes
render apparently vapid the finished, touches of perfect nature ; and in the
public, for taking less real pains to become acquainted with, and discrimi
nate, the various powers of a great artist, than they would to estimate
the excellence of a cook or develop the dexterity of a dancer.

xliv PREFACE TO- THE SECOND EDITION.
sultoriness of intention, their meaningless multiplication of un
studied composition, and their want oi definiteness and loftiness^
of aim, bring discredit on their whole system of study, and en
courage in rthe critic the unhappy prejudice that the field and
the hill-side are less fit places of study than the gallery and the
garret. Not every casual idea caught from the flight of a
shower or the fall of a sunbeam, not every glowing fragment of
harvest light, nor every flickering dream of copse wood coolness,.
is to be given to the world as it came, unconsidered, incom-^
plete, and forgotten by the artist as soon as it has left his easel.
That only should be considered a picture, in which the spirit,
(not the materials, observe,) but the animating emotion of many:
such studies is concentrated, and exhibited by the aid of Iobj&j
' studied, painfully-chosen forms ; idealized in the right sense of
the word, not by audacious liberty of that faculty of degrading.
God's works which man calls his " imagination," but by perfect
assertion of entire knowledge of every part and character and
function of the object, and in which the details are completed
to the last line compatible with the dignity and simplicity of the
whole, wrought out with that noblest industry which concen
trates profusion into point, and transforms accumulation into
structure ; neither must this labor be bestowed on every subject
which appears to afford a capability of good, but on chosen sub
jects in which nature has prepared to the artist's hand the purest
sources of the impression he would convey. These may be
humble in their order, but they must be perfect of their kind*]
There is a perfection of the hedgerow and cottage, as well as of
the forest and the palace, and more ideality in a great artist's
selection and treatment of roadside weeds and brook-worn peb
bles, than in all the struggling caricature of the meaner mind
which heaps its foreground with colossal columns, and heaves
impossible mountains into the encumbered sky. Finally, these
chosen subjects must not be in any way repetitions of one an
other, but each founded on a new idea, and developing a totally
distinct train of thought ; so that the work of the artist's life
should form a consistent series of essays, rising through the
scale of creation from the humblest scenery to the most exalted ;
each picture being a necessary link in the chain, based on what"
preceded, introducing to what is to follow, and all, in their
lovely system, exhibiting and drawing closer the bonds of natura
to the human heart-

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. xiv
Since, then, I shall have to reprobate the absence of study in
the moderns nearly as much as its -false direction in the ancients,
my task will naturally divide itself into three portions. In the
first, I shall endeavor to investigate and arrange the facts of na
ture with scientific accuracy ; showing as -I proceed, by what
total neglect of the very first base and groundwork of their art
the idealities of some among the old masters are produced.
This foundation once securely laid, I shall proceed, in the sec
ond portion of the work, to analyze and demonstrate the nature
of the emotions of the Beautiful and Sublime ; to examine the
particular characters of every kind of scenery, and to bring to
light, as far as may be in my power, that faultless, ceaseless, in
conceivable, inexhaustible loveliness, which God has stamped
upon all things, if man will only receive them as He gives them.
Finally, I shall endeavor to trace the operation of all this on the
hearts and minds of men ; to exhibit the moral function and
end of art, to prove the share which it ought to have in the
thoughts, and influence on the lives of all of us ; to attach to
the artist the responsibility of a preacher, and to kindle in the
general mind that regard which such an office must demand.
It must be evident that the first portion of this task, which
is all that I have yet been enabled to offer to the reader, cannot
but be the least interesting and the most laborious, especially
because it is necessary that it should be executed without refer- .
ence to any principles of beauty or influences of emotion. It is
the hard, straightforward classification of material things, not
the study of thought or passion ; and therefore let me not be
accused of the feelings which I choose to repress. The consid
eration of the high qualities of art must not be interrupted by
the work of the hammer and the eudiometer.
Again, I would request that the frequent passages of refer
ence to the great masters of the Italian school may not be
looked upon as mere modes of conventional expression. I think
there is enough in the following pages to prove that I am not
likely to be carried away by the celebrity of a name ; and there
fore that the devoted love which I profess for the works of the
great historical and sacred painters is sincere and well-grounded.
And indeed every principle of art which I may advocate, I shall
be able to illustrate by reference, to the works of men universally
allowed to be the masters of masters ; and the public, so long as
my teaching leads them to higher understanding and love of the

xlvi PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. I
works of Buonaroti, Leonardo, Raffaelle, Titian, and Cagliari,
may surely concede to me without fear, the right of striking
such blows as I may deem necessary to the establishment of my
principles, at Gasper Poussin, or Vandevelde.
Indeed, I believe there is nearly as much occasion, at the
present day, for advocacy of Michael Angelo against the petti^l
ness of the moderns, as there is for support of Turner against
the conventionalities of the ancients. For, though, the names
of the fathers of sacred art are on all our lips, our faith in them •
is much like that of the great world in its religion — nominal,
but dead. In vain our lecturers sound the name of Raffaelle in
the ears of their pupils, .while their own works are visibly at vari
ance with every principle deducible from his. In vain is the
young student compelled to produce a certain number of school, .
copies of Michael Angelo, when his bread must depend on the '
number of gewgaws he can crowd into his canvas.- And I could
with as much zeal exert myself against the modern system of
English historical art, as I have in favor of our school of land
scape, but that it is an ungrateful and painful task to attack the
works of living painters, struggling with adverse circumstances
of every kind, and- especially with the false taste of a nation
which regards matters of art either with the ticklishness of an
infant, or the stolidity of a Megatherium.
I have been accused, in the execution of this first portion of
my work, of irreverent and scurrile expression towards the
works which I have depreciated^ Possibly I may have been in
some degree infected by reading those criticisms of our periodi
cals, which consist of nothing else i but I believe in general that
my words will be found to have/sufficient truth in them to ex
cuse their familiarity ; and that no other weapons could have
been used to pierce the superstitious prejudice with which the
works of certain painters are shielded from the attacks of rea
son. My answer is that given long ago to a similar complaint,-
uttered under the same circumstances by the foiled sophist :—
(<< £ls S' iffriv o avBpunos ; cos dnaiSsvroi ns, os oviao cpavXa
ovofiara ovofia^eiv rdkfxa iv (Sejxvcp it pay fian.) ToiovtqS ;
ns, ch Imtia, ovdev aXXo cppovri^wv rj ro aXr/dis."
It is with more surprise that I have heard myself accused of
thoughtless severity with respect to the works of contemporary
painters, for I fully believe that whenever I. attack them, I give
myself far more pain than I can possibly inflict ; and, in many

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. xlvii
instances, I have withheld reprobation which I considered
necessary to the full understanding of my work, in the fear of
grieving or injuring men of whose feelings and circumstances I
was ignorant. Indeed, the apparently false and exaggerated bias
of the whole book in favor of modern art, is in great degree de
pendent on my withholding the animadversions which would
have given it balance, and keeping silence where I cannot
praise. But I had rather be a year or two longer in effecting
my purposes, than reach them by trampling on men's hearts
and hearths ; and I have permitted myself to express unfavor
able opinions only where the popularity and favor of the artist
are so great as to render the opinion of an individual a matter
of indifference to him.
And now — but one Word more. For many a year we have
heard nothing with respect to the works of Turner but accusa
tions of their want of truth. To every observation on their
power, sublimity, or beauty, there has been but one reply :
They are not like nature. I therefore took my opponents on
their own ground, and demonstrated, by-thorough investigation
of actual facts, that Turner is like nature, and paints more of
nature than any man who ever lived. I expected this proposi
tion (the foundation of all my future efforts) would have been
disputed with desperate struggles, and that I should have had
to fight my way to my position inch by inch. . Not at all. My
. opponents yield me the field at once. One (the writer for the
Athenaeum) has no other resource than the assertion, that " he
disapproves the natural style in painting. If people want to see
nature, let them go and look at herself. Why should they see
her at second-hand on a piece of canvas?" The other, (Black
wood,) still more utterly discomfited, is reduced to a still more
remarkable line of defence. " It is not," he says, " what thing8
in all. respects really are, but how they are convertible by the
mind into what they are not, that we have to consider." (Oc
tober, 1843, p. 485.) I leave therefore the reader to choose
whether, with Blackwood and his fellows, he will proceed to
consider how things are convertible by the mind into what they
are not, or whether, with me, he will undergo the harder, but
perhaps on the whole more useful, labor of ascertaining — What
they are.

PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION.

IT is with much regret, and partly against my own judg
ment, that I republish the following chapters in their present
form. The particular circumstances (stated in the first preface)
under which they were originally written, have rendered them
so unfit for the position they now hold as introductory to a seri
ous examination of the general functions of art, that I should
have wished first to complete the succeeding portions of the
essay, and then to write another introduction of more fitting
character. But as it may be long before I am able to do this,
and as I believe what I have already written may still be of some
limited and partial service, I have suffered it to reappear, trust
ing to the kindness of the reader to look to its intention rather
than its temper, and forgive its inconsid eration in its earnest
ness. Thinking it of too little substance to bear mending, wher
ever I have found a passage which I thought required modifica
tion or explanation, I have cut it out ; what I have left, how
ever imperfect, cannot I think be dangerously misunderstood :
something I have added, not under the idea of rendering the
work in any wise systematic or complete, but to supply gross
omissions, answer inevitable objections, and give some substance
to passages of mere declamation.
Whatever inadequacy or error there may be, throughout, in
materials or modes of demonstration, I have no doubt of the
truth and necessity of the main result ; and though the reader
may, perhaps, find me frequently hereafter showing other and
better grounds for what is here affirmed, yet the point and bear
ing of the book, its determined depreciation of Claude, Salvator,
Gaspar, and Canaletto, and its equally^ determined support of
"Turner as the greatest of all landscape painters, and of Turner's

1 PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION.
recent works as his finest, are good and right ; and if the preva
lence throughout of attack and eulogium be found irksome or
offensive, let it be remembered that my object thus far has not^
been either the establishment or the teaching of any principles^
of art, but the vindication, most necessary to the prosperity of
our present schools, of the uncomprehended rank of their great-^
est artist, and the diminution, equally necessary as I think to"
the prosperity of our schools, of the unadvised admiration of the
landscape of the seventeenth century. For I believe it to be
almost impossible to state in terms sufficiently serious and severe
the depth and extent of the evil which has resulted (and that
not in art alone, but in all other matters with which the con
templative faculties are concerned) from the works of those elder
men. On the continent all landscape art has been utterly anni
hilated by them, and with it all sense of the power of nature.
We in England have only done better because our artists have
had strength of mind enough to form a school withdrawn from
their influence.
These points are somewhat farther developed in the general
sketch of ancient and modern landscape, which I have added to
the first section of the second part. Some important additions
have also been made to the chapters on the painting of sea.
Throughout the rest of the text, though something is with
drawn, little is changed ; and the reader may rest assured that ¦
if I were now to bestow on this feeble essay the careful revision
which it much needs, but little deserves, it would not be to alter-
its tendencies, or modify its conclusions, but to prevent indig
nation from appearing virulence on the one side, and enthusr- 1
asm partisanship on the other.

.

fgflnlijjg

PREFACE TO NEW EDITION (1873).

I have been lately so often asked by friends on whose judg
ment I can rely, to permit the publication of another edition of
" Modern Painters " in its original form, that I have at last
yielded, though with some violence to my own feelings ; for many
parts of the first and second volumes are written in a narrow
enthusiasm, and the substance of their metaphysical and relig
ious speculation is only justifiable on the ground of its absolute
honesty. Of the third, fourth, and fifth volumes I indeed mean
eventually to rearrange what I think of permanent interest, for
the complete edition of my works, but with fewer and less elab
orate illustrations : nor have I any serious grounds for refusing
to allow the book once more to appear in the irregular form
which it took as it was written, since of the art-teaching and
landscape description it contains I have little to retrench, and
nothing to retract.
This final edition must, however, be limited to a' thousand
copies, for some of the more delicate plates are already worn,
that of the Mill Stream in the fifth volume, and of the Loire
Side-very injuriously ; while that of the Shores of Wharfe had to
be retouched, by an engraver after the removal of the mezzotint
for reprinting. But Mr. Armytage's, Mr. Cousen's, and Mr.
Cuff's magnificent plates are still in good state, and my own
etchings, though injured, are still good enough to answer their
purpose.

SYNOPSIS OF CONTENTS.

PART I.
OF GENERAL PRINCIPLES.

SECTION I.
OF THE NATURE OF THE IDEAS CONVEYABLE BY ART.
Chapter I. — Introductory.
FAOB
§ 1. Public opinion no criterion of excellence, except after long 1
periods of time  1
§ 2. And therefore obstinate when once formed  .... 4
§ 3. The author's reasons for opposing it in particular instances. . . 5
§ 4. But only on points capable of demonstration  5
§ 5. The author's partiality to modern works excusable  6
Chapter II. — Definition of Greatness in Art.
§ 1.. Distinction between the painter's intellectual power and tech
nical knowledge  3
§ 2. Painting, as such, is nothing more than language  8
§ 3. " Painter," a term corresponding to " versifier"  9
§ 4. Example in a painting of E. Landseer's  9
§ 5. Difficulty of fixing an exact limit between language and
thought  ff
§ 6. Distinction between decorative and expressive language  10
§ 7. Instance in the Dutch and early Italian schools  10
§ 8.- Yet there are certain ideas belonging to language itself  11
i| 9. The definition  12
Chapter III. — Of Ideas of Power.
§ 1. What classes of ideas are conveyable by art  13
§ 2. Ideas. of power vary much in relative dignity.  13
, § 3. But are received from whatever has been the subject of
power. The meaning of the word " excellence"  14

llV CONTENTS. PAGE
§ 4. What is necessary to the distinguishing of excellence  . . . . 15
§ 5. The pleasure attendant on conquering difficulties is right  16
Chapter IV. — Of Ideas of Imitation.
§ 1. False use of the term " imitation" by many writers on art  17
§ 2. Real meaning of the term  18
§ 3. What is requisite to the sense of imitation  18\
§ 4. The pleasure resulting from imitation the most contemptible
that can be derived from art  19
§ 5. Imitation is only of contemptible subjects  19
§ 6. Imitation is contemptible because it is easy  20
§ 7. Recapitulation  80
Chapter V. — Of Ideas of Truth.
§.1. Meaning of the word " truth" as applied to art  21
§ 2. First difference between truth and imitation  21
§ 3. Second difference  21
§ 4. Third difference  22
§ 5. No accurate truths necessary to imitation  22
§ 6. Ideas of truth are inconsistent with ideas of imitation^  24
Chapter VI. — Of Ideas of Beauty.
§ 1. Definition of the term " beautiful"  26
§ 2. Definition of the term "taste"  26
§ 3. Distinction between taste and judgment  27
§ 4. How far beauty may become intellectual  27
§ 5. The high rank and function of ideas of beauty  28
§ 6. Meaning of the term " ideal beauty"  28
Chapter VII. — Of Ideas of Relation.
§ 1. General meaning of the term  29
§ 2. "What ideas are to be comprehended under it.   29
§ 3. The exceeding nobility of these ideas  30
§ 4. Why no subdivision of so extensive a class is necessary  31

SECTION II.
OF POWER.
Chapter I. — General Principles respecting Ideas of Power.
§ 1. No necessity for detailed study of ideas of imitation-, 
§ 2. Nor for separate study of ideas of power 
§ 8. Except under one particular form 

CONTENTS. ly
PAGB
§ 4. There are two modes of receiving ideas of power, commonly
inconsistent  33
§ 5. First reason of the inconsistency   33
§ 6. Second reason for the inconsistency  34
§ 7. The sensation of power ought not to be sought in imperfect art 34
§ 8. Instances in pictures of modern artists  35
§ 9. Connection between ideas of power and modes of execution. .. 35
Chapter II. — Of Ideas of Power, as they are dependent
upon Execution.
§ 1. Meaning of the term " execution"  36
§ 2. The first quality of execution is truth  36
§ 3. The second, simplicity  36
§ 4. The third, mystery  37
§ 5. The fourth, inadequacy ; and the fifth, decision  37
§ 6. The sixth, velocity  37
§ 7. Strangeness an illegitimate source of pleasure in execution. .. 37
§ 8. Yet even the legitimate sources of pleasure in execution are
inconsistent with each other  38
§ 9. And fondness for ideas of power leads to the adoption of the
lowest  39
§ 10. Therefore perilous  40
• § 11. Recapitulation  40
Chapter III. — Of the Sublime.
§ 1. Sublimity is the effect upon the mind of anything above it. . . 41
§ 2. Burke's theory of the nature of the sublime incorrect, and
why  41
§ 3. Danger is sublime, but not the fear of it  42
§ 4. The highest beauty is sublime  .  42
§ 5. And generally whatever elevates the mind  42
§ 6. The former division of the subject is therefore sufficient  43

PART II.
OF TRUTH.

SECTION I.
GENERAL PRINCIPLES RESPECTING IDEAS OF TRUTH.
Chapter I. — Of Ideas of Truth in their connection with
those of Beauty and Relation.
§ 1. The two great ends of landscape painting are the representa
tion of facts and thoughts  ."  44

tVl CONTENTS. PAGI
§ 2. They induce a different choice of material subjects  45
§ 3. The first mode of selection apt to produce sameness and repe
tition  r  •'¦ • • 45
§ 4. The second necessitating variety  45
, § 5. Yet the first is delightful to all  46
§ 6. The second only to a few  46
§ 7. The first necessary to the second  47
§ 8. The exceeding importance of truth  48
§ 9. Coldness or want of beauty no sign of truth  48
§ 10. How truth may be considered a just criterion of all art  48
Chapter II. — That the Truth of Nature is not to be dis
cerned by the Uneducated Senses.
§ 1. The common self-deception of men with respect to their
power of discerning truth  50
§ 2. Men usually see little of what is before their eyes  51
§ 3. But more or less in proportion to their natural sensibility to
what is beautiful.  52'
§ 4. Connected with a perfect state of moral feeling  52
§ 5. And of the intellectual powers.  53
§ 6. How sight depends upon previous knowledge  54
§ 7. The difficulty increased by the variety of truths in nature. . . 55
§ 8. We recognize objects by their least important attributes.
Compare Part I. Sect. I. Chap. 4  55
Chapter III. — Of the Relative Importance of Truths : —
Firstj that Particular Truths are more important
than General Ones.
§ 1. Necessity of determining the relative importance of truths. . . 58
§ 2. Misapplication of the aphorism : " General truths are more
important than particular ones"  58
§ 3. Falseness of this maxim, taken without explanation  59
§ 4. Generality important in the subject, particularity in the predi
cate  59
• § 5. The importance of truths of species is not owing to their
generality  go
§ 6. All truths valuable as they are characteristic  61
§ 7. Otherwise truths of species are valuable, because beautiful. ... 61
§ 8. And many truths, valuable if separate, may be objectionable :
. in connection with others  , gj
, § 9, Recapitulation  " »<>

CONTENTS. Ivii
Chapter IV.— Of the Relative Importance of Truths :—
Secondly, that Rare Truths are more impor
tant than Frequent Ones. PAGE
§ 1. No accidental violation of nature's principles should be rep
resented  64
§ 2. But the cases in which those principles have been strikingly
exemplified  65
§ 3. Which are comparatively rare  65
§ 4. All repetition isblamable  65
§ 5. The duty of the painter is the same as that of a preacher  66
Chapter V.— Of the Relative Importance of Truths : —
Thirdly, that Truths of Color are the least im
portant of all Truths.
§ 1. Difference between primary and secondary qualities in bodies. 67
§ 2-. The first are fully characteristic, the second imperfectly so. . 67
§ .3. Color is a secondary quality, therefore less important than
form  68
.§ 4. Color no distinction between objects of the same species  68
§ , 5. .And different in association from what it is alone  69
| 6. It is not certain whether any two people see the same colors
in things  69
§7. Form, considered as an element of landscape, includes light
and shade  69
§ 8. Importance of light and shade in expressing the character of
bodies, and unimportance of color  70
* § ,9, Recapitulation  71
Chapter VI- — Recapitulation.
§ 1. The importance of historical truths  72
§ 2. Form, as explained by light and shade, the first of all truths.
Tone, light, and color, are secondary  72
§ 3. And deceptive chiaroscuro the lowest of all  73
«- Chapter VII. — General Application of the Foregoing Prin
ciples.
§ 1. The different selection of facts consequent on the several aims
at imitation or at truth  74
§ 2. The old masters, as a body, aim only at imitation  74
§ 3. What truths they gave  ,   75
§ 4. The principles of selection adopted by modern artists  76
§ 5. General feeling of Claude, Salvator, and G. Poussin, con
trasted with the freedom and vastness of nature  77

lviii CONTENTS. FAGS
§ 6. Inadequacy of the landscape of Titian and Tintoret  78
§ 7. Causes of its want of influence on subsequent schools  79
§ 8. The value of inferior works of art, how to be estimated  80
§ 9. Religious landscape of Italy. The admirableness of its com
pletion  81
§ 10. Finish, and the want of it, how right— and how wrong  82
§ 11. The open skies of the religious schools, how valuable. Moun
tain drawing of Masaccio. Landscape of the Bellinis and
Giorgione  84
§ 12. Landscape of Titian and Tintoret  86
§ 13. Schools of Florence, Milan, and Bologna  88
§ 14. Claude, Salvator, and the Poussins  89
§ 15. German and Flemish landscape  -.  90
§ 16. The lower Dutch schools  .'  92
§ 17. English school, Wilson and Gainsborough  92
§ 18. Constable, Callcott  94
g 19. Peculiar tendency of recent landscape  95
§ 20. G. Robson, D. Cox. False use of the term " style"  95
§ 21. Copley Fielding. Phenomena of distant color  97
§ 22. Beauty of mountain foreground  _ 99
§ 23. De Wint...  101
§ 24. Influence of Engraving. J. D. Harding  101 '
§ 25. Samuel Prout. Early painting of architecture, how deficient 103
§ 26. Effects of age upon buildings, how far desirable  104
§ 27. Effects of light, how necessary to the understanding of detail 106
§ 28. Architectural painting of Gentile Bellini and Vittor Carpaccio 107
§ 29. And of the Venetians generally  109
§ 30. Fresco painting of the Venetian exteriors. Canaletto  110
§ 31. Expression of the effects of age on Architecture by S. Prout 112
§ 32. His excellent composition and color  114 '
§ 33. Modern architectural painting generally. G. Cattermole  115
§ 34. The evil in an archaeological point of view of misapplied in
vention, in architectural subject  117 ,
§ 35. Works of David Roberts : their fidelity and grace  118
§ 36. Clarkson Stanfield  121
§ 37. J. M. "W. Turner. Force of national feeling in all great
painters  123
§ 38. Influence of this feeling on the choice of Landscape subject. 125
§ 39. Its peculiar manifestation in Turner  . 12S
§ 40. The domestic subjects of the Liber Studiorum  127
§ 41. Turner's painting of French and Swiss landscape." The la'tl
ter deficient  log
§ 42. His rendering of Italian character still less successful ' His
large compositions how failing  Ign

CONTENTS. liX
PAOB
§ 43. His views of Italy destroyed by brilliancy and redundant
quantity  132
§ 44. Changes introduced by him in the received system of art  133
§ 45. Difficulties of his iater manner. Resultant deficiencies  134
§ 46. Reflection of his very recent works  137
§ 47. Difficulty of demonstration in such subjects  139

SECTION II.
OF GENERAL TRUTHS.
Chapter I.— Of Truth of Tone.
, § 1. Meanings of the word " tone :" — First, the right relation of
objects in shadow to the principal light  140
§ 2. Secondly, the quality of color by which it is felt to owe part
of its brightness to the -hue of light upon it  140
§ 3. Difference between tone in its first sense and aerial perspec
tive  141
§ 4. The pictures of the old masters perfect in relation of middle
tints to light  141
§ 5. And consequently totally false in relation of middle tints to
darkness  141
§ 6. General falsehood of such a system  143
§ 7. The principle of Turner in this respect  143
(§ 8. Comparison of N. Poussin's " Phocion"  144
* § 9. With Turner's " Mercury and Argus"  145
§ 10. And with the " Datur Hora Quieti"  145
§ 11. The second sense of the word " tone"  146
§ 12. Remarkable difference in this respect between the paintings
and drawings of Turner  146
§ 13. Not owing to want of power over the material  146
' § 14. The two distinct qualities of light to be considered  147
§ 15. Falsehoods by which Titian attains the appearance of quality
in light  148
§16. Turner will not use such means  148
§ 17. But gains in essential truth by the sacrifice  148
§ 18. The second quality of light  -.  148
§ 19. The perfection of Cuyp in this respect interfered with by
numerous solecisms  150
§ 20. Turner is not so perfect in parts — far more so in the whole. . 151
§ 21. The power in Turner of uniting a number of tones  152
§ 22. Recapitulation  153

lx CONTENTS.
Chapter II. —Of Truth of Color. PAOH
§ 1. Observations on the color of G. Poussin's La Riccia  155
§ 2. As compared with the actual scene  155
§ 3. Turner himself is inferior in brilliancy to nature  157
§ 4. Impossible colors of Salvator, Titian  157
§ 5. Poussin, and Claude  158
«¦ § 6. Turner's translation of colors  160
§ 7. Notice of effects in which no brilliancy of art can even ap
proach that of reality  161
§ 8. Reasons for the usual incredulity of the observer with respect
to their representation  162
§ 9. Color of the Napoleon  163
§ 10. Necessary discrepancy between the attainable brilliancy of
color and light  164
v§ 11. This discrepancy less in Turner than in other eolorists  165
§ 12. Its great extent in a landscape attributed to Rubens  165
§ 13; Turner scarcely ever uses pure or vivid color  166
§ 14. The basis of gray, under all his vivid hues.  167
§ 15. The variety and fulness even of his most simple tones  168
§ 16. Following the infinite and unapproachable variety of nature. 168
§ 17. His dislike of purple, and fondness for the opposition of yel
low and black. The principles of nature in this respect. . . 169
| 18. His early works are false in color  \   170
§ 19. His drawings invariably perfect  171
§ 20. The subjection of his system of color to that of chiaroscuro.. 171
Chapter III. — Ol Truth of Chiaroscuro.
§ 1. "We are not at present to examine particular effects of light.. 174
§ 2. And therefore the distinctness of shadows is the chief means
of expressing vividness of light  ^  175
§ 3. Total absence of such distinctness in the works of the Italian
school  175
§ 4. And partial absence in the Dutch  176
§ 5. The perfection of Turner's works in this respect  177
§ 6. The effect of his shadows upon the light  178
§ 7. The distinction. holds good between almost all the works of
the ancient and modern schools  179
§ 8. Second, great principle of chiaroscuro. Both high light and
deep shadow are used in equal quantity, and only in points. 180
§ 9. Neglect or contradiction of this principle by writers on art . . 180
§ 10. And consequent misguiding of the student  181
§ 11. The great value of a simple chiaroscuro  182
§ 12. The sharp separation of nature's lights from her middle tint. 182
• § 13. The truth of Turner  ; . , 183

CONTENTS. Ixi
Chapter IV.— Of Truth of Space :— First, as Dependent on
the Focus of the Eye. PAOE
* § 1. Space is more clearly indicated by the drawing of objects
than by their hue  185
i § 2. It is impossible to see objects at unequal distances distinctly
at one moment  186
§ 3. Especially such as are both comparatively near  186
§ 4. In painting, therefore, either the foreground or distance must
be partially sacrificed  ; . 187
§ 5. Which not being done by the old masters, they could not ex
press space  187
§ 6. But modern artists have succeeded in fully carrying out this
principle.;  188
- § 7. Especially of Turner.  189
• § 8. Justification of the want of drawing in Turner's figures  189
Chapter V. — Of Truth of Space : — Secondly, as its Appear
ance is dependent on the Power of the Eye.
§ 1. The peculiar indistinctness dependent on fhe retirement of
objects from the eye  191
§ 2. Causes confusion, but not annihilation of details  191
§ 3. Instances in various objects  192
§ 4. Two great resultant truths ; that nature is never distinct, and
never vacant  193
§ 5. Complete violation of both these principles by the old mas
ters. They are either distinct or vacant  193
§ 6. Instances from Nicholas Poussin  194
§ .7. From Claude  ¦  194
§ 8. AndG. Poussin  195
§ 9. The imperative necessity, in landscape painting, of fulness
and finish  196
§ 10. Breadth is not vacancy  197
* § 11. The fulness and mystery of Turner's distances  198
§ 12. Farther illustrations in architectural drawing.  199
§ 13. In near objects as well as distances  199
* § 14. Vacancy and falsehood of Canaletto  200
§15. Still greater fulness anoV finish in landscape foregrounds  200
§ 16. Space and size are destroyed alike by distinctness and by
vacancy  202
§ 17. Swift execution best secures perfection of details  202
§ 18. Finish is far more necessary in landscape than in historical
subjects  ,.  203
, §19. Recapitulation of the section  ._  203

lxii CONTENTS.
SECTION III.
OF TRUTH OF SKIES.
Chapter I. — Of the Open Sky. FAGI
§ 1. The peculiar adaptation of the sky to the pleasing and teach
ing of man  204
§ 2. The carelessness with which its lessons are received  205
§ 3. The most essential of these lessons are the gentlest  205
§ 4. Many of our ideas of sky altogether conventional  206
§ 5. Nature, and essential qualities of the open blue  206
§ 6. Its connection with clouds  207
§ 7. Its exceeding depth  207
§ 8. These qualities are especially given by modern masters  207
§ 9. And by Claude  208
§ 10. Total absence of them in Poussin. Physical errors in his
general treatment of open sky  208
§ 11. Errors of Cuyp in graduation of color  209
§ 12. The exceeding value of the skies of the early Italian and
Dutch schools. Their qualities are unattainable in modern
times  210
§ 13. Phenomena of visible sunbeams. Their nature and cause... 211
§ 14. They are only illuminated mist, and cannot appear when the
sky is free from vapor, nor when it is wjthouf clouds  211
§ 15. Erroneous tendency in the representation of such phenomena
by the old masters  212
§ 16. The ray which appears in the dazzled eye should not be rep
resented  213
§ 17. The practice of Turner. His keen perception of the more
delicate phenomena of rays  213
§ 18. The total' absence of any evidence of such perception in the
works of the old masters  ]  213
§ 19. Truth of the skies of modern drawings  '.  214
§ 20. Recapitulation. The best skies of the ancients are, in qual
ity, inimitable, but in rendering of various truth, childish. 215
Chapter II.— Of Truth of Clouds :— First, of the Region of
the Cirrus.
§ 1. Difflcultyof ascertaining wherein the truth of clouds consists. 216
§ 2. Variation of their character at different elevations. The
three regions to which they may conveniently be consid
ered as belonging  216
§ 3. Extent of the upper region  217

CONTENTS. lxiii PAGE
§ 4. The symmetrical arrangement of its clouds  217
§ 5. Their exceeding, delicacy  :  218
§ 6. Their number  218
§ 7. Causes of their peculiarly delicate coloring  219
§ 8. Their variety of form  219
§ 9. Total absence of even the slightest effort at their representa
tion, in ancient landscape  220
§ 10. The intense and constant study of them by Turner  221
§ 11. His vignette, Sunrise on the Sea  222
§ 12. His use of the cirrus in expressing mist  223
§ 13. His consistency in every minor feature  224
§ 14. The color of the upper clouds  224
§ 15. Recapitulation,  225

Chapter III. — Of Truth of Clouds : — Secondly, of the Cen
tral Cloud Region.
§ 1. Extent and typical character of the central cloud region  226
§ 2. Its characteristic clouds, requiring no attention nor thought
for their representation, are therefore favorite subjects
with the old masters  226
§ 3. The clouds of Salvator and Poussin  227
§ 4. Their essential characters  227
§ 5. Their angular forms and general decision of outline  228
§ 6. The composition of their minor curves  229
§ 7. Their characters, as given by S. Rosa  230
§ 8. Monotony and falsehood of the clouds of the Italian school
generally  239
§ 9. Vast size of congregated masses of cloud  231
§ 10. Demonstrable by comparison with mountain ranges  231
§ 11. And consequent divisions and varieties of feature  232
§ 12. Not lightly to be omitted  >  232
§ 13. Imperfect conceptions of this size and extent in ancient land
scape  233
§ 14. Total want of transparency and evanescence in the clouds of
ancient landscape  234
§ 15. Farther proof of their deficiency in space  235
§ 16. Instance of perfect truth in the sky of Turner's Babylon. . . . 236
§ 17. And in his Pools of Solomon  ... 237
§ 18. Truths of outline and character in his Como  *  237
§ 19. Association of the cirrostratus with the cumulus. '.  238
§ 20. The deep-based knowledge of the Alps in Turner's Lake of
Geneva  238
§ 21. Farther principles of cloud form exemplified in his Amalfi. .. 239

IxiV CONTENTS. PAG*
§ 22. Reasons for insisting on the infinity of Turner's works. In
finity is almost an unerring test of all truth  239
§ 23. Instances of the total want of it in the works of Salvator. ... 240
§ 24. And of the universal presence of it in those of Turner. The
conclusions which may be arrived at from it  240
§ 25. The multiplication of objects, or increase of their size, will
not give the impression of infinity, but is the resource of 24-1
novices  -4*1
§ 26. Farther instances of infinity in the gray skies of Turner  242
§ 27. The excellence of the cloud-drawing of Stanfield  242
§ 28. The average standing of the English school  243
Chapter IV.— Of Truth of Clouds :— Thirdly, of the Region
of the Rain-Cloud.
§ 1. The apparent difference in character between the lower and
central clouds is dependent chiefly on proximity  244
§ 2. Their marked differences in color  244
§ 3. And in deflniteness of form  ;  245
§ 4. They are subject to precisely the same great laws  245
§ . 5. Value, to the painter, of the rain-cloud  246
§ 6. The old masters have not left a single instance of the paint
ing of the rain-cloud, and very few efforts at it. Gaspar
Poussin's storms  247
§ 7. The great power of the moderns in this respect   248
§ 8. Works of Copley Fielding  248
§ 9. His peculiar truth  248
§ 10. His weakness, and its probable cause  249
§ 11. Impossibility of reasoning on the rain-clouds of Turner from
engravings  250
§ 12. His rendering of Fielding's particular moment in the Jumi- -
eges  250
1 § 13. Illustration of the nature of clouds in the opposed forms of
smoke and steam  250
§ 14. Moment of retiring rain in the Llanthony  251
§ 15. And of commencing, chosen with peculiar meaning for Loch '
Coriskin  252
§ 16. The drawing of transparent vapor in the Land's End  253
§ 17. The individual character of its parts  253
§ 18. Deep-studied form of swift rain-cloud in the Coventry  254
§ 19. Compared with forms given by Salvator  254
§ 20; Entire expression of tempest by minute touches and circum
stances in the Coventry   255
§ 21. Especially by contrast with a passage of extreme repose  255

CONTENTS. lXV

§ 22. The truth of this particular passage. Perfectly pure blue
sky only seen after rain, and how seen   256
§ 23. Absence of this effect in the works of the old masters  256
§ 24. Sueeess of our water-color artists in its rendering. Use of it
by Turner.  257
§ 25.- -Expression of near rain-cloud in the Gosport, and other
works.. . ; ;  257
§ 26. Contrasted with Gaspar Poussin's rain^cloud in the Dido and
Mneaam-.n.^  258
§ 27. Turner's power of rendering mist  258
§ 28. His effects of mist so perfect, that if not at once understood,
they can no more be explained or reasoned on than nature
herself  259
§ 29. Various instances.  259
§ 30. Turner's more violent effects of tempest are never rendered
by engravers  260
§ 31. General system of- landscape engraving  260
§ 32. The storm in the Stonehenge  260
§ 33. General character of such effects as given by Turner. His
expression of falling rain  261
§ 34. Recapitulation of the section  261
§ 35. Sketch of a few of the skies of nature, taken as a whole,
compared with the works of Turner and of the old mas
ters. Morning on the plains  262
§ 36: Noon with gathering storms  263
§ 37. Sunset in tempest. Serene midnight  264
§ 38; And sunrise on the Alps-.  264
Chapter V. — Effects of Light rendered by Modern Art,
. § 1. Reasons for merely, at present, naming, without examining
the particular effects of light rendered by Turner  266
§ 2. Hopes of the author for assistance in the future investigation
ofthem  ....•  266

SECTION XV.
OF TRUTH OF EARTH,
Chapter L— Of General Structure.
§ 1. First laws of the organization of the earth, and their im
portance in art  -  270
g 2. The slight attention ordinarily paid to them. Their careful
study by modern artists  271

IXVI - CONTENTS. PAGB
§ 3. -General structure of the earth. The hills are its action, the
plains its rest  271
§ 4. Mountains come out from underneath the plains, and are
their support  272
§ 5. Structure of the plains themselves. Their perfect level,
when deposited by quiet water  273
§ 6. Illustrated by Turner's Marengo  273
§ 7. General divisions of formation resulting from this arrange
ment. Plan of investigation  274
Chapter II. — Of the Central Mountains.
§ 1. Similar character of the central peaks in all parts of the
world  275
§ 2. Their arrangements in pyramids or wedges, divided by verti
cal fissures  275
§ 3. Causing groups of rock resembling an artichoke or rose  276
§ 4. The faithful statement of these facts by Turner in his Alps
at Daybreak  276
§ 5. Vignette of the Andes and others  277
§ 6. Necessary distance, and consequent aerial effect ou all such
mountains  277
§ 7. Total want of any rendering of their phenomena in ancient
art  278
§ 8. Character of the representations of Alps in the distances of
Claude  .'  278
§ 9. Their total want of magnitude and aerial distance  279
§ 10. And violation of specific form  280
§ 11. Even in his best works  280
. § 12. Farther illustration of the distant character of mountain
chains  .'*  281
§ 13. Their excessive appearance of transparency  281
§ 14. Illustrated from the works of Turner and Stanfield, The
Borromean Islands of the latter  282
§ 15. Turner's Arona  283
§ 16. Extreme distance of large objects always characterized by '
very sharp outline  283
§ 17. Want of this decision in Claude  284
§ 18. The perpetual rendering of it by Turner  285
§ "19. Effects of snow, how imperfectly studied  285
§ 20. General principles of its forms on the Alps  287
§ 21. Average paintings of Switzerland. Its real spirit has scarcely
yet been caught  , , , . . .289

CONTENTS. Jxyii
Chapter III. — Of the Inferior Mountains.

PAGE

§ 1. The inferior mountains are distinguished from the central,
, by being divided into beds  290
§ 2. Farther division of these beds by joints  290
§ 3. And by lines of lamination  291
§ 4. Variety and seeming uncertainty under which these laws are
manifested  ,  -. . _ 291
§ 5. The perfect expression of them in Turner's Loch Coriskin. .. 292
§ 6. Glencoe and other works  ,  293
§ 7. Especially the Mount Lebanon.  293
§ 8. Compared with the work of Salvator  294
§ 9. And of Poussin  B  295
§ 10. Effects of external influence on mountain form  296
§ 11. The gentle convexity caused by aqueous erosion  297
§ 12. And the effect of the action of torrents  297
§ 13. The exceeding simplicity of contour caused by these influ
ences  i  298
§ 14. And multiplicity of feature  299
. § 15. Both utterly neglected in ancient art  299
§ 16. The fidelity of treatment in Turner's Daphne and Leucippus. 300
§ 17. And in the Avalanche and Inundation  300
§ 18. The rarity among secondary hills of steep slopes or high pre
cipices  301
§ 19. And consequent expression of horizontal distance in their
ascent  302
§ 20. Full statement of all these facts in various works of Turner.
— Caudeb'ec, etc  302
§ 21. The use of considering geological truths  303
§ 22. Expression of retiring surface by Turner contrasted with the
work of Claude  304
§ 23. The same moderation of slope in the contours of his higher
hills  304
§ 24. The peculiar difficulty of investigating the more essential
truths of hill outline  305
§ 25. Works of other modern artists. — Clarkson Stanfield  305
§ 26. Importance of particular and individual truth in hill drawing. 306
§ 27. Works of Copley Fielding. His high feeling  307
§28. Works of J. D. Harding and others  308
Chapter IV. — Of the Foreground.
§ 1. What rocks were the chief components of ancient landscape
foreground  309
§ 2. Salvator's limestones. The real characters of the rock. Its
fractures, and obtuseness of angles  309

Ixviii CONTENTS. FASI
§ 3. Salvator's acute angles caused by the meeting of concave
curves  310
§ 4. Peculiar distinctness of light and shade in the rocks of nature. 311
§ 5. Peculiar confusion of both in the rocks of Salvator  311
§ 6. And total want of any expression of hardness or brittleness. . 311
§ 7. Instances in particular pictures  312
§ 8. Compared with the works of Stanfield  312
§ 9. Their absolute opposition in every particular  313
§ 10. The rocks of J. D. Harding.  313
§ 11. Characters of loose earth and soil  .-. 314
§ 12. Its exceeding.grace and fulness of feature  315
§ 13. The ground of Teniers.  315
§ 14. Importance of these minor parts and points  316
§ 15. The observance of them is the real distinction between the
master and the novice  316
§ 16. Ground of Cuyp   „  317
§ 17. And of Claude  317
§ 18. The entire weakness and childishness of the latter.  318
§ 19. Compared with the work of Turner.  318
§ 20. General features of Turner's foreground  319
§ 21. Geological structure of his rocks in the Fall ol the Tees  319
§ 22. Their convex surfaces and fractured edges,  319
§ 23. And perfect unity  320
§ 24. Various parts whose history is told us by the details of the
drawing  321
§ 25. Beautiful instance of an exception to general rules in the
Llanthony  321
§ 26. Turner's drawing of detached blocks of weathered stone  322
§ 27. And of complicated foreground  323
§ 28. And of loose soil  323
§ 29. The unison of all in the ideal foregrounds of the Academy
pictures  324
, §-30. And the great lesson to be received from all  324

SECTION V-
OF TRUTH OF WATER.
Chapter I.— Of Water, as Painted by the Ancients.
§ 1. Sketch of the functions and inflnite agency of water  !
§ 2. The ease with which a common representation of it may be
given. The impossibility of a faithful one  .'  :
§ 3. Difficulty of properly dividing the subject  :
§ 4. Inaccuracy of study of water-effect among all painters  :
§ 5. Difficulty of treating this part of the subject 

CONTENTS. lxlx PAGE
§ 6. General laws which regulate the phenomena of water. First,
The imperfection of its reflective surface  329
§ 7. The inherent hue of water modifies dark reflections, and does
not affect right ones  330
§ 8. Water takes no shadow   331
§ 9. Modification of dark reflections by shadow  332
§ 10. Examples on the waters of the Rhone  '.  333
§ 11. Effect of ripple on distant water  335
§ 12. Elongation of reflections by moving water  335
§ 13. Effect of rippled water on horizontal and inclined images. . . . 336
§ 14. To what extent -reflection is visible from above  336
§ 15. Deflection of images on agitated water  337
§ 16. Necessity of watchfulness as well as of science. Licenses,
how taken by great men  337
§ 17. Various -licenses or errors in water painting of Claude, Cuyp,
Vandevelde  339
§ 18. And Canaletto  341
§ 19. Why unpardonable  342
§ 20. The Dutch painters of sea. . .'.  343
§ 21; Buysdael-, -Claude, and Salvator  344
§ 22. Nicolo Poussin  •.  345
§- 23. Venetians -and Florentines. Conclusion  346
Chapter II. — Of "Water, as Painted by the Moderns.
§ 1. General power of the moderns in painting quiet water. The
lakes of Fielding  348
§ 2. The calm rivers of De Wint, J. Holland, &c  348
§ 3. The character of bright and violent falling water  349
§ 4. As given by Nesfield  349
§ 5, The admirable water-drawing of J. D. Harding  350
§ 6. His color ; and painting of sea  350
§ 7. The sea of Copley Fielding. Its exceeding grace and rapidity. 351
§ 8. Its high aim at. character  351
§ 9. But deficiency in the requisite quality of grays  352
§ 10. Variety of the grays of nature  352
§ 11. Works of Stanfield. His perfect knowledge and power  353
§ 12. But want of feeling. General sum of truth presented by
modern art  353
Chapter III. — Of Water, as Painted by Turner.
§ 1. The difficulty of giving surface to smooth water.  355
§ 2. Is dependent on the structure of the eye, and the focus by
which the reflected rays are perceived  355
§ 3. Morbid clearness occasioned in painting of water by distinct
ness of reflections  356
§ 4. How avoided by Turner  357

1XX CONTENTS. PAGE
§ 5. All reflections on distant water are distinct  357
§ 6. The error of Vandevelde  358
§ 7. Difference in arrangement of parts between the reflected ob
ject and its image  359
§ 8. Illustrated from the works of Turner  359
§ 9. The boldness and judgment shown in the observance of it. . . 360
§ 10. The texture of surface in Turner's painting of calm water. . . 361
§ 11. Its united qualities  361
§ 12. Relation of various circumstances of past agitation, &c, by
the most trifling incidents, as in the Cowes  363
§ 13. In scenes on the Loire and Seine  363
§ 14. Expression of contrary waves caused by recoil from shore.. . 364
§ 15. Various other instances  364
§ 16. Turner's painting of distant expanses of water. — Calm, inter
rupted by ripple  365
§ 17. And rippled, crossed by sunshine  365
§ 18. His drawing of distant rivers  366
§ 19. And of surface associated with mist  367
§ 20. His drawing of falling water, with peculiar expression of
weight  367
§ 21. The abandonment and plunge of great cataracts. How given
by him  ...368
§ 22. Difference in the action of water, when continuous and when
interrupted. The interrupted stream fills the hollows of
its bed  369
§ 23. But the continuous stream takes the shape of its bed  370
§ 24. Its exquisite curved lines  370
§ 25. Turner's careful choice of the historical truth  370
§ 26. His exquisite drawing of the continuous torrent in the Llan-
thony Abbey  371
§ 27. And of the interrupted torrent in the Mercury and Argus ... 372
§ 28. Various cases  372
§ 29. Sea painting. Impossibility of truly representing foam  373
§ 30. Character of shore-breakers, also inexpressible  374
§ 31. Their effect how injured when seen from the shore  375
§ 32. Turner's expression of heavy rolling sea  376,
§ 33. With peculiar expression of weight  376
§ 34. Peculiar action of recoiling waves  377
§ 35. And of the stroke of a breaker on the shore  377-
§ 36. General character of sea on a rocky coast given by Turner in
the Land's End    378
§ 37. Open seas of Turner's earlier time  379
§ 38. Effect of sea after prolonged storm  380
§ 39. Turner's noblest work, the painting of the deep open sea in
the Slave Ship  om
§ 40. Its united excellences and perfection as a whole  383

CONTENTS. 1XX1
SECTION VI.
OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. — CONCLUSION.
Chapter I.— Of Truth of Vegetation. PAGE
§ 1. Frequent occurrence of foliage in the works of the old mas
ters  384
§ 2. Laws common to all forest trees. Their branches do not
taper, but only divide  385
§ 3. Appearance of tapering caused by frequent buds....  385
§ 4. And care of nature to conceal the parallelism  386
§ 5. The degree of tapering which may be represented as con
tinuous  '.  386
§ 6. The trees of Gaspar Poussin  386
§ 7. And of the Italian school generally, defy this law  387
§ 8. The truth, as it is given by J. D. Harding  387
§ 9. Boughs, in consequence of this law, must diminish where they
divide. Those of the old masters often do not  388
§ 10. Boughs must , multiply as they diminish. Those of the old
masters do not  ,  389
§ 11. Bough-drawing of Salvator  390
§ 12. All these errors especially shown in Claude's sketches, and
concentrated in a work of G. Poussin's  391
§ 13. Impossibility of the angles of boughs being taken out of them
by wind  392
§ 14. Bough-drawing of Titian  '. 392
. § 15. Bough-drawing of Turner  394
§ 16. Leafage. Its variety and symmetry  394
§ 17. Perfect regularity of Poussin  395
§ 18. Exceeding intricacy of nature's foliage  396
§ 19. How contradicted by the tree-patterns of G. Poussin  396
§ 20. How followed by Creswick  397
§ 21. Perfect unity in nature's foliage  398
§ 22. Total want of it in Both and Hobbima  398
* § 23. How rendered by Turner  399
§ 24. The near leafage of Claude. His middle distances are good.. 399
§ 25. Universal termination of trees in symmetrical curves  400
§ 26. Altogether unobserved by the old masters. Always given by
Turner  401
§ 27. Foliage painting on the Continent  401
§ 28. Foliage of J. D. Harding. Its deficiencies  402
§ 29. His brilliancy of execution too manifest  403
§ 30. His bough-drawing, and choice of form  404

lxxii CONTENTS. PAGE
§ 31. Local color, how far expressible in black and white, and with
what advantage  404
§ 32. Opposition between great manner and great knowledge  406
§ 33. Foliage of Cox, Fielding, and Cattermole  406
§ 34. Hunt and Creswick. Green, how to be rendered expressive
of light, and offensive if otherwise  '.  407
§ 35. Conclusion. Works of J. Linnel and S. Palmer  407
* Chapter II. — General remarks respecting the Truth of
Turner.
§ 1. No necessity of entering into discussion of architectural truth. 409
§ 2. Extreme difficulty of illustrating or explaining the highest
truth  410
§ 3. The positive rank of Turner is in no degree shown in the fore
going pages, but only his relative rank  410
§ 4. The exceeding refinement of his truth  411
§ 5. There is nothing in his works which can be enjoyed without
knowledge  411
§ 6. And nothing which knowledge will not enable us to enjoy... 412
§ 7. His former rank and progress  412
§ 8. Standing of his present works. Their mystery is the conse
quence of their fulness  413
• Chapter III. —Conclusion. — Modern Art and Modern
Criticism.
§ 1. The entire prominence hitherto given to the works of one
artist caused, only by our not being able to take cognizance
of character,..  414
§ 2. The feelings oi different artists are incapable of full compari
son  415
§ 3. But the fidelity and truth of each are capable of real compari
son  415
§ 4. Especially because they are equally manifested in the treat
ment of all subjects  415
§ 5. No man draws one thing well, if he can draw nothing else. 416
§ 6. General conclusions to be derived from our past investigation. 417
§ 7. Truth, a standard of all excellence  417
~ p- § 8. Modern criticism. Changefulness of public taste   418
I § 9. Yet associated with a certain degree of judgment  418
§ 10. Duty of the press  _ a  41g
| § 11. Qualifications necessary for discharging it  418
'I § 12. General incapability of modern critics  419
--*- | 13. And inconsistency with themselves  419

CONTENTS. lxxiii PAGE
§ 14. How the press may really advance the cause of art  420
§ 15. Morbid fondness at the present day for unfinished works  420
§ 16. By which the public defraud themselves  421
§ 17. And in pandering to which, artists ruin themselves  421
§ 18. Necessity of finishing works of art perfectly  421
§ 19. Sketches not sufficiently encouraged  422
§ 20. Brilliancy of execution or efforts at invention not to be
tolerated in young artists  422
§ 21. The duty and after privileges of all students  423
§ 22. Necessity among our greater artists of more singleness of aim. 423
§ 23. What should be their general aim  425
§ 24. Duty of the press with respect to the works of Turner  427

MODERN PAINTERS.

PART I.
OF GENEKAL PBHTCIPLES.

OP THE NATURE OF THE IDEAS CONVEYABLE
BY ART.

CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
If it be true, and it can scarcely be disputed, that nothing
has been for centuries consecrated by public admiration, without
possessing in a high degree some kind of sterling excellence, it
_ , „ is not because the average intellect and feeling of
S 1. Pubhc opinion , . , ° . °
no criterion of ex- the maionty of the public are competent in any
cellence.exceptaf- ,-,-,• ¦ , , , • n n . i 1
ter long periods of way to distinguish what is really excellent, but
because all erroneous opinion is inconsistent, and
all .ungrounded opinion transitory; so that while the fancies
and feelings which deny deserved honor and award what is un
due have neither root nor strength sufficient to maintain con
sistent testimony for a length of time, the opinions formed on
right grounds by those few_ who are in reality competent
judges, being necessarily stable, communicate themselves grad
ually from mind to mind, descending lower as they, extend
wider, until they leaven the whole lump, and rule by absolute
authority, even where the grounds and reasons for them cannot
be understood. On this gradual victory of what is consistent

2 INTRODUCTORY. [PABT I,
over what is vacillating, depends the reputation of all that is
highest in art and literature. For it is an insult to what is
really great in either, to suppose that it in any way addresses
itself to mean or uncultivated faculties. It is a matter of the
simplest demonstration, that no man can be really appreciated^
but by his equal or superior. His inferior may over-estimate
him in enthusiasm ; or, as is more commonly the case, degrade
him, in ignorance ; but he cannot form a grounded and just
estimate,/^ Without proving this, however — which it would take ,
more space to do than I can spare — it is sufficiently evident that
there is no process of amalgamation by which opinions, wrong
individually, can become right merely by their multitude^
If I stand by a picture in the Academy, and hear twenty per
sons in succession admiring some paltry piece of mechanism or
imitation in the lining of a cloak, or the satin of a slipper, it is
absurd to tell me that they reprobate collectively what they ad
mire individually : or, if they pass with apathy by a piece of the
most noble conception or most perfect truth, because it has in it
no tricks of the brush nor grimace of expression, it is absurd
to tell me that they collectively respect what they separately
scorn, or that the feelings and knowledge of such judges, by any
length of time or comparison of ideas, could come to any right
conclusion with respect to what is really high in art. The ques
tion is not decided by them, but for them ; — decided at first by
few : by fewer in proportion as the merits of the work are of a
higher order. From these few the decision is communicated to
the number next below them in rank of mind, and by these
again to a wider and lower circle ; each rank being so far cog
nizant of the superiority of that above it, as to receive its deci
sion with respect ; until, in process of time, the right and con
sistent opinion is communicated to all, and held by all as a mat
ter of faith, the more positively in proportion as the grounds of
it are less perceived, f
**¦ * The opinion of a majority is right only when it is more probable with
each individual that he should be right than that he should be wrong, as in
the case of a jury. Where it is more probable, with respect to" each' indi
vidual, that he should be wrong than right, the opinion of the minority ia
the true one. Thus it is in art.
f There are, however, a thousand modifying circumstances which ren.

SEC. I. CH. I.] INTRODUCTORY. 3
But when this process has taken place, and the work has be
come sanctified by time in the minds of men, it is impossible

der this process sometimes unnecessary, — sometimes rapid and certain —
sometimes impossible. It is unnecessary in rhetoric and the drama, because
the multitude is the only proper judge of those arts whose end is to move
the multitude (though more is necessary to a fine play than is essentially
dramatic, and it is only of the dramatic part that the multitude are cogni
zant). It is unnecessary, when, united with the higher qualities of a work,
there are appeals to universal passion, to all the faculties and feelings which
are general in man as an animal. The popularity is then as sudden as it is
well grounded, — it is hearty and honest in every mind, but it is based in
every mind on a different species of excellence. Such will often be the case
with the noblest works of literature. Take Don Quixote for example.
The lowest mind would find in it perpetual and brutal amusement in the
misfortunes of the knight, and perpetual pleasure in sympathy with the
squire. A mind of average feeling would perceive the satirical meaning
and force of the book, would appreciate its wit, its elegance, and its truth.
But only elevated and peculiar minds discover, in addition to all this, the
full moral beauty of the love and truth which are the constant associ
ates of all that is even most weak and erring in the character of its hero,
and pass over the rude adventure and scurrile jest in haste — perhaps in
pain, to penetrate beneath the rusty corselet, and catch from the wandering
glance the evidence and expression of fortitude, self-devotion, and univer
sal love. So, again, with the works of Scott and Byron ; popularity was as
instant as it was deserved, because there is in them an appeal to those pas
sions which are universal in all men, as well as an expression of such
thoughts as can be received only by the few. But they are admired by, the
majority of their advocates for the weakest parts of their works, as a popu
lar preacher by the majority of his congregation for the worst part of his
sermon. The process is rapid and certain, when, though there maybe little to
catch the multitude at once, there is much which they can enjoy when their
attention is authoritatively directed to it. So rests the reputation of Shak-
speare. No ordinary mind can comprehend wherein his undisputed superi
ority consists, but there is yet quite as much to amuse, thrill, or excite, —
quite as much of what is, in the strict sense of the word, dramatic, in his
works as in any one else's. They were received, therefore, when first writ
ten, with average approval, as works of common merit : but when the high
decision was made, and the circle spread, the public took up the hue and
cry conscientiously enough. Let them have daggers, ghosts, clowns, and
kings, and with such real and definite sources of . enjoyment, they will take
the additional trouble to learn half a dozen quotations, without understand- -
ing them, and admit the superiority of Shakspeare without further demur.
Nothing, perhaps, can more completely demonstrate the total ignorance

£ INTRODUCTORY. [PAKT fc
that any new work of equal merit can be impartially compared
with it, except by minds not only educated and generally capable
of appreciating merit, but strong enough to shake
obstinate* when°re off the weight of prejudice and association, which
once formed. invariably incline them to the older favorite. It
is- much easier, says Barry, to repeat the character recorded of
Phidias, than to investigate the merits of Agasias. And when,- ¦
as peculiarly in the case of painting, much knowledge of what is
technical and practical is necessary to a right judgment, so that
those alone are competent to pronounce a true verdict who are
themselves the persons to be judged, and who therefore can
give no opinion, centuries may elapse before fair comparison
can be made between two artists of different ages ; while the
patriarchal excellence exercises during the interval a tyranni
cal — perhaps, even a blighting, influence over the minds, both
of the public and of those to whom, properly understood, it
should serve for a guide and example. In no city of Europe
where art is a subject of attention, are its prospects so hope
less, or its pursuits so resultless, as in Rome ; because there,
among all students, the authority of their predecessors in art is
supreme and without appeal, and the mindless copyist studies
Raffaelle, but not what Raffaelle studied. It thus becomes the
duty of every one capable of demonstrating any definite points

of the public of all that is great or valuable in Shakspeare than their univer
sal admiration of Maclise's Hamlet.
The process is impossible when there is in the work nothing to attract
and something to disgust the vulgar mind. Neither their intrinsic excel
lence, nor the authority of those who can judge of it, will ever make the
poems of Wordsworth or George Herbert popular, in the sense in which
Scott and Byron are popular, because it is to the vulgar a labor instead of &'j
pleasure to read them ; and there are parts in them which to such judges "
cannot but be vapid or ridiculous. Most works of the highest art,— those
of Raffaelle, M. Angelo, or Da Vinci,— stand as Shakspeare does,— that .
which is commonplace and feeble in their excellence being taken for its
essence by the uneducated, imagination assisting the impression, (for we.
readily fancy that we feel, when feeling is a matter of pride or conscience,)
and affectation and pretension increasing the noise of the rapture, if not its, "
degree. Giotto, Orgagna, Angelico, Perugino, stand, like George Herbert, '.'
;only with the few. Wilkie becomes popular, like Scott, because he touches
passions which all feel, and expresses truths which all can recognize.

SEC I. CH. I.] INTRODUCTORY. 5
of superiority in modern art, and who is in a position in which
his doing so will not be ungraceful, to encounter without hesita-
§ 3. The author's ^on whatever opprobrium may fall upon him from
po*tagSittap0a?-'tlie necessary prejudice even of the most candid
ticniar instances. minaSj an(j from £he far more virulent oppo
sition of those who have no hope of maintaining their own
reputation for discernment but in the support of that kind
of consecrated merit which may be applauded without an in
convenient necessity for reasons. It is my purpose, therefore,
believing that there are certain points of superiority in modern
artists, and especially in one or two of their number, which
have not yet been fully understood, except by those who are
scarcely in a position admitting the declaration of their convic
tion, to institute a close comparison between the great works of
ancient and modern landscape art, to raise, as far as possible,
the deceptive veil of imaginary light through which we are ac
customed to gaze upon the patriarchal work, and to show the real
relations, whether favorable or otherwise, subsisting between it
and our own. I am fully aware that this is not to be done
lightly or rashly ; that it is the part of every one proposing to
undertake such a task strictly to examine, with prolonged doubt
and severe trial, every opinion in any way contrary to the sacred
verdict of time, and to advance nothing which does not, at
least in his own conviction, rest on surer ground than mere
feeling or taste. I have accordingly advanced noth-
«4. But only on . • .-, . v, • r. , •Iv.
points capable of mg in the following pages but with accompanying
demonstration. , ,,• i--i -ii-ij. j-i
demonstration, which may indeed be true or false
— complete or conditional, but which can only be met on its
own grounds, and can in no way be borne down or affected by
mere authority of great names. Yet even thus I should scarcely
have ventured to speak so decidedly as I have, but for my full
conviction that we ought not to class the historical painters of
the fifteenth, and landscape painters of the seventeenth, cen
turies, together, under the general title of " old masters," as if
they possessed anything like corresponding rank in their re
spective walks of art. I feel assured that the principles on
which they worked are totally opposed, and that the landscape
painters have been honored only because they exhibited in
mechanical and technical qualities some semblance of the

6 , INTRODUCTORY. [PAMV?^
manner of the nobler historical painters, whose principles of
conception and ' composition they entirely reversed. The
course of study which has led me reverently to the feet of
Michael Angelo and Da Vinci, has alienated me gradually from
Claude and Gaspar— I cannot at the same time do homage'to
power and pettiness— to the truth of consummate science, and
the mannerism of undisciplined imagination. And let it be
understood that whenever hereafter I speak depreciatingly of
the old masters as a body, I refer to none of the historical paint
ers, for whom I entertain a veneration, which though I hope
reasonable in its grounds, is almost superstitious in degree.
Neither, unless he be particularly mentioned, do I intend to in
clude Nicholas Poussin, whose landscapes have a separate and
elevated character, which renders it necessary to consider them
apart from all others. Speaking generally of the older masters,
I refer only to Claude, Caspar Poussin, Salvator Rosa, Cuyp,^
Berghem, Both, Ruysdael, Hobbima, Teniers, (in his land
scapes,) P. Potter, Canaletti, and the various Van somethings,
and Back somethings, more especially and malignantly those
who have libelled the sea.
It will of course be necessary for me in the commencement
of the work to state briefly those principles on which I conceive
all right judgment of art must be founded. These introduc
tory chapters I should wish to be read carefully, because all
criticism must be useless when the terms or grounds of it are in
any degree ambiguous ; and the ordinary language of connois
seurs and critics, granting that they understand it themselves,
is usually mere jargon to others, from their custom of using
technical terms, by which everything is meant, and nothing is
expressed.§5. The author's -^n^ i£ m the application of these principles, in
emwOT^sexcusa- sPite °£ mJ endeavor to render it impartial, the
ble: feeling and fondness which I have for some works
of modern art escape me sometimes where it should not, let it
be pardoned as little more than a fair counterbalance to that*?
peculiar veneration with which the work of the older master,
associated as it has ever been in our ears with the expression of
whatever is great or perfect, must be usually regarded by the
reader". I do not say that this veneration is wrong, nor that we

SEC. I. CH. I.] INTRODUCTORY. ..,, ?

\

should be less attentive to the repeated words of time : but let\
us not forget, that if honor be for the dead, gratitude can only'
be for the living. He who has once stood beside the grave, to
look back upon the companionship which has been forever
closed, feeling how impotent there are the wild love, or the
keen sorrow, to give one instant's pleasure to the pulseless heart,
or atone in the lowest measure to the departed spirit for the
hour of unkindness, will scarcely for the future incur that debt
to the heart, which can only be discharged to the dust. But
the lesson which men receive as individuals, they do not learn
as nations. Again and again they have seen their noblest de
scend into the grave, and have thought it enough to garland
the tombstone when they had not crowned the brow, and to pay
the honor to the ashes, which they had denied to the spirit.
Let it not displease them that they are bidden, amidst the
kimult and the dazzle of their busy life, to listen for the few
voices, and watch for the few lamps, which God has toned and
lighted to charm and to guide them, that they may not learn
their sweetness by their silence, nor their light by their decay. /

CHAPTER II.
DEFINITION OF GREATNESS IN ART. -
In the 15th Lecture of Sir Joshua Reynolds, incidental no-
tice is taken of the distinction between those excellences in the
painter which belong to him as such, and those which belong to
I j Distinction him m common with all men of intellect, the gen-
paiSs thintei- era^ an<^ exalted powers of which art is the evi-
techScai'knowi- dence and expression, not the subject. But the
eflEe- distinction is not there dwelt upon as it should
be, for it is owing to the slight attention ordinarily paid to it, ;
that criticism is open to every form of coxcombry, and liable to
every phase of error. It is a distinction on which depend all
sound judgment of the rank of the artist, and all just apprecia
tion of the dignity of art.
I a. Painting, as Painting, or art generally, as such, with all
mOTe 'than0 ianB- i*s technicalities, difficulties, and particular ends,
guage. jg notnmg but a noble and expressive language,
invaluable as the vehicle of thought, but by itself nothing.
He who has learned what is commonly considered the whole
art of painting, that is, the art of representing any natural
object faithfully, has as yet only learned the language by
which his thoughts are to be expressed. He has done just
as much towards being that which we ought to respect as a
great painter, as a man who has learned how to express him
self grammatically and melodiously has towards being a great,
poet. The language is, indeed, more difficult-of acquirement in
the one case than in the other, and possesses more power of
delighting the sense, while it speaks to the intellect, but it is,
nevertheless, nothing more than language, and all those exceh
lences which are peculiar to the painter as such, are merely what;
rhythm, melody, precision and force are in the words of the
orator and the poet, necessary to their greatness, but not tho

BEC. I. CH. II.] DEFINITION OF GREATNESS IN ART. 9
tests "of their greatness. It is not by the mode of representing
and saying, but by what is represented and said, that the re
spective greatness either of the painter or the writer is to be
finally determined.
. Speaking with strict propriety, therefore, we
term correspond- should call a man a great painter only as he ex-
ingto" versifier." „ , . . . j . • .-, ,
ceiled in precision and force in the language of
lines, and a great versifier, as he excelled in precision or force
in the language of words. A great poet would then be a term
strictly, and in precisely the same sense applicable to both, if
warranted by the character of the images or thoughts which,
each in their respective languages convey.
, . Take, for instance, one of the most perfect
8 4. Example in . ' ¦ ^
a pamtmg of e. poems or pictures (1 use the words as synonymous)
which modern times have seen: — the " Old Shep
herd's Chief -mourner. " Here the exquisite execution of the
glossy, and crisp hair of the dog, the bright sharp touching of
the green bough beside it, the clear painting of the wood of the
coffin and the folds of the blanket, are language — language clear
and expressive in the highest degree. But the close pressure of
the dog's breast against the wood, the convulsive clinging of the
paws, which has dragged the blanket off the trestle, the total
powerlessness of the head laid, close and motionless, upon its
folds, the fixed and tearful fall of the eye in its utter hopeless
ness, the rigidity of repose which marks that there has been no
motion nor change in the trance of agony since the last blow
was struck on the coffin-lid, the quietness and gloom of the
chamber, the spectacles marking the place where the Bible was
last closed, indicating how lonely has been the life — how
anwatched the, departure of him who is now laid solitary in his
sleep ; — these are all thoughts — thoughts by which the picture
is separated at once from hundreds of equal merit, as far as
mere painting goes, by which it ranks as a work of high art,
«md stamps its author, not as the neat imitator of the texture
of a skin, or the fold of a drapery, but as the Man of Mind.
It is not, however, always easy, either in paint-
Mng'an"1 exact ing or literature, to determine where the influence
language and ' of language stops, and where that of thought be-
oas " gins. Many thoughts are so dependent upon tha

20 DEFINITION OF GREATNESS 1^ ART. [PAB^L
language in which they are clothed,, that they would lose half
their beauty if otherwise expressed. But the highest thoughts
are those which are least dependent on language, and the dig
nity of any composition and praise to which it is entitled,' are in
exact proportion to its independency of language or expression.
A composition is indeed usually most perfect, when to such in
trinsic dignity is added all that expression can do to attract and
adorn ; but in every case of supreme excellence this all becomes
as nothing. We are more gratified by the simplest lines or
words which can suggest the idea in its own naked beauty, than
by the robe or the gem which conceal while they decorate ; we
are better pleased to feel by%their absence how little th'ey eould
bestow, than by their presence how much they can destroy,
§ 6. Distinction There is therefore a distinction to be. made
«vlew|nd expret between what is ornamental in language and what
sive language. jg expressive. That part of it which is necessary
to the embodying and conveying the thought is worthy of
respect and attention as necessary to excellence, though not the
test of it. But that part of it which is decorative has little
more to do with the intrinsic excellence of the picture than
the frame or the varnishing of it. And this caution in disthv
guishing between the ornamental and the expressive is pecu
liarly necessary in painting ; for in the language of words it ia
nearly impossible for that Which is not expressive to be beauti
ful, except by mere rhythm or melody, any sacrifice to which is
immediately stigmatized as error. But the beauty of mere lan
guage in painting is not only very attractive and entertaining
to the spectator, but requires for its attainment no small exer
tion of mind and devotion of time by the artist. Hence, in
art, men have frequently fancied that they were becoming rheto
ricians and poets when they were only learning to speak melo
diously, and the judge has over and over again advanced to the
honor of authors ^hose who were never more than ornamental
writing-masters. % t. instance in Most pictures of the Dutch school, for instance,
eariyDitaiian and excepting always those of Rubens, Vandyke, and
schools. Rembrandt, are ostentatious exhibitions of the ar
tist's power of speech, the clear and vigorous elocution of use-"
less and senseless words : while the early efforts of Cimabuo and

SEC. I. CH. n.] DEFINITION OF GREATNESS IN ART. 11
Giotto are the burning messages of prophecy, delivered by the
stammering lips of infants. It is not by ranking the former as
more than mechanics, or the latter as less than artists, that the
taste of the multitude, always awake to the lowest pleasures
which art can. bestow, and blunt to the highest, is to be formed
or elevated. It must be the part of the judicious critic care
fully to distinguish what is language, and what is thought, and
to rank and praise pictures chiefly for the latter, considering
the former as a totally inferior excellence, and one which can
not be compared with nor weighed against thought in any way
nor in any degree whatsoever. The picture which has the
nobler and more numerous ideas, however awkwardly expressed,
is a greater and a better picture than that which has the less
noble and less numerous _ ideas, however beautifully expressed, f
No weight, nor mass, nor beauty of execution can outweigh
one grain or fragment of thought. Three penstrokes of Raf
faelle are a greater and a better picture than the most finished \
work that ever Carlo Dolci polished into inanity. A finished
work of a great artist is only better than its sketch, if the
sources of pleasure belonging to color and realization — valuable
in themselves, — are so employed as to increase the impressive-
ness of the thought. But if one atom of thought has vanished,
all color, all finish, all execution, all ornament, are too dearly
bought. Nothing but thought can pay for thought, and the
instant that the increasing refinement or finish of the picture
begins to be paid for by the loss of the faintest shadow of an
idea, that instant all refinement or finish is an excrescence, and
a deformity.
§ 8. Yet there are Yet although in all our speculations on art,
longing **"*£. language-is thus to be distinguished from, and
guageltseif. held sub0rdinate to, that which it conveys, we
must still remember that there are certain ideas inherent in
language itself, and that strictly speaking, drery pleasure con
nected with art has in it some reference to the intellect. The
mere sensual pleasure of the eye, received from the -most bril
liant piece' of coloring, is as nothing to that which it receives
from a crystal prism, except as it depends on our perception of a
certain meaning and intended arrangement of color, which has
been the subject of intellect. Nay, the term idea, according to

12 DEFINITION OF GREATNESS IN- ART. [PART I.
Locke's definition of it, will extend even to the sensual impres
sions themselves as far as they are " things which the mind oc
cupies itself about in thinking," that is, not as they are felt by
the eye only, but as they are received by the mind through the
§ 9 The denni- eye- So tnatj ^ I say ^a^ the greatest picture is
tion- that which conveys to the mind of the spectator
the greatest number of the greatest ideas, I have a definition
which will include as subjects of comparison every pleasure
which art is capable of conveying. If I were to say, on the con- ,
trary, that the best picture was that which most closely imitated :
nature, I should assume that art could only please by imitating
nature, and I should cast out of the pale of criticism those parts
of works of art which are not imitative, that is to say, intrinsic
beauties of color and form, and those works of art wholly,
which, like the arabesques of Raffaelle in the Loggias, are not
imitative at all. Now I want a definition of art wide enough to
include all its varieties of aim : I do not say therefore that, the
art is greatest which gives most pleasure, because perhaps there
is some art whose end is to teach, and not to please. I do not
say that the art is greatest which teaches us most, because per
haps there is some art whose end is to please, and not to teach.
I do not say that the art is greatest which imitates best, because
perhaps there is some art whose end is to create, and not to
imitate. But I say that the art is greatest, which conveys to
the mind of the spectator, by any means whatsoever, the great
est number of the greatest ideas, and I call an idea great in pro
portion as it is received by a higher faculty of the mind, and as,
it more fully occupies, and in occupying, exercises and exalts,
the faculty by which it is received.
If this then be the definition of great art, that of a great -
artist naturally follows. He is the greatest artist who has em
bodied, in the sum of his works, the greatest number of the
greatest ideas.

CHAPTER III.
OF IDEAS OF POWER.
The definition of art which I have just given, requires me
to determine what kinds of ideas can be received from works of
art, and which of these are the greatest, before proceeding to
any practical application of the test.
8 1 What classes . '
of ideas are con- I think that all the sources of pleasure, or any
y r. other good, to be derived from works of art, may
be referred to five distinct heads.
I. Ideas of Power. — The perception or conception of the
mental or bodily powers by which the work has been
produced.
II. Ideas of Imitation. — The perception that the thing pro
duced resembles something else.
III. Ideas of Truth. — The perception of faithfulness in a
statement of facts by the thing produced.
IV. Ideas of Beauty. — The perception of beauty, either in
the thing produced, or in what it suggests or resembles.
V. Ideas of Relation. — The perception of intellectual rela
tions, in the thing produced, or in what it suggests or
resembles.
I shall briefly distinguish the nature and effects of each of
these classes of ideas.* I. Ideas of Power. — These are the simple per
er vary much in ception of the mental or bodily powers exerted in
igm y. ^e production of any work of art. According to
the dignity and degree of the power perceived is the dignity of
the idea ; but the whole class of ideas is received by the intel
lect, and they excite the best of the moral feelings, veneration,
and the desire of exertion. As a species, therefore, they are
one of. the noblest connected with art ; but the differences in
degree of dignity among themselves are infinite, being corre
spondent with every order of power, — from that of the fingers
to that of the most exalted intellect. Thus, when we see an

14 OF IDEAS OF POWER. [PARTI
Indian's paddle carved from the handle to the blade, we have a
conception of prolonged manual labor, and are gratified in
proportion to the supposed expenditure of time and exertions!
These are, indeed, powers of a low order, yet the pleasure^
arising from the conception of them enters very largely indeed";
into our admiration of all elaborate ornament, architectural
decoration, etc. The delight with which we look on the fretted
front of Rouen Cathedral depends in no small degree on the
simple perception of time employed and labor expended in its
production. But it is a right, that is, an ennobling pleasure,
even in this its lowest phase ; and even the pleasure felt by .
those persons who praise a drawing for its " finish," or its
"work," which is one preoisely of the same kind, would be
right, if it did not imply a want of perception of the higher-
powers which render work unnecessary. If to the evidence of
labor be added that of strength or dexterity, the sensation of
power is yet increased ; if to strength' and dexterity be added
that of ingenuity and judgment, it is. multiplied tenfold, and
so on, through all the subjects of action of body or mind, we
receive the more exalted pleasure from the more exalted power.
„ , _ . So far the nature and effects of ideas of power
§ 3. But are re- r
ceived from what- cannot but be admitted bv all. But the circum-
ever has been the J
subject of power, stance which I wish especiallv to insist upon,
The meaning of . . . 1 J , -
the word "excel- witn respect to them, is one which may not, per
haps, be so readily allowed, namely, that they are
independent of the nature or worthiness of the object from
which they are received, and that whatever has been the subject
of a great power, whether there be intrinsic and apparent wor
thiness in itself or not, bears with it the evidence of having
been so, and is capable of giving the ideas of power, and the
consequent pleasures, in their full degree. Por observe, that a
thing is not properly said to have been the result of a great i
power, on which only some part of that power has been ex
pended. A nut may be cracked by a steam-engine, but it has
not, in being so, been the subject of the power of the engine.
And thus it is falsely said of great men, that they waste their
lofty powers on unworthy objects : the object may be danger
ous or useless, but, as far as the phrase has reference to diffi-
culty of performance, it cannot be unworthy of the powei

SEC. I. CH. HI.] OF IDEAS OF POWER. 15
which it brings into exertion, because nothing can become a
subject of action to a greater power which can be accomplished
by a less, any more than bodily strength can be exerted where
there is nothing to resist it.
So then, men may let their great powers lie dormant, while
they employ their mean and petty powers on mean and petty
objects ; but it is physically impossible to employ a great
power, except on a great object. Consequently, wherever power
of any kind or degree has been exerted, the marks and evi
dence of it are stamped upon its results : it is impossible that it
should be lost or- wasted, or without record, even in the " es
timation of a hair :" and therefore, whatever has been the
subject of a great power bears about with it the image of that
which created it, and is what is commonly called " excellent."
And this is the true meaning of the word excellent, as distin
guished from the terms, "beautiful," "useful," "good,"
etc. ; and we shall always, in future, use the word excellent, as
signifying that the thing to which it is applied required a great
power for its production.*
1 4 What i3 nec. The faculty of perceiving what powers are re-
ttagmsnmgof ex- quired f°r the production of a thing, is the fac-
ceiience. ui£y 0f perceiving excellence. It is this faculty in
which men, even of the most cultivated taste, must always be
wanting, unless they have added practice to reflection ; because
none can estimate the power manifested in victory, unless they
have personally measured the strength to be overcome. Though,
therefore, it is possible, by the cultivation of sensibility and
judgment, to become capable of distinguishing what is beauti-
* Of course the word "excellent" is primarily a mere synonym with
" surpassing," and when applied to persons, has the general meaning given
by Johnson — "the state of abounding in any good quality." But when
applied to things it has always reference to the power by which they are
produced. "We talk of excellent music or poetry, because it is difficult to
compose or write such, but never of excellent flowers, because all* flowers
being the result of the same power, must be equally excellent. We distin
guish them only as beautiful or useful, and therefore, as there is no other
one word to signify that quality of a thing produced by which it pleases us
merely as the result of power, and as the term " excellent' is more fre
quently used in this sense than in any other, I choose to limit it at once to
this sense, and I wish it, when I use it in future, to be so understood.

16 OF IDEAS OF PQWER. [PART I
-ful, it is totally impossible, without practice and knowledge, to
distinguish or feel what is excellent. The beauty or the truth
of Titian's flesh-tint may be appreciated by all ; but it is only
to the artist, whose multiplied hours of toil have not reached
the slightest resemblance of one of its tones, that its excellence
is manifest. Wherever, then, difficulty has been overcome,
§ b. The pleasure there is excellence : and therefore, in order to prove
attendant on con- to,
quering difficui- a -work excellent, we have only to prove the dim-
ties is right. ' . • .
culty of its production : whether it be useful or
beautiful is another question ; its excellence depends on its
difficulty alone. Nor is it a false or diseased taste which looks
for the overcoming of difficulties, and has pleasure in it, even
without any view to resultant good. It has been made part of
our moral nature that we should have a pleasure in encountering
and conquering opposition, for the sake of the struggle and the
victory, not for the sake of any after result • and not only our
own victory, but the perception of that of another, is in all
cases the source of pure and ennobling pleasure. And if we
often hear it said, and truly said, that an artist has erred by
seeking rather to show his skill in overcoming technical diffi
culties, than to reach a great end, be it observed that he is only
blamed because he has sought to conquer an inferior difficulty
rather than a great one ; for it is much easier to overcome tech
nical difficulties than to reach a great end. Whenever th?
visible victory over difficulties is found painful or in false taste,
it is owing to the" preference of an inferior to a great difficulty,
br to the false estimate of what is difficult and what is not. It
is far more difficult to be simple than to be complicated ; far
more difficult to sacrifice skill and cease exertion in the proper^
place, than to expend both indiscriminately. We shall find, in
the course of our investigation, that beauty and difficulty go
together ; and that they are only mean and paltry difficulties".
which* it is wrong or contemptible to. wrestle with. Be it re
membered then — Power is never wasted. Whatever power has
been employed, produces excellence in proportion to its own dig
nity and exertion ; and the faculty of perceiving this exertion,
and appreciating this dignity, is the faculty of perceiving excel'
lence.

CHAPTER IV.
OF IDEAS OF IMITATION.
TTtjseli, in his lectures, and many other persons of equally
just and accurate habits of thought, (among others, S. T. Cole
ridge,) make a distinction between imitation and copying,
S 1. False use of representing the first as the legitimate function of
tion ""by" many ai't — the latter as its corruption ; but as such a
writers of art. distinction is by no means warranted, or explained
by the common meaning of the words themselves, it is not
easy to comprehend exactly in what sense they are used by those
writers. And though, reasoning from the context, I can un
derstand what ideas those words stand for in their minds, I
cannot allow the terms to be properly used as symbols of those
ideas, which (especially in the case of the word Imitation) are
exceedingly complex, and totally different from what most peo
ple would understand by the term. And by men of less accu
rate thought, the word is- used still more vaguely or falsely. For
instance, Burke (Treatise on the Sublime, part i. sect. 16) says,
" When the object represented in poetry or painting is such as
we could haye no desire of seeing in the reality, then we may be
sure that its power in poetry or painting is owing to the power
of imitation." In which case the real pleasure may be in what
we have been just speaking bf, the dexterity of the artist's
hand ; or it may be in a beautiful or singular arrangement of
colors, or a thoughtful chiaroscuro, or in the pure beauty of
certain forms which art forces on our notice, though we should
not have observed them in the reality ; and I conceive that none
of these sources of pleasure are in any way expressed or inti
mated by the term " imitation."
But there is one source of pleasure in works of art totally
different from all these, which I conceive to be properly and ac
curately expressed by the word " imitation :" one which, though

18 OF IDEAS OF IMITATION. [PARTI.
constantly confused in reasoning, because it is always associ
ated in fact, with other means of pleasure, is totally separated
from them in its nature, and is the real basis of whatever com
plicated or various meaning may be afterwards attached to the
word in the minds of men.
I wish to point out this distinct source of .pleasure clearly
at once, and only to use the word " imitation", in reference to it.
§2. Real meaning Whenever anything looks like what it is not,
of the term. ^he resemblance being so great as nearly to de
ceive, we feel a kind of pleasurable surprise, an agreeable excite- ',
ment of mind, exactly the same in its nature as that which we
receive from juggling. Whenever we perceive this in something '
produced by art, that is to say, whenever the work is seen to
resemble something which we know it is not, we receive what I
call an idea of imitation. Why such ideas are pleasing, it would
be out of our present purpose to inquire ; we only know that
there is no man who does not feel pleasure in his animal nature
from gentle surprise, and that such surprise can be excited in no
more distinct manner than by the evidence that a thing is not
_ . what it appears to be.* Now two things are re-
§ 3. What is re- . . , , rr , , n , 6 , 1
quisite to the quisite to our complete and more pleasurable per-
sense of imitation. ,. j. .•,• n , ,, , ,-, , , -,
ception of this : first, that the resemblance be so
perfect as to amount to a deception ; secondly, that there be
some means of proving at the same moment that it is a
deception. The most perfect ideas and pleasures of imita
tion are, therefore, when one sense is contradicted by an
other, both bearing as positive evidence on the subject as
each is capable of alone ; as when the eye says a thing is
round, and the finger says it is flat ; they are, therefore, never
felt in so high a degree as in painting, where appearance of pro
jection, roughness, hair, velvet, etc., are given with a smooth!
surface, or in wax- work, where the first evidence of the senses is
perpetually contradicted by their experience ; but the moment ;
we come to marble, our definition checks us, for a marble figure
does not look like what it is not : it looks.like marble, and like '
the form of a man, but then it is marble, and it is the form of
a man. It does not look like a man, which it is not, but like ',
the form of a man, which it is. Form is form, bona fide and
* ovAUyiouiS Imy, on tovto tow.— Arist, Rhet. 1, 11, 23.

SEC. I. CH. IV.] OF IDEAS OF IMITATION. 19
actual, whether in marble or in flesh — not an imitation or
resemblance of form, but real form. The chalk outline of the
bough of a tree on paper, is not an imitation ; it looks like
chalk and paper — not like wood, and that which it suggests to
the mind is not properly said to be like the form of a bough, it
is the form of a bough. Now, then, we see the limits of an
idea of imitation ; it extends only to the sensation of trickery
and deception occasioned by a thing's intentionally seeming
different from what it is ; and the degree of the pleasure depends
on the degree of difference and the perfection of the resem
blance, not on the nature of the thing resembled. The simple
pleasure in the imitation would be precisely of the same degree,
(if tho accuracy could be equal.) whether the subject of it were
the hero or his horse. There are other collateral sources of
pleasure, which are necessarily associated with this, but that
part of the pleasure which depends on the imitation is the
same in both.
§4. The pleasure Ideas of imitation, then, act by producing the
tatton^temOTt simple pleasure of surprise, and that not of sur-
ctat™§.erivedhat P™e m its higher sense and function, but of the
from art. mean and paltry surprise which is felt in jugglery.
These ideas and pleasures are the most contemptible which can
be received from art ; first, because it is necessary to their en
joyment that the mind should reject the impression and address
of the thing represented, and fix itself only upon the reflection
that it is not what it seems to be. All high or noble emotion
or thought are thus rendered physically impossible, while the
mind exults in what is very like a strictly sensual pleasure. We
may consider tears as a result of agony or of art, whichever we
please, but not of both at the same moment. If we are sur
prised by them as an attainment of the one, it is impossible we
can be moved by them as a sign of the other.
Ideas of imitation are contemptible in the sec-
oniy oTcontemp- ond place, because not only do they preclude the
¦¦¦¦je subjects. gpectator from enjoying - inherent beauty in the
subject, but they can only be received from mean and paltry
subjects, because it is impossible to imitate anything really
great. We can " paint a cat or a fiddle, so that they look as if
we could take them up ;" but we cannot imitate the ocean, of

20 OF IDEAS OF IMITATION. [PABTI,
the Alps. We can imitate fruit, but not a tree ; flowers, but not
a pasture ; cut-glass, but not the rainbow. All pictures in
-which deceptive powers of imitation are displayed are therefore
either of contemptible subjects, or have the imitation shown in
contemptible parts of them, bits of dress, jewels, furniture, etc.
Thirdly, these ideas are contemptible, because
lo'nteSpm.'e'be- no ideas of power are associated with them ; to the
canse it iaeasy. j^,.^ jmitation, indeed, seems difficult, and its
success praiseworthy, but even they can by no possibility see
more in the artist than they do in a juggler, who arrives at a
strange end by means with which they are unacquainted. To the
instructed, the juggler is by far the more respectable artist of
the two, for they know sleight of hand to be an art of immensely
more difficult acquirement, and to imply more ingenuity in the
artist than a power of deceptive imitation in painting, which
requires nothing more for its attainment than a true eye, a
steady hand, and moderate industry — qualities which in no
degree separate the imitative artist from a watch-maker, pin-
maker, or any other neat-handed artificer. These remarks do
not apply to the art of the Diorama, or the stage, where the
pleasure is not dependent on the imitation, but is the same
which we should reeeive from nature herself, only far inferior
in degree. It is a noble pleasure ; but we shall see in the course
' of our investigation, both that it is inferior to that which we
receive when there is no deception at all, and why it is so.
§ 7. Recapituia- Whenever then in future, I speak of ideas of
tion. imitation, I wish to be understood to mean the
immediate and present perception that something produced by
art is not what it seems to be. I prefer saying " that it is not
what it seems to be," to saying " that it seems to be what it is
not," because we .perceive at once what it seems to be, and the
idea of imitation, and the consequent pleasure, result from the -
subsequent perception of its being something else — flat, foi
instance, when we thought it was round.

CHAPTER V.
OF IDEAS OF TRUTH!.
The word truth, as applied. to art, signifies the faithful
statement, either to the mind or senses, of any fact of nature.
We receive an idea of truth, then, when we
, tte'word "truth" perceive the faithfulness of such a statement.
«» apP i.t .oar. ^^ difference between ideas of truth and of
imitation lies chiefly in the following points.
§2. First differ- First, — Imitation can only be of something
trata^dtoita- material, but truth has reference to statements
Uon- both of the qualities of material things, and of
emotions, impressions, and thoughts. There is a moral as well
as material truth, — a truth of impression as well as of form, — ¦
of thought as well as of matter ; and the truth of impression
and thought is a thousand times the more important of the two.
Hence, truth is a term of universal application, but imitation is
limited to that narrow field of art which ta"kes cognizance only
of material things.
s 8. second dif- Secondly, — Truth may be stated by any signs or
foence. symbols which have a definite signification in the
minds of those to whom they are addressed, although such signs
be themselves no image nor likeness of .anything. Whatever^
can excite in the mind the conception of certain facts, can give
ideas of truth, though it be in no degree the imitation or re
semblance of those facts. If there be — we do not say there is<s-
— but if there be in painting anything which operates, as words
do, not by resembling anything, but by being taken as a sym
bol and substitute for it, and thus inducing the effect of it,
then this channel of communication can convey uncorrupted.
truth, though it do not in any degree resemble the facts whose
conception it induces. But ideas of imitation, of course, re
quire the likeness of the object. They speak to the perceptive
faculties only : truth to the conceptive.

22 OF IDEAS OF TRUTH. [PABTI,
Thirdly, — And ih consequence of what is above stated, an
idea wf truth exists in the statement of one attribute of, any-
§4. Third differ- thing, but an idea of imitation requires the resem-;
ence- blanee of as many attributes as we are usually
cognizant of in its real presence. A pencil outline of the bough
of a tree on white ,paper is a statement of a certain number of
facts of form. It does not yet amount to the imitation of
anything. The idea of that form is not given in nature by
lines at all, still less by black lines with a white space between
them. But those lines convey to the mind a distinct impression :
of a certain number of facts, which it recognizes as agreeable
with its previous impressions of the bough of a tree ; and it
receives, therefore, an idea of truth. If, instead of two lines,
we give a dark form with the brush, we convey information .
of a certain relation of shade between the bough and sky, re
cognizable for another idea of truth ; but we have still no imi
tation, for the white paper is not the least like air, nor the
black shadow like wood. It is not until after a certain number
of ideas of truth have been collected together, that we arrive
at an idea of imitation. Hence it might at first sight appear, that an
truths necessary idea of imitation, inasmuch as several ideas of
truth'were united in it, was nobler than a simple
idea of truth. And if it were necessary that the ideas of truth
should be perfect, or should be subjects of contemplation as
such, it would be so. But, observe, we require to produce the
effect of imitation only so many and such ideas of truth as the
senses are usually cognizant of. Now the senses are not usually,
nor unless they be especially devoted to the service, cognizant,
with accuracy, of any truths but those of space and projection.
It requires long study and attention before they give certaina
evidence of even the simplest truths of form. For instance^
the quay on which the figure is sitting, with his hand at his
eyes, in Claude's seaport, No. 14, in the National Gallery, is
egregiously out of perspective. The eye of this artist, with all
his study, had thus not acquired the power of taking cogni
zance of the apparent form even of a simple parallelopiped.
How much less of the complicated forms of boughs, leaves, or

SEC. I. CH. V.] ' OF IDEAS OF TRUTH. 23
limbs? Although, therefore, something resembling the real
form is necessary to deception, this something is not to be
called a truth of form ; for, strictly speaking, there are no de
grees of truth, there are only degrees of approach to it ; and
an approach to it, whose feebleness and imperfection would
instantly offend and give pain to a mind really capable of dis
tinguishing truth, is yet quite sufficient for all the purposes of
deceptive imagination. It is the same with regard to color.
If we were to paint a tree sky-blue, or a dog rose-pink, the dis
cernment of the public would be keen enough to discover the
falsehood ; but, so that there be just so much approach to
truth of color as may come up to the common idea of it in
men's minds, that is to say, if the trees be all bright green, and
flesh unbroken buff, and ground unbroken brown, though all
the .real and refined truths of color be wholly omitted, or rather
defied and contradicted, there is yet quite enough for all pur
poses of imitation. The only facts then, which we are usually
and certainly cognizant of, are those of distance and projection,
and if these be tolerably given, with something like truth of
form and color to assist them, the idea of imitation is com
plete. I would undertake to paint an arm, with every muscle
out of its place, and every bone of false form and dislocated
articulation, and yet to" observe certain coarse and broad resem-
" blanees of true outline, which, with careful shading, would in
duce deception, and draw down the praise and delight 'of the
discerning public. The other day at Bruges, while I was en
deavoring to set down in my note-book something of the in
effable expression of the Madonna in the cathedral, a French.
amateur came up to me, to inquire if I had seen the modern
French pictures in a neighboring church. I had not, but felt
little inclined to leave my marble for all the canvas that ever
suffered from French brushes. My apathy was attacked with
gradually increasing energy of praise. Rubens never executed
— Titian never colored anything like them. I thought this
highly probable, and still sat quiet. The voice continued at
my ear. " Parbleu, Monsieur, Michel Ange n'a rien produit
de plus beau !" " De plus beau f" repeated I, wishing to know
what particular excellences of Michael Angelo were to be in-

2i OF IDEAS OF TRUTH. [PART I.
timated by this expression. " Monsieur, on ne peut plus— c'est
un tableau admirable — inconcevable : Monsieur," said the
Frenchman, lifting up his hands to heaven, as he concentra
ted in one conclusive and overwhelming proposition the quali
ties which were to outshine Rubens and overpower Buonaroti
— " Monsieur, il sort !"
This gentleman could only perceive two truths — flesh color
and projection. These constituted his notion of the perfection
of painting ; because they unite all that is necessary for decep
tion. He was not therefore cognizant of many ideas of truth,
though perfectly cognizant of ideas of imitation.
§6. ideas of ^e shall see, in the course -of our investigation
sisteiitwlthidea's of ideas of truth> tnat ideas of imitation not only
of imitation. do not imply their presence, but even are incon--1
- sistent with it ; and that pictures which imitate so as to deceive,
are never true. But .this is not the place for the proof of this ;
at present we have only to insist on the last and greatest dis
tinction between ideas of truth and of imitation — that the mind,
in receiving one of the former, dwells upon its own conception.
of the fact, or form, or feeling stated, and is occupied only with
the qualities and character of that fact or form, considering it
as real and existing, being all the while totally regardless of the
signs or symbols by which the notion of it has been conveyed.
These signs have • no pretence, nor hypocrisy, nor legerdemain
about them ; — there is nothing to be found out,, or sifted, or
surprised in them ; — they bear their message simply and
clearly, and it is that message which the mind takes from them
and dwells upon, regardless of the language in which it is deliv
ered. But the mind, in receiving an idea of imitation, is wholly
occupied in finding out that what has been suggested to it is
not what it appears to be : it does not dwell on the suggestion,
but on the perception that it is a false suggestion : it derives its
pleasure, not from the contemplation of a truth, but from the
discovery of a falsehood. So that the moment ideas of truth are
grouped together, so as to give rise to an idea of imitation, they
change their very nature— lose their essence as ideas of truth—
and are corrupted and degraded, so as to share in the treachery-
of what they have produced. Hence, finally, ideas of truth are

BBC. I. CH. V.J

OF IDEAS OF TRUTH.

25

the foundation, and ideas of imitation the destruction, of all
art. We shall be better able to appreciate their relative dignity
after the investigation which we propose of the functions of the
former ; but we may as well now express the conclusion to
which we shall then be led — that no picture can be good which
deceives by its imitation, for the very reason that nothing can
be beautiful which is not true.

CHAPTER VI.
OF IDEAS OF BEAUTY.
Ant material object which can give us pleasure in the sim
ple contemplation of its outward qualities without any direct
and definite exertion of the intellect, I call in some way, or in
some degree, beautiful. Why we receive pleasure
the'term™beauS- from some forms and colors, and not from others,
is no more to be asked or answered than why we
like sugar and dislike wormwood. The utmost subtilty of inves
tigation will only lead us to ultimate instincts and principles of
human nature, ior which no farther reason can be given than
the simple will of the Deity that we should be so created./
We may, indeed, perceive, as far as we are acquainted with His
nature, that we have been so constructed as, when in a healthy
and cultivated state of mind, to derive pleasure from whatever
things are illustrative of that nature ; but W9, do not receive.
pleasure from them because they are illustrative of it, nor front
any perception that they are illustrative of it, but instinctively
and necessarily, as we derive sensual pleasure from the scent of
a rose. On these primary principles of our nature, education
and accident operate to an unlimited extent ; they may be cul
tivated or checked, directed or diverted, gifted by right guid
ance with the most acute and faultless sense, or subjected by
neglect to every phase of error and disease. He who has fol
lowed up these natural laws of aversion and desire, rendering
them more and more authoritative by constant obedience, so
as to derive pleasure always from that which G-od originally,
intended should give him pleasure, and who derives the-
greatest possible sum of pleasure from any given object, is a
man of taste. This, then, is the real meaning of this disputed
fhe'temn'^taste°" word" Perfect taste is the faculty of receiving
the greatest possible pleasure from those material

SBC. I. CH. VI.] OF IDEAS OF BEAUTY. 27
sources which are attractive to our moral nature in its purity
and perfection. He who receives little pleasure from these
sources, wants taste ; he who receives pleasure from any other
sources, has false or bad taste.
And it is thus that the term "taste" is to be
between teste and distinguished from that of " judgment," with
nu gmen . which it is constantly confounded. Judgment is a
general term, expressing definite action of the intellect, and
applicable to every kind of subject which can be submitted to
it. There may be judgment of congruity, judgment of truth,
judgment of justice, and judgment of difficulty and excellence.
But all these exertions of the intellect are totally distinct from
taste, properly so called, which is the instinctive and instant
preferring of one material object to another without any obvious
reason, except that it is proper to human nature in its perfec
tion so to do. Observe, however, I do not mean by excluding
ty may become in- direct exertion of the intellect from ideas of beauty,
tfjll (ip f-n a! to assert that beauty has no effect upon nor con
nection with the intellect. All our moral feelings are so in
woven with our intellectual powers, that we cannot affect the
one without in some degree addressing the other ; and in all
high ideas of beauty, it is more than probable that much of the
pleasure depends on delicate and untraceable perceptions of
fitness, propriety, and relation, which are purely intellectual,
and through which we arrive at our noblest ideas of what is
commonly and rightly called " intellectual beauty." But there
is yet no immediate exertion of the intellect ; that is to say, if
a person receiving even the noblest ideas of simple beauty be
asked why he likes the object exciting them, he will not be able
to give any distinct reason, nor to trace in his mind any formed
thought, to which he can appeal as a source of pleasure. He
will say that the thing gratifies, fills, hallows, exalts his mind,
but he will not be able to say why, or how. If he can, and if
he can show that he perceives in the object any expression of
distinct thought, he has received more than an idea of beauty —
it is an idea of relation.
Ideas of beauty are among the noblest which can be presented
to the human mind, invariably exalting and purifying it ac-

28 OF IDEAS OF BEAUTY. [PAR?
cording to their degree ; and it would appear that we are in
tended by the Deity to be constantly under their influence, be
cause there is not one single object in nature which
§ 5. The high rank . , ? . J? ,
and function of is not capable ot conveying them, and which, to
ideas of beauty. . -. . , ., . . . , , ,
the rightly perceiving mmd, does not present an
incalculably greater number of beautiful than of deformed parts ;
there being in fact scarcely anything, in pure, undiseased na
ture, like positive deformity, but only degrees of beauty, or
such slight and rare points of permitted contrast as may render
all around them more valuable by their opposition, spots of
blackness in creation, to make its colors felt.
But although everything in nature is more or
§6. Meaning of b •»-.., i
the term "ideal less beautitui, every species of object has its own
kind and degree of beauty; some being in their
own nature more beautiful than others, and few, if any, indi
viduals possessing the utmost degree of beauty of which the
species is capable. This utmost degree of specific beauty, nec
essarily coexistent with the utmost perfection of the object in
other respects, is the ideal of the object.
Ideas of beauty, then, be it remembered, are the subjects of
moral, but not of intellectual perception. By the investigation
of them we shall be led to the knowledge of the ideal subjects
of art.

CHAPTER VII.
OF IDEAS OF RELATION.
I use this term rather as one of convenience than as ade
quately expressive of the vast class of ideas which I wish to be
comprehended under it, namely, all those conveyable by art,
p.Generaimean- which are the subjects of distinct intellectual per-
mg of the term, peption and action, and which are therefore worthy
of the name of thoughts. But as every thought, or definite exer
tion of intellect, implies two subjects, and some connection or
relation inferred between them, the term " ideas of relation" is
not incorrect, though it is inexpressive.
Under this head must be arranged evervthing
S 2 What ideas
are'tobecompre- productive of expression, sentiment, and character,
hended under it. . , . . „ ,
whether m figures or landscapes, (lor there may be
as much definite expression and marked carrying out of partic
ular thoughts in the treatment of inanimate as of animate na
ture,) everything relating to the conception of the subject and to
the congruity and relation of its parts ; not as they enhance
each other's beauty by known and constant laws of composi
tion, but as they give each other expression and meaning, by
particular application, requiring distinct thought to discover
or to enjoy : the choice, for instance, of a particular lurid or ap
palling light, to illustrate an incident in itself terrible, or of a
particular tone of pure color to prepare the mind for the ex
pression of refined and delicate feeling ; and, in a still higher
sense, the invention of such incidents and thoughts as can be
expressed in words as well as on canvas, and are totally inde
pendent of any means of art but such as may serve for the bare
suggestion of them. The principal object in the foreground of
Turner's " Building of Carthage" is a group of children sailing
toy boats. The exquisite choice of this incident, as expressive of
the ruling passion, which was to be the source of future great-

30 OF IDEAS OF RELATION. [PART I.
ness, in preference to the tumult of busy stone-masons or arm
ing soldiers, is quite as appreciable when it is told as when it is
seen,— it has nothing to do with the technicalities of painting ;
a scratch of the pen would have conveyed the idea and spoken
to the intellect as much as the elaborate realizations of color.
Such a thought as this is something far above all art ; it is epic
poetry of the highest order. Claude, in subjects of the same.
kind, commonly introduces people carrying red trunks with
iron locks about, and dwells, with infantine delight, on the his-
tre of the leather and the ornaments of the iron. The intellect; '
can have no occupation here ; we must look to the imitation or
to nothing. Consequently, Turner rises above Claude in the
very first instant of the conception of his picture, and acquires
an intellectual superiority which no powers of the draughtsman
or the artist (supposing that such existed in his antagonist)
could ever wrest from him.
Such are the function and force of ideas of
fng nobfmyof4" relation. They are what I have asserted in the
these ideas. secona chapter of this section to be the noblest '
subjects of art. Dependent upon it only for expression, they
cause all the rest of its complicated sources of pleasure to take,
in comparison with them, the place of mere language or decora
tion ; nay, even the noblest ideas of beauty sink at once beside
these into subordination and subjection. It would add little to
the influence of Landseer's picture , above instanced, Chap. II. ,
§ 4, that the form of the dog should be conceived with every
perfection of curve and color which its nature was capable of,
and that the ideal lines should be carried out with the science of
a Praxiteles ; nay, the instant that the beauty so obtained inter
fered with the impression of agony and desolation, and drew
the mind away from the feeling of the animal to its outward
form, that instant would the picture become- monstrous and de
graded. The utmost glory of the human body is a mean subject
of contemplation, compared to the emotion, exertion and char
acter of that which animates it ; the lustre of the limbs of the
Aphrodite is faint beside that of the brow of the Madonna ; and
the divine form of the Greek god, except as it is the incarna
tion and ^expression of divine mind, is degraded beside the
passion and the prophecy of the vaults of the Sistine.

BEC I. CH. VII.] OF IDEAS OF RELATION. 31
Ideas of relation are of course, with respect to art generally,
the most extensive as the most important source of pleasure ;
§4 why no sub- and ^ we proposed entering upon the criticism of
tensfv°enafci8isefs" historical works, it would be absurd to attempt
necessary. to do so without further subdivision and arrange
ment. But the old landscape painters got over so much can
vas without either exercise of, or appeal to, the intellect, that
we shall be little troubled with the subject as far as they are
concerned ; and whatever subdivision we may adopt, as it will
therefore have particular reference to the works of modern
artists, will be better understood when we have obtained some
knowledge of them in less important points.
By the term " ideas of relation," then, I mean in future to
express all those sources of pleasure, which involve and require,
at the instant of their perception, active exertion of the intel
lectual powers.

SEOTIOIsT II-
OF POWER.

CHAPTER I.
GENERAL PRINCIPLES RESPECTING IDEAS OF POWER.
We have seen in the last section, what classes of ideas may
be conveyed by art, and we have been able so far to appreciate
their relative worth as to see, that from the list, as it is to be
St no necessity applied to the purposes of legitimate criticism, we
for' detailed study mav a£ once throw out the ideas of imitation ; first,
of ideas of lmita- J .. , .
tion. because, as we have shown, they are unworthy the
pursuit of the artist ; and secondly, because they are nothing
more than the result of a particular association of ideas of truth.
In examining the truth of art, therefore, we shall be compelled
to take notice of those particular truths, whose association gives
rise to the ideas of imitation. We shall then see more clearly
the meanness of those truths, and we shall find ourselves able
to use them as tests of vice in art, saying of a picture, — "It
deceives, therefore it must be bad."
Ideas of power, in the same way, cannot be
ara'te "study seof completely viewed as a separate class ; not because
ideas of power. ., . . , , , ,.
they are mean or unimportant, but because they
are almost always associated with, or. dependent upon, some of
the higher ideas of truth, beauty, or relation, rendered with
decision or velocity. That power which delights us in the chalk
sketch of a great painter is not one of the fingers, not like that
of the writing-master, mere dexterity of hand. It is the accu
racy and certainty of the knowledge, rendered evident by its
rapid and fearless expression, which is the real source of pleas
ure ; and so upon each difficulty of art, whether it be to know,

BBC. n. CH. I. J IDEAS OF POWER. 33
or to relate, or to invent, the sensation of power is attendant,
when we see that difficulty totally and swiftly vanquished.
Hence, as we determine what is otherwise desirable in art, we
shall gradually develop -the sources of the ideas of power ; and
if there be anything difficult which is not otherwise desirable,
it must be afterwards considered separately. ^
But it will be necessary at present to notice a
one particular particular form of the ideas of power, which is
partially independent of knowledge of truth, or
difficulty, and which is apt to corrupt the judgment of the critic/
and debase the work of the artist. It is evident that the con
ception of power which we receive from a calculation of unseen
difficulty, and an estimate of unseen strength, can never be so
impressive as that which we receive from the present sensation
or sight of the one resisting, and the other overwhelming. In
the one case the power is imagined, and in the other felt.
There are thus two modes in which we receive
§ 4. There are two
modes of receiv- the conception of power ; one, the most just, when
er, commonly in- by a perfect knowledge of the difficulty to be over
come, and the means employed, we form a right
estimate of the faculties exerted ; the other, when without
possessing such intimate and accurate knowledge, we are im
pressed by a sensation of power in visible action. If these two
modes of receiving the impression agree in the result, and if the
sensation be equal to the estimate, we receive the utmost pos
sible idea of power. But this is the case perhaps with the works
of only one man out of the whole circle of the fathers of art,
of him to whom we have just referred, Michael Angelo. In
others, the estimate and the sensation are constantly unequal,
and often contradictory. The first reason of this inconsistency is, that in
S 5. First reason , . „ J .
of the inconsis- order to receive a sensation ot power, we must sec
it in operation. Its victory, therefore, must not
be achieved, but achieving, and therefore imperfect. Thus we
receive a greater sensation of power from the half-hewn limb3
of the Twilight to the Day of the Cappella de* Medici, than
even from the divine inebriety of the Bacchus in the gallery —
greater from the life dashed out along the Friezes of the Par
thenon, than from the polished limbs of the Apollo, — greater

34 GENERAL PRINCIPLES RESPECTING [PAETJL
from the ink sketch of the head of Raffaelle's St. Catherine, than
from the perfection of its realization.
Another reason of the inconsistency is, that the
for ttfSSSE? sensation of power is in proportion to the apparent
tency' inadequacy of the means to the end ; so that the
impression is much greater from a partial success attained with
slight effort, than from perfect success attained with greater
porportional effort. Now, in all art, every touch or effort does
individually less in proportion as the work approaches perfec
tion. The first five chalk touches bring a head into existence
out of nothing. No five touches in the whole course of the
work will ever do so much as these, and the difference made
by each touch is more and more imperceptible as the work
approaches completion. Consequently, the ratio between the
means employed and the effect produced is constantly decreas
ing, and therefore the least sensation of power is received from
the most perfect work.It is thus evident that there are sensations of
tionofpowCTDsa" power about imperfect art, so that it be right art
sought °n lmper- as fay as it goes, which must always be wanting in
its perfection ; and that there are sources of pleas
ure in the hasty sketch and rough hewn block, which are par
tially wanting in the tinted canvas and the polished marble.
But it is nevertheless wrong to prefer the sensation of power to
the intellectual perception of it. There is in reality greater
power in the completion than in the commencement ; and
though it be not so manifest to the senses, it ought to have
higher influence on the mind ; and therefore in praising pic
tures for the ideas of power they convey, we must not look to
the keenest sensation, but to the highest estimate, accompanied
with as much of the sensation as is compatible with it ; and
thus we shall consider those pictures as conveying the highest
ideas of power which attain the most perfect end with the
slightest possible means ; not, observe, those in which, though
much has been done with little, all has not been done, but from
the picture, in which all has been done, and yet not a touch
•thrown away. The quantity of work in the sketch is necessarily,
less in proportion to the effect obtained than in the picture ; but

BBC. H. CH. I.] IDEAS OF POWER. 35
yet the picture involves the greater power, if out of all the ad
ditional labor bestowed on it, not a touch has been lost.
For instance, there are few drawings of the
pictures of mod- present day that involve greater sensations of power
than those of Frederick Tayler. Every dash tells,
and the quantity of effect obtained is enormous, in proportion
to the apparent means. But the effect obtained is not com
plete. Brilliant, beautiful, and right, as a sketch, the work is
still far from perfection, as a drawing. On the contrary, there
are few drawings of the present day that bear evidence of more
labor bestowed, or more complicated means employed, than
those of John Lewis. The result does not, at first, so much
convey an impression of inherent power as of prolonged exer
tion ; but the result is complete. Water-color drawing can be
carried no farther ; nothing has been left unfinished or untold.
And on examination of the means employed, it is found and felt
that not one touch out of the thousands employed has been
thrown away ; — that not one dot nor dash could be spared with
out loss of effect ; — and that the exertion has been as swift as it
has been prolonged — as bold as it has been persevering. The
power involved in such a picture is of the highest order, and the
enduring pleasure following on the estimate of it pure.
1 9 connection But there is still farther ground for caution in
powereanudmodes pursuing the sensation of power, connected with
oi execution. ^he particular characters and modes of execution.
This we shall be better able to understand by briefly reviewing
the various excellences which may belong to execution, and
give pleasure in it ; though the full determination of what is
desirable in it, and the critical examination of the execution of
different artists, must be deferred, as will be immediately seen,
until we are more fully acquainted with the principles of truth.

;¦.-¦-¦:
w

'¦'¦T:--

CHAPTER II.

OF IDEAS OF POWER, AS THEY ARE DEPENDENT UPON
EXECUTION.
By the term " execution," I understand the right me-
$i- Meaning of chanical use of the means of art to produce a-
the term T'ex- . -. »
ecution." given end.
All qualities of execution, properly so called, are influenced
by, and in a great degree dependent on, a far high-;
quality of "execu- er power than that of mere execution, — knowl
edge of truth. For exactly in proportion as an
artist is certain of his end, will he be swift and simple in his
means ; and, as he is accurate and deep in his knowledge, will
he be refined and precise in his touch. The first merit of ma
nipulation, then, is that delicate and ceaseless expression of re
fined truth which is carried out to the last touch, and shadow
of a touch, and which makes every hairsbreadth of importance,
and every gradation full of meaning. It is not, properly speak
ing, execution ; but it is the only source of difference between
the execution of a commonplace and of a perfect artist. The
lowest draughtsman, if he have spent the same time in handling
the brush, may be equal to the highest in the other qualities of
execution (in swiftness, simplicity, and decision ;) but not in
truth. It is in the perfection and precision of the instantaneous
line that the claim to immortality is laid. And if this truth of
truths be present, all the other qualities of execution may well
be spared ; and to those artists who wish to excuse their igno
rance and inaccuracy by a species of execution which is a perpeW
ual proclamation, " qu'ils n'ont demeure qu'un quart d'heure
a le faire," we may reply with the truthful Alceste, " Monsieur,
.le temps ne fait rien a l'affaire."
§3. The second, The second quality of execution is simplicity.
simplicity. The more unpretending, quiet, and retiring the
means, the more impressive their effect. Any ostentation, bril-

SEC. H. CH. II.] OF IDEAS OF POWER. 87
liancy, or pretension of touch, — any exhibition of power or quick
ness, merely, as such, above all, any attempt to render lines at
tractive at the expense of their meaning, is vice.
§4. The third Tne third is mystery. Nature is always myste-
mystery. T^ous an(j secret in the use of her means ; and art is
always likest her when it is most inexplicable. That execution
which is the most incomprehensible, and which therefore defies
imitation, (other qualities being supposed alike,) is the best.
s 5. The fourth, ^he fourth is inadequacy. The less sufficient
the^f^'decf the means appear to the end, the greater (as has
Bion- been already noticed) will be the sensation of
power. The fifth is decision : the appearance, that is, that what
ever is done, has been done fearlessly and at once ; because this
gives us the impression that both the fact to be represented, and
the means necessary to its representation, were perfectly known.
§6. The sixth, ve- Tne sixth is velocity. Not only is velocity,
'0Clty- or the appearance of it, agreeable as decision is,
because it gives ideas of power and knowledge ; but of two
touches, as nearly as possible the same in other respects, the
quickest will invariably be the best. Truth being supposed
equally present in the shape and direction of both, there will
be more evenness, grace and variety, in the quick one than in
the slow one. It will be more agreeable to the eye as a touch or
line, and will possess more of the qualities of the lines of nature
— gradation, uncertainty, and unity.
s 7. strangeness These six qualities are the only perfectly legiti-
rouree^f'ptoarare' mate sources of pleasure in execution ; but I might
in execution. have added a seventh — strangeness, which in many
cases is productive of a pleasure not altogether mean or degrad
ing, though scarcely right. Supposing the other higher qualities
first secured, it adds in no small degree to our impression of
the artist's knowledge, if the means used be such as we should
never have thought of, or should have thought adapted to a
contrary effect. Let us, for instance, compare the execution of
the bull's head in the left hand lowest corner of the Adoration
of the Magi, in the Museum at Antwerp, with that in Berg-
hem's landscape, No. 132 in the Dulwich Gallery. Rubens first
scratches horizontally over his canvas a thin grayish brown,

3S OF IDEAS OF POWER, [PAKTS
transparent and even, very much the color of light wainscot ;
the horizontal strokes of the bristles being left so evident, that
the whole might be taken for an imitation of wood, were it not
for its transparency. On this ground the eye, nostril, and out
line of the cheek are given with two or three rude, brown
touches, (about three or four minutes' work in all,) though
the head is colossal. The background is then laid in with
thick, solid, warm white, actually projecting all round the head,.
leaving it in dark intaglio. Finally, five thin and scratchy
strokes of very cold bluish white are struck for the high light
on the forehead and nose, and the head is complete. Seen
within a yard of the canvas, it looks actually transparent—
a flimsy, meaningless, distant shadow ; while the background
looks solid, projecting and near. From the right distance, (ten;
or twelve yards off, whence alone the whole of the picture can
be seen,) it is a complete, rich, substantial, and living realiza
tion of the projecting head of the animal ; while the background
falls far behind. Now there is no slight nor mean pleasure in
perceiving such a result attained by means so strange. By
Berghem, on the other hand, a dark background is first laid in
with exquisite delicacy and transparency, and on this the cow's
head is actually modelled in luminous white, the separate locks
of hair projecting from the canvas. No surprise, nor much
pleasure of any kind, would be attendant on this execution,
even were the result equally successful ; and what little pleas'-;
ure we had in it, vanishes, when on retiring from the picture^
we find the head shining like a distant lantern, instead of sub-,.
stantial or near. Yet strangeness is not to be considered as a
legitimate source of pleasure. That means which is most con
ducive to the end, should always be the most pleasurable j and
that which is most conducive to the end, can be strange only
to the ignorance of the spectator. This kind of pleasure is
illegitimate, therefore, because it implies and requires, in those
who feel it, ignorance of art.
§ 8. Yet even the The legitimate sources of pleasure in executions
of|S?e8iPnex-s are therefore truth, simplicity, mystery, inade--
cSSsistentarewith quacy, decision, and velocity. But of these, be it
each other. ^ observed, some are so far inconsistent with others,.'
that they cannot be united in high degrees. Mystery with inade-.

SBC. II. CH. H.] AS DEPENDENT ON EXECUTION. 39
quacy, for instance ; since to see that the means are inadequate,
we must see what they are. Now the first three are the great
qualities of execution, and the last three are the attractive ones,
because on them are chiefly attendant the ideas of power. By the
first three the attention is withdrawn from the means and fixed
on the result : by the last three, withdrawn from the result and
fixed on the means. To see that execution is swift or that it is
decided, we must look away from its creation to observe it in
¦ the act of creating ; we must think more of the pallet than of
the picture, but simplicity and mystery compel the mind to
leave the means and fix itself on the conception. Hence the
danger of too great fondness for those sensations
Ls's for ideaTof of power which are associated with the three last
theW<adoption of qualities of execution ; for although it is most de-
the lowest. girable that these should be present as far as they'
are consistent with the others, and though their visible absence
is always painful and wrong, yet the moment the higher quali
ties are sacrificed to them in the least degree, we have a brilliant
vice. Berghem and Salvator Rosa are good instances of vicious
execution dependent on too great fondness for sensations of
power, vicious because' intrusive and attractive in itself, instead
of being subordinate to its results and forgotten in them. There
is perhaps no greater stumbling-block in the artist's way, than
the tendency to sacrifice truth and simplicity to decision and
velocity,* captivating qualities, easy of attainment, and sure to
attract attention and praise, while the delicate degree of truth
which is'at first sacrificed to them is so totally unappreciable by
* I have here noticed only noble vices, the sacrifices of one excellence to
another legitimate but inferior one. There are, on the other hand, qualities
of execution which are often sought for and praised, though scarcely by the
class of persons for whom I am writing, in which everything is sacrificed to
illegitimate and contemptible sources of pleasure, and these are vice through
out, and have no redeeming quality nor excusing aim. Such is that which
is often thought so desirable in the Drawing-master, under the title of bold
ness, meaning that no touch is ever to be made less than the tenth of an
inch broad; such, on the other hand, the softness and smoothness which
are the great attraction of Carlo Dolci, and such the exhibition of particular
powers and tricks of the hand and fingers, in total forgetfulness of any end
whatsoever to be attained thereby, which is especially characteristic of
modern engraving. Compare Sect. II. Chap. II. § 21. Note.

40 OE IDEAS OF POWER. [TARSI
the majority of spectators, so difficult of attainment to the artist,
that it is no wonder that efforts so arduous and unrewarded
§10. Therefore should be abandoned. But if the temptation be
perilous. once yielded to, its consequences are fatal ; there
is no pause in the fall. I could name a celebrated modern
artist — once a man of the highest power and promise, who is a
glaring instance of the peril of such a course. Misled by the
undue popularity of his swift execution, he has sacrificed to it,
first precision, and then truth, and her associate, beauty. What
was first neglect of nature, has become contradiction of her ;
what was once imperfection, is now falsehood ; and all that was
meritorious in his manner, is becoming the worst, because the
most attractive of vices ; decision without a foundation, and
swiftness without an end.
gii. Recapituia- Such are the principal modes in which the
tlon- ideas of power may become a dangerous attraction-
to the artist — a false test to the critic. But in all cases where
they lead us astray it will b.e found that the error is caused by
our preferring victory over a small apparent difficulty to victory
over a great, but concealed one ; and so that we keep this dis
tinction constantly in view, (whether with reference to execu
tion or to any other quality of art,) between the sensation and-
the intellectual estimate of power, we shall always find the
ideas of power a just and high source of pleasure in every kind
and grade of art.

CHAPTER III.
OF THE SUBLIME.
Tt may perhaps be wondered that in the division we have
made of our subject, we have taken no notice pf the sublime in
art, and that in our explanation of that division we have not
once used the word.
- si. Sublimity is ^he ^a°t is? that sublimity is not a specific
the mmdot "any" term, — not a term descriptive of the effect of a
thing above it. particular class of ideas. Anything which elevates
the mind is sublime, and elevation of mind is produced by the con
templation of greatness of any kind ; but chiefly, of course, by the
greatness of the noblest things. Sublimity is, therefore, only an
other word for the effect of greatness upon the feelings. Greatness
of matter, space, power, virtue, or beauty, are thus all sublime ;
and there is perhaps no desirable quality of a work of art, which
in its perfection is not, in some way or degree, sublime.
I am fully prepared to allow of much ingenu-
ory of the na- ity in Burke's theory of the sublime, as connected
Hme incorrect^ with self-preservation. There are few things so
great as death ; and there is perhaps nothing which
banishes all littleness of thought and feeling in an equal degree
with its contemplation. -Everything, therefore, which in any
way points to it, and, therefore, most dangers and powers over
which we have little control, are in some degree sublime. But
it is not the fear, observe, but the contemplation of death ; not
the instinctive shudder and struggle of self-preservation, but the
deliberate measurement of the doom,, which' are really great or
sublime in feeling. It is not while we shrink, but while we
defy, that we receive or convey the highest conceptions of the
fate. There is no sublimity in the agony of terror. Whether
do we trace it most in the cry to the mountains, " fall on us,"
and to the hills, " cover us," or in the calmness of the proph«

42 OF THE SUBLIME. [PABTJ,
ecy— " And though after my skin worms destroy this body,
yet in my flesh I shall see God ?" A little reflec-
lubiim^fSno! tion will easily convince any one, that so far from
the fear of it. the leelings of self -preservation being necessaryto
the sublime, their greatest action is totally destructive of it ;
and that there are few feelings less capable of its perception
than those of a coward. But the simple conception or idea of
greatness of suffering or extent of destruction is subhme,
whether there be any connection of that idea with ourselves or
not. If we were placed beyond the reach of all peril or pain,
the perception of these agencies in their influence on others'
would not be less sublime, not because peril or pain are sublime
in their own nature, but because their contemplation, exciting
compassion or fortitude, elevates the mind, and
leauty^is 1Ssub- renders meanness of thought impossible. Beauty ;
hme' is not 'so often felt to be sublime ; because, in
many kinds of purely material beauty there is some truth in
Burke's assertion, that " littleness" is one of its elements. But
he who has not felt that there may be beauty without littleness,
and that such beauty is a source of the sublime, is yet ignorant
of the meaning of the ideal in art. I do not mean,
wh'ateye/licv'ates in tracing the source of the sublime to greatness,
' ' ''"'""' to hamper myself with any fine-spun theory. I
take the widest possible ground of investigation, that sub
limity is found wherever anything elevates the mind ; that is,
wherever it contemplates anything above itself, and perceives
it to be so. This is the simple philological signification of the
word derived from sublimis ; and will serve us much more
easily, and be a far clearer and more evident ground of argui
ment, than any mere metaphysical or more limited definition,
while the proof of its justness will be naturally developed by its
application to the different branches of art.
*p. The former As, therefore, the sublime is not distinct from
sublet1 is^here- what is beautiful, nor from other sources of pleas-
t ore sufficient. ure in artj ^ ig only a particu]ar mode and
manifestation of them, my subject will divide itself into the in
vestigation of ideas of truth, beauty, and relation ; and to each
of these classes of ideas I destine a separate part of the work.
The investigation of ideas of truth will enable us to deter-

BEC n. ch. m.]

OF THE SUBLIME.

43

mine the relative rank of artists as followers and historians of
nature. That of ideas of beauty will lead us to compare them in
their attainment, first of what is agreeable in technical matters,
then in color and composition, finally and chiefly, in the purity
of their conceptions of the ideal.
And that of ideas of relation will lead us to compare them as,
originators of just thought.

PART II.
OF TRUTH.

SIEOTIOILT I-
GENERAL PRINCIPLES RESPECTING IDEAS OP
TRUTH.

CHAPTER I.
OF IDEAS OF TRUTH IN THEIR CONNECTION WITH THOSE OF
BEAUTY AND RELATION.
It cannot but be evident from the above division of the ideas
conveyable by art, that the landscape painter must always have
two great and distinct ends ; the first, to induce in the specta-
bi Thetwogreat tor's mind the faithful conception of any natural
pa?ntin»'aredthepe objects whatsoever ; the second, to guide the spec-
o^factf'and011 tator's mind to those objects most worthy of its
thoughts. contemplation, and to. inform him of the thoughts
and feelings with which these were regarded by the artist him
self. In attaining the first end, the painter only places the specta
tor where he stands himself ; he sets him before the landscape
and leaves him. The spectator is alone. He may follow out
his own thoughts as he would in the natural solitude, or he may
remain untouched, unreflecting and regardless, as his disposi
tion may incline him. But he has nothing of thought given to
him, no new ideas, no unknown feelings, forced on his atten
tion or his heart. The artist is his conveyance, not his com
panion, — his horse, not his friend. But in attaining the sec-

SEC. I. CH. I.] OF IDEAS OF TRUTH. 45
ond end, the artist not only places the spectator, but talks to
him ; makes him a sharer in his own strong feelings and
quick thoughts ; hurries him away in his own enthusiasm ;
guides him to all that is beautiful ; snatches him from all that is
base, and leaves him more than delighted, — ennobled and in
structed, uiider the sense of having not only beheld a new
scene, but of having held communion with a new mind, and
having been endowed for a time with the keen perception and
the impetuous emotion of a nobler and more penetrating intelli
gence. Each of these different aims of art will necessi-
different choice of tat<i a diff erent system of choice of objects to be
material subjects. , - ml . . , , . , . . , ,.
represented. The first does not indeed imply choice
at all, but it is usually united with the selection of such objects
as may be naturally and constantly pleasing to all men, at all
times ; and this selection, when perfect and careful, leads to the
attainment of the pure ideal. But the artist aiming at the sec- '
ond end, selects his objects for their meaning and character,
rather than for their beauty ; and uses them rather to throw
light upon the particular thought he wishes to convey, than as
in themselves objects of unconnected admiration.
§8. Thefirst _ Now, although the first mode of selection,
apt to produce when guided by deep reflection, may rise to the
sameness and -,,. » 1 • -it t
repetition. production of works possessing a noble and cease
less influence on the human mind, it is likely to degenerate into,
or rather, in nine cases out of ten, it never goes beyond, a mere
appeal to such parts of our animal nature as are constant and
common — shared by all, and perpetual in all ; such, for in
stance, as the pleasure of the eye in the opposition of a cold and
warm color, or of a massy form with a delicate one. It also
¦ tends to induce constant repetition of the same ideas, and refer
ence to the same principles ; it gives rise to those rules of art
which properly excited Reynolds's indignation when applied to
its higher efforts ; it is the source of, and the apology for, that
host of technicalities and absurdities which in all ages have been
the curse of art and the crown of the connoisseur.
But art, in its second and highest aim, is not
§ 4. The second • . .
necessitating va- an appeal to constant animal feelings, but an ex
pression and awakening of individual thought : it

46 OF IDEAS OF TRUTH. [PAKTn.
is therefore as various and as extended in its efforts as the com
pass and grasp of the directing mind ; and we feel, in each of
its results, that we are looking, not at a specimen of a trades
man's wares, of which he is ready to make us a dozen to match/
but at one coruscation of a perpetually active mind, like which
there has not been, and will not be another.
Hence, although there can be no doubt which
is 'deifghtfui rto of these branches of art is the highest, it is equally
evident that the first will be the most generally felt
and appreciated. Por the simple statement of the truths of
nature must in itself be pleasing to every order of mind ; because
every truth of nature is more or less beautiful ; and if there be
just and right selection of the more important of these truths-
based, as above explained, on feelings and desires common to all
mankind — the facts so selected must, in some degree, be de
lightful to all, and their value appreciable by all : more or less,
' indeed, as their senses and instinct have been rendered more or
less acute and accurate by use and study ; but in some degree
§ 6. The second ^J a^> an<l m the same way by all. But the high-
oniy to a few. eg^ ar^ being based, on sensations of peculiar minds,
sensations occurring to them only at particular times, and to a
plurality of mankind perhaps never, and being expressive of
thoughts which could only rise out of a mass of the most ex
tended knowledge, and of dispositions modified in a thousand
ways by peculiarity of intellect — can only be met and understood
by persons having some sort of sympathy with the high and soli
tary minds which produced it — sympathy only to be felt by
minds in some degree high and solitary themselves. He alone.
can appreciate the art, who could comprehend the conversation
of the painter, and share in his emotion, in moments of his
most fiery passion and most original thought. And whereas the
true meaning and end of his art must thus be sealed to thou
sands, or misunderstood by them ; so also, as he is sometimes
obliged, in working out his own peculiar end, to set at defiance
those constant laws which have arisen out of our lower and
changeless desires, that whose purpose is unseen, is frequently
in its means and parts displeasing.
But this want of extended influence jn high art, be it espe
cially observed, proceeds from no want of truth in the art itself,

SEC. I. CH. I.] OF IDEAS OF TRUTH. 47
but from a wa*t of sympathy in the spectator with those feelings
in the artist which prompt him to the utterance of one truth
rather than of another. Por (and this is what I
6 7 The first •
necessary to the wish at present especially to insist upon) although
'  ' it is possible to reach what I have stated to be
the first end of art, the representation of facts, without
reaching the second, the representation of thoughts, yet it is
altogether impossible to reach the second without having pre
viously reached the first. I do not say that a man cannot think,
having false basis and material for thought ; but that a false
thought is worse than the want of thought, and therefore is
not art. And this is the reason why, though I consider the
second as the real and only important end of all art, I call the
representation of facts the first end ; because it is necessary to
the other, and must be attained before it. It is the foundation
of all art ; like real foundations it may be little thought of when
a brilliant fabric is raised on it ; but it must be there : and as
few buildings are beautiful unless every line and column of their
mass have reference to their foundation, and are suggestive of its
existence and strength, so nothing can be beautiful in art which
does not in all its parts suggest and guide to the foundation, even
where no undecorated portion of it is visible ; while the noblest
edifices of art are built of such pure and fine crystal that the
foundation may all be seen through them ; and then many, while
they do not see what is built upon that first story, yet much ad
mire the solidity of its brickwork ; thinking they understand all
that isto be understood of the matter ; while others stand beside
them, looking not at the low story, but up into the heaven at
that building of crystal in which the builder's spirit is dwelling.
And thus, though we want the thoughts and feelings of the
artist as well as the truth, yet they must be thoughts arising out
of the knowledge of truth, and feelings raising out of the con
templation of truth. We do not want his mind to be as badly
blown glass, that distorts what we see through it ; but like a
glass of sweet and strange color, that gives new tones to what
we see through it ; and a glass of rare strength and clearness
too, to let us see more than we could ourselves, and bring nature
up to us and near to us. Nothing can atone for the want of
truth, not the most brilliant imagination, the most playful

48 OF IDEAS OF TRUTH. [PABTU,
fancy, the most pure feeling, (supposing that Meling could he
pure and false at the same time ;) not the most exalted concep
tion, nor the most comprehensive grasp of intel-
m| topOTtonce lect, can make amends for the want of truth, and
of truth. that jor twQ reagons . grs^ because falsehood is in
itself revolting and degrading ; and secondly, because nature is
so immeasurably superior to all that the, human mind can con«
ceive, that every departure from her is a fall beneath her, so
that there can be no such thing as an ornamental falsehood,
All falsehood must be a blot as well as a sin, an injury as well
as a deception. We shall, in consequence, find that no artist
8 9. Coldness or . „,.... . . . ,
want of beauty no can be graceful, imaginative, or original, unless
he be truthful ; and that the pursuit of beauty,
instead of leading us away from truth, increases the desire for
it and the necessity of it tenfold ; so that those artists who are
really great in imaginative power, will be found to have based
their boldness of conception on a mass of knowledge far exceed
ing that possessed by those who pride themselves on its accumu
lation without regarding its use. Coldness and want of passion
in a picture, are not signs of the accuracy, but of the paucity' of
its statements ; true vigor and brilliancy are not signs of au
dacity, but of knowledge.
§ 10. How truth Hence it follows that it is in the power of all,
ereS a°joSncri- ^"th. care and time, to form something like a just
terion of au art. judgment of the relative merits of artists ; for al
though with respect to the feeling and passion of pictures, it is
often as impossible to criticise as to appreciate, except to such
as are in some degree equal in powers of mind, and in some
respects the same in modes of mind, with those whose works they
judge ; yet, with respect to the representation of facts, it is pos
sible for all, by attention, to form a right judgment of the re
spective powers and attainments of every artist. Truth is a bar
of comparison at which they may all be examined, and according
to the rank they take in this examination, will almost invaria
bly be that which, if capable of appreciating them in every
respect, we should be just in assigning them ; so strict is the
connection, so constant the relation between the sum of knowl-

SEC. I. CH. I.] OF IDEAS OF TRUTH. 49
edge and the extent of thought, between accuracy of perception
and vividness of idea.
I shall endeavor, therefore, in the present portion of the
work, to enter with care and impartiality into the investigation
of the claims of the schools of ancient and modern landscape to
faithfulness in representing nature. I shall pay no regard what
soever to what may be thought beautiful, or sublime, or imagi
native. I shall look only for truth ; bare, clear, downright state
ment of facts ; showing in each particular, as far as I am able,
what the truth of nature is, and then seeking for the plain ex
pression of it, and for that alone. And I shall thus endeavor,
totally regardless of fervor of imagination or brilliancy of effect,
or any other of their more captivating qualities, to examine and
to judge the works of the great living painter, who is, I believe,
¦ imagined by the majority of the public to paint more falsehood
and less fact than any other known master. We shall see with
what reason.

CHAPTER II.
THAT THE TRUTH OF NATURE IS NOT TO BE DISCERNED BT
THE UNEDUCATED SENSES.
It may be here inquired by the reader, with much appearance
of reason, why I think it necessary to devote a separate portion
of the work to the showing of what is truthful in art. " Can
not we," say the public, " see what nature is with
leif-d^ceptj^rfo" our own eyes, and find out for Ourselves what is
toTheir^owCTrf like her?" It will be as well to determine this
discerning truth. q1iegtion before we g0 farther, because if this were
possible, there would be little need of criticism or teaching with
respect to art.
Now I have just said that it is possible for all men, by care
and attention, to form a just judgment of the fidelity of artists
to nature. To do this, no peculiar powers of mind are required,.
no sympathy with particular feelings, nothing which every man
of ordinary intellect does not in some degree possess, — powers,
namely, of observation and intelligence, which by cultivation
may be brought to a high degree of perfection and acuteness.
But until this cultivation has been bestowed, and until the in
strument thereby perfected has been employed in a consistent
series of careful observation, it is as absurd as it is audacious to
pretend to form any judgment whatsoever respecting the truth
of art : and my first business, before going a step farther, must
be to combat the nearly universal error of belief among the
thoughtless and unreflecting, that they know either what nature
is, or what is like her, that they can discover truth by instinct,
and that their minds are such pure Venice glass as to be
shocked by all treachery. I have to prove to them that there arg™
more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in their
philosophy, and that the truth of nature is a part of the truth of
God ; to him who does not search it out, darkness, as it is to
him who does, infinity.

BEC. I. CH. II.] TRUTH NOT EASILY DISCERNED. 51'
The first great mistake that people make in the matter, is
the supposition that they must see a thjng if it be before their
§2 Men usually eyes- They forget, the great truth told them by
;Be Morelhlk1' Locke> Book "• cliaP- 9> § 3 :— " This is certain,
eJe9- that whatever alterations are made in the body, if
they reach not the mind, whatever impressions are made on the
outward parts, if they are not taken notice of within, there is no
perception. Pire may burn our bodies, with no other effect than
it does a billet, unless the motion be continued to the brain, and
there the sense of heat or idea of pain be produced in the mind,
wherein consists actual perception. How often may a man ob
serve in himself, that while his mind is intently employed in the
contemplation of some subjects and curiously surveying some
ideas that are there, it takes no notice of impressions of sounding
bodies, made upon the organ of hearing, with the same atten
tion that uses to be for the producing the ideas of sound ! A
sufficient impulse there may be on the organ, but it not reach
ing the observation of the mind, there follows no perception,
and though the motion that uses to produce the idea of sound
be made in the ear, yet no sound is heard." And what is here
said, which all must feel by their own experience to be true, is
more remarkably and necessarily the case with sight than with
any other of the senses, for this reason, that the ear is not ac
customed to exercise constantly its functions of hearing ; it is
accustomed to stillness, and the occurrence of a sound of any
kind whatsoever is apt to awake attention, and be followed with
perception, in proportion to the degree of sound ; but the eye,
during our waking hours, exercises constantly its function of
seeing ; it is its constant habit ; we always, as far as the bodily
organ is concerned, see something, and we always see in the
«ame degree, so that the occurrence of sight, as such, to the
eye, is only the continuance of its necessary state of action, and
awakes no attention whatsoever, except by the particular nature
and quality of the sight. And thus, unless the minds of men
are particularly directed to the impressions of sight, objects pass
perpetually before the eyes without conveying any impression
to the brain at all ; and so pass actually unseen, not merely
unnoticed, but in the full, clear sense of the word, unseen.
And numbers of men being pre-occupied with business or care

52 , TRUTH NOT EASILY DISCERNED. iPABTH,
of some description, totally unconnected with tne impressions
' of sight, such is actually the case with them, they receiving
from nature only the inevitable sensations of blueness, redness,
darkness, light, etc., and except at particular and rare mo
ments, no more whatsoever. The degree of ignorance of external nature in
§3. But more or J-"" & » . . „
fess in propor- wflich men may thus remain, depends, therefore,
turai sensibility uartlv on the number and character of the subjects
to what is beau- r J . - .
tifui. with which their minds may be otherwise occupied,
and partly on a natural want of sensibility to the power of
beauty of form, and the other, attributes of external objects. I
do not think that there is ever such absolute incapacity in the
eye for distinguishing and receiving pleasure from certain forms
and colors, as there is in persons who are technically said to have
no ear, for distinguishing notes, but there is naturally every
degree of bluntness and acuteness, both for perceiving the truth
of form, and for receiving pleasure from it when perceived.
And although I believe even the lowest degree of these faculties
can be expanded almost unlimitedly by cultivation, the pleasure.?
received rewards not the labor necessary, and. the pursuit is
abandoned. So that while in those whose sensations are natu
rally acute and vivid, the call of external nature is so strong that
it must be obeyed, and is ever heard louder as the approach to
her is nearer, — in those whose sensations are naturally blunt,
the . call is overpowered at once by other thoughts, and their
g4. connected faculties of perception, weak originally, die of
state of Pmrorai disuse. With this kind of bodily sensibility to color
feeling. an(j form jg intimately connected that higher sensi
bility which we revere as one of the chief attributes of all noble
- minds, and as the chief spring of real poetry. I believe this
kind of sensibility may be entirely resolved into the acuteness of
bodily sense of which I have been speaking, associated with love,
love I mean in its infinite and holy functions, as it embraces
divine and human and brutal intelligences, and hallows the
physical perception of external objects by association, gratitude,
veneration, and other pure feelings of our moral nature. And
although the discovery of truth is in itself altogether intellec
tual, and dependent merely on our powers of physical perception
and abstract intellect, wholly independent of our moral nature>;

SEC I. CH. n.] TRUTH NOT EASILY DISCERNED. 53
yet these instruments (perception and judgment) are so sharp
ened and brightened, and so far more swiftly and effectively
used, when they have the energy and passion of our moral na
ture, to bring them into action — perception is so quickened by
love, and judgment so tempered by veneration, that, practically,
a man of deadened moral sensation is always dull in his per
ception of truth, and thousands of the highest and most divine
truths of nature are wholly concealed from him, however con
stant and indefatigable may be his intellectual search. Thus,
then, the farther we look, the more we are limited in the num
ber of those to whom we should choose to appeal as judges of
truth, and the more we perceive how great a number of man
kind may be partially incapacitated from either discovering or
feeling it. Next to sensibility, which is necessary for the
intellectual pow- perception of facts, come reflection and memory,
which are necessary for the retention of them, and
recognition of their resemblances. Por a man may receive
impression after impression, and that vividly and with delight,
and. yet, if he take no care to reason upon those impressions and
. trace them to their sources, he may remain totally ignorant of
the facts that produced them ; nay, may attribute them to facts
with which they have no connection, or may coin causes for
them that have no existence at all. And the more sensibility
and imagination a man possesses, the more likely will he b§_ to
fall into error ; for then he will see whatever he expects, and
admire and judge with his heart, and not with his eyes. How
many people are misled, by what has been said and sung of the
serenity of Italian skies, to suppose they must be more blue
than the skies of the north, and think that they see them so ;
whereas, the sky of Italy is far more dull and gray in color than
the skies of the north, and is distinguished only by its intense
repose of light. And this is confirmed by Benvenuto Cellini,
who, I, remember, on his first entering France, is especially
struck with the clearness of the sky, as contrasted with the
mist of Italy. And what is more strange still, when people see
in a painting what they suppose to have been the source of their
impressions, they will affirm it to be truthful, though they feel
no such impression resulting from it. Thus, though day after

54 TRUTH NOT EASILY DISCERNED. [PART til
day they may have been impressed by the tone and warmth ol
an Italian sky, yet not having traced the feeling to its source,
and supposing themselves impressed by its blueness, they will
affirm a blue sky in a painting to be truthful, and reject the
most faithful rendering of all the real attributes of Italy as
cold or dull. And this influence of the imagina.
§ 6. How sight de- . ,, .",.
pends upon pre- tion over the senses, is peculiarly observable in the
perpetual disposition of mankind to suppose that
they see what they know, and vice versa in their not seeing what
they do not know. Thus, if a child be asked to draw the corner
of a house, he will lay down something in the form of the letter
T. He has no conception that the two lines of the roof, which
he knows to be level, produce on his eye the impression of a
slope. It requires repeated and close attention before he de
tects this fact, or can be made to feel that the lines on his paper
are false. And the Chinese, children in all things, suppose a
good perspective drawing to be as false as we feel their plate
patterns to be, or wonder at the strange buildings which come
to a point at the end. And all the early works, whether of
nations or of men, show, by their want of shade, how little the
eye, without knowledge, is to be depended upon to discover
truth. The eye of a Red Indian, keen enough to find the trace
of his enemy or his prey, even in the unnatural turn of a trod
den leaf, is yet so blunt to the impressions of shade, that Mr.
Oatlin mentions his once having been in great danger from
having painted a portrait with the face in half-light, which the
untutored observers imagined and affirmed to be the painting of
half a face. Barry, in his sixth lecture, takes notice of the
same want of actual sight in the early painters of Italy. " The
imitations," he says, "of early art are like those of children
— nothing is seen in the spectacle before us,- unless it be pre
viously known and sought for ; and numberless observable dif
ferences between the age of ignorance and that of knowledge;
show how much the contraction or extension of our sphere
of vision depends upon other considerations than the mere re
turns of our natural optics." And the deception which takes
place so broadly in cases like these, has infinitely greater influ
ence over our judgment of the more intricate and less tangible
truths of nature. We are constantly supposing that we see

SEC. I. CH. H] TRUTH NOT EASILY DISCERNED. 55'
what experience only has shown us, or can show us, to have
existence, constantly missing the sight of what we do not know
beforehand to be visible : and painters, to the last hour of
their lives, are apt to fall in some degree into the error of paint
ing what exists, rather than what they can see. I shall prove
the extent of this error more completely hereafter.
mcreS'by'thfe Be it also observed, that all these difficulties
natoey.°ftrutll8in would lie in the way, even if the truths of nature
were always the same, constantly repeated and
brought before us. But the truths of nature are one eternal
¦ change — one infinite variety. There is no bush on the face
of the globe exactly like another bush ; — there are no two treea
in the forest whose boughs bend into the same network, nor
two leaves on the same tree which could not be told one from
the other, nor two waves in the sea exactly alike. And out of
this mass of various, yet agreeing beauty, it is by long atten
tion only that the conception of the constant character — the
ideal form — hinted at by all, yet assumed by none, is fixed upon
the imagination for its standard of truth.
It is not singular, therefore, nor in any way disgraceful,
that the majority of spectators are totally incapable of appreciat
ing the truth of nature, when fully set before them ; but it is
bpth singular and disgraceful that it is so difficult to convince
them of their own incapability. Ask the connoisseur, who has
scampered over all Europe, the shape of the leaf of an elm, and
the chances are ninety to one that he cannot tell you ; and yet he
WiU be voluble of criticism on every painted landscape from
Presden to Madrid, and pretend to tell you whether they are
like nature or not. Ask an enthusiastic chatterer in the Sistine
Chapel how many ribs he has, and you get no answer ; but it is
: odds that you do not get out of the door without his informing
you that he considers such and such a figure badly drawn !
is, -we recognize A few such interrogations as these might in-
"leasTmipo/tant'lt- deed convict, if not convince the mass of specta-
- Wbutes. compare torg 0f incapability, were it not for the universal
chap, i' ' reply, that they can recognize what they cannot
describe, and feel what is truthful, though they, do not know
what is truth. And this is, to a certain degree, true : a man
may recognize the portrait of his friend, though he cannot,

56 TRUTH NOT EASILY DISCERNED. [PAKTH.
if you ask him apart, tell you the shape of his nose or the
height of his forehead ; and every one could tell nature her
self from an imitation ; why not then, it will be asked, what is
like her from what is not ? For this simple reason, that we
constantly recognize things by their least important attributes,
and by help of very few of those, and if these attributes exist not
in the imitation, though there may be thousands of others far
higher and more valuable, yet if those be wanting, or imper
fectly rendered, by which we are accustomed to recognize the
object, we deny the likeness ; while if these be given, though
all the great and valuable and important attributes may be want
ing, we affirm the likeness. Recognition is no proof of real
and intrinsic resemblance. We recognize our books by their
bindings, though the true and essential characteristics lie inside.
A man is known to his dog by the smell — to his tailor by the
coat — to his friend by the smile : each of these know him, but
how little, or how much,, depends on the dignity of the intelli
gence. That which is truly and indeed characteristic of the
man, is known only to God. One portrait of a man may possess ;
exact accuracy of feature, p.nd no atom of expression ; it may
be, to use the ordinary terms of admiration bestowed on such
portraits by those whom they- please, " as like as it can stare."
Everybody, down to his cat, would know this. Another por
trait may have neglected or misrepresented the features, but
may have given the flash of the eye, and the peculiar radiance of
the lip, seen on him only in his hours of highest mental excite
ment. None but his friends would know this. Another may
have given none of his ordinary expressions, but one which he
wore in the most excited instant of his life, when all his secret
passions and all his highest powers were brought into play at '
once. None but those who had then seen him might recognize
'this as like. But which would be the most truthful portrait of
the man ? The first gives the accidents of body— the sport of
^climate, and food, and time— which corruption inhabits, and
the worm waits for. The second gives the stamp of the" soul
upon the flesh ; but it is the soul seen in the emotions which
it shares with many— which may not be characteristic of its
essence— the results of habit, and education, and accident— a
gloze, whether purposely worn or unconsciously assumed, per-

SEC. L CH. n.] TRUTH NOT EASILY DISCERNED. 57
haps totally contrary to all that is rooted and real in the mind
that it conceals. The third has caught the trace of all that was
most hidden and most mighty, when all hypocrisy, and all habit,
and all petty and passing emotion — the ice, and the bank, and
the foam of the immortal river — were shivered, and broken, and *
swallowed up in the awakening of its inward strength ; when
the call and claim of some divine motive had brought into visi
ble being those latent forces and feelings which the spirit's own
volition could not summon, nor its consciousness comprehend ;
which God only knew, and God only could awaken, the depth
and the mystery of its peculiar and separating attributes. And
so it is with external Nature : she has a body and a soul like
man ; but her soul is the Deity. It is possible to represent the
body without the spirit ; and this shall be like to those whose
senses are only cognizant of body. It is possible to represent
the spirit in its ordinary and inferior manifestations ; and this
shall be like to those who have not watched for its moments of
power. It is possible to represent the spirit in its secret and
high operations ; and this shall be like only to those to whose
watching they have been revealed. All these are truth ; but ac-
' cording to the dignity of the truths he can represent or feel, is
the power of the painter, — the justice of the judge.

CHAPTER III.
OF THE RELATIVE IMPORTANCE OF TRUTHS : — FIRST;, THAT
PARTICULAR TRUTHS ARE MORE IMPORTANT' THAN GEN
ERAL ONES.
I have in the last chapter affirmed that we usually recog
nize objects by their least essential characteristics. This very ¦
naturally excites the inquiry what I consider their important
*i. Necessity of characteristics, and why I call one truth more im-
rei'aUTC^mfo*6 P°rtant than another. And this question must
tance of truths. jje immediately determined, because it is evident,
that in judging of the truth of painters, we shall have to con
sider not only the accuracy with which individual truths are
given, but the relative importance of the truths themselves ; for
as it constantly happens that the powers of art are unable to
render all truths, that artist must be considered the most truth
ful who has preserved the most important at the. expense of the
most trifling.
§2. Misapplication Now if we are to begin our investigation in
"omeSSSis Aristotle's way, and look at the cpaivo/xEva of the
tant San6 partfcul subject, we shall immediately stumble over a maxim
lar ones." which is in everybody's mouth, and which, as it
is understood in practice, is true and useful, as it is. usually
applied in argument, false and misleading. " General truths
are more important than particular ones." Often, when in
conversation, I have been praising Turner for his perpetual
variety, and for giving so particular and separate a character to
each of his compositions, that the mind of the painter can only ¦
be estimated by seeing all that he has ever done, and that noth
ing can be prophesied of a picture coming into existence on his
easel, but that it will be totally different in idea from all that
he has ever done before ; and when I have opposed this inex
haustible knowledge or imagination, whichever it may be, to the

PAKTn. RELATIVE IMPORTANCE OF TRUTHS. 59
perpetual repetition of some half-dozen conceptions by Claude
and Poussin, I have been met by the formidable objection,
enunciated with much dignity and self-satisfaction on the part
of my antagonist — "That is not painting general truths, that
§3. Falseness of js painting particular truths." Now there must
withOTt^xp'hfna" be something wrong in that application of a prin-
tlon- ciple which would make the variety and abun
dance which we look for as the greatest sign of intellect in the
writer, the greatest sign of error in the painter ; and we shall
accordingly see, by an application of it to other matters, that,
taken without limitation, the whole proposition is utterly false.
Por instance, Mrs. Jameson somewhere mentions the excla
mation of a lady of her acquaintance, more desirous to fill a
pause in conversation than abundant in sources of observation :
"What an excellent book the Bible is !" This was a very
general truth" indeed, a truth predicable of the Bible in com
mon with many other books, but it certainly is neither striking
nor important. Had the lady exclaimed — " How evidently is
the Bible a divine revelation !" she would have expressed a par
ticular truth, one predicable of the Bible only ; but certainly
far more interesting and important. Had she, on the contrary,
informed us that the Bible was a book, she would have been
still more general, and still less entertaining. If I ask any one
who somebody else is, and receive for answer that he is a man,
I get little satisfaction for my pains ; but if I am told that he is
Sir Isaac Newton, I immediately thank my neighbor for his
information. The fact is, and the above instances
important in [the may serve at once to prove it if it be not self-evi-
iarityCintSepred- dent, that generality gives importance to the sub
ject, and limitation or particularity to the predi
cate. If I say that such and such a man in China is an opium-
eater, I say nothing very interesting, because my subject (such
a man) is particular. If I say that all men in China are opium-
eaters, I say something interesting, because my subject (all men)
is general. If I say that all men in China eat, I say nothing
interesting, because my predicate (eat) is general. If I say that
all men in China eat opium, I say something interesting, because
my predicate (eat opium) is particular.
Now almost everything which (with reference to a given sub-

60 OF THE RELATIVE ' [PAl^T n.
ject) a painter has to ask himself whether he shall represent or
not, is a predicate. Hence in art, particular truths are usually
more important than general ones.
How is it then that anything so plain as this should be con
tradicted by one of the most universally received aphorisms re
specting art ? A little reflection will show us under what limi
tations this maxim may be true in practice.
It is self-evident that when we are painting or
tance of 'truths describing anything, those truths must be the most
owingC1to "their important which are most characteristic of what is
generality. ^ ^e ^fl 0r represented. Now that which is first
and most broadly characteristic of a thing, is that which dis
tinguishes its genus, or which makes it what it is. Por in
stance, that which makes drapery be drapery, is not its being
made of silk or worsted or flax, for things are made of all these
which are not drapery, but the ideas peculiar to- drapery ; the
properties which, when inherent in a thing, make it drapery,
are extension, non-elastic flexibility, unity and comparative
thinness. Everything which has these properties, a waterfall,
for instance, if united and extended, or a net of weeds over a
wall, is drapery, as much as silk or woollen stuff is. So that
these ideas separate drapery in our minds from everything else ;
they are peculiarly characteristic of it, and therefore are the
most important group of ideas connected with it ; and so with
everything else, that which makes the ' thing what it is, is the
most important idea, or group of ideas connected with the
thing. But as this idea must necessarily be common to all indi
viduals of the species it belongs to, it is a general idea with re
spect to that species ; while other ideas, which are not charac
teristic of the species, ahd are therefore in reality general, (as
black or white are terms applicable to more things than drapery,)
are yet particular with respect to that species, being predicable
only of certain individuals of it. Hence it is carelessly and
"falsely said, that general ideas are more important than particu
lar ones ; carelessly and falsely, I say, because the so-called
general idea is important, not because it is common to all the
individuals of that species, but because it separates that species
from everything else. It is the distinctiveness, not the univer
sality of the truth, which renders it important. And the so-

8EC,I.-CH. m.] IMPORTANCE OF TRUTHS. 61
-called particular idea is unimportant, not because it is not
predicable of the whole species, but because it is predicable of
things out of that species. It is not its individuality, but its
, . generality which renders it unimportant. So,
§6. All truths val- ° J . , , ¦ , ¦ ,.
uable as they are tnen, truths are important iust m proportion as
i^lut piottT ist ic they are characteristic, and are valuable, primarily,
as they separate the species from all other created things
secondarily, as they separate the individuals of that species
from one another : thus "silken" or "woollen" are unim
portant ideas with respect to drapery, because they neither
separate the species from other things, nor even the individuals
of that species from one another, since, though not common to
the whole of it, they are common to indefinite numbers of it ;
but the particular folds into which any piece of drapery may
happen to fall, being different in many particulars from those
into which any other piece of drapery will fall, are expressive
not only of the characters of the species, flexibility, (non-elas
ticity, etc.,) but of individuality and definite character in the
case immediately observed, and are consequently most impor
tant and necessary ideas. So in a man, to be short-legged or
long-nosed or anything else of accidental quality, does not dis
tinguish him from other short-legged or long-nosed animals ;
but the important truths respecting a man are, first, the marked
development of that distinctive organization which separates
him as man from other animals, and secondly, that group of
qualities which distinguish the individual from all other men,
which make him Paul or Judas, Newton or Shakspeare.
§7.- otherwise Such are the real sources of importance in
are'vaiulbleTbe! truths as far as they are considered with reference
cause beautiful. merely to their being general, or particular ; but
there are other sources of importance which give farther weight
, to the ordinary opinion of the greater value of those which are
general, and which render this opinion right in practice ; I
mean the intrinsic beauty of the truths themselves, a quality
which it is oiot here the place to investigate, but which must
just be noticed, as invariably adding value to truths of species
rather than to those of individuality. The qualities and prop
erties which characterize man or any other animal as a species,
are the perfection of his or its form of mind, almost all in-

62 OF THE RELATIVE [PAKTH.
dividual differences arising from imperfections; hence a truth
of species is the more valuable to art, because it must always
be a beauty, while a truth of individuals is commonly, in some
sort or way, a defect.
§ 8. And many Again, a truth which may be of great interest,
sepaS'tefmayb" when an object is viewed by itself, may be objec-
connectmnblwito tionable when it is viewed in relation to other ob-
others. jects. Thus if we were painting a piece of drapery
as our whole subject, it would be proper to give in it every
source of entertainment, which particular truths could supply,
to give it varied color and delicate texture ; but if we paint this
same piece of drapery, as part of the dress of a Madonna, all
these ideas of richness or texture become thoroughly contempti
ble, and unfit to occupy the mind at the same moment with the
idea of the Virgin. The conception of drapery is then to be
suggested by the simplest and slightest means possible, and all
notions of texture and detail are to be rejected with utter rep
robation ;' but this, observe, is not because they are particular
or general or anything else, with respect to the drapery itself,
but because they draw the attention to the dress instead of the
saint, and disturb and degrade the imagination and the feel
ings ; hence we ought to give the conception of the drapery in
the most unobtrusive way possible, by rendering those essential
qualities distinctly, which are necessary to the very existence of
drapery, and not one more.
With these last two sources of the importance of truths, we
have nothing to do at present, as they are dependent upon ideas
of beauty and relation : I merely allude to them now, to show
that all that is alleged by Sir J. Reynolds and other scientific
writers respecting the kind ' of truths proper to be represented
by the painter or sculptor is perfectly just and right.; while
yet the principle on which they base their selection (that gen
eral truths are more important than particular ones) is alto
gether false. Canova's Perseus in the Vatican is entirely spoiled
by an unlucky tassel in the folds of the mantle (which the next
admirer of Canova who passes would do well to knock off ;) but
it is sjpoiled not because this is a particular truth, but because it
is a contemptible, unnecessary, and ugly truth. The button
which fastens the vest of the Sistine Daniel is as much a partie-

SEC I. ch. m.]

IMPORTANCE OF TRUTHS.

63

ular truth as this, but it is a necessary one, and the idea of it is
given by the simplest possible means ; hence it is right and
beautiful. Finally, then, it is to be remembered that all truths as far
§ 9. Recapitulation, as their being particular or general affects their
value at all, are valuable in proportion as they are particular,
and valueless in proportion as they are general ; or to express
the proposition in simpler terms, every truth is valuable in
proportion as it is characteristic- of the thing of which it is
affirmed.

CHAPTER IV.
OF THE RELATIVE IMPORTANCE OF TRUTHS : — SECONDLY, THAI
RARE TRUTHS ARE MORE IMPORTANT THAN FREQUENT
ONES.It will be necessary next for us to determine how far fre
quency or rarity can affect the importance of
vioiation™ofenna- truths, and whether the artist is to be considered
should oeUrepre! the most truthful who paints what is common or
what is unusual in nature.
Now the whole determination of this question depends upon
whether the unusual fact be a violation of nature's general prin
ciples, or the application of some of those principles in a pecu
liar and striking way. Nature sometimes, though very rarely,
violates her own principles ; it is her principle to make every
thing beautiful, but now and then, for an instant, she permits ,
what, compared with the rest of her works, might be called
ugly ; it is true that even these rare blemishes are permitted, as
I have above said, for a good purpose, (Part I. Sec. I. Chap. 5,)
they are valuable in nature, and used as she uses them, are
equally valuable (as instantaneous discords) in art ; but the
artist who should seek after these exclusively, and paint noth- .
ing else, though he might be able to point to something in na
ture as the original of every one of his uglinesses, would yet be, in
the strict sense of the word, false, — false to nature, and disobe
dient to her laws. For instance, it is the practice of nature to
give character to the outlines of her clouds, by perpetual ^angles
and right lines. Perhaps once in a month, by diligent watch
ing, we might be able to see a cloud altogether rounded and
made up of curves ; but the artist who paints nothing but'
curved clouds must yet be considered thoroughly and inexcu
sably false.
But the case is widely different, when instead of a principle

SEC. I. CH. IV.] OF THE RELATIVE IMPORTANCE OF TRUTHS. 65
violated, we have one extraordinarily carried out or manifested
under unusual circumstances. Though nature is
fn Wch those constantly beautiful, she does not exhibit her high-
been strikingly est powers of beauty constantly, for then they would
exemplified. ,¦ ¦ j -n T1 •
satiate us and pall upon our senses. It is necessary
to their appreciation that they should be rarely shown. Her finest'
touches are things which must be watched for ; her most
perfect passages of beauty are the most evanescent.
comparatively She is constantly doing something. beautiful for
us, but it is something which she has not done
before and will not do again ; some exhibition of her general
powers in particular circumstances which, if we do not catch at
the instant it is passing, will not be repeated for us. Now they
are these evanescent- passages of perfected beauty, these perpet
ually varied examples of utmost power, which the artist ought
to seek for and arrest. No supposition can be more absurd than
that effects or truths frequently exhibited are more character
istic of nature than those which are equally necessary by her
laws, though rarer in occurrence. Both the frequent and the
rare are parts of the same great system ; to give either exclu
sively is imperfect truth, and to repeat the same effect or
54. ah repetition thought in two pictures is wasted life. What
,fs biamabie. should we think of a poet who should keep all his
life repeating the same thought in different words ? and why
should we be more lenient to the parrot-painter who has learned
one lesson from the page of nature, and keeps stammering it
out with eternal repetition without turning the leaf ? Is it less
tautology to describe a thing over and over again with lines,
than it is with words ? The teaching of nature is as varied and
infinite as it is constant ; and the duty of the painter is to
watch for every one of her lessons, and to give (for human life
will admit of nothing more) those in which she has mani
fested each of her principles in the most peculiar and striking
way. The deeper his research and the rarer the phenomena
he has noted, the more, valuable will his works be ; to repeat
himself, even in a single instance, is treachery to nature, for a
thousand human lives would not be enough to give one instance
of the perfect manifestation of each of her powers ; and as for
combining or classifying them, as well might a preacher expect

66 OF THE RELATIVE IMPORTANCE OF TRUTHS. [parte
in one sermon to express and explain every divine truth which
can be gathered out of God's revelation, as a painter expect in
§ 5. The duty of one composition to express and illustrate every
BOTieaast?hattol lesson which can be received from God's creation.
a preacher. Both are commentators on infinity, and the duty
of both is to take for each discourse one essential truth, seeking
particularly and insisting especially on those which are less
palpable to ordinary observation, and more likely to escape an in
dolent research ; and to impress that, and that alone, upon those
whom they address, with every illustration that can be furnished
by their knowledge, and every adornment attainable by their
power. And the real truthfulness of the painter is in propor
tion to the number and variety of the facts he has so illustrated;
those facts being always, as above observed, the realization, not
the violation of a general principle. The quantity of truth is in
proportion to the number of such facts, and its value and in-
structiveness in proportion to their rarity. All really great pic
tures, therefore, exhibit the general habits of nature, manifested
in some peculiar, rare, and beautiful way.

•CHAPTER -V.
OF THE RELATIVE IMPORTANCE OF TRUTHS : — THIRDLY, THAT
TRUTHS OF COLOR ARE THE LEAST IMPORTANT OF ALL
TRUTHS.
In the two last chapters, we have pointed out general tests
of the importance of all truths, which will be sufficient at once
'si. Difference to distinguish certain classes of properties in
andWesecondaryry bodies, as more necessary to be told than others,
quaUties in bodies, because more characteristic, either of the particular
thing to be represented, or of the principles of nature.
According to Locke, Book "ii. chap. 8, there are three sorts
of qualities in bodies : first, the " bulk, figure, number, situa
tion, and motion or rest of their solid parts : those that are in
them, whether we perceive them or not." These he calls pri
mary qualities. Secondly, "the power that is in any body
to operate after a peculiar manner on any of our senses," (sen
sible qualities.) And thirdly, " the power that is in any body
to make such a change in another body as that it shall operate
on our senses differently from what it did before : these last
being usually called powers."
Hence he proceeds to prove that those which he calls primary
qualities are indeed part of the essence of the body, and charac
teristic of it ; but that the two other kinds of qualities which
together he- calls secondary, are neither of them more than
powers of producing on other objects, or in us, certain effects
1 2. Thefirst are aQd sensations. Now a power of influence is al-
1 til th!asrecond TOys equally characteristic of two objects— the
imperfectly eo. active and passive ; for it is as much necessary
that there should be a power in the object suffering to receive
the4mpression, as in the object acting to give the impression.
(Compare Locke, Book ii. chap. 21, sect. 2.) For supposing
two people, as is frequently the case, perceive different scents

68 OF THE RELATIVE [PARftfi
in the same flower, it is evident that the power in the flower to'
give this or that depends on the nature of their nerves, as well,
as on that of its own particles ; and that we are as correct in
saying it is a power in us to perceive, as in the object to im
press. Every power, therefore, being characteristic of the
nature of two bodies, is imperfectly and incompletely character
istic of either .separately ; but the primary qualities, being char
acteristic only of the body in which they are inherent, are the
most important truths connected with it. For the question,
what the thing is, must precede, and be of more importance
than the question, what can it do.
Now, by Locke's definition above given, only
secondary qual- bulk, figure, situation, and motion or rest of solid
itv tliGrcfors Jess
important than parts, are primary qualities. Hence all truths of
color sink at once into the second rank. He, there
fore, who has neglected a truth of form for a truth of color, has
neglected a greater truth for a less one.
And that color is indeed a most unimportant characteristic
of objects, will be farther evident on the slightest consideration.
The color of plants is constantly changing with the season, and of
everything with the quality of light falling on it ; but the nature
and essence of the thing are independent of these- changes. An
oak is an oak, whether green with spring or red with winter ; a
dahlia is a dahlia, whether it be yellow or crimson ; and if some
monster-hunting botanist should ever frighten the fiower blue,
still it will be a dahlia ; but let one curve of the petals — one
groove of the stamens be wanting, and the flower ceases to be
the same. Let the roughness of the bark and the angles of the
boughs be smoothed or diminished, and the oak ceases to be an
oak ; but let it retain its inward structure and outward form, and
though its leaves grew white, or pink, or blue, or tri-color, it
would be a white oak, or a pink oak, or a republican oak, but an
§ 4. color no dis- oak still. Again, color is hardly ever even a possible
object? boftwethe distinction between two objects of the same spe-
same species. deg< TwQ treegj Qf th(J game ^^ ^ ^ game
season, and of the same age, are of absolutely the same color';
but they are not of the same form, nor anything like it. There.*
can be no difference in the color of two pieces of rock broken'
from the same place ; but it is impossible they should be of

SEC. I. CH. V.] IMPORTANCE OF TRUTHS. 69
the same form. So that form is not only the chief characteristic
of species, but the only characteristic of individuals of a species.
f evAnd* different Again, a color, in association with other colors,
- fromThafit is is different from the same color seen by itself. It
alone. hag a distinct and peculiar power upon the retina
dependent on its association. Consequently, the color of any
object is not more dependent upon the nature of the object
itself, and the eye beholding it, than on the color of the objects
.near it ; in this respect also, therefore, it is no characteristic.
And so gr,eat is the uncertainty with respect to
certain whether those qualities or powers which depend as much' on
any two people n
see the same the nature of the object suffering as of the object
acting, that it is totally impossible to prove that
one man sees in the same thing the same color that another
does though he may use the same name for it. One man may
see yellow where another sees blue, but as the effect is constant,
they agree in the term to be used for it, and both call it blue, or
both yellow, having yet totally different ideas attached to" the
term. And yet neither can be said to see falsely, because the
color is not in the thing, but in the thing and them together.
.But if they see forms differently, one must see falsely, because
the form is positive in the object. My friend may see boars
blue for anything I know, but it is impossible he should see
them with paws instead .of hoofs, unless his eyes or brain are
diseased. (Compare Locke, Book ii. chap, xxxii. § 15.) But I
do not speak of this uncertainty as capable of having any effect
on art, because, though perhaps Landseer sees dogs of the color
which I should call blue, yet the color he puts on the canvas,
being in the same way blue to him, will still be brown or dog-
color to me ; and so we may argue on points of color just as if
all men saw alike, as indeed in all probability they do ; but I
merely mention this uncertainty to show farther the vagueness
and unimportance of color as a characteristic of bodies.
.„ „ Before going farther, however, I must explain
S.7.. Form con- ,. .s _° , T ' , ' ,«£-.,
sidered as an the sense in which I have used the word form,
element of land- , . , , , . ,
scape, includes becauso painters have a most inaccurate and care
less habit of confining the term to the outline
of bodies^ whereas it necessarily implies light and shade. It is
true that the outline and the chiaroscuro must be separate sub-

70 OF THE RELATIVE [PART Hi
jects of investigation with the student ; but no form whatsoever
can be known to the eye in the slightest degree without its chiaro-
scuro ; and, therefore, in speaking of form generally as an ele
ment of landscape* I mean that perfect and harmonious unity of
outline with light and shade, by which all the parts and project'!
tions and proportions of a body are fully explained to the eye,
being nevertheless perfectly independent of sight or power in
other objects, the presence of light upon a body being a positive
existence, whether we are aware of it or not, and in no degree
dependent upon our senses. This being understood, the most
s 8. importance of convincing proof of the unimportance of color
flpresshighthl m lies in the accurate observation of the way in which '
di"aaned unim- any material object impresses itself on the mind,
portanca of color, if we i00k at nature carefully, we shall find that
her colors are in a state of perpetual confusion and indistinct
ness, while her forms, as told by light and shade, are invariably -
clear, distinct, and speaking. The stones and gravel of the bank
catch green reflections from the boughs above ; the bushes receive
grays and yellows from the ground ; every hairbreadth of pol
ished surface gives a little bit of the blue of the sky or the gold
of the sun, like a star upon the local color ; this local color, ''i
changeful and uncertain in itself, is again disguised and modified
by the hue of the light, or quenched in the gray of the shadow;
and the confusion and blending of tint is altogether so great,
that were we left to find out what objects were by their colors
only, we would scarcely in places distinguish the boughs of a ¦
tree from the air beyond them, or the ground beneath them. I
know that people unpractised in art will not believe this at first ; ,
but if they have accurate powers of observation, they may soon
ascertain it for themselves ; they will find that, while they can ,'-
scarcely ever determine the exact hue of anything, except when
it occurs in large masses, as in a green field or the blue sky,
the form, as told by light and shade, is always decided aud evi
dent, and the source of the chief character of every object.
Light and shade indeed so completely conquer the distinctions
of local color, that the difference in hue between the illumined
parts -of a white and black object is not so great as the differ- '
ence (in sunshine) between the illumined and dark side of either-
eeparately.

BBC. I. CH. V.]

IMPORTANCE OF TRUTHS.

71

We shall see hereafter, in considering ideas of beauty, that
color, even as a source of pleasure, is feeble compared to form ;
«9 Eecapitnia- Dut this we cannot insist upon at present ; we have
tion- only to do with simple truth, and the obser
vations we have made are sufficient to prove that the artist who
-sacrifices or forgets a truth of form in the pursuit of a truth of
color, sacrifices what is definite to what is uncertain, and what
is essential to what is accidental,

CHAPTER VI.

RECAPITULATION.

It ought farther to be observed respecting truths in general,
that those are always most valuable which are most historical,
that is, which tell us most about the past and fu-
ance of historical ture states of the object to which they belong. ¦ In
a tree, for instance, it is more important to give
the appearance of energy and elasticity in the limbs which is in
dicative of growth and life, than any particular character of leaf,
or texture of bough. It is more important that we should feel
that the uppermost sprays are creeping higher and higher into
the sky, and be impressed with the current of life and motion
which is animating every fibre, than that we should know, the
exact pitch of relief with which those fibres are thrown out
against the sky. For the first truths tell us tales about the
tree, about what it has been, and will be, while the last are
characteristic of it only in its present state, and are in no way
talkative about themselves. Talkative facts are always more in
teresting and more important than silent ones. So again the lines
in a crag which mark its stratification, and how it has been
washed and rounded by water, or twisted and drawn out in fire,
are more important, because they tell more than the stains of
the lichens which change year by year, and the accidental fis
sures of frost or decomposition ; not but that both of these are
historical, but historical in a less distinct manner, and for
shorter periods.
2 Form as ex Hence in general the truths of specific form are
plained by light the first and most important of all : and next to
and shade, the * '
first of nil truths, them, those truths of chiaroscuro which are necesr-:
Tone, light and
color are second- sary to make us understand every quality and part
, of forms, and the relative distances of objects
among each other, and in consequence their relative bulks. Al-

Bi>C. I. CH. VI.] RECAPITULATION. 73
together lower than these, as truths, though often most impor
tant as beauties, stand all effects of chiaroscuro which are pro
ductive merely of imitations of light and tone, and all effects of
color. To make us understand the space of the sky, is an end
worthy of the artist's highest powers ; to hit its particular blue
or gold is an end to be thought of when we have accomplished
the first, and not till then.
Finally, far below all these eome those particu-
1 3. And deceptive . . , . . » , . . . .
chiaroscuro the lar accuraciesor tricks of chiaroscuro which cause
objects to look projectingfrom the canvas, not
worthy of the name of truths, because they require for their
attainment the sacrifice of all others ; for not having at our
disposal the same intensity of light by which nature illustrates
her objects, we are obliged, if we would have perfect deception
in one, to destroy its relation to the rest. (Compare Sect. II.
'tihap. V.) And thus he who throws one object out of his pic-
-ture, never lets the spectator into it. Michael Angelo bids you
follow his phantoms into the abyss of heaven, but a modern
French painter drops his hero out of the picture frame. ¦
This solidity or projection then, is the very lowest truth that
art can give ; it is the painting of mere matter, giving that as
food for the eye which is properly only the subject of touch ; it
can neither instruct nor exalt, nor please except as jugglery ; it
addresses no sense of beauty nor of power ; and wherever it char
acterizes the general aim of a picture, it is the sign and the evi
dence of the vilest and lowest mechanism which art can be in
sulted by giving name to.

'&0&Q)QQG)0&

CHAPTER VII. y
GENERAL APPLICATION OE THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. i
We have seen, in the preceding chapters, some proof of what
was before asserted, that the truths necessary for deceptive imi-
§ 1. The different tation are not only few, but of the very lowest
conslqu'en'fo? the order. We thus find painters ranging themselves
imitation ot at int° two great classes ; one aiming at the developf-
truth. ment of the exquisite truths of specfic form, refined.?
color, and ethereal space, and content with the clear, and im
pressive suggestion of any of these, by whatsoever means ob
tained ; and the other casting all these aside, to attain those
particular truths of tone and chiaroscuro, which may trick the
spectator into a belief of reality. The first class, if they have to
paint a tree, are intent upon giving the exquisite designs of in
tersecting undulation in its boughs, the grace of its leafage, •
the intricacy of its organization, and all those qualities which
make it lovely or affecting of its kind. The second endeavor
only to make you believe that you are looking at wood. They
are* totally regardless of truths or beauties of form ; a stump is,
as good as a trunk for all their purposes, so that they can only
deceive the eye into the supposition that it is a stump and not
canvas.
§ 2. The old To which of these classes the great body of the
body?raim only °ld landscape painters belonged, may be partly
at imitation. gathered from the kind of praise which is be
stowed upon them by those who admire them most, which
either refers to technical matters, dexterity of touch, clever
oppositions of color, etc., or is bestowed on the power of the
painter to deceive. M. de Marmontel, going into a connoisseur's
gallery, pretends to mistake a fine Berghem for a window.
This, he says, was affirmed by its possessor to be the greatest
praise the picture had ever received. Such is indeed the notion

SEC. I. CH. VII.] . THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 75
of art which is at the bottom of the veneration usually felt for
the old landscape painters ; it is of course the palpable, first idea
of ignorance ; it is the only notion which people unacquainted
with art can by any possibility have of its ends ; the only test by
which people unacquainted with nature can pretend to form
anything like judgment of art. It is strange that, with the
great historical painters of Italy before them, who had broken
so boldly aid indignantly from the trammels of this notion, and
shaken the very dust of it from their feet, the succeeding land
scape painters should have wasted their lives in jugglery : but
so it is, and so it will be felt, the more we look into their
1 8. what truths works, that the deception of tlie senses was the
they gave. gj.eat and firgt end of aU their art> Tq attain thig
they paid deep and serious attention to effects of light and tone,
and to the exact degree of relief which material objects take
against light and atmosphere ; and sacrificing every other truth
to these, not necessarily, but because they required no others for
deception, th*y succeeded in rendering these particular facts
with a fidelity and force which, in the pictures that have come
down to us uninjured, are as yet unequalled, and never can be
surpassed. They painted their foregrounds with laborious in
dustry, covering them with details so as to render them decep
tive to the ordinary eye, regardless of beauty or truth in the
details themselves ; they painted their trees with careful atten
tion to their pitch of shade against the sky, utterly regardless
of all that is- beautiful or essential in the anatomy of their foli
age and boughs : they painted their distances with exquisite use
of transparent color and aerial tone, totally neglectful of all
facts and forms which nature uses such color and tone to relieve
and adorn. They had neither love of nature, nor feeling of
her beauty ; they looked for her coldest and most commonplace
effects, because they were easiest to imitate ; and for her most
vulgar forms, because they were most easily to be recognized by
the untaught eyes of those whom alone they could hope to
please ; they did it, like the Pharisee of old, to be seen of men,
and they had their reward. They do deceive and delight the
unpractised eye ; they will to all ages, as long as their colors
endure, be the standards of excellence with all, who, ignorant of
nature, claim to be thought learned in art. And they will, to

76 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PArafjfJ
all ages be, to those who have thorough love and knowledge of
the creation which they libel, instructive proofs of the limit^F
number and low character of the truths which are necessary,
and the accumulated multitude of pure, broad, bold falsehoods
which are admissible in pictures meant only to deceive. - ¦.
There is of course more or less accuracy of \ knowledgeijand
execution combined with this aim at effect, according to the
industry and precision of eye possessed by the master, and more
or less of beauty in the forms selected, according to his natural
taste ; but both the beauty and truth are sacrificed unhesi-' "
tatingly where they interfere with the great effort at deception.
Claude had, if it had been cultivated, a fine feeling for beauty
pf form, and is seldom ungraceful in his foliage ; but his pic
ture, when examined with reference to essential truth, is one
mass of error from, beginning to end. Cuyp, on the other ,
hand, could paint close truth of everything, except ground and
water, with decision and success, but he has no sense of beauty., -|
Gaspar Poussin, more ignorant of truth than* Claude, and
almost as dead to beauty as Cuyp, has yet a perception of the'
feeling and moral truth of nature which often redeems the pic- ,
ture ; but yet in all of them, everything that they can do is done
for deception, and nothing for the sake or love of what they are
painting.§ 4. The principles Modern landscape painters have looked at
adoptedby3 nature with totally different eyes, seeking not for
mdaern artists. wnat is easiest to imitate, but for what is most im
portant to tell. Rejecting at once all idea of bond fide imita
tion, they think only of conveying the impression of nature into
the mind of the spectator. And there is, in consequence, a
greater sum of valuable, essential, and impressive truth in the
works of two or three of our leading modern landscape paint
ers, than in those of all the old masters put together, and of
truth too, nearly unmixed with definite or avoidable falsehood j -"
while the unimportant and feeble truths of the old masters are
choked with a mass of perpetual defiance of the most authori
tative laws of nature.
I do not expect this assertion to be believed at present ; it
must rest for demonstration on the examination we are about to
enter upon ;. yet, even without reference to any intricate,; or

SEC. I. CH. Vn.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 77
deep-laid truths, it appears strange to me, that any one familiar
with nature, and fond of her, should not grow weary and sick
c 5. General feel- at heart among the melancholy and monotonous
safrato'rfand' g. transcripts of her which alone can be received from
Se8dn'withn"the the old school of art. A man accustomed to the
vastaess ofna- broad, wild sea-shore, with its bright breakers, and
ture- free winds, and sounding rocks, and eternal sensa
tion of tameless power, can scarcely but be angered when Claude
bids him stand still on some paltry, chipped and chiselled quay
with porters and wheelbarrows running against him, to watch a
weak, rippling bound and barriered water, that has not strength
enough in one of its waves to upset the flower-pots on the wall?
or even to fling one jet of spray over the confining stone. A
man accustomed to the strength and glory of God's mountains,
with their soaring and radiant pinnacles, and surging sweeps of
measureless distance, kingdoms in their valleys, and climates
upon their crests, can scarcely but be angered when Salvator
bids him stand still under some contemptible fragment of splin
tery crag, which an Alpine snow-wreath would smother in its
first swell, with a stunted bush or two growing out of it, and a
volume of manufactory smoke for a sky. A man accustomed to
the grace and infinity of nature's foliage, with every vista a
cathedral, and every bough a revelation, can scarcely but be
angered when Poussin mocks him with a black round mass of
impenetrable paint, diverging into feathers instead of leaves,
and supported on a stick instead of a trunk. The fact is, there
is one thing wanting in all the doing of these men, and that is
the very virtue by which the work of human mind chiefly rises
above that of the Daguerreotype or Calotype, or any other
mechanical means that ever have been or may be invented,
Love : There is no evidence of their ever having gone to nature
with any thirst, or received from her such emotion as could
make them, even for an instant, lose sight of themselves ; .there
is in them neither earnestness nor humility ; there is no sim
ple or honest record of any single truth ; none of the plain
words nor straight efforts that men speak and make when they
once feel. '
Nor is it only by the professed landscape painters that the
great verities of the material world are betrayed : Grand as are

78 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTa
the motives of landscape in the works of the earlier and mightier
men, there is yet in them nothing approaching to a general
§ 6. inadequacy Tiew nor complete rendering of natural phenom-
of miannandpe ena ' not that they are to be blamed for this ; for
Tintoret. they took out of nature that which was fit for
their purpose, and their mission was to do no more ; but we
must be cautious to distinguish that imaginative abstraction of
landscape which alone we find in them, from the entire state
ment of truth which has been attempted by the moderns. I
have said in the chapter on symmetry in the second volume,
that all landscape grandeur vanishes before that of Titian and
Tintoret ; and this is true of whatever these two giants touched ;
¦ — but they touched little. A few level flakes of chestnut foliage;
a blue abstraction of hill forms from Cadore or the Euganeans ;
a grand mass or two of glowing ground and mighty herbage,
and a few* burning fields of quiet cloud were all they needed ;
there is evidence of Tintoret' s having felt more than this, but
it occurs only in secondary fragments of rock, cloud, or pine,
hardly noticed among the accumulated interest of his human
subject. From the window of Titian's house at Venice, the
chain of the Tyrolese Alps is seen lifted in spectral power above
the tufted plain of Treviso ; every dawn that reddens the tow
ers of Murano lights also a line of pyramidal fires along that
colossal ridge ; but there is, so far as I know, no evidence in
any of the master's works of his ever having beheld, much less
felt, the majesty of their burning. The dark firmament and
saddened twilight of Tintoret are sufficient for their end ; but
the sun never plunges behind San Giorgio in Aliga without
such retinue of radiant cloud, such rest of zoned light on the
green lagoon, as never received image from his hand.- More
than this, of that which they loved and rendered much is ren
dered conventionally ; by noble conventionalities indeed, but
such nevertheless as would be inexcusable if the landscape be
came the principal subject instead of an accompaniment. I
will instance only the San Pietro Martire, which, if not the
most perfect, is at least the most popular of Titian's land
scapes ; in which, to obtain light on the flesh of the near figures
the sky is made as dark as deep sea, the mountains are laid in
with violent and impossible blue, except one of them on the

SEC. I. CH. VH.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES, 79
left, which, to connect the distant light with the foreground,
is thrown into light relief, unexplained by* its materials, un
likely in its position, and in its degree impossible under any
circumstances.§7. causes of its I do not instance these as faults in the picture :
^.¦taSSS* iheTe are no works of Yery powerful color which
schools. are free from conventionality concentrated or
diffused, daring or disguised ; but as the conventionality of this
whole picture is mainly thrown into the landscape, it is neces
sary, while we acknowledge the virtue of this distance as a
part of the great composition, to be on our guard against the
license it assumes and the attractiveness of its overcharged color.
Fragments of far purer truth occur in the works of Tintoret ;
and in the drawing of foliage, whether rapid or elaborate, of
masses or details, the Venetian painters, taken as a body, may
be considered almost faultless models. But the whole field of
what they have done is so narrow, and therein is so much of
what is only relatively right, and in itself false or imperfect,
that the young and inexperienced painter could run no greater
risk than the too early taking them for teachers ; and to the
general spectator their landscape is valuable rather as a means of
peculiar .and solemn emotion than as ministering to, or inspir-
ingjhe universal love of nature. Hence while men of serious
mind, especially those whose pursuits have brought them into
continued relations with the peopled rather than the lonely
world, will always look to the Venetian painters as having
touched those simple chords of landscape harmony which are
most in unison with earnest and melancholy feeling ; those
whose philosophy is more cheerful and more extended, as having
been trained and colored among simple and solitary nature, will
seek for a wider and more systematic circle of teaching : they
may grant that the barred horizontal gloom of the Titian sky,
and the massy leaves of the Titian forest are among the most
sublime of the conceivable forms of material things ; but they
know that the virtue of these very forms is to be learned only
by right comparison of them with the cheerfulness, fulness and
comparative inquietness of other hours and scenes ; that they
are not intended for the continual food, but the occasional
soothing of the human heart ; that there' is a lesson of not less

80 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTIE
value in its place,. though of less concluding and sealing au
thority, in every one of the more humble phases of material
things : and that there are some lessons of equal or greater
authority which these masters neither taught nor received. And
until the school of modern landscape arose Art had never noted
the links of this mighty chain ; it mattered not that a fragment
lay here and there, no heavenly lightning could descend by
it ; the landscape of the Venetians was without effect on any
contemporary in subsequent schools ; it still remains on the
continent as useless as if it had never existed ; and at this mo-
Iment German_^njd-JtalianrJjffldBoapes, of which no words are
^(jornfulenough to befit the utter degradation, hang~m~Tne
Venetian Academy in the next room to the Desert of Titian
and the- Paradise of Tintoret.*
§ 8. The value of That then which I would have the reader in-
artehowWtorlbe0f quire respecting every work of art of undetermiaei§
estimated. merit submitted to his judgment, is not whether
it be a work of especial grandeur, importance, or power ; but
whether it have any virtue or substance as a link in this, chain
of truth, whether it have recorded or interpreted anything be
fore unknown, whether it have added one single stone to our
heaven-pointing pyramid, cut away one dark bough, or levelled
one rugged hillock in our path. This, if it be an honest work
of art, it must have done, for no man ever yet worked honestly
without giving some such help to his race. God appoints to
every one of his creatures a separate mission, and if they dis
charge it honorably, if they quit themselves like men and faith
fully follow that light which is in them, withdrawing from it
all cold and quenching influence, there will assuredly come of
it such burning as, in its appointed mode and measure, shall
shine before men, ahd be of service constant and holy. Degrees
infinite of lustre there must always be, but the weakest among
us has a gift, however seemingly trivial, which is peculiar to him,
* Not the large Paradise, but the Fall of Adam, a small picture chiefly
in brown and gray, near Titian's Assumption. Its companion, the Death
of Abel, is remarkable as containing a group of trees which Turner, I be
lieve accidentally, has repeated nearly mass for mass in the ' ' Marly. ' ' Both.
are among the most noble works of this or any other master, whether for
preciousness of color or energy of thought.

SEC. I. CH. VII.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 81
and which worthily used will be a gift also to his race for
ever —
" Pool not," says George Herbert, " For all may have,
If they dare choose, a glorious life or grave."
If, on the contrary, there be nothing of this freshness
achieved, if there be neither purpose nor fidelity in what is done,
if it be an envious or powerless imitation of other men's labors,
if it be a display of mere manual dexterity or curious manufac
ture, or if in any other mode it show itself as having its origin
in vanity, — Cast it out. It matters not what powers of mind
may have been concerned, or corrupted in it, all have lost their
savor, it is worse than worthless ; — perilous — Cast it out.
Works of art are indeed always of mixed kind, their honesty
being more or less corrupted by the various weaknesses of the
painter, by his vanity, his idleness, or his cowardice ; (the fear
of doing right has far more influence on art than is commonly
thought,) that only is altogether to be rejected which is altq-
gether vain, idle,- and cowardly. Of the rest the rank is to be
estimated rather by the purity of their metal than the coined
value of it. Keeping these principles in view, let us en-
landscape 'of deavor to obtain something like a general view of
mirabienessaof the assistance which has been rendered to our study
its completion. » , . ., • j> n j
of nature by the various occurrences ot landscape
in elder art, and by the more exclusively directed labors of
modern schools.
To the ideal landscape of the early religious painters of
Italy I have alluded in the concluding chapter of the second vol
ume. It is absolutely right and beautiful in its peculiar ap
plication ; but its grasp of nature is narrow and its , treatment
in most respects top severe and conventional to form a profita
ble example when the landscape is to be alone the subject of
thought. The great virtue of it is its entire, exquisite, and hum
ble realization of those objects it selects ; in this respect differ
ing from such German imitations of it as I have met with, that
there is no effort of any fanciful or ornamental modifications,
but loving fidelity to the thing studied. The foreground plants

82 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTE.
are usually neither exaggerated nor stiffened ; they do not form
arches or frames or borders ; their grace is unconfined, their
simplicity undestroyed. Cima da Conegliano, in his picture in
the church of the Madonna dell' Orto at Venice, has given us
the oak, the fig, the beautiful " Erba della Madonna" on the
wall, precisely such a bunch of it as may be seen growing at this
day on the marble steps of that very church ; ivy and other
creepers, and a strawberry plant in the foreground, with a
blossom and a berry just set, and one half ripe and one ripe, all
patiently and innocently painted from the real thing, and there- ^'V,
fore most divine. Fra Angelico's use of the oxalis acetosella is
as faithful in representation as touching in feeling.* The ferns
that grow on the walls of Fiesole may be seen in their simple
verity on the architecture of Ghirlandajo. The rose, the myr- . . .
tie, and the lily, the olive and orange, pomegranate and vine,
have received their fairest portraiture where they bear a sacred
character ; even the common plantains and mallows of the
waysides are touched with deep reverence by Raffaelle ; and in
deed for the perfect treatment of details of this kind, treatment
as delicate and affectionate as it is elevated and manly, it is to
the works of these schools alone that we can refer. And on
this their peculiar excellence I should the more earnestly insist,
because it is of a kind altogether neglected by the English
school, and with most unfortunate result, many of our best
painters missing their deserved rank solely from the want of it,
as Gainsborough ; and all being more or less checked in their
progress or vulgarized in their aim.
§ 10 Finish, and -"-t is a misfortune for all honest critics, that
rwBwWrignt°and hardly any quality of art is independently to be
how wrong. praised, and without reference to the motive from
which it resulted, and the place in which it appears ; so that no
principle can be simply enforced but it shall seem to counte
nance a vice ; while the work of qualification and explanation
both weakens the force of what is said, and is not perhaps al
ways likely to be with patience received : so also those who de-
* The triple leaf of this plant, and white fiower, stained purple, probably' %!'{i
gave it strange typical interest among the Christian painters. Angelico, .-.'.'
in using its leaves mixed with daisies in the foreground of his Crucifixion
had, I imagine, a view also to its chemical property.

BEC.-I. CH. VTI.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 83
sire to misunderstand or to oppose have it always in their power
to become obtuse listeners or specious opponents. Thus I
hardly dare insist upon the virtue of completion, lest I should
be supposed a defender of Wouvermans or Gerard Dow ; neither
can I adequately praise the power of Tintoret, without fearing
to be thought adverse to Holbein or Perugino. The fact is, that
both finish and impetuosity, specific minuteness, or large abstrac
tion, may be the signs of passion, or of its reverse ; may result
from affection or indifference, intellect or dulness. Some men
finish from intense love of the* beautiful in the smallest parts of
what they do ; others in pure incapability of comprehending
anything but parts ; others to show tlieir dexterity with the
brush, and prove expenditure of time. Some are impetuous and
bold in their handling, from having great thoughts to express
which are independent of detail ; others because they have bad
taste or have been badly taught ; others from vanity, and others
from indolence. (Compare Vol. II. Chap. IX. § 8.) Now both
the finish and incompletion are right where they are the signs
of passion or of thought, and both are wrong, and I think the
finish the more contemptible of the two, when they cease to be
so. The modern Italians will paint every leaf of a laurel or
rose-bush without the slightest feeling of their beauty or char
acter ; and without showing one spark of intellect or affection
from beginning to end. Anything is better than this ; and yet
the very highest schools do the same thing, or nearly so, but
with totally different motives and perceptions, and the result is
divine. On the whole, I conceive that the extremes of good and
evil lie with the finishers, and that whatever glorious power
we may admit in men like Tintoret, whatever attractiveness of
method to Rubens, Rembrandt, or, though in far less degree,
our own Reynolds, still the thoroughly great men are those
who have done everything thoroughly, and who, in a word, have
never despised anything, however small, of God's making. And
this is the chief fault of our English landscapists, that they
have not the intense all-observing penetration of well-balanced
mind ; they have hot, except in one or two instances, anything ;
of that feeling which Wordsworth shows in the following
lines :—

84 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTS
" So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive ; —
Would that the little flowers were born to live
Conscious-of half the pleasure which they give.
Tbat to this mountain daisy's self were known
The beauty of its star-shaped slmdow, thrown
On the smooth surface of this naked stone."
That is a little bit of good, downright, foreground "painting
— no mistake about it ; daisy, and shadow, and stone texture
and all. Our painters must come to this before they have done
their duty ; and yet, on the other hand, let them beware of
finishing, for the sake of finish, all over their picture. The
ground is not to be all over daisies, nor is every daisy to have its
star-shaped shadow ; tliere is as much finish in the right con
cealment of things as in the right exhbition of them ; and
while I demand this amount of specific character where nature
shows it, I demand equal fidelity to her where she conceals it.
To paint mist rightly, space rightly, and light rightly, it may
be often necessary to paint nothing else rightly, but the rule is
simple for all that ; if the artist is painting something that he
knows and loves, as he knows it because he loves it, whether, it
be the fair strawberry of Cima, or the clear sky of Francia, or
the blazing incomprehensible mist of Turner, he is all right ; but
the moment he does anything as he thinks it ought to be, be
cause he does not care about it, he is all wrong. He has only
to ask himself whether he cares for anything except himself ;
so far as he does he will make a good picture ; so far as he thinks
of himself a vile one. This is the root of the viciousness of the
whole French school. Industry they have, learning they have,
power they have, feeling they have, yet not so much feeling as
ever to force them to forget themselves even for a moment ;
the ruling motive is invariably vanity, and the picture therefore
an abortion. Returning to the pictures of the religious
§ 11. The open . . ° , . , , , \ 6
skies of the re- schools, we nnd that their open skies are also of the
hbw valuable! highest value. Their preciousness is such that no
Mountain draw- , , , . .
mg of MaFaccio. subsequent schools can by comparison be said to
Beliinfs and have painted sky at all, but only clouds, or mist, or
blue canopies. The golden sky of Marco Basaiti in
the Academy of Venice altogether overpowers and renders value-

SEC. I. CH. VH.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 85
less that of Titian beside it. Those of Francia in the gallery of
Bologna are even more wonderful, because cooler in tone and
behind figures in full light: The touches of white light in the
horizon of Angelico's Last Judgment are felt and wrought with
equal truth. The dignified and simple forms of cloud in repose
are often by these painters sublimely expressed, but of changeful
cloud form they show no examples.^ The architecture, moun
tains, and water of these distances are commonly conventional ;
motives are to be found in them of the highest beauty, and es
pecially remarkable for quantity and meaning of incident ; but
they can only be studied or accepted in the particular feeling
that produced them. It may generally be observed that what
ever has been the result of strong emotion is ill seen unless
through the medium of such emotion, and will lead to conclu
sions utterly false and perilous, if it be made a subject of cold-
hearted observance, or an object of systematic imitation. One
piece of genuine mountain drawings however, occurs in the
landscape of Masaccio's Tribute Money. It is impossible to say
what strange results might have taken place in this particular
field of art, or how suddenly a great school of landscape might
have arisen, had the life of this great painter been prolonged.
Of this particular fresco I shall have much to say hereafter.
The two brothers Bellini gave a marked and vigorous impulse
to the landscape of Venice, of Gentile's architecture I shall
speak presently. Giovanni's, though in style less interesting
and in place less prominent, occurring chiefly as a kind of frame
to his pictures, connecting them with the architecture of the
churches for which they were intended, is in refinement of real
ization, I suppose, quite unrivalled, especially in passages requir
ing pure gradation, as the hollows of vaultings. That of Ver
onese would look ghostly beside it ; that of Titian lightless.
His landscape is occasionally quaint and strange like Gior-
gione's, and as fine in color, as that behind the Madonna in
the Brera gallery at Milan ; but a more truthful fragment occurs
in the picture in San Francesco della Vigna at Venice ; and in
the picture of St. Jerome in the church of San Grisostomo,
the landscape is as perfect and beautiful as any background may
legitimately be, and finer, as far as it goes, than -anything of
Titian's. It is remarkable for the absolute truth of its sky}

86 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTE*
whose blue, clear as crystal, and though deep in tone bright ag
the open air, is gradated to the horizon with a cautiousness and
finish almost inconceivable ; and to obtain light at the horizon
without contradicting the system of chiaroscuro adopted in the *
figures which are lighted from the right hand, it is barred
across with some glowing white cirri which, in their turn, are
opposed by a single dark horizontal line of lower cloud ; and to
throw the whole farther back, there is a wreath of rain cloud of
warmer color floating above the mountains, lighted on its under
edge, whose faithfulness to nature, both in hue and in its light
and shattering form, is altogether exemplary ; the wandering
of the light among the hills is equally studied, and the whole
is crowned by the grand realization of the leaves of the fig-tree
alluded to (Vol. II. Part in. Chap. 5,) as well as of the herbage
upon the rocks. Considering that with all this care and com
pleteness in the background, there is nothing that is not of mean- ,
ing and necessity in reference to the figures, and that in the
figures themselves the dignity and heavenliness of the highest re
ligious painters .are combined with a force and purity of color,
greater I think than'Sitian's, it is a work which may be set be
fore the young artist as in every respect a nearly faultless guide.
Giorgione's landscape is inventive and solemn, but owing to the
rarity even of his nominal works I dare not speak of it in general
terms. It is certainly conventional, and is rather, I imagine, to
be studied for its color and its motives than its details.
„ A „ Of Titian and Tintoret I have spoken already.
§ 13. Landscape m, . r J
of Titian and Ihe latter js every way the greater master, never
indulging in the exaggerated color of Titian, and
attaining far more perfect light ; his grasp of nature is more
extensive, and his view of her more imaginative, (incidental no
tices of his landscape will be found in the chapter on Imagina
tion penetrative, of the second volume,) but he is usually too
impatient to carry his thoughts as far out, or to realize with as
much substantiality as Titian. In the St. Jerome of the latter.'
in the gallery of the Brera, there is a superb example of the
modes in which the objects of landscape may be either suggested
or elaborated according to their place and claim. The larger
features of the ground, foliage, and drapery, as well as the lion
in the lower angle, are executed with a slightness which admits

SEC. I. CH. VII.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 87
not of close examination, and which, if not in shade, would be
offensive to the generality of observers. But on the rock above
the lion, where it turns towards the light, and where the eye is
intended to dwell, there is a wreath of ivy of which every leaf is
separately drawn with the greatest accuracy ahd care, and be
side it a lizard, studied with equal earnestness, yet always with
that right grandeur of manner to which I have alluded in the
preface. Tintoret seldom reaches or attempts the elaboration
in substance and color of these objects, but he is even more
truth-telling and certain in his rendering of all the great charac
ters of specific form, and as the painter of Space he stands alto
gether alone among dead masters ; being the first who intro
duced the slightness and confusion of touch which are expressive
of the effects of luminous objects seen through large spaces of
air, and the principles of aerial color which have been since
carried out in other fields by Turner. I conceive him to be the
most powerful painter whom the world has seen, and that he
was prevented from being also the most perfect, partly by unto
ward circumstances in his position and education, partly by
the very fulness and impetuosity of his own mind, partly by the
want of religious feeling and its accompanying perception 'of
beauty ; for his noble treatment of religious subject, of which I
have given several examples in the third part, appears to be the
result only of~that grasp which a great and well-toned intellect
necessarily takes of any subject submitted to it, and is wanting
in the signs of the more withdrawn and sacred sympathies.
But whatever advances were made by Tintoret in modes of
, artistical treatment, he cannot be considered as having enlarged
the sphere "of landscape conception. He took no cognizance
even of the materials and motives, so singularly rich in color,
which were forever around him in his own Venice. All por
tions of Venetian scenery introduced by him are treated con
ventionally and carelessly ; the architectural characters lost
altogether, the sea distinguished from the sky only by a darker
green, while of the sky itself only those forms were employed
by him which had been repeated again and again for centu
ries, though in less tangibility and completion. Of mountain
scenery he has left, I believe, no example so far carried as that Of
John Bellini above instanced.

88 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTD,
The Florentine and Ambrian schools supply u®
liorence,°Miiau, with no examples of landscape, except that intro-
and Bologna. duced by their earliesfc masters, gradually over
whelmed under renaissance architecture.
Leonardo's landscape has been of unfortunate effect on art,
so far as it has had effect at all. In realization of detail he verges
on the ornamental, in his rock outlines he has all the deficien
cies and little of the feeling of the earlier men.' Behind the
" Sacrifice for the Friends" of Giotto at Pisa, there is a sweet
piece of rock incident, a little fountain breaking out at the
mountain foot, and trickling away, its course marked by
branches of reeds, the latter formal enough certainly, and al
ways in triplets, but still with a sense of nature pervading the
whole which is utterly wanting to the rocks of Leonardo in the
Holy Family in the Louvre. The latter are grotesque without
being ideal, and extraordinary without being impressive. The
sketch in the Uffizii of Florence has some fine foliage, and there
is of course a certain virtue in all the work of a man like Leo
nardo which I would not depreciate, but our admiration of it in
this particular field must be qualified, and our following cau
tious. No advances were made in landscape, so far as I know, after
the time of Tintoret ; the power of art ebbed gradually away
from the derivative schools ; various degrees of cleverness or feel
ing being manifested in more or less brilliant conventionalism.
I once supposed there was some life in the landscape of Domen-
ichino, but in this I must have been wrong. The man who
painted the Madonna del Rosario and Martyrdom of St. Agnes
in the gallery of Bologna, is palpably incapable of doing any
thing good, great, or right in any field, way, or kind, whatso
ever.*

* This is no rash method of judgment, sweeping and hasty as it may ap
pear. From the weaknesses of an artist, or failures, however numerous, we
have no right to conjecture his total inability ; a time may come when he
may rise into sudden strength, or an instance occur when his efforts shall be
successful. But there are some pictures which rank not under the head of
"failures, but of perpetrations or commissions ; some things which a man
cannot do nor say without sealing forever his character and capacity. The
angel holding the cf oss with his finger in his eye, the roaring red-faced chil-

WlC. I. CH. VII.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 89
• nde gal_ Though, however, at this period the general
vator, and the grasp of the schools was perpetually contracting,
a gift was given fo the world by Claude, for which
we are perhaps hardly enough grateful, owing to the very fre
quency of our after enjoyment of it. -He set the sun in heaven,
and was, I suppose, the first who attempted anything like the
realization of actual sunshine in misty air. He gives the first
example of the study of nature for her own sake, and allowing
for the unfortunate circumstances of his education, and for his
evident inferiority of intellect, more could hardly have been
expected from him, His false taste, forced composition, and
ignorant rendering of detail have perhaps been of more detri
ment to art than the gift he gave was of advantage. The char
acter of his own mind is singular ; I know of no other instance
of a man's working from nature comtinually with the desire of
being true, and never attaining the power of drawing so much as
a bough of a tree rightly. Salvator, a man originally endowed
with far higher power of mind than Claude, was altogether un
faithful to his mission, and has left us, I believe, no gift. Every
thing that he did is evidently for the sake of exhibiting his own
dexterity ; there is no love of any kind for anything ; his choice
of landscape features is dictated by no delight in the sublime,
but by mere animal restlessness or ferocity, guided by an imagi
native power o^ which he could not altogether deprive himself.
He has done nothing which others have not done better, or
which it would /not have been better not to have done ; in
dren about the crown of thorns, the blasphemous (I speak deliberately and .
determinedly) head of Christ upon the handkerchief, and the mode in which
the martyrdom of the saint is exhibited (I do not choose to use the expres
sions which alone could characterize it) are perfect, sufficient, incontroverti
ble proofs that whatever appears good in any of the doings of such a painter
must be deceptive, and that we may be assured that our taste is corrupted
and false whenever we feel disposed to admire him. I am prepared to sup
port this position, however uncharitable it may seem ; a man may be
tempted into a gross sin by passion, and forgiven ; and yet there are some
kinds of sins into which only men of a certain kind can be tempted, and
which cannot be forgiven. It should be added, however, that the artistical
qualities of these pictures are in every way worthy of the conceptions they
realize ; I do not recollect any instances of color or execution so coarse and
feelingless.

90 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PABTT*
nature, he mistakes distortion for energy, and savageness for
sublimity ; in man, mendicity for sanctity, and conspiracy for
heroism. The landscape of Nicolo Poussin shows much power, and is
usually composed and elaborated on right principles, (compare
preface to second edition,) but I am aware of nothing that it has
attained of new or peculiar excellence ; it is a graceful mixture
of qualities to be found in other masters in higher/degrees. In
finish it is inferior to Leonardo's, in invention to Giorgione's, in
truth to Titian's, in grace to Raffaelle's. The landscapes of
Gaspar have serious feeling and often valuable and solemn color ;
virtuejess otherwise, they are full of the most degraded manner
ism, and I believe the admiration of them to have been produc
tive of extensive evil among recent schools.
The development of landscape north of the
§15. German and . . , x .,,,-, n
Flemish land- Alps, presents us with the same -general phases
under modifications dependent partly on less
intensity of feeling, partly on diminished availableness of.land-
scape material. That of the religious painters is treated with '
the same affectionate completion ; but exuberance of fancy
sometimes diminishes the influence of the imagination, and the
absence of the Italian force of passion admits of more patient
and somewhat' less intellectual elaboration. A morbid habit of
mind is evident in many, seeming to lose sight of the balance
j and relations of things, .so as to become intense in trifles,
gloomily minute, as in Albert Durer ; and this mingled with a
, feverish operation of the fancy, which appears to result, from
certain habitual conditions of bodily health rather than of
mental culture, (and of which the sickness without the power is
eminently characteristic of the modern Germans ;) but with
all this there are virtues of the very highest order in those
schools, and I regret that my knowledge is insufficient to admit
of my giving any detailed account of them.
In the landscape of Rembrandt and Rubens, we have the
northern parallel to the power of the Venetians. Among the
etchings and drawings of Rembrandt, landscape thoughts may
be found not unworthy of Titian, and studies from nature of
sublime fidelity ; but his system of chiaroscuro was inconsistent
with the gladness, and his peculiar modes of feeling with the

SEC. I. CH. VII.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 91
grace, of nature ; nor from my present knowledge can I name
any work on canvas in which he has carried out the dignity of
his etched conceptions, or exhibited any perceptiveness of new
truths. Not so Rubens, who perhaps furnishes us with the first in
stances of complete unconventional unaffected landscape. His
treatment is healthy, manly, and rational, not very affectionate,
yet often condescending to minute and multitudinous detail ;
always as far as it goes pure, forcible, and refreshing, consum
mate in composition, and marvellous in color. In the Pitti
palace, the best of its two Rubens landscapes has been placed
near a characteristic and highly-finished Titian, the marriage of
St. Catherine. But for the grandeur of line and solemn feeling
in the flock of sheep, and the figures of the latter work, I doubt
if all its glow and depth of tone could support its overcharged
green and blue against the open breezy sunshine of the Fleming.
I do not mean to rank the art of Rubens with that of Titian, but
it is always to be remembered that Titian hardly ever paints sun
shine, but a certain opalescent twilight which has as much of
human emotion as of imitative truth in it, —
" The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality :"
and that art of this kind must always be liable to some appear
ance of failure when compared with a less pathetic statement of
facts. It is to be noted, however, that the licenses taken by Rubens
in particular instances are as bold as his general statements are
sincere. In the landscape just instanced the horizon is an
oblique line ; in the Sunset of our own gallery many of the
shadows fall at right angles to the light ; and in a picture in
the Dulwich gallery a rainbow is seen by the spectator at the side
of the sun.
These bold and frank licenses are not to be considered as
detracting from the rank of the painter ; they are usually
characteristic of those minds whose grasp of nature is so certain
and extensive as to enable them fearlessly to sacrifice a truth of
actuality to a truth of feeling. Yet the young artist must keep

92 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTH
in mind that the painter's greatness consists not in his taking,.
but in liis atoning for them.
16 The lower Among the professed landscapists of the Dutch
Dutch schools. school, we find much dexterous imitation of cer-:
tain kinds of nature, remarkable usually for its persevering
rejection of whatever is great, valuable, or affecting in the
object studied. Where, however, they show real desire to paint
what they saw as far as they saw it, there is of course much in
them that is instructive, as in Cuyp and in the etchings of
Waterloo, which have even very sweet and genuine feeling ; and
so in some of their architectural painters. But the object of the
great body of them is merely to display manual dexterities of
one kind or another, and their effect on the public mind is so
totally for evil, that though I do not deny the advantage an
artist of real judgment may derive from the study of some of
them, I conceive the best patronage that any monarch could
possibly bestow upon the arts, would be to collect the whole body
of them into a grand gallery and burn it to the ground.
Passing to the English school, we find, a con-
Lhooi, Wilson necting link between them and the Italians form-
and Gainsborough. ed by Richard Wilson. Had this artist studied
under favorable circumstances, there is evidence of his hav- •
ing possessed power enough to produce an original picture ;
but, corrupted by study of the Poussins, and gathering his
materials chiefly in their field, the district about Rome — a dis-
/ trict especially unfavorable, as exhibiting no pure or healthy.
j nature, but a diseased and overgrown Flora among half-de
veloped volcanic rocks, loose calcareous concretions, and moul-
j dering wrecks of buildings — and whose spirit, I conceive, to
i be especially opposed to the natural tone of the English mind,
j his originality was altogether overpowered, and, though
he paints in a manly way and occasionally reaches exquisite
tones of color, as in the small and very precious picture belong
ing to Mr. Rogers, and sometimes manifests some freshness of
feeling, as in the Villa of Maecenas of our National Gallery,
yet his pictures are in general mere diluted adaptations from
Poussin and Salvator, without the dignity of the one or the fire
of the other.
Not so Gainsborough, a great name his whether of the Eng-

BEO. t CH. VH.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 93
lish or any other school. The greatest colorist since Rubens,
and the last, I think, of legitimate colorists ; that is to say, of
those who were fully acquainted with the power of their mate
rial ; pure in his English feeling, profound in his seriousness,
graceful in his gayety, there are nevertheless certain deductions
to be made from his. worthiness which yet I dread to make, be
cause my knowledge of his landscape works is not extensive,
enough to justify me in speaking of them decisively ; but this is
to be noted of all that I know, that they are rather motives of
feeling and color than earnest studies ; that their execution is
in some degree mannered, and always hasty ; that they are alto
gether wanting in the affectionate detail of which I have already
spoken ; and that their color is in some measure dependent on a
bituminous brown and conventional green which have more of
science than of truth in them. These faults may be sufficiently
noted in the magnificent picture presented by him to the Royal
Academy, and tested by a comparison of it with the Turner (Llan-
beris,) in the same room. Nothing can be more attractively
luminous or aerial than the distance of the Gainsborough, noth
ing more bold or inventive than the forms of its crags and the
diffusion of the broad distant light upon them, where a vulgar
artist would have thrown them into dark contrast. But it will
be found that the light of the distance is brought out by a vio
lent exaggeration of the gloom in the valley ; that the forms of
the green trees which bear the chief light are careless and
ineffective ; that the markings of the crags are equally hasty ;
and that no object -in the foreground has realization enough to
enable the eye to rest upon it. The Turner, a much feebler pic
ture in its first impression, and altogether inferior in the qual
ity and value of its individual hues, will yet be found ''u the
end more forcible, because unexaggerated ; its gloom is mod
erate and aerial, its light deep in tone, its color entirely uncon
ventional, and the forms of its rocks studied with the most
devoted care. With Gainsborough terminates the series of
painters connected with the elder schools. By whom, among
those yet living or lately lost, the impulse was first given to mod
ern landscape, I attempt not to decide. Such questions are
rather invidious than interesting ; the particular tone or direc
tion of any' school seems to me always to have resulted rather

94 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTE
from certain phases of national character, limited to particular
periods, than from individual teaching ; and, especially among
moderns, what has been good in each master has been com
monly original.
I is. constable, I nave already alluded to the simplicity and
Caicott. earnestness of the mind of Constable ; to its vig-
prous rupture with school laws, and to its unfortunate error on
the opposite side. Unteachableness seems to have been a main
feature of his character, and there is corresponding want of ven
eration in the way he approaches nature herself. His early
education and associations were also against him ; they induced
in him a morbid preference of subjects of a low order. I have
never seen any work of his in which there were any signs of his
being able to draw, and hence even the most necessary details
are painted "by him inefficiently. His works are also eminently
wanting both in rest and refinement, and Fuseli's jesting com
pliment is too true ; for the showery weather in which the artist
delights, misses alike the majesty of storm and the loveliness
of calm weather : it is great-coat weather, and nothing more.
There is strange want of depth in the mind which has no plea&f
ure in sunbeams but when piercing painfully through clouds,.
nor in foliage but when shaken by the wind, nor in light itself
but when flickering, glistening, restless, and feeble. Yet, with
all these deductions, his works are to be deeply respected as
thoroughly original, thoroughly honest, free from affectation,
manly in manner, frequently successful in cool color, and
especially realizing certain motives of English scenery with
perhaps as much affection as such scenery, unless when re
garded through media of feeling derived from higher sources,
is calculated to inspire.
On the works of Caicott, high as his reputation stands, I
should look with far less respect ; I see not any preference or
affection in the artist ; there is no tendency in him with which
we can sympathize, nor does there appear any sign of aspiration,
effort, or enjoyment in any one of his works. He appears to
have completed them methodically, to have been content with
them when completed, to have thought them good, legitimate,
regular pictures ; perhaps in some respects better than nature.
He painted everything tolerably, and nothing excellently ; he

SEC. I. CH. VII.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 95
has given us no gift, struck for us no light, and though he has
produced one or two valuable works, of which the finest I know
is the Marine in the possession of Sir J. Swinburne, they will,
I believe, in future have no place among those considered
representative of the English school.
Throughout the range of elder art it will be
tendency of re remembered we have found no instance of the
cent landscape. „ ... „ -. . , . „ , . .
faithful painting of mountain scenery, except in a
faded background of Masaccio's : nothing more than rocky
eminences, undulating hills, or fantastic crags, and even these
treated altogether under typical forms. The more specific study
of mountains seems to have coincided with the most dexterous
"practice of water-color ; but it admits of doubt whether the
choice of subject has been directed by the vehicle, or whether,
as I rather think, the tendency of national feeling has been fol
lowed in the use of the most appropriate means. Something is
to be attributed to the increased demand for slighter works of
art, and much to the sense of the quality of objects now called
picturesque, which appears to be exclusively of modern origin.
From what feeling the character of middle-age architecture
and costume arose, or with what kind of affection their forms
were regarded by the inventors, I am utterly unable to guess ;.
but Of this I think we may be assured, that the natural instinct
and child-like wisdom of those days were altogether different
from the modern feeling, which appears to have taken its origin
in the absence of such objects, and to be based rather on the
strangeness of their occurrence than on any real affection for
them ; and which is certainly so shallow and ineffective as to be
instantly and' always sacrificed by the majority to fashion, com
fort, or economy. Yet I trust that there is a healthy though
feeble love of nature mingled with it, nature pure, separate,
felicitous, which is also peculiar to the moderns ; and as signs
of this feeling, or ministers to it, I look with veneration upon
many works which, in a technical point of view, are of minor
importance. I have been myself indebted for much teaching
cox. False use of atad more delight to those of the late G. Robson.
8 y e- Weaknesses there are in them manifold, much bad
drawing, much forced color, much over finish, little of what

96 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARf'n,
artists call composition ; but there is thorough affection for the
thing drawn ; they are serious and quiet in the highest degree,
certain qualities of atmosphere and texture in them have never
been excelled, and certain facts of mountain scenery never but
by them expressed, as, for instance, the stillness and depth of
the mountain tarns, with the reversed imagery of their darkness
signed across by the soft lines of faintly touching winds ; the
solemn flush of the brown fern and glowing heath under evening
light ; the purple mass of mountains far removed, seen against
clear still twilight. With equal gratitude I look to the draw
ings of David Cox, which, in spite of their loose and seemingly
careless execution, are not less serious in their meaning, nor less
important in their truth. I must, however, in reviewing those
modern works in which certain modes of execution are partie- .
ularly manifested, insist especially on this general principle,
applicable to all times of art ; that what is usually called the
style or manner of an artist is, in all good art, nothing but
the best means of getting at the particular truth which the artist
wanted ; it is not a mode peculiar to himself of getting at the
same truths as other men, but the only mode of getting the par
ticular facts he desires, and which mode, if others had desired
to express those facts, they also must have adopted. All habits
of execution persisted in under no such necessity, but because
the artist has invented them, or desires to show his dexterity in
them, are utterly base ; for every good painter finds so much
difficulty in reaching the end he sees and desires, that he has
no time nor power left for playing tricks on the road to it ; he
catches at the easiest and best means he can get ; it is possible
that such means may be singular, and then it will be said that
his style, is strange ; but it is not a style at all, it is the saying of
a particular thing in the only way in which it possibly can be
,said. Thus the reed pen outline and peculiar touch of Prout,
which are frequently considered as mere manner, are in fact
the only means of expressing the crumbling character of stone
which the artist loves and desires. That character never has
been expressed except by him, nor will it ever be expressed
except by his means. And it is of the greatest importance to
distinguish this kind of necessary and virtuous manner from
the conventional manners very frequent in derivative schools,

BBC I. CH. Va.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 97
and always utterly to be contemned, wherein an artist, desiring
nothing and feeling nothing, executes everything in his own
particular mode, and teaches emulous scholars how to do with
difficulty what might have been done with ease. It is true that
there are sometimes instances in which great masters have
employed different means of getting at the same end, but in
these, cases their choice has been always of those which to them
appeared the shortest and most complete ; their practice has
never been prescribed by affectation or continued from habit,
except so far as must be expected from such weakness as is c6m-
mon to all men ; from hands that necessarily do most readily
what they are most accustomed to do, and minds always liable
to prescribe to the hands that which they can do most readily.
The recollection of this will keep us from being offended with
the loose and blotted handling of David Cox. There is no
other means by which his object could be attained. The loose
ness, coolness, and moisture of his herbage ; the rustling
crumpled freshness of his broad-leaved weeds ; the play of pleas
ant light across his deep heathered moor or plashing sand ; the
melting of fragments of white mist into the dropping blue above;
all this has not been fully recorded except by him, and what
there is of accidental in his mode of reaching it, answers grace
fully to the accidental part of nature herself. Yet he is capable
of more than this, and if he suffers himself uniformly to paint
beneath his capability, that which began in feeling must neces
sarily end in manner. He paints too many small pictures, and
perhaps has of late permitted his peculiar execution to . be more
manifest than is necessary. Of this, he is himself the best judge.
For almost all faults of this kind the public are answerable,
not the painter. I have alluded to one of his grander works —
such as I should wish always to see him paint — in the preface ;
another, I think still finer, a red sunset on distant hills, almost
unequalled for truth and power of color, was painted by him
several years ago, and remains, I believe, in his own possession.
121. Copley The- deserved popularity of Copley Fielding has
Phenomena of rendered it less necessary for me to allude frequently
distant color. to j^g works in the following pages than it would
otherwise have been, more especially as my own sympathies and
enjoyments are so entirely directed in the channel which his art

98 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PART a
has taken, that I am afraid of trusting them too far. Yet 1
may, perhaps, be permitted to speak of myself so far as I sup
pose my own feelings to be representative of those of a class ;
and. I suppose that there are many who, like myself, at some
period of their life have derived more intense and healthy pleas
ure from the works of this painter than of any other -what
soever ; healthy, because always based on his faithful and simple
rendering of nature, and that of very lovely and impressive
nature, altogether freed from coarseness, violence, or vulgarity.
Various references to. that which he has attained will be found.'
subsequently : what I am now about to say respecting what he
has not attained, is not in depreciation of what he has accom
plished, but in regret at his suffering powers of a high order to
remain in any measure dormant.
He indulges himself too much in the use of crude color-
Pure cobalt, violent rose, and purple, are of frequent occurrence
in his distances ; pure siennas and other browns in his fore?
grounds, and that not as expressive of lighted but of iocal color.: ;:
The reader will find in the following chapters that I am no
advocate for subdued coloring ; but crude color is not bright
color, and there was never a noble or brilliant work of color yet
produced, whose real form did not depend on the subduing of its
tints rather than the elevation of them.
It is perhaps one of the most difficult lessons to learn in art,
that the warm colors of distance, even the most glowing, are
subdued by the air so as in no wise to resemble the same color
seen on a foreground object ; so that the rose of sunset on
clouds or mountains has a gray in it which distinguishes it from
the rose color of the leaf of a flower ; and the mingling of this
-gray of distance, without in the slightest degree taking away
the expression of the intense and perfect purity of the color in
and by itself, is perhaps the last attainment of* the great land
scape colorist. In the same way the blue of distance, however
intense, is not the blue of a bright blue flower, and it is not
distinguished from it by different texture merely, but by a cer
tain intermixture and under current of warm color, which is
altogether wanting in many of the blues of Fielding's distances ;
and so of every bright distant color ; while in foreground where
colors may be, and ought to be, pure, yet that any of them are

SEC. I. CH. VII.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 99
expressive of light is only to be felt where there is the accurate
fitting of them to their relative shadows which we find in the
works of Giorgione, Titian, Tintoret, Veronese, Turner, and
all other great colorists in proportion as they are so. Of this
fitting of light to shadow Fielding is altogether regardless, so
that his foregrounds are constantly assuming the aspect of over
charged local color instead of sunshine, and his figures and
cattle look transparent. „
Again, the finishing of Fielding's foregrounds,
mountain fore- as regards their drawing, is minute without accu
racy, multitudinous without thought, and confused
without mystery. Where execution is seen to be in measure
accidental, as in Cox, it may be received as representative of
what is accidental in nature ; but there is no part of Fielding's
foreground that is accidental ; it is evidently worked and re
worked, dotted, rubbed, and finished with great labor, and
where the virtue, playfulness, and freedom of accident' are thus
removed, one of two virtues must be substituted for them.
- Either we must have the deeply studied and imaginative fore
ground, of which every part is necessary to every other, and
whose every spark of light is essential to the well-being of the
whole, of which the foregrounds of Turner in the Liber Stu-
diorum are the most eminent examples I know, or else we must
have in some measure the botanical faithfulness and realiza
tion of the early masters. Neither of these virtues is to be found
in Fielding's. Its features, though grouped with feeling, are
yet scattered and inessential. Any one of them ' might be
altered in many ways without doing harm ; there is no propor
tioned, necessary, unalterable relation among them ; no evidence
of invention or of careful thought, while on the -other hand
there is no botanical or geological accuracy, nor any point on
which the eye may resf with thorough contentment in its realiza
tion. It seems strange that to an artist of so quick feeling the
details of a mountain foreground should not prove irresistibly
attractive, and entice him to greater accuracy of study. There
is not a fragment of its living rock, nor a tuft of its heathery
herbage, that has not adorable manifestations of God's working
thereupon. The harmonies of color among the native lichens

100 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTit>j
are better than Titian's ; the interwoven bells of campanula and
heather are better, than all the arabesques of the Vatican ; they;
need no improvement, arrangement, nor alteration, nothing
but love, and every combination of them is different from every
other, so that a painter need never repeat himself if he will only
be true ; yet all these sources of power have been of late entirely1
neglected by Fielding ; there is evidence through all his fore
grounds of their being mere home inventions, and like all-'
home inventions they exhibit perpetual resemblances and repe
titions ; the painter is evidently embarrassed without his rutted
road in the middle, and his boggy pool at the side, which pool
he has of late painted in hard lines of violent blue : there is
not a stone, even of the nearest and most important, which has
its real lichens upon it, or a studied form or anything more to
occupy the mind than certain variations of dark and light
browns. The same faults must be found with his present
painting' of foliage, neither the stems nor leafage being ever;
studied from nature ; and this is the more to be regretteJu
because in the earlier works of the artist there was much admir
able drawing, and even yet his power is occasionally developed in
his larger works, as in a Bolton Abbey on canvas, which was,--'!
cannot say, exhibited, — but was in the rooms of the Eoyal
Academy in 1843. * I should have made the preceding remarks
* It appears not to be sufficiently understood by those artists who com
plain acrimoniously of their positions on the Academy walls, that the Acad-.
emicians have in their own rooms a right to the line and the best places
near it ; in their taking this position there is no abuse nor injustice ; but the
Academicians should remember that with their rights they have their duties,
and their duty is to determine among the works of artists not belonging! to
their body those which are most likely to advance public knowledge and
judgment, and to give these the best places next their own ; neither would
it detract from their dignity if they occasionally ceded a square even of
their own territory, as they did gracefully and' rightly, and, I am sorry to
add, disinterestedly, to the picture of Paul de la Roche in 1844. Now the
Academicians know perfectly well that the mass of portrait which encum
bers their walls at half height is worse than useless, seriously harmful to the
public taste, and it was highly criminal (I use the word advisedly) that the
valuable and interesting work of Fielding, of which I have above spoken,
should have been placed where it was, above three rows of eye-glasses a*
.^jaistcoats. A very beautiful work of Harding's was treated either in the '
same or the following exhibition with still greater injustice. Fielding's was

SEC; I. CH. vn.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 101
with more hesitation and diffidence, but that, from a comparison
of works of this kind with the slighter ornaments of the water-
color rooms, it seems evident that the painter is not unaware of
the deficiencies of these latter, and concedes something of what
he would himself desire to what he has found to be the feeling
of a majority of his admirers. This is a dangerous modesty, and
especially so in these days when the judgment of the many is
palpably as. artificial as their feeling is cold.
There is much that is instructive and deserv
ing of high praise in the sketches of De Wint. Yet
it is to be remembered that even the pursuit of truth, however
determined, will have results limited and imperfect when its
chief motive is the pride of being true ; and I fear that these
works, sublime as many of them have unquestionably been,
testify more accuracy of eye and experience of color than exer
cise of thought. Their truth of effect is often purchased at too
great an expense by the loss of all beauty of form, and of the
higher refinements of color ; deficiencies, however, on which
I shall not insist, since the value of tUe sketches, as far as they
go, is great ; they have done good service and set good example,
and whatever their failings may be, there is evidence in them that
the painter has always done what he believed to be right.
The influence of the masters of whom we have-
Engraving, j. d. hitherto spoken is confined to those who have
, r mg' access to their actual works, since the particular
qualities in which they excel, are in no wise to be rendered by
the engraver. Those of whom we have next to speak are known
to the public in a great measure by the help of the engraver ;
and while their influence is thus very far extended, their modes
of working are perhaps, in some degree modified by the habitual
reference to the future translation into light and shade ; refer-
hieiely put out of -sight ; Harding's where its faults were conspicuous and
its virtues lost. It was an Alpine scene, of which the foreground, rocks,
and torrents were painted with unrivalled fidelity and precision ; the foliage
was dexterous,, the aerial gradations of the mountains tender and multitudi
nous, their forms carefully studied and very grand. The blemish of the pic
ture was a buff -colored tower with a red roof ; singularly meagre in detail,
and conventionally relieved from a mass of gloom. The picture was placed
*here nothing but this tower could be seen.

102 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTU,
ence which is indeed beneficial in the care it induces respecting
the arrangement of the chiaroscuro and the explanation of .tlfe™
forms, but which is harmful, so far as it involves a dependence
rather on quantity of picturesque material than on substantial
color or simple treatment, and as it admits of indolent diminu
tion of size and slightness of execution.
We should not be just to the present works of J. D. Harding
unless we took this influence into account. Some years back
none of our artists realized more laboriously, nor obtained more
substantial color and texture ; a large drawing in the possession
of B. G. Windus, Esq., of Tottenham, is of great value as an
example of his manner at the period ; a manner not only care
ful, but earnest, and free from any kind of affectation. Partly
from the habit of making slight and small drawings for engrayv
ers, and partly also, I imagine, from an overstrained seeking
after appearances of dexterity in execution, his drawings, have
of late years become both less solid and less complete ; not,
however, without attaining certain brilliant qualities in exchange
which are very valuable in the treatment of some of the looser
portions of subject. Of the extended knowledge and various "
powers of this painter, frequent instances are noted in the fol-,
lowing pages. Neither, perhaps, are rightly estimated among
artists, owing to a certain coldness of sentiment in his choice of
subject, and a continual preference of the picturesque to the
impressive ; proved perhaps in nothing so distinctly as in the
little interest usually attached to his skies, which, if aerial and
expressive of space and movement, content him, though desti-".
tute of story, power, or character : an exception must be made
in favor of the very grand sunrise on the Swiss Alps, exhibited •
in 1844, wherein the artist's real power was in some measure
displayed, though I am convinced he is still capablo of doing
far greater things. So in his foliage he is apt to sacrifice *
dignity of his trees to their wildness, and lose the forest in thf
copse, neither is he at all accurate enough in his expression 4&
species or realization of near portions. These are deficiencies,
bo it observed, of sentiment, not of perception, as there are few
who equal him in rapidity of seizure of material truth.
Very extensive influence in modern art must be attributed
to the works of Samuel Prout ; and as there are some eir*

BBC. I. CH. VH.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 103
cumstances belonging to his treatment of architectural sub
ject which it does not come within the sphere
Print. Early . of the following chapters to examine, I shall
tectm-e, how defl- endeavor to note the more important of them
cient' here.
Let us glance back for a moment to the architectural drawing
of earlier times. Before the time of the Bellinis at Venice, and
of Ghirlandajo at Florence, I believe there are no examples of
anything beyond conventional representation of architecture,
often rich, quaint, and full of interest, as Memmi?s abstract of
the Duomo at Florence at S*a. Maria Novella ; but not to be
classed with any genuine efforts at representation. It is mueh
to be -regretted that the power and custom of introducing well-
drawn architecture should have taken place only when architec
tural taste had been itself corrupted, and that the architecture
introduced by Bellini, Ghirlandajo, Francia, and the other
patient and powerful workmen of the fifteenth century, is
exclusively of the renaissance styles ; while their drawing of it
furnishes little that is of much interest to the architectural
draughtsman as such, being always governed by a reference to
its subordinate position, so that all forceful shadow and play of
color are (most justly) surrendered for quiet and uniform hues
of gray and chiaroscuro, of extreme simplicity. Whatever they
chose to do they did with consummate grandeur, (note especially
the chiaroscuro of the square window of Ghirlandajo's, which
so much delighted Vasari in Sta. Maria Novella ; and the daring
management of a piece of the perspective in the Salutation,
opposite where he has painted a flight of stairs descending in
' front, though the picture is twelve feet above the eye) ; and yet
'this grandeur, in all these men, results rather from the general
rpower obtained in their drawing of the figure than from any
definite knowledge respecting the things introduced in these
'accessory parts ; so that while in some points it is impossible
for any -painter to equal these accessories, unless he were in all
respects as great as Ghirlandajo or Bellini, in others it is pos
sible for him, with far inferior powers, to attain a representa
tion both more accurate and more interesting.
. In order to arrive at the knowledge of these, we must
briefly take note of a few of the modes in which architecture

104* GENERAL APPLICATION OF [TARTll,
itself is agreeable to the mind, especially of the - influence upon
the character of the building which is to be attributed to the
signs of age.
1 26, Effects of Jt is evident, first, that if the design of the
mesUphSwUfar building be originally bad, the only virtue it can
desirable. ever possess will be in'signs of antiquity. All that
in this world enlarges the sphere of affection or imagination is
to be reverenced, and all those circumstances enlarge it which
strengthen our memory or quicken our conception of the dead ;
hence it is no light sin to destroy anything that is old, more
especially because, even with the aid of all obtainable records of
the past, we, the living, occupy a space of too large importance
and interest in our own eyes ; we look upon the world too much
as our own, too much as if we had possessed it and should
possess it forever, and forget that it is a mere hostelry, Of which;
we occupy the apartments for a time, which others better than
we have sojourned in before, who are now where we should
desire to be with them. Fortunately for mankind, as some
counterbalance to that wretched love of novelty which originates
in selfishness, shallowness, and conceit, and which especially
characterizes all vulgar minds, there is set in the deeper places
of the heart such affection for the signs of age that the eye is
delighted even by injuries which are the work of time ; not but
that there is also real and absolute beauty in the forms and
colors so obtained, for which the original lines of the architec
ture, unless they have been very grand indeed, are well exchanged,
so that there is hardly any building so ugly but that it maybe
made an agreeable object by such appearances. It would not
be easy, for instance, to find a less pleasing piece of architecture^
than the portion of the front of Queen's College, Oxford, which
has just been restored ; yet I believe that few persons could' have
looked with total indifference on the mouldering and peeled
surface of the oolite limestone previous to its restoration,''? H»
however, the character of the building consist in minute detail
or multitudinous lines, the evil or good effect of age upon it
must depend in great measure on the kind of art, the material,.
and the climate. The Parthenon, for instance, would be injured
by any markings which interfered with the contours of its sculp
tures ; and any lines of extreme purity, or colors of original har-

SEO. I. CH. m] THE FOREGOING. PRINCIPLES. ' # 105
mony and perfection are liable to injury, and are ill exchanged1
Jor mouldering edges or brown weatherstains.
But. as all architecture is, or ought to be, meant to be
. durable, and to derive part of its glory from its antiquity, all
art that is liable to mortal injury from effects of time is therein
out of place, and this is another reason for the principle I have
asserted in the second- part, page 204. I do not at ' this instant
recollect a single instance of any very fine building which is not
improved up to a certain period by all its signs of age, after
which period, like all other human works, it necessarily declines,
its decline being in almost all ages and countries accelerated by
neglect and abuse in its time of beauty, and alteration or restora
tion in its time of age.
Thus I conceive that all buildings dependent on color,
whether of mosaic or painting, have their effect improved, by the
¦ richness of the subsequent tones of age ; for there are few
arrangements of color so perfect but that they are capable of
improvement by some softening and blending of this kind :
with mosaic, the improvement may be considered as proceeding
almost so long as the design can be distinctly seen ; with paint
ing, so long as the colors do not change or chip off.
Again, upon all forms of sculptural ornament, the effect of
time is such, that if the design be poor, it will enrich it ; if
overcharged, simplify it ; if harsh and violent, soften it ; if
smooth and obscure, exhibit it ; whatever faults it may have
' are rapidly disguised, whatever virtue it has still shines and
steals out in the mellow light ; and this to such an extent, that
the artist is always liable to be tempted to the drawing of details
in old buildings as of extreme beauty, which look cold and hard
in their architectural lines ; and I have never yet seen any restor
ration or cleaned portion of a building whose effect was not
inferior 'to the weathered parts, even to those of which the
design had in some parts almost disappeared. On the front of
the church of San Michele at Lucca, the mosaics have fallen out
of half the columns, and lie in weedy ruin beneath ; in many,
the frost has torn large masses of the entire coating away, leav
ing a scarred unsightly surface. Two of the shafts of the upper
star window are eaten entirely away by the sea wind, the rest
have lost their proportions, the edges of the arches are hacked

106 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTtt
into deep hollows, and-cast indented shadows on the weed-grown
wall. The process has gone too far, and yet I doubt not but
that this building is seen to greater advantage now than when
first built, always with exception of one circumstance, that the
French shattered the lower wheel window, and set up in front1
of it an escutcheon with " Libertas" upon it, which abomina
tion of desolation, the Lucchese have not yet had human-l
heartedness enough to pull down.
Putting therefore the application of architecture as an
accessory out of the question, and supposing our object to be the
exhibition of the most impressive qualities of the building' itself, <
it is evidently the duty of the draughtsman to represent it unde^
those conditions, and with that amount of age-mark upon it
which may best exalt and harmonize the sources of its beauty:J
this is no pursuit of mere picturesqueness, it is true following
-out of the ideal character of the building ; nay, far greater di
lapidation than this may in portions be exhibited, for. there
are beauties of other kinds, not otherwise attainable, brought
out by advanced dilapidation ; but when1 the artist suffers the
mere love of ruinousness to interfere with his perception of the
art of the building, and substitutes rude fractures and blotting
stains for all its fine chiselling ^nd determined color, he has
lost the end of his own art.
e 27. Effects of So far of aging ; next of effects of light and
Iir to'the S color- ft is> ! believe, hardly enough observed
etauding of detail. among architects that the same decorations are of
totally different effect according to their position and the time
of day. A moulding which . is of value on a building facing
south, where it takes deep shadows from steep sun, may be
utterly ineffective if placed west or east ; and a moulding which'
is chaste and intelligible in shade on a north side, may be gro
tesque, vulgar, or confused when it takes black shadows on the
south. Farther, there is a time of day in which every architec
tural decoration is seen to best advantage, and certain times in
which its peculiar force and character are best explained ; of
these niceties the architect takes little cognizance, as he must in
some sort calculate on the effect of ornament at all times ; but
to the artist they are of infinite importance, and especially for
this reason, that there is always much, detail on buildings which

SEC. I. CH. VH.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 107
cannot be drawn as such, which is too far off, or too minute,
and which must consequently be set down in short-hand of some
kind or another ; and, as it were, an abstract, more or less
philosophical, made of its general heads. Of the style of this
abstract, of the lightness, confusion, and mystery necessary in
it, I have spoken elsewhere ; at present I insist only on the
arrangement and matter of it. All good ornament and all good
architecture are capable of being put into short-hand ; that is,
each has a perfect system of parts, principal and subordinate,
of which, even when the "complemental details vanish in dis
tance, the system and anatomy yet remain visible so long as any
thing is visible ; so that the divisions of a beautiful spire shall
be known as beautiful even till their last line vanishes in blue
mist, and the effect of a well-designed moulding shall be visibly
disciplined, harmonious, and inventive, as long as it is seen to
be a moulding at all. Now the power of the artist of marking
this character depends not on his complete knowledge of the
design, but on his experimental knowledge of its salient and
bearing parts, and of the effects of light and shadow, by which
their saliency is best told. He must therefore be prepared,
;according to his subject, to use light, steep or level, intense or
•feeble, and out of the resulting chiaroscuro select those peculiar
and hinging points on which the rest are based, and by which
all else that is essential may be explained.
The thoughtful command of all these circumstances consti
tutes the real architectural draughtsman ; the habits of execut
ing everything either under one kind of effect or in one manner,
or of using unintelligible. and meaningless abstracts of beautiful
designs, are those which must commonly take the pla.ce of it and
are the most extensively esteemed.*
Let us now proceed with our review of those
wuiitiBgrtGenSe artists who have devoted themselves more peculiarly
carp'Scctof Vlttor to architectural subject.
Foremost among them stand Gentile Bellini
and Vittor Carpaccio, to whom we are indebted for the only
existing faithful statements of the architecture of Old Venice,
* I have not given any examples in this place, because it is difficult to
explain such circumstances of effect without diagrams : I purpose entering
into fuller discussion of the subject with the aid of illustration.

108 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTE
and who are the only authorities to whom we can trust in con
jecturing the former beauty of those few desecrated fragments,
the last of which are now being rapidly swept away by the
idiocy of modern Venetians.
Nothing can be more careful, nothing more delicately
finished, or more dignified in feeling than the works of both
these men ; and as architectural evidence they are the best we
could have had, all the gilded parts being gilt in the picture,
so that there can be no mistake or confusion of them with yel-'
low color or light, and all the frescoes or mosaics given with the
most absolute precision and fidelity. At the same time they are
by no means examples of perfect architectural drawing ; there
is little light and shade in them of any kind, and none what
ever of the thoughtful' observance of .temporary effect of which?
we have just been speaking ; so that, in rendering the character
of the relieved parts, their solidity, depth, or gloom, the reprej '.
sentation fails altogether, and it is moreover lifeless from its
very completion, both the signs of age and the effects of use and
habitation being utterly rejected ; rightly so, indeed, in these
instances, (all the architecture of these painters being in back-.
ground to religious subject,) but wrongly so, if we look to the
architecture alone. Neither is tliere anything like aerial per
spective attempted ; the employment of actual gold in the deco- ;
ration of all the distances, and the entire realization of their j
details, as far as is possible on the scale compelled by persped-;j
tive, being alone sufficient to prevent this, except in the hands
of painters far more practised in effect than either Gentile or
Carpaccio. But with all these discrepancies, Gentile Bellini's
church of St. Mark's is the best church of St. Mark's that- has-;
ever been painted, so far as I know ; and I believe the recon
ciliation of true aerial perspective and chiaroscuro with « the,
splendor and dignity obtained by the real gilding and elaborate
detail, is a problem yet to be accomplished. With the help of;
the Daguerreotype, and the lessons of color given by the later1;
Venetians, we ought now to be able to accomplish it, more;
especially as the right use of gold has been shown us by the
greatest master of effect whom Venice herself produced, Tin
toret, who has employed it with infinite grace on the stepS;
ascended by the young Madonna, in his large picture in the!

SEC. I. CH. VII.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 109
church of the Madonna dell' Orto. Perugino uses it also with
singular grace, often employin'g it for golden light on distant
trees, and continually on the high light of hair, and that with
out losing relative distances.
The - great group of Venetian painters who
Venetians gener- brought landscape art, for that time, to its culmi
nating point, have left, as we have already seen,
little that is instructive in architectural painting. The causes
of this I cannot comprehend, for neither Titian nor Tintoret
¦appears to despise anything that affords them either variety of
form or of color, the latter especially condescending to very
trivial details, — as in the magnificent carpet painting of the
Doge Mocenigo ; so that it might have been expected that in
the rich colors of St. Mark's, and the magnificent and fantastic
masses of the Byzantine palaces, they would have found where
upon to dwell with delighted elaboration. This is, however,
never the case, and although frequently compelled to introduce
portions of Venetian locality in their backgrounds, such por
tions are always treated in a most hasty and faithless manner,
missing frequently all character of the building, and never
advanced to realization. In Titian's picture of Faith, "the view
of Venice below is laid in so rapidly and slightly, the houses all
leaning this way and that, and of no color, the sea a dea'd gray
green, and the ship-sails mere dashes of the brush, that the
most obscure of Turner's Venices would look substantial beside
it ; while in the very picture of Tintoret in which he has dwelt
so elaborately on the carpet, he has substituted a piece of ordi
nary renaissance composition for St. Mark's, and in the back
ground has chosen the Sansovino side of the Piazzetta, treating
even, that so carelessly as to lose all the proportion and beauty
of its design, and so flimsily that the line of the distant sea which
has been first laid in, is seen through all the columns. Evi
dences of magnificent power of course exist in whatever he
'touches, but his full power is never turned in this direction.
More space is allowed to his architecture by Paul Veronese, but
it is still entirely suggestive, and would be utterly false except
as a frame or background for figures. The same may be said
with respect to Kaffaelle and the Eoman school.
If, however, these men laid architecture little under contri-

110 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTI^l
bution to their own art, they made their own art a gloriougf
s 30. Fresco paint- gift to architecture, and the walls of Venice, which
mg of the Venetian kef0re, I believe, had received color only in ara-
extenors. Cana- ' ' J
letto. besque patterns, were lighted with human life by
Giorgione, Titian, Tintoret, and Veronese. Of the works of
Tintoret and Titian, nothing now, I believe, remains ; two
figures of Giorgione's are still traceable on the Fondaco de'
Tedeschi, one of which, singularly uninjured, is seen from far
above and below the Rialto, flaming like the reflection of a
sunset. Two figures of Veronese were also traceable till lately, ,
the head and arms of one still remain, and some glorious olive-
branches which were beside the other ; the figure having been '
entirely effaced by an inscription in large black letters on a
whitewash tablet which we owe to the somewhat inopportunely
expressed enthusiasm of the inhabitants of the district in favor
of their new pastor.* Judging, however, from the rate at which
destruction is at present advancing, and seeing that, in about
seven or eight years more, Venice will have utterly lost every
external claim to interest, except that which attaches to the
group of buildings immediately around St. Mark's place, and to
'the larger churches, it may be conjectured that the greater part
of her present degradation has taken place, at any rate, within
the last forty years. Let the reader with such scraps of evidence
as may still be gleaned from under the stucco and paint of the
Italian committees of taste, and from among the drawing-room '
innovations of English and German residents restore Venice in
* The inscription is to the following effect, — a pleasant thing to see upon ,
the walls, were it but more innocently placed : —
CAMPO. DI. S. MATJRIZIO
DIO
CONSERVI A NOI.
LTOTGAMENTE
LO ZELANTIS. E. BEVERENDIS
D.. LTJIGI. PICCINI.
NOSTRO
SOVELLO PIKTAUO.
GLI KSniTANT.
PARROCCHIANI

SEC. I. CH. VII.] , THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. Ill
his imagination to some resemblance of what she must have
been before her fall. Let him, looking from Lido or Fusina,
replace in the forestof towers those of the hundred and sixty-
six churches which the French threw down ; let him sheet her
walls with purple and scarlet, overlay her minarets with gold,*
cleanse from tlieir pollution those choked canals which are now
the drains of hovels, where they were once vestibules of palaces,
and fill them with gilded barges and bannered ships ; finally,
let him withdraw from this scene, already so brilliant, such
sadness and stain as had been set upon it by the declining ener
gies of more than half a century, and he will see Venice as it
was seen by Canaletto ; whose miserable, virtueless, heartless r
mechanism, accepted as the representation of such various
glory, is, both in its existence and acceptance, among the most
striking signs of the lost sensation and deadened intellect of the
nation at that time ; a numbness and darkness more without
hope than that of the grave itself, holding and wearing yet the
sceptre and the crown like the corpses of the Etruscan kings,
ready to sink into ashes at the first unbarring of the door of the
sepulchre. The mannerism of Canaletto is the most degraded that I
know in the whole range of art. Professing the most servile
and mindless imitation, it imitates nothing but the blackness of
the shadows ; it gives no one single architectural ornament,
however near, so much form as might enable us even to guess at
its actual one ; and this I say not rashly, for I shall prove it by
placing portions of detail accurately copied from Canaletto side
by side with engravings from the Daguerreotype ; it gives the
buildings neither their architectural beauty nor their ancestral
dignity, for there is no texture of stone nor character of age in
Canaletto's touch ; which is invariably a violent, black, sharp,
ruled penmanlike line, as far removed from the grace of nature
as from her faintness and transparency ; and for his truth of
* The quantity of gold with which the decorations of Venice were once
covered could not now be traced or credited without reference to the author
ity of Gentile Bellini. The greater part of the marble mouldings have been
touched with it in lines and points, the minarets of St. Mark's, and all the
florid carving of the arches entirely sheeted. The Casa d'Oro retained it on
its lions until the recent commencement of its Restoration.

112 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PART IL
color, let the single fact of his having omitted all record, what
soever, of the frescoes whose wrecks are still to be found at least
on one half of the unrestored palaces, and, with still less excusa-
bleness, all record of the magnificent colored marbles of many.
whose greens and purples are still undimmed upon the Casa
Dario, Casa Bianca Capello, and multitudes besides, speak for
him in this respect.
Let it be observed that I find no fault with Canaletto, for his
want of poetry, of feeling, of artistical thoughtfulness in treat
ment, or of the various other virtues which he does not so much
as profess. He professes nothing but colored Daguerreotype-
ism. Let us have it : most precious and to be revered it would
be : let us have fresco where fresco was, and that copied faith
fully ; let us have carving where carving is, and that archi
tecturally true. I have seen Daguerreotypes in which every
figure and rosette, and crack and stain, and fissure are given on
a scale of an inch to Canaletto's three feet. What excuse is
there to be offered for his omitting, on that scale, as I shall
hereafter show, all statement of such ornament whatever?
Among the Flemish schools, exquisite imitations of architecture
are found constantly, and that not with Canaletto's vulgar,
black exaggeration of shadow, but in the most pure and silvery
and luminous grays. I have little pleasure in such pictures ;
but I blame not those who have more ; they are what they '
profess to be, and they are wonderful and instructive, and often
^graceful, and even affecting, but Canaletto possesses no virtue
except that of dexterous imitation of commonplace light- and
shade, and perhaps, with the exception of Salvator, no artist
has ever fettered his unfortunate admirers more securely from
all healthy or vigorous perc'eption of truth, or been of more
general detriment to all subsequent schools.
S 8i. Expression Neither, however, by the Flemings, nor by any
age*on wcnitec- otner ol the elder schools, was the effect of age or
ture by s. Prout. 0f iiuman ufe Up0n architecture ever adequately
expressed. What ruins they drew looked as if broken down on
purpose, what weeds they put on seemed put on for ornament,
Their domestic buildings had never any domesticity, the people
looked out of their windows evidently to be drawn, or came
into the street only to stand there forever. A peculiar studious-:

BEC. I. CH. VII.]' THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 113
ness infected all accident ; bricks fell out methodically, windows
opened and shut by rule ; stones were chipped at regular inter
vals ; everything that happened seemed to have been expected
before ; and above all, the street had been washed and the
houses dusted expressly to be painted in their best. We owe
to Prout, I believe, the first perception, and certainly the only
existing expression of precisely the characters which were want
ing to old art, of that feeling which results from the influence
among the noble lines of architecture, of the rent and the rust,
the fissure, the lichen, and the weed, and from the writing
upon the pages of ancient walls of the confused hieroglyphics of
human history. I suppose, from the deserved popularity of the
artist, that the strange pleasure which I find myself in the deci
phering of these is common to many ; the feeling has been rashly
and thoughtlessly contemned as mere love of the picturesque ;
there is, as I have above shown, a deeper moral in it, and we
owe much, I am not prepared to say how much, to the artist by
whom pre-eminently it has been excited. For, numerous as
have been his imitators, extended as his influence, and simple
as his means and manner, there has yet appeared nothing at all
to equal him ; there is no stone drawing, no vitality of architec
ture like Prout' s. I say not this rashly, I have Mackenzie in
my eye and many other capital imitators ; and, I have carefully
reviewed the Architectural work of the Academicians, often most
accurate and elaborate. I repeat, there is nothing but the work
of Prout which is true, living, or right in its general impres
sion, and nothing, therefore, so inexhaustibly agreeable. Faults
he has, manifold, easily detected, and much declaimed against
by second-rate artists ; but his excellence no one has ever
touched, and his lithographic work, (Sketches in Flanders and
Germany,) which was, I believe, the first of the kind, still
remains the most valuable of all, numerous and elaborate as its
various successors have been. The second series (in Italy and
Switzerland) was of less value, the drawings seemed more labo
rious, and had less of the life of the original sketches, being
also for the most part of subjects less adapted for the develop
ment of the artist's peculiar powers ; but both are fine, and the
Brussels, Louvain, Cologne, and Nuremberg, subjects of the
one, together with the Tours. Amboise, Geneva, and Sion of

114 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PART H.
the other, exhibit substantial qualities of stone and wood draw
ing, together with an ideal appreciation of the present active
vital being of the cities, such as nothing else has ever ap
proached. Their value is much increased by the circumstance
of their being drawn by the artist's own hand upon- the stonej
and by the consequent manly recklessness of subordinate parts,
(in works of this kind, be it remembered, much is subordinate,)
which is of all characters of execution the most refreshing.
Note the scrawled middle tint of the wall behind the Gothic
well at Ratisbonne, and compare this manly piece of work with
the wretched smoothness of recent lithography. Let it not b6
thought that there is any inconsistency between what I say here
and what I have said respecting finish. This piece of dead wall
is as much finished in relation to its function as a wall of Ghir-
landajo's or Leonardo's in relation to theirs, and the refreshing
quality is tho same in both, and manifest in all great masters,
without exception, that of the utter regardlessness of the means
so that their end be reached. The same kind of scrawling oc
curs often in the shade of Raffaelle.
It is not only, however, by his peculiar stone touch nor
perception of human character that he is distinguished. He
% 32. ms excel- is the most dexterous of all our artists in a oer-
iionn anTcC tain- kind of composition. No one can place
figures like him, except Turner. It is one thing to
know where a piece of blue or white is wanted, and another to
make the wearer of the blue apron or white cap come there, and
not look as if it were against her will. Prout's streets are the
only streets that are accidentally crowded, his markets are the
only markets where one feels inclined to get out of the way.
With others we feel the figures so right where they are, that we
have no expectation of their going anywhere else, and approve
of 'the position of the man with the wheelbarrow, without the -
slightest fear of his running against our legs. One other merit
he has, far less generally acknowledged than it should be : he
is among our most sunny and substantial colorists. Much con
ventional color occurs in his inferior pictures (for he is very un
equal) ahd some in all ; but portions are always to be found of
quality so luminous and pure that I have found these works the '
only ones capable of bearing juxtaposition with Turner andv

6EC.T. CH. VH.] THE FOREGOING -PRINCIPLES. .115
Hunt, who invariably destroy everything else that comes within
range of them. His most beautiful tones occur in those draw
ings in which there is prevalent and powerful warm gray, his
most failing ones in those of sandy red. On his deficiencies I
shall not insist, because I am not prepared to say- how far it is
possible for him to avoid them. We have never'seen the recon
ciliation of the peculiar characters he has obtained with the ac
curate following out of architectural detail. With his present
modes of execution, farther fidelity is impossible, nor has any
other mode of execution yet obtained the same results ; and
though much is unaccomplished by him in certain subjects, and
something of over-mannerism may be traced in his treatment of
others, as especially in his mode of expressing the decorative
parts of Greek or Roman architecture, yet in his own peculiar
Gothic territory, where the spirit of the subject itself is some
what rude and grotesque, his abstract of decoration has more
of the spirit of the reality than far more laborious imitation.
The spirit of the Flemish Hotel de Ville and decorated street
; architecture has never been even in the slightest degree felt or
conveyed except by him, and by him, to. my mind, faultlessly
and absolutely ; and though his interpretation of architecture
that contains more refined art in its details is far less satisfac
tory, still it is impossible, while walking on his favorite angle of
the Piazzetta at Venice, either to think of any other artist than
Prout or not to think of him.
Many other dexterous and agreeable architectural artists we
have of various degrees of merit, but of all of
§33. Modern , ., , 6 „ ¦•,,¦., ,i_ j
; architectural whom, lt may be generally said, that they draw
rp&intiitfr gene- •/ ¦ •*
rally. &. catter- hats, faces, cloaks, and caps much better than
Prout, but figures not so well ;, that they draw
walls and windows but not cities, mouldings and buttresses but
not cathedrals. Joseph Nash's work on the architecture of the
middle ages is, however, valuable, and I suppose that Haghe's
works may be depended on for fidelity. But it appears very
strange that a workman capable of producing the clever draw
ings he has, from time to time, sent to the New Society of
Painters in Water Colors, should publish lithographs so con
ventional, forced, and lifeless.
It is not without hesitation, that I mention a name respect-

116 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [EARTH.
ing which the reader may already have been surprised at my
silence, that of G. Cattermole. There are signs in his works of
very peculiar gifts, and perhaps also of powerful genius ; their
deficiencies I should willingly attribute to the advice of ill-judg
ing friends, and to the applause of a public satisfied with shal
low efforts, if brilliant ; yet I cannot but think it one necessary
characteristic of all true genius to be misled by no such false
fires. The Antiquarian feeling of Cattermole is pure, earnest,
and natural ; and I think his imagination originally vigorous,
certainly his fancy, his grasp of momentary passion considerable,
his sense of action in the human body vivid and ready. But
no original talent, however brilliant, can sustain its energy
when the demands upon it are constant, and all legitimate sup
port and food withdrawn. I do not recollect in any, even of
the most important of Cattermole's works, so much as a fold
of drapery studied out from nature. Violent conventionalism
of light and shade, sketchy forms continually less and less
developed, the walls and the faces drawn with the same stucco!
color, alike opaque, and all the shades on flesh, dress, or stone,
laid in with the same arbitrary brown, forever tell the same tale
of a mind wasting its strength and substance in the production
of emptiness, and seeking', by more and more blindly hazarded)
handling, to conceal the weakness which the attempt at finish
would betray.
This tendency of late, has been painfully visible in his archi
tecture. Some drawings made several years ago for an annual
illustrative of Scott's works were for the most part pure and^
finely felt — (though irrelevant to our present subject, a fall of
the Clyde should be noticed, admirable for breadth and grace of
foliage, and for the bold sweeping of the water, and another
subject of which I regret that I can only judge by the engrav
ing ; Glendearg at twilight — the monk Eustace chased by
Christie of the Clint hill — whicli I think must have been one of
the sweetest pieces of simple Border hill feeling ever painted) —
and about that time his architecture, though always conven
tionally brown in the shadows, was generally well drawn, and
always powerfully conceived.
Since then, he has been tending gradually through exaggeraf]
tion to caricature, and vainly endeavoring to attain by inordi*

BMC. I. CH. VII.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 117
nate bulk of decorated parts,, that dignity which is only to be
leached by purity of proportion and majesty of line.
It has pained me deeply, to see an artist of so great original
power indulging in childish fantasticism and exaggeration, and
substituting for the serious and subdued work of legitimate
§34. TheevUin imagination, monstre machicolations and colossal
poiuTo'fT/e"!1 Cof cusPs and crockets. While there is so much beau-
veSn'fn i?chi- tiful architecture daily in process of destruction
tectum subject. ar0und us, I cannot but think it treason to imagine
- anything ; at least, if we must have composition, let the design
of the artist be such as the architect would applaud. But it is
surely very grievous, that while our idle artists are helping their
vain inventions by the fall of sponges on soiled paper, glorious
buildings with the whole intellect and history of centuries con
centrated ih them, are suffered to fall into unrecorded ruin. A
day does not now pass in Italy without the destruction of some
' mighty monument ; the streets of all her cities echo to the
hammer, half of her fair buildings lie in separate stones, about
the places of their foundation ; would not time be better spent
in telling ns the truth about these perishing remnants of majestic
thought, than in perpetuating the ill-digested fancies of idle
hours ? It is, I repeat, treason to the cause of art for any man
to invent, unless he invents something better than has been in
vented before, or something differing in kind. There is room
enough for invention in the pictorial treatment of what exists.
There is no more honorable exhibition of imaginative power, than
in the selection of such place, choice of such treatment, intro
duction of such incident, as may produce a noble picture without
deviation from one line of the actual truth ; and such I believe
to be, indeed, in the end the most advantageous, as well as the
most modest direction of the invention, for I recollect no single
instance of architectural composition by any men except such as
Leonardo or Veronese, who could design their architecture
thoroughly before they painted it, which has not a look of
inanity and absurdity. The best landscapes and the best archi
tectural studies have been views ; and I would have the artist
take shame to himself in the exact degree in which he finds him
self obliged in the production of his picture to lose any, even of
the smallest parts or most trivial hues which bear a part in the

118 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PART II. 'I'
great impression made by the reality. The difference between'
the drawing of the architect and artist * ought never to be, as it
now commonly is, the difference between lifeless formality and
witless license ; it ought to be between giving the mere lines
and measures of a building, and giving those lines and measures
with the impression and soul of it besides. All artists should
be ashamed of themselves when they find they have not the
power of being true ; the right wit of drawing is like the right
wit of conversation, not hyperbole, not violence, not frivolity,
only well expressed, laconic truth.
Among the members of the Academy, we have at present only
one professedly architectural draughtsman of note, David
Roberts, whose reputation is probably farther extended on the
S3S works of continent than that of any other of our artists, ex-
ttiel^naeuty^nd ceP* Landseer. I am not certain, however, that I
srace- have any reason to congratulate either of my coun
trymen upou this their European estimation ; for I think it ex
ceedingly probable that in both instances it is exclusively based
on their defects ; and in the case of Mr. Roberts, in particular,
there has of late appeared more ground for it than is altogether
desirable in a smoothness and over-finish of texture which bears
dangerous fellowship with the work of our Gallic neighbors.
The fidelity of intention and honesty of system of Roberts
have, however, always been meritorious ;'his drawing of architec
ture is dependent on no unintelligible lines, or blots, or substitu
ted types : the main lines of the real design are always there, and
its hollowness and undercuttings given with exquisite feeling ;
his sense of solidity of form is very peculiar, leading him to
dwell with great delight on the roundings of edges and angles ;
his execution is dexterous and delicate, singularly so in oil, and
his sense of chiaroscuro refined. But he has never done him
self justice, and suffers his pictures to fall below the rank they
should assume, by the presence of several marring characters,
which I shall name, because it is perfectly in his power to avoid
them. In looking over the valuable series of drawing of the
Holy Land, which we owe to Mr. Roberts, we cannot but be

* Indeed there should be no such difference at all. Every architect ought
to be an artist ; every very great artist is necessarily an architect.

SBC. I. CH. vn.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 119
amazed to find how frequently it has happened that there was
something very white immediately in the foreground, and some
thing very black exactly behind it. The same thing happens
perpetually with Mr. Roberts's pictures ; a white column is always
coming out of a blue mist, or a white stone out of a green pool,
or a white monument out of a brown recess, and the artifice is
not always concealed with dexterity. This is unworthy of so
skilful a composer, and it has destroyed the impressiveness as
well as the color of some of his finest works. It shows a poverty
of 'conception, which appears to me to. arise from a .deficient
habit of study. It will be remembered that of the sketches for
this work, several times exhibited in London, every one was exe
cuted in the same manner, and with about the same degree of
completion: being all of them accurate records of the main
architectural lines, the shapes of the shadows, and the remnants
of artificial color, obtained, by means of the same grays, through-"
out, and of the same yellow (a singularly false- and cold though
convenient color) touched upon the lights. As far as they went,
nothing could be more valuable than these sketches, and the
public, glancing rapidly at their general and graceful effects,
could hardly form anything like an estimate of the endurance
and determination which must have been necessary in such a
climate to obtain records so patient, entire, and clear, of details
so multitudinous as (especially) the hieroglyphics of the Egyp
tian temples ; an endurance which perhaps only artists can esti
mate, and for which we owe a debt of gratitude to " Mr. Roberts
most difficult to discharge. But if these sketches were all that
the artist brought home, whatever value is to be attached to them
as statements of fact, they are altogether insufficient for the pro
ducing of pictures. I saw among them no single instance of a
downright study ; of a study in which the real hues and shades
of sky and earth had been honestly realized or attempted ; nor
were there, on the other hand, any of those invaluable-blotted- *
five-minutes works,which record the unity of some single and
magnificent impressions. Hence the pictures which have been
painted from these sketches have been as much alike in their
want of impressiveness as the sketches themselves, and have
never borne the living aspect of the Egyptian light ; it has always
been impossible to say whether the red in them (not a pleasant

120 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PART H.
one) was meant for hot sunshine or for red sandstone— their
power has been farther destroyed by the necessity the artist.seems
to feel himself under of eking out their effect by points of bright; .
foreground color, and thus we have been encumbered with
caftans, pipes, scymetars, and black hair, when all that we
wanted was a lizard, or an ibis. It is perhaps owing to this .
want of earnestness in study rather than to deficiency of percep
tion, that the coloring of this artist is commonly untrue. Some ¦'
time ago when he was painting Spanish, subjects, his habit was
to bring out his whites in relief from transparent bituminous
browns, which though not exactly right in color, were at any
rate warm and agreeable ; but of late his color has become cold,
waxy, and opaque, and in his deep shades he sometimes permits :,
himself the use of a violent black which is • altogether unjusti
fiable. A picture of Roslin Chapel exhibited in 1844, showed
this defect in the recess to which the stairs descend, in an ex
travagant degree ; and another exhibited in the British Institu
tion, instead of showing the exquisite crumbling and lichenous
texture of the Roslin stone, was polished to as vapid smoothness
as ever French historical picture. The general feebleness of
the effect is increased by the insertion of the figures as violent
pieces of local color unaffected by the light and unblended with
the hues around them, and bearing evidence of having been
painted f rom models or draperies in tlie dead light of a room
instead of sunshine. On these deficiencies I should not have
remarked, bdt that by honest and determined painting from and
of nature, it is perfectly in the power of the artist to supply,
them ; and it is bitterly to be regretted that the accuracy and
elegance of his work should not be aided by that genuineness of
hue and effect which can only be given by the uncompromising
effort to paint not a fine picture but an impressive and known
verity. The two artists whose works it remains for us to review, are
men who have presented us with examples of the treatment of
every kind of subject, and among the rest with portions of
architecture which the best of our exclusively architectural
draughtsmen could not excel.
The frequent references made to the works of Clarkson Stan
field throughout the subsequent pages render it less necessary for

SBC. I. CH. VII.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 121
me to speak of him here at any length. He is the leader of the
English Realists, and perhaps among the more remarkable of his
§36 clarkson characteristics is the look of common-sense and
stanfield. rationality which his compositions will always bear
when opposed to any kind of affectation. He appears to
think of no other artist. What he has learned, has been
from his own acquaintance with and affection for the steep
hills and the deep sea ; and his modes of treatment are
alike removed from sketchiness or incompletion, and from
exaggeration or effort. The somewhat over-prosaic tone
. of his subjects is rather a condescension to what he supposes to
be public feeling, than a sign of want of feeling in himself ; for
in some of his sketches from nature or from fancy, I have seen
powers and perceptions manifested of a far higher order than any
that are traceable in his Academy works, powers which I think
him much to be blamed for checking. The portion of his pic
tures usually most defective in this respect is the sky, which is
apt to be cold and uninventive, always well drawn, but with a
kind of hesitation in the clouds whether it is to be fair or foul
weather ; they having neither the joyfulness of rest, nor the
majesty of storm. Their color is apt also to verge on a morbid
purple, as was eminently the case in the large picture of the
wreck on the coast of Holland exhibited in 1844, a Work in
which both his powers and faults were prominently manifested,
the picture being full of good painting, but wanting in its entire
appeal. There was no feeling of wreck about, it ; and, pat for
the damage about her bowsprit, it would have been impossible
for a landsman to say whether the hull was meant for a wreck or
a guardship. Nevertheless, it is always to be recollected, that ¦
in subjects of this kind it is probable that much escapes us in
consequence of our want of knowledge, and that to the eye of "
the seaman much may be of interest and value which to us
appears cold. At all events, this healthy ¦ and rational regard
of things is incomparably preferable to the dramatic absurdi
ties which weaker artists commit in matters marine ; and from
copper-colored sunsets on green waves sixty feet high, with
cauliflower breakers, and ninepin rocks ; from drowning on
planks, and starving on rafts, and lying naked on beaches, it is
really refreshing to turn to a surge of Stanfield's true salt,

122 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTH,
serviceable, unsentimental sea. It would be well, however, if he
would sometimes take a higher flight. The castle of Ischia gave
him a grand subject, and a little more invention in the sky, a little
less muddiness in the rocks, and a little more savageness in the sea,
would have made it an impressive picture ; it just misses the
sublime, yet is a fine work, and better engraved than usual by the
Art Union.
One fault we cannot but venture to find, even in our own
extreme ignorance, with Mr. Stanfield's boats ; they never look
weather-beaten. There is something peculiarly precious in the
rusty, dusty, tar-trickled, fishy, phosphorescent brown of an old
boat, and when this has just dipped under a wave and rises to
the sunshine it is enough to drive Giorgione to despair. I have
never seen any effort at this by Stanfield ; his boats always look
new painted and clean ; witness especially the one before the
ship in the wreck picture above noticed ; and there is some such
absence of a right sense of color in other portions of his subject ;
even his fishermen have always clean jackets and unsoiled caps,
and his very rocks are lichenless. And, by the way, this ought
to be noted, respecting modern painters in general, that they
have not a proper sense of the value of dirt ; cottage children
never appear but in fresh got-up caps and aprons, and white-
handed* beggars excite compassion in unexceptionable rags. In
reality, almost all the colors of things associated with human
life derive something of their expression and value from the
tones oi impurity, and so enhance the value of the entirely pure
tints of nature herself. Of Stanfield's rock and mountain
drawing enough will be said hereafter. His foliage is inferior ;
his architecture admirably drawn, but commonly wanting in
color. His picture of the Doge's palace at Venice was quite
clay-cold and untrue. Of late he has shown a marvellous predi
lection for the realization, even to actually relieved texture, of
old worm-eaten wood ; we trust he will not allow such fancies
to carry him too far.
The name- 1 have last to mention is that of J. M. W. Turner. ¦',
I do not intend to speak of this artist at present in. general
terms, because my constant practice throughout this work is
to say, when I speak of an artist at all, the very truth of what I
believe and feel respecting him ; and the truth of what I believe

BEC I. CH. vn.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 123
and feel respecting Turner would appear in this place, unsup
ported by any proof, mere rhapsody. I shall therefore here con
fine myself to a rapid glance at the relations of his
Turner. ' Force past and present works, and to some notice of what
of national feel- , , „ .. , „ ti- ,, , ,
ing in ail great he has tailed of accomplishing : the greater part
painters. Q^ ^e subsequent chapters will be exclusively de
voted to the examination of the new fields over which he has ex
tended the range of landscape art.
It is a fact more universally acknowledged than enforced or
acted upon, that all great painters, of whatever school, have
been great only in their rendering of what they had seen and
felt from early childhood ; and that the greatest among . them
have been the most frank in acknowledging this their inability
to treat anything successfully but that with which they had been
familiar. The Madonna of Raffaelle was born on the TJrbino
mountains, Ghirlandajo's is a Florentine, Bellini's a Venetian ;
-there is not the slightest effort on the part of any one of these
great men to paint her as a Jewess. It is not the place here to
insist farther oh a point so simple and so universally demon
strable. Expression, character, types of countenance, costume,
color, and accessories are with all great painters whatsoever
those of their native "land, and that frankly and entirely, with
out the slightest attempt at modification ; and I assert fearlessly
that it is impossible that it should ever be otherwise, and that
no man ever painted or ever will paint well anything but what
he has early and long seen, early and long felt, and early and
long loved. How far it is possible for the mind of one nation
or generation to be healthily modified and taught by the work of
another, I presume not to determine ; but it depends upon
whether the energy of the mind which receives the instruction
be sufiicient, while it takes out of what it feeds upon that which
is universal and common to all nature, to resist all warping
from national or temporary peculiarities. Nino Pisano got
, nothing but good, the modern French nothing but evil, from
the" study of the antique ; but Nino Pisano had a God and a
character. All artists who have attempted to assume, or in
their weakness have been affected by, the national peculiarities
of other times and countries, have instantly, whatever their
original power, fallen to third-rate rank, or fallen altogether,

124 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTH
and have invariably lost their birthright and blessing, lost their
power over the human heart, lost all capability of teaching or
benefiting others. Compare the hybrid classification of Wilson
with the rich English purity of Gainsborough ; compare the
recent exhibition of middle-age cartoons for the Houses of Par
liament with the works of Hogarth ; compare the sickly modern"
German imitations of the great Italians with Albert Durer and
Holbein ; compare the vile classicality of Canova and the modern
Italians with Mino da Fiesole, Luca della Robbia, and Andrea
del Verrocchio. The manner of Nicolo Poussin is said to be
Greek — it may be so ; this only I know, that it is heartless and
profitless. The severity of the rule, however, extends not in full-
force to the nationality, but only to the visibility of things ; for
it is very possible for an artist of powerful mind to throw himself
well into the feeling of foreign nations of his own time. Thus
John Lewis has been eminently successful in his seizing of Span
ish character. Yet it may be doubted if the seizure be such as
Spaniards themselves would acknowledge ; it is probably of the
habits of the people more than their hearts ; continued efforts
of this kind, especially if their subjects be varied, assuredly end
in failure ; Lewis, who seemed so eminently penetrative in
Spain, sent nothing from Italy but complexions and costumes,
and I expect no good from his stay in Egypt. English artists
are usually entirely ruined by residence in Italy, but for this
there are collateral causes which it is not here the place to
examine. Be this as it may, and whatever success may be at
tained in pictures of slight and unpretending aim, of genre,
as they are called, in the rendering of foreign character, of this
I am certain, that whatever is to be truly great and affecting
must have on it the strong stamp of the native land ; not a law
this, but a necessity, from the intense hold on their country of
the affections of all truly great men ; all classicality, all middle-:
age patent reviving, is utterly vain and absurd ; if we are now
to do anything great, good, awful, religious, it must be got out
of our own little island, and out of this year 1846, railroads and
all : if a British painter, I say this in earnest seriousness, can
not make historical characters out of the British House of Peers,
he cannot paint history ; and if he cannot make a Madonna of a
British girl of the nineteenth century, he cannot paint one at all.

SEC. I. CH. VII.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. _ 125
The rule, of course, holds in landscape ; yet so far less
authoritatively, that the material nature of all countries and
times is in many points actually, and in all, in principle, the
same ; so that feelings educated in Cumberland,
this' feeling on may find their food in Switzerland, and impres-
Landscape sub- sions first received among the rocks of Cornwall,
be recalled upon the precipices of Genoa. Add to
this actual sameness, the power of every great mind to possess
itself of the spirit of things once presented to it, and it is evident,
that little limitation can be set to the landscape painter as to
the choice of his field ; and that the law of nationality will hold
with him only so far as a certain joyfulness and completion will
be by preference found in those parts of his subject which re
mind him of his own land. But if he attempt to impress on his
landscapes any other spirit than that he has felt, and to make
them landscapes of other times, it is all over with him, at least,
in the degree in which such reflected moonshine" takes place of
the genuine light of the present day.
The reader will at once perceive how much trouble this
simple principle will save both the painter and the critic ; it at
once gets aside the whole school of common composition, and
exonerates us from the labor of minutely examining any land
scape which has nymphs or philosophers in it.
It is hardly necessary for us to illustrate this principle by any
-reference co the works of early landscape painters, as I suppose
it is universally acknowledged with respect to them ; Titian
being the most remarkable instance of the influence of the native
air on a strong mind, and Claude, of that of the classical poison
on a weak one ; but it is very necessary to keep it in mind in
reviewing the works of our great modern landscape painter.
I do not know in what district of England Turner first or
longest studied, but the scenery whose influence I can trace
most definitely throughout his works, varied as they are, is that
of Yorkshire. Of all his drawings, I think, those
manifestation 'fn of the Yorkshire series have the most heart in
Tumpr ^ them, the most affectionate, simple, unwearied,
serious finishing of truth. There is in them little seeking after
effect, but a strong love of place, little exhibition of the artist's
own powers or peculiarities, but intense appreciation of the

126 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTH,
smallest local minutiae. These drawings have unfortunately
changed hands frequently, and have been abused and ill treated
by picture dealers and cleaners ; the greater number of them,
are now mere wrecks. I name them not as instances, but as
proofs of the artist's study in this district ; for the affection to
which they owe' their excellence, must have been grounded long
years before. It is to be traced, not only in these drawings of
the places themselves, but in the peculiar love of the painter for
rounded forms of hills ; not but that he is right in this on
general principles, for I doubt not, that, with his peculiar feeUng
for beauty of line, his hills would have been rounded still, even
if he had studied first among the peaks of Cadore ; but rounded
to the same extent and with the same delight in their roundness,
they would not have been. It is, I believe, to those broad
wooded steeps and swells of the Yorkshire downs that, we in part
owe the singular massiveness that prevails in Turner's mountain
drawing, and gives it one of its chief elements of grandeur. Let
the reader open the Liber Studiorum, and compare the painter's
enjoyment of the lines in the Ben Arthur, with his comparative
uncomfortableness among those of the aiguilles about the Mer
de Glace. Great as he is, those peaks would have been touched
very differently by a Savoyard as great as he.
I am in the habit of looking to the Yorkshire drawings, as
indicating one of the culminating points in Turner's career.
In these he attained the highest degree of what he had up to
that time attempted, namely, finish and quantity of form united
with expression of atmosphere, and light without color. His
early drawings are singularly instructive in this definiteness and
simplicity of aim. No complicated or brilliant color is ever
thought of in them ; they are little more than exquisite studies
in light and shade, very green blues being usedfor the shadows,
and golden browns for the lights. The difficulty and treachery
of color being thus avoided, the artist was able to bend his whole
mind upon the drawing, and thus to attain such decision, deli
cacy, and completeness as have never in any wise been equalled,
and as might serve him for a secure foundation in all after ex
periments. Of the quantity and precision of his details, the
drawings made for Hakewill's Italy, are singular examples. The
most perfect gem in execution is a little bit on the Rhine, with

EEC I. CH. VH.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. - 127
reeds in the xoreground, in the possession of B. G. Windus,
Esq., of Tottenham ; but the Yorkshire drawings seem to be on
the whole the most noble representatives of his art at this period.
About the time of their production, the artist seems to have
felt that he had done either all that could be done, or all that
was necessary, in that manner, and began to reach after some
thing beyond it. The element of color begins to mingle with
his work, and in the first efforts to reconcile his intense feeling
for it with his careful form, several anomalies begin to be visible,
and some unfortunate or uninteresting works necessarily belong
to the period. The England drawings, which are very charac
teristic of it, are exceedingly unequal, — some, as the Oakhamp-
ton, Kilgarren, Alnwick, and Llanthony, being among his finest
works ;- others, as the Windsor from Eton, the Eton College,
and the Bedford, showing coarseness and conventionality.
I do not know at what time the painter first went abroad,
but among the earliest of the series of the Liber Studiorum
(dates 1808, 1809,) occur the magnificent Mont St. Gothard, and
little Devil's Bridge. Now it is remarkable that
§ 40. The domestic „, . . . ° -j.tj.-i-
subjects of the after his acquaintance with this scenery, so con-
Liber Studiorum. .... , nl , ... ,, ...
genial m almost all respects with the energy of his
mind, and supplying him with materials of which in these two
subjects, and in the Chartreuse, and several others afterwards,
he showed both his entire appreciation and command, the pro
portion of English to foreign subjects should in the rest of the
work be more than two to one ; and that those English sub-,
jects should be — many of them — of a kind peculiarly simple, and
of every-day occurrence, such as the Pembury Mill, the Farm
Yard Composition with the White Horse, that with the Cocks
and Pigs, Hedging and Ditching, Watercress Gatherers (scene
at Twickenham,) and the beautiful and solemn rustic subject
called a Watermill ; and that the architectural subjects instead
of being taken, as might have been expected of an artist so fond
of treating effects of extended space, from some of the enormous
continental masses are almost exclusively British ; Rivaulx,
Holy Island, Dumblain, Dunstanborough, Chepstow, St. Cath
erine's, Greenwich Hospital, an English Parish Church, a
Saxon Ruin, and an exquisite Reminiscence of the English
Lowland Castle in the pastoral, with the brook, wooden bridge,

128 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTn.
and wild duck, to all of which we have nothing foreign to oppose
but three slight, ill-considered, and unsatisfactory subjects,
from Basle, Lauffenbourg, and another Swiss village ; and,
further, not only is the preponderance of subject British, but of
affection also ; for it is strange with what fulness and completion
the home subjects are treated in comparison with the greater
part of the foreign ones. Compare the figures and sheep in
the Hedging and Ditching, and the East Gate Winchelsea^
together with the near leafage, with the puzzled foreground and
inappropriate figures of the Lake of Thun ; or the cattle and
road of the St. Catherine's Hill, with the foreground of the
Bonneville ; or the exquisite figure with the sheaf of corn, in
the Watermill, with the vintages of the Grenoble subject.
In his foliage the same predilections are remarkable. Rem
iniscences of English willows by the brooks, and English forest
glades mingle even with the heroic foliage of the JBsacus and
Hesperie, and the Cephalus ; into the pine, whether of Switzerr
land or the glorious Stone, he cannot enter, or enters at his
peril, like Ariel. Those of the Valley of Chamounix are fine
masses, better pines than other people's, but not a bit like pines
for all that ; he feels his weakness, and tears them off the distant
mountains with the mercilessness of an avalanche. The Stone
pines of the two Italian compositions are fine in their arrange
ment, but they are very pitiful pines ; the glory of the Alpine
rose he never touches ; he munches chestnuts with no relish ;
never has learned to like olives ; and, by the vine, we find him
in the foreground of the Grenoble Alps laid utterly and incontro-
vertibly on his back.
I adduce these evidences of Turner's nationality (and innu
merable others might be given if need were) not as proofs of
weakness but of power ; not so much as testifying want of per
ception in foreign lands, as strong hold on his own will ; for I
am sure that no artist who has not this hold upon his own will
ever get good out of any other. Keeping this principle in mind,
it is instructive to observe the depth and solemnity which
Turner's feeling received from the scenery of the continent, the
keen appreciation up to a certain point of all that is locally char
acteristic, and the ready seizure for future use of all valuable
material.

BBC. I. CH. vn.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 129
Of all foreign countries he has most entirely entered into the
spirit of France ; partly because here he found more fellowship
of scene with his own England, partly because an amount of
thought which will miss of Italy or Switzerland,
S41 Tumsr's .
painting of will fathom France ; partly because there is in the
landscape. The" French foliage and forms of ground, much that is
1 u ' "''""" especially congenial with his own peculiar choice
of form. To what cause it is owing I cannot tell, nor is it gen
erally allowed or felt ; but of the fact I am certain, that for
grace of stem and perfection of form in their transparent foliage,
the French trees are altogether unmatched ; and their modes of
grouping and massing are so perfectly and constantly beautiful
that I think of all countries for educating an artist to the per
ception of grace, France bears the bell ; and that not romantic
nor mountainous France, not the Vosges, nor Auvergne, nor
Provence, but lowland France, Picardy and Normandy, the val
leys of the Loire and Seine, and even the district, so thought
lessly and mindlessly abused by English travellers, as uninterest
ing, traversed between Calais and Dijon ; of which there is not
a single valley but is full of the most lovely pictures, nor a mile
from which the artist may not receive instruction ; the district
immediately about Sens being perhaps the most valuable from
the grandeur of its lines of poplars and the unimaginable finish
and beauty of the tree forms in the two great avenues without
the walls. Of this kind of beauty Turner was the first to take
cognizance, and he still remains the only, but in himself the
sufficient painter of French landscape. One of the most beauti
ful examples is the drawing of trees engraved for the Keepsake,
now in the possession of B. G. Windus, Esq. ; the drawings
made to illustrate the scenery of the Rivers of France supply
instances of the most varied character. '
The artist appears, until very lately, rather to have taken ;
from Switzerland thoughts and general conceptions of size and
of grand form and effect to be used in his after compositions,
than to have attempted the seizing of its actual character. This
was beforehand to be expected from the utter physical impossi
bility of rendering certain effects of Swiss scenery, and the
monotony and unmanageableness of others. The Valley of
Chamounix in the collection of Walter Fawkes, Esq., I have

130 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTH,
never seen ; it has a high reputation ; the Hannibal passing the
Alps in its present state exhibits nothing but a heavy shower and
a crowd of people getting wet ; another picture in the artist's
gallery of a land-fall is most masterly and interesting, but more
daring than agreeable. The Snow-storm, avalanche, and inun
dation, is one of his mightiest works, but the amount of moun
tain drawing in it is less than of cloud and effect ; the subjects
in the Liber Studiorum are on the whole the most intensely felt,
and next to them the vignettes to Rogers's Poems and Italy.
Of some recent drawings of Swiss subject I shall speak presently.
The effect of Italy upon his mind is very puzzling. On the
one hand, it gave him the solemnity and power which are mani- .
fested in the historical compositions of the Liber Studiorum,
s 48. His render- more especially the Rizpah, the Cephalus, the scene
chlralte'r'sdiness t™ the Fairy Queen, and the ^sacus and Hes-
lar^e3 compos?-" perie : on the other, he seems never to have entered
tions how failing, thoroughly into the spirit of Italy, and the materials
he obtained there were afterwards but awkwardly introduced
in his large compositions.
Of these there are very few at all worthy of him ; none but
the Liber Studiorum subjects are thoroughly great, and these
are great because there is in them the seriousness without the
materials of other countries and times. There is nothing par
ticularly indicative of Palestine in the Barley Harvest of the
Rizpah, nor in those round and awful trees ; only the solemnity
of the south in the lifting of the near burning moon. The rocks
of the Jason may be seen in any quarry of Warwickshire sand
stone. Jason himself has not a bit of Greek about him — he is
a simple warrior of no period in particular, nay, I think there is
something of the nineteenth century about his legs. When .
local character of this classical kind is attempted, the painter is
visibly cramped : awkward resemblances to Claude testify the
want of his usual forceful originality : in the tenth Plague of
Egypt, he makes us think of Belzoni rather than of Moses ; the
fifth is a total failure, the pyramids look like brick-kilns, and
the fire running along the ground bears brotherly resemblance
to the burning of manure. The realization of the tenth plague
now in his gallery is finer than the study, but still uninteresting ;
and of the large compositions which have much of Italy in them,

8EC. I. CH. VU.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 131
the greater part are overwhelmed with quantity and deficient in
emotion. The Crossing- the Brook is one of the best of these
hybrid pictures ; incomparable in its tree drawing, it yet leaves
us doubtful where we are to look and what we are to feel ; it is
northern in its color, southern in its foliage, Italy in its details,
and England in its sensations, without the grandeur of the one,
or the healthiness of the other.
The two Cartilages are mere rationalizations of Claude, one
of them excessively bad in color, the other a grand thought, and
yet one of the kind which does no one any good, because every
thing in it is reciprocally sacrificed ; the foliage is sacrificed to
the architecture, the architecture to the water, the water is
neither sea, nor river, nor lake, nor brook, nor canal, and savors
of Regent's Park ; the foreground is uncomfortable ground, — let
on building leases. So the Caligula's Bridge, Temple of
Jupiter, Departure of Regulus, Ancient Italy, Cicero's Villa,
ahd such others, come they from whose hand they may, I class
under the general head of "nonsense pictures." There never
can be any wholesome feeling developed in these preposterous
accumulations,, and where the artist's feeling fails, his art f cl
aws' ; so that the Worst possible examples of Turner's color are
found in pictures of this class ; in one or two instances he has
broken through the conventional rules, and then is always fine,
as in the Hero and Leander ; but in general the picture rises in
value as it approaches to a view, as the Fountain of Fallacy, a
piece of rich northern Italy, with some fairy waterworks ; this
picture was unrivalled in color once, but is now a mere wreck.
So the Rape of Proserpine, though it is singular that in his
Academy pictures even his simplicity fails of reaching ideality ;
in this picture of Proserpine the nature is not the grand nature
of all time, it is indubitably modern,* and we are perfectly
; electrified at anybody's being carried away in the corner except
* This passage seems at variance with what has been said of the neces
sity of painting present times and objects. It is not so. A great painter
makes out of that which he finds before him something which is indepen
dent of aU time. He can only do this out of the materials ready to his
hand, but that which he builds has the dignity of dateless age. A little
painter is annihilated by an anachronism, and is .conventionally antique,
and involuntarily modern.

132 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PART H.
by people with spiky hats and carabines. This is traceable to
several causes ; partly to the want of any grand specific form,
partly to the too evident middle-age character of the ruins crown- -
ing the hills, and to a multiplicity of minor causes which we can
not at present enter into.
Neither in his actual views of Italy has Turner ever caught
her true spirit, except in the little vignettes to Rogers's Poems.
The Villa of Galileo, the nameless composition with stone pines,
the several villa moonlights, and the convent com-
ftaiy destroyed positions in the Voyage of Columbus, are altogether
redundantCquaau- exquisite ; but this is owing chiefly to their sim
plicity and perhaps in some measure to their small
ness of size. None of his large pictures at all equal them ; the
Bay of Baiae is encumbered with material, it contains ten times
as much as is necessary to a good picture, and yet is so crude
in color as to look unfinished. The Palestrina is full of raw
white, and has a look of Hampton Court about its long avenue ;
the modern Italy is purely English in its near foliage ; it is com
posed from Tivoli material enriched and arranged most dex
terously, but it has the look of a rich arrangement, and not the
virtue of the real thing. The early Tivoli, a large drawing
taken from'below the falls, was as little true, and still less fortu
nate, the trees there being altogether affected and artificial. The
Florence engraved in the Keepsake is a glorious drawing, as far
as regards the passage with the bridge and sunlight on the Arno,
the Cascine foliage, and' distant plain, and the towers of the
fortress on the left ; but the details of the duomo and the city
are entirely missed, and with them the majesty of the whole
scene. The vines and melons of the foreground are disorderly,
and its cypresses conventional ; in fact, I recollect no instance
of Turner's drawing a cypress except in general terms.
The chief reason of these failures I imagine to be the effort of
the artist to put joyousness and brilliancy of effect upon scenes
eminently pensive, to substitute radiance for serenity of light,
and to force the freedom and breadth of line which he learned
to love on English downs and Highland moors, out of a coun
try dotted by campaniles and square convents, bristled with
cypresses, partitioned by walls, and gone up and down by steps.
In one of the cities of Italy he had no such difficulties to

SEC. I. CH. vn.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES 133
encounter. At Venice he found freedom of space, brilliancy of
light, variety of color, massy simplicity of general form ; and to
Venice we owe many of the motives in which his highest powers
of color have been displayed after that change in his system of
which we must now take note.
Among the earlier paintings of Turner, the culminating
period, marked by the Yorkshire series in his drawings, is dis
tinguished by great solemnity and simplicity of subject, preva-
§ 44. changes in- lent gloom in light and shade, and brown in the
in0d( ieedreceived nue> the drawing manly but careful, the minutise
system of art. sometimes exquisitely delicate. All the finest works
of this period are, I believe, without exception, views, or quiet
single thoughts. The Calder Bridge, belonging to E. Bicknell,
Esq., is a most pure and beautiful example. The Ivy Bridge
I imagine to be later, but its rock foreground is altogether
unrivalled and remarkable for its delicacy of detail ; a butterfly
is seen settled on one of the large brown stones in the midst of
the torrent. Two paintings of Bonneville, in Savoy, one in
the possession of Abel Allnutt, Esq., the other, and, I think,
the finest, in a collection at Birmingham, show more variety of
color than is usual with him at the period, and are in every
respect magnificent examples. Pictures of this class are of
peculiar value, for the larger compositions of the same period'
are all poor in color, and most of them much damaged, but the
smaller works have been far finer originally, and their color
seems secure. There is nothing in the range of landscape art
equal to them in their way, but the full character and capacity
of the painter is not in them. Grand as they are in their sobriety,
they still leave much to be desired ; there is great heaviness in
7 their shadows, the material is never thoroughly vanquished,
(though this partly for a very noble reason, that the painter is
always thinking of and referring to nature, and indulges in no
artistical conventionalities,) and sometimes the handling appears
Jeeble. In warmth, lightness, and transparency they have no
chance against Gainsborough ; in clear skies and air tone they
are alike unfortunate when they provoke comparison with
Claude ; and in force and solemnity they can in no wise stand
with the landscape of the Venetians.
The painter evidently felt that he had farther powers, and

134 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTE.
pressed forward into the field where alone they could be brought
into play. It was impossible for him, with all his keen and long-
disciplined perceptions, not to feel that the real color of nature
had never been attempted by any school ; and that though
conventional representations had b een given by the Venetians
of sunlight and twilight, by invariably rendering the whites
golden and the blues green, yet of. the actual, joyous, pure,
roseate hues of the external world no record had ever been
given. He saw also that the finish and specific grandeur of
nature had been given, but her fulness, space, and mystery
never ; and he saw that the great landscape painters had always
sunk the lower middle tints of nature in extreme shade, bringing
the entire melody of color as many degrees down as their possible
light was inferior to nature's ; and that in so doing a gloomy
principle had influenced them even in their choice of subject.
For the conventional color he substituted a pure straight
forward rendering of fact, as far as was in his power ; and that
not of such fact as had been before even suggested, but of all
that is most brilliant, beautiful, and inimitable ; he went to the
cataract for its iris, to the conflagration for its flames, asked of
the sea its intensest azure, of the sky its clearest gold. For the
limited space and defined forms of elder landscape, he substituted
the quantity and the mystery of the vastest scenes of earth ; and
for the subdued chiaroscuro he substituted first a balanced dim
inution of oppositions throughout the scale, and afterwards,
in one or two instances, attempted the reverse of the , old prin
ciple, taking the lowest portion of the scale truly, and merging
the upper part in high light. -
Innovations so daring and so various could not be introduced
without corresponding peril : the difficulties that lay in his way
were more than any human intellect eould altogether surmount.. .
1 45. Difficulties of In his t™ there has been no one system of color
levant XS generally approved ; every artist has his own
°*es- method and his own vehicle ; how to do what
Gainsborough did, we know not ; much less what Titian ; to in
vent a new system of color can hardly be expected of those who
cannot recover the old. To obtain perfectly satisfactory results
in color under the new conditions introduced by Turner, would
at least have required the exertion of all his energies in that sole

SEC. I. CH. VH.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 135
direction. But color has always been only his second object.
The effects of space and form, in which he delights, often require
the employment of means and method totally at variance with
those necessary for the obtaining of pure color. It is physically
impossible, for instance, rightly to draw certain forms of the
upper clouds with the brush ; nothing will do it but the pallet
knife with loaded white after the blue ground is prepared. Now
it is impossible that a cloud so drawn, hqwever glazed afterwards,
should have the virtue of a thin warm tint of Titian's, showing
the canvas throughout. Sp it happens continually. Add to
these difficulties, those of the peculiar subjects attempted, and
to these again, all that belong to the altered system of chiaros
curo, and it is evident that we must not be surprised at finding
many deficiencies or faults in such works, especially in the
earlier of them, nor even suffer ourselves to be withdrawn by the
'pursuit of what seems censurable from our devotion to what is
mighty. Notwithstanding, in some chosen examples of pictures of
this kind, I will name three : Juliet and her Nurse; the Old
Temeraire, and the Slave Ship : I do not admit that there are
at the time of their first appearing on the walls of the Royal
Academy, any demonstrably avoidable faults. I do not deny
that there may be, nay, that it is likely there are ; but there is
no living artist in Europe whose judgment might safely be taken
on the subject, or who could without arrogance affirm of any
"part of such a picture, that it was wrong ; I am perfectly willing
to allow, that the lemon yellow is not properly representative of
the yellow of the sky, that the loading of the color is in many
places disagreeable, that many of the details are drawn with a
kind of imperfection different from what they would have in
nature, and that many of the parts fail of imitation,. especially,
to an uneducated eye. But no living authority is of weight
enough to prove that the virtues of the picture could have been
obtained at a less sacrifice, or that they are not worth the sacri
fice ; and though it is perfectly possible that such may be tlte-
case, and that what Turner has done may hereafter in some
respects be done better, I believe myself that these works are at
the time of their first appearing as perfect as those of Phidias or

136 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTn.
Leonardo ; that is to say, incapable in their way, of any improve
ment conceivable by human mind.
Also, it is only by comparison with such that we are author
ized to affirm definite faults in any of his others, for we should:
have been bound to speak, at least for the present, with the same
modesty respecting even his worst pictures of this class, had not
his more noble efforts given us canons of criticism.
But, as was beforehand to be expected from the difficulties
he grappled with, Turner is exceedingly unequal ; he appears
always as a champion in the thick of fight, sometimes with hiss
foot on his enemies' necks, sometimes staggered or struck to his
knee ; once or twice altogether down. He has failed most)
frequently, as before noticed, in elaborate compositions, fronfc
redundant -quantity ; sometimes, like most other men, from over-
care, as very signally in a large and most labored drawing of
Bamborough ; sometimes, unaccountably, his eye-for color seem
ing to fail him for a time, as in a large painting of. Rome from'
the Forum, and in the Cicero's Villa, Building of Carthage, and
the picture of this year in the British Institution ; and some
times I am sorry to say, criminally, from taking licenses which,
he must know to be illegitimate, or indulging in conventional-''
ities which he does not require.
On such instances I shall not insist, for the finding fault with
Turner is not, I think, either decorous in myself or like to be
beneficial to the reader.* The greater number of failures took
* One point, however, it is incumbent upon me to notice, being no
question of art but of material. The reader will have observed that I
strictly limited the perfection of Turner's works to the time of their first ap
pearing on the walls of the Royal Academy. It bitterly grieves me to have
to do this, but the fact is indeed so. No picture of Turner's is seen in per
fection a month after it is painted. The Walhalla cracked before it had
been eight days in the Academy rooms ; the vermilions frequently lose lus
tre long before the exhibition is over ; and when all the colors begin to get
hard a year or two after the picture is painted, a painful deadness and
opacity comes over them, the whites especially becoming lifeless, and many
of the warmer passages settling into a hard valueless brown, even if the paint
remains perfectly firm, which is far from being always the case. I believe
that in some measure these results are unavoidable, the colors being so pecu
liarly blended and mingled in Turner's present manner as almost to necessi
tate their irregular drying ; but that they are not necessary to the extent toy

BEO. I. CH. VII.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 137 "
place in the transition period, when the artist was
his ' very recent feeling for the new qualities, and endeavoring to
reconcile them with more careful elaboration of
form than was properly consistent with them. Gradually his
hand became more free, his perception and grasp of the new
truths more certain, and his choice of subject more adapted to
the exhibition of them. But his powers did not attain their
highest results till towards the year 1840, about which period
they did so suddenly, and with a vigor and concentration which
rendered his pictures at that time almost incomparable with
those which had preceded them. The drawings of Nemi, and
Oberwesel, in the possession of B. G. Windus, Esq., were among
the first evidences of this sudden advance ; only the foliage in
both of these is inferior ; and it is remarkable that in this phase
of his art, Turner has drawn little foliage, and that little badly
which they sometimes take place, is proved by the comparative safety of
some even of the more brilliant works. Thus the Old Temeraire is nearly
safe in color, and quite firm ; while the Juliet and her Nurse is now the
ghost of what it was ; the Slaver shows no cracks, though it is chilled in
some of the darker passages, while the Walhalla and several of the recent
Venices cracked in the Royal Academy. It is true that the damage makes
no further progress after the first year or two, and that even in its altered
Btate the picture is always valuable and records its intention ; but it is bit
terly to be. regretted that so great a painter should not leave a single work
hy which in succeeding ages he might be estimated. The fact of his using
means so imperfect, together with that of his utter neglect of the pictures in
his own gallery, are a phenomenon in human mind which appears to me
'Utterly inexplicable ; and both are without excuse. If the effects he desires
cannot be to their full extent produced except by these treacherous means,
one picture only should be painted each year as an exhibition of immediate
power, and the rest should be carried out, whatever the expense of labor
and time in safe materials, even at the risk of some deterioration of imme
diate effect. That which is greatest in him is entirely independent of
means ; much of what he now accomplishes illegitimately might without
doubt be attained in securer modes — what cannot should without hesitation
(Ite&bandoned. Fortunately the drawings appear subject to no such deteri
oration. Many of them are now almost destroyed, but this has been I
think always^ through ill treatment, or has been the case only with very
early works. I have myself known no instance of a drawing properly pro
tected, and not rashly exposed to light suffering the slightest change. The
great foes of Turner, as of all other great colorists especially, are the picture
cleaner and the mounter.

138 GENERAL APPLICATION OF [PARTn,
— the great characteristic of it being its power, beauty, and
majesty of color, and its abandonment of all littleness and
division of thought to a single impression. In the year 1842,' -he
made some drawings from recent sketches in Switzerland ; these,
with some produced in the following years, all of Swiss subject,
I consider to be, on the whole, the most characteristic and per
fect works he has ever produced. The Academy pictures were
far inferior to them ; but among these examples of the same
power were not wanting, more especially in the smaller pictures?
of Venice. The Sun of Venice, going to sea ; the San Bene-:
detto, looking towards Fusina ; and a view of Murano, with the
Cemetery, were all faultless : another of Venice, seen from near
Fusina, with sunlight and moonlight mixed (1844) was, I think,
when I first saw it, (and it still remains little injured,) the most
perfectly beautiful piece of color of all that I have seen produced
by human hands, by any means, or at any period. Of the exhi-j
bition of 1845, I have only seen a small Venice, (still I beliewl
in the artist's possession,) and the two whaling subjects. The
Venice is a second-rate work, and the two others altogether
unworthy of him.
In conclusion of our present sketch of the course of landscape
art, it may be generally stated that Turner is the only painter,1
so far as I know, who has ever drawn the sky, (not the clear sky,
which we before saw belonged exclusively to the religious schools,
but the various forms and phenomena of the cloudy heavens,) •all
previous artists having only represented it typically or partially ;.
but he absolutely and universally : he is the only painter who
has ever drawn a mountain, or a stone ; no other man ever
having learned their organization, or possessed himself of their
spirit, except in part and obscurely, (the one or two stones noted
of Tintoret's, (Vol. IL, Part in. Ch. 3,) are perhaps hard|^
enough on which to found an exception in his favor.) He is the
only painter who ever drew the stem of a tree, Titian having
come the nearest before him, and excelling him in the muscular
development of the larger trunks, (though sometimes losing the
woody strength in a serpent-like flaccidity,) but missing, the
grace and character of the ramifications. He is the only painter
who has ever represented the surface of calm, or the force of
agitated water ; who has represented the effects of space on dis-

BEC I. CH. VU.] THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES. 139
tant objects, or who has rendered the abstract beauty of natural
color. These assertions I make deliberately, after careful weigh
ing and consideration, in no spirit of dispute, or momentary
zeal ; but from strong and convinced feeling, and with the con
sciousness of being able to prove them.
This proof is only partially and incidentally attempted in the
: present portion of this work, which was originally written, as
before explained, for a temporary purpose, and which, therefore,
I should have gladly cancelled, but that, relating as it does only
to simple matters of fact and not to those of feeling, it may
.still, perhaps, be of service to some readers who would be un
willing to enter into the more speculative fields with which the
succeeding sections are concerned. I leave, there-
demonstration in fore, nearly as it was originally written, the follow
ing examination of the relative truthfulness of elder
and of recent art ; always requesting the reader to remember, as
some excuse for the inadequate execution, even of what I have
here attempted, how difficult it is to express or explain, by
language only, those delicate qualities of the object of sense, on
the seizing of which all refined truth of representation depends.
Try, for instance, to explain in language the exact qualities of
the lines on which depend the whole truth and beauty of expres
sion about the half-opened lips of Raffaelle's St. Catherine.
Ifhere is, indeed, nothing in landscape so ineffable as this ; but
there is no part nor portion of God's works in which the delicacy
appreciable by a cultivated eye, and necessary to be rendered in
art, is not beyond all expression and explanation { I cannot tell
it you, if you do not see it. ) And thus I have been entirely
"taiable, in the following pages, to demonstrate clearly anything
of really deep and perfect truth ; nothing but what is coarse and
§|»mmonplace, in matters to be judged of by the senses, is within
the reach of argument. How much or how little I have done
must be judged of by the reader : how much it is impossible to
do I have more fully shown in the concluding section.
I shall first take into consideration those general truths, com
mon to all the objects of nature, which are productive of what
is usually called " effect," that is to say, truths of tone, general
color, space, and light. I shall then investigate the truths of
Bpecific form and color, in the four great component parts of
landscape — sky, earth, water, and vegetation.

szeotioust n.
OF GENERAL TRUTHS.

CHAPTER I.
OF TRUTH OF TONE.
As I have already allowed, that in effects of tone, the old
masters have never yet been equalled ; and as this is the first,
and nearly the last, concession I shall have to make to them, I
§ 1. Meaning of wish ^ at once to be thoroughly understood how
the word " tone :" far i+ pYtpnrls
First, the right tar « extends. .
Shadow °tojethl * understand two things by the word " tone .*"*'
principal light. — fjrgt^ the exact relief and relation of objects
against and to each other in substance and darkness, as they are
nearer or more distant, and the perfect relation of the shadesof
all of them to the chief light of the picture, whether that be
sky, water, or anything else. Secondly, the exact
quiuity^of 7coior relation of the colors of the shadows to the colors;
feit to owe part of the lights, so that they may be at once felt to
fo the hueof light be merely different degrees of the same light ; and
npon 1 ' the accurate relation among the illuminated parts
themselves, with respect to the degree in which they are in
fluenced by the color of the light itself, whether warm or cold j.
so that the whole of the picture (or, where several tones are
united, those parts of it which are under each,) may be felt to
be in one climate, under one kind of light, and in one kind of
atmosphere ; this being chiefly dependent on that peculiar and
inexplicable quality of each color laid on, which makes the eye
feel both what is the actual color of the object represented, and
that it is raised to its apparent pitch by illumination. A very
bright brown, for instance, out of sunshine, may be precisely
of the same shade of color as a very dead or cold brown in sun-

SEC, n. CH. I.] OF TRUTH OF TONE. 141
shine, but it will be totally different in quality ; and that quality
by which the illuminated dead color would be felt in nature
different from the unilluminated bright one, is what artists
are perpetually aiming at, and connoisseurs talking nonsense
about, under the name of "tone." The want of tone in pic
tures is caused by objects looking bright in their own positive
hue, ahd not by illumination, and by the consequent want of
sensation of the raising of their hues by light.
The first of these meanings of the word " tone" is liable to
be confounded with what is commonly called " aerial perspec
tive." But aerial perspective is the expression of space, by any
§ 3. Difference be- means whatsoever, sharpness of edge, vividness qf
tot611 e'ense '"and color, etc., assisted by greater pitch of shadow, and
aerial perspective. reqUjres only that objects should be detached from
each other, by degrees of intensity in proportion to their dis
tance, without requiring that the difference between the farthest
and nearest should be in positive quantity the same that nature
has put. But what I have called "tone" requires that there
should be the same sum of difference, as well as the same division
of differences. Now the finely toned pictures of the old masters are, in this
respect, some of the notes of nature played two or three octaves
below her key ; the dark objects in the middle distance having
precisely the same relation to the light of the sky
§4. The pictures .
of the old masters which they have in nature, but the light being
or middle tints1 to necessarily infinitely lowered, and the mass of the
shadow deepened in the same degree. I have
often been struck, when looking at a camera-obscuro on a dark
day, with the exact resemblance the image bore to one of the
finest pictures of the old masters ; all the foliage coming dark
against the sky, and nothing being seen in its mass but here and
there the isolated light of a silvery stem or an unusually illu
mined cluster of leafage.
Now if this could be done consistently, and all the notes of
nature given in this way an octave or two down, it
qnentiy totally would be right and necessary so to do : but be it
false in relation , - , . , . - „ „ 
of middle tints to observed, not only does nature surpass us in power
of obtaining light as much as the sun surpasses
white paper, but she also infinitely surpasses us in her power

142 OF TRUTH Of tone. {paeth.
of shade. Her deepest shades are void ¦ spaces from which
no light whatever is reflected to the eye ; ours are black sur
faces from which, paint as black as we may, a great dealof
light is still reflected, and which, placed against one of na
ture's deep bits of gloom, would tell as distinct light. Here'
we are then, with white paper for our highest light, and visible
illumined surface for our deepest shadow, set to run the gaunt
let against nature, with the sun for her light, and vacuity for
her gloom. It is evident that she can well afford to throw her
material objects dark against the brilliant aerial tone of her
sky, and yet give in those objects themselves a thousand
intermediate distances and tones before she comes to black, or
to anything like it — all ' the illumined surfaces of her objects
being as distinctly and vividly brighter than her nearest and
darkest shadows, as the sky is brighter than those illumined
surfaces. But if we, against our poor, dull obscurity of yel
low paint, instead of sky, insist on having the same relation of
shade in material objects, we go down to the bottom of our scale
at once ; and what in the world are we to do then ? Where
are all our intermediate distances to come from ? — how are we
to express the aerial relations among the parts themselves, for
instance, of foliage, whose most distant boughs- are already almost
black? — how are we to come up from this to the foreground,
and when we have done so, how are we to express the distinction
between its solid parts, already as dark as we can make them,
and its vacant hollows, which nature has marked sharp and clear
and black, among its lighted surfaces ? It cannot but be evident
at a glance, that if to any one of the stepB from one distance %
another, we give the same quantity of difference in pitch of
shade which nature does, we must pay for this expenditure of
our means by totally missing half a dozen distances, not a whit
less important or marked, and so sacrifice a multitude of truths,
to obtain one. And this, accordingly was the means by which
the old masters obtained their (truth ?) of tone. They chose
those steps of distance which are the most conspicuous and no
ticeable — that for instance from sky to foliage, or from clouds
to hills — and they gave these their precise pitch of difference in
shade with exquisite accuracy of imitation. ' Their means were
then exhausted, and they were obliged to leave their trees flat

SEC. n. CH. I.] OF TRUTH OF TONE. 143
masses of mere filled-up outline, and to omit the truths of space
in every individual part of their picture by the thousand. But
this they did not care for ; it saved them trouble ; they reached
their grand end, imitative effect ; they thrust home just at the
places where the common and careless eye looks for imitation,
and they attained the broadest and most faithful appearance of
truth of tone which art can exhibit.
But they are prodigals, and foolish prodigals, in art ; they
Javish their whole means to get one truth,' and leave themselves
powerless when they should seize a thousand. And is it indeed
worthy of being called a truth, when we have a vast
Lod eofersucnBea history given us to relate, to the fulness of which
system. neither our limits nor our language are adequate,
instead of giving all its parts abridged in the order of their im
portance, to omit or deny the greater part of them, that we may
dwell with verbal fidelity on two or three ? Nay, the very truth
to which the rest are sacrificed is rendered falsehood by their
absence, the relation of the tree to the sky is marked as an im
possibility by the want of relation of its parts to each other.
Turner starts from the beginning with a totally different
principle. He boldly takes pure white (and justly, for it is the
sign of the most intense sunbeams) for his highest light, and
lamp-black for his deepest shade ; and between
of'Turne?1n°tniB these he makes every degree of shade indicative of
'"'""' a separate degree of distance,* giving each step of
approach, not the exact difference in pitch which it would have
in nature, but a difference bearing the same proportion to that
which his sum of possible shade bears to the sum of nature's
shade ; so that an object half way between his horizon and his
foreground, will be exactly in half tint of force, and every
¦minute division of intermediate space will have just its propor
tionate share of the lesser sum, and no more. Hence where the
old masters expressed one distance, he expresses a hundred ; and
where they said furlongs, he says leagues. Which of these modes
of procedure be most agreeable with truth, I think I may safely
* Of course I am not speaking here of treatment of chiaroscuro, but of
-that quantity of depth of shade by which, cmteris paribus, a near object will
S^Kceed a distant one. For the truth of the systems of Turner and the old
masters, as regards chiaroscuro, vide Chapter III. of this Section, § 8.

144 OF TRUTH OF tone. [pAiwyh;
leave the reader to decide for himself. He will see in this very
first instance, one proof of what we above asserted, that the
deceptive imitation of nature is inconsistent with real truth ;
for the very means by which the old masters attained the ap
parent accuracy of tone which is so satisfying to the eye, com
pelled them to give up all idea of real relations of retirement,
and to represent a few successive and marked stages of distance^
like the scenes of a theatre, instead of the imperceptible, multi
tudinous, symmetrical retirement of nature, who is not more
careful to separate her nearest bush from her farthest one, thai
to separate the nearest bough of that bush from the one next
to it. Take for instance, one of the finest landscapes that ancient
art has produced — the work of a really great and intellectual
mind, the quiet Nicholas Poussin, in our own National Gallery^
with the traveller washing his feet. The first idea
§8. Comparison , ,, . . , ,, , ., .
bf n. Poussin's we receive from this picture is, that it is evening,
and all the light coming from the horizon. Not so.
It is full moon, the light coming steep from the left, as is shown
by the shadow of the stick on the right-hand pedestal, — (for if
the sun were not very high, that shadow could not lose itself
half way down, and if it were not lateral, the shadow would
slope, instead of being vertical. ) Now, ask yourself, and answer
candidly, if those black masses of foliage, in which scarcely any
form is seen but the outline, be a true representation of trees
under noon-day sunlight, sloping from the left, bringing out,
as it necessarily would do, their masses into golden green, and
marking every leaf and bough with sharp shadow and sparkling
light. The only truth in the picture is the exact pitch of relief
against the sky of both trees and hills, and to this the organiza
tion of the hills, the intricacy of the foliage, and everything
indicative either of the nature of the light, or the character of
the objects, are unhesitatingly sacrificed. So much falsehood
does it cost to obtain two apparent truths of tone. Or take, as
a still more glaring instance, No. 260 in the Dulwich Gallery,
where the trunks of the trees, even of those farthest off, on the
left, are as black as paint can make them, and there is not, and
cannot be, the slightest increase of force, or any marking what-

BEO. n. CH. I.] of truth of tone. 145
soever of distance by color, or any other means, between them
and the foreground.
Compare with these, Turner's treatment of his materials in
the Mercury and Argus. He has here his' light actually com
ing from the distance, the sun being nearly in the centre of the
picture, and a violent relief of objects against it
'Mercury and would be far more justifiable than in Poussin's
^sas' case. But this dark relief is used in its full force
only with the nearest leaves of the nearest group of foliage over
hanging the foreground from the left ; and between these and
the more distant members of the same group, though only three
or four yards separate, distinct aerial perspective and intervening
mist and light are shown ; while the large tree in the centre,
though very dark, as being very near, compared with all the
distance, is much diminished in intensity of shade from this
nearest group of leaves, and is faint compared with all the fore
ground. It is true that this tree has not, in consequence, the
actual pitch of shade against the sky which . it would have in
nature ; but it has precisely as much as it possibly can have,
to leave it the same proportionate relation to the objects near
at hand. And it cannot but be evident to the thoughtful
reader, that whatever trickery or deception may be the result of
•a contrary mode of treatment, this is the only scientific or es
sentially truthful system, and that what it loses in tone it gains
in aerial perspective.
Compare again the last vignette in Rogers's Poems, the
" Datur Hora Quieti," where everything, even the darkest parts
of the trees, is kept pale and full of graduation ; even the -bridge
where it crosses the descending stream of sunshine,
''Datnr Hora rather lost in the light than relieved against it,
until we come up to the foreground, and then the
vigorous local black of the plough throws the whole picture into
distance and sunshine. I do not know anything in-art which
can for a moment be set beside this drawing for united intensity
of fight and repose.
^r. Observe, I am not at present speaking of the beauty or de
sirableness of the system of the old masters ; it may be sub
hme, and affecting, and ideal, and intellectual, and a great
deal more ; but all I am concerned with at present is, that it

146 OF TRUTH OF TONE. [PABTD.
is not true; while Turner's is the closest and most studied ap
proach to truth of which the materials of art admit.
It was not, therefore, with reference to this division of the
subject that I admitted inferiority in our great modern master
to Claude or Poussin, but with reference to the second and more
usual meaning of the word " tone" — the exact
sense of the word relation and fitness of shadow and light, and of
"tone." ^ kues 0f aji objects under them ; and more es
pecially that precious quality of each color laid on, which makes
it appear a quiet color illuminated, not a bright color in shade.
But I allow this inferiority only with respect to the paintings,
of Turner, not to his drawings. I could select from among the
e 12. Remarkable works named in Chap. VI. of this section, pieces
reistpect1Cbet1wtehen of tone absolutely faultless and perfect, from the
arawmgs""!/ and co°lest grays of wintry dawn to the intense fire of
Turner. summer noon. And the difference between the
prevailing character of these and that of nearly all the paintings,
(for the early oil pictures of Turner are far less perfect in tone
than the most recent,) it is difficult to account for, but on the
supposition that there is something in the material which mod
ern artists in general are incapable of mastering, and which
compels Turner himself to. think less of tone in oil color, than
of other and more important qualities. The total failures of -
Callcott, whose struggles after tone ended so invariably in shiver
ing winter or brown paint, the misfortune of Landseer with his
evening sky in 1842, the frigidity of Stanfield, and the earthi- .
ness and opacity which all the magnificent power and admirable
science of Etty are unable entirely to conquer, are too fatal and
convincing proofs of the want of knowledge of means, rather
than of the absence of aim, in modern artists as a body. Yet,
with respect to Turner, however much the want.of
want of power tone in his early paintings (the Fall of Carthage,
. ' for instance, and others painted at a time when he,
was producing the most exquisite hues of light in water-color)
might seem to favor such a supposition, there are passages in his
recent works (such, for instance, as the sunlight along the sea,
in the Slaver) which directly contradict it, and whioh prove to
us that where he now errs in tone, (as in the Cicero's Villa,) it
is less owing to want of power to reach it, than to the pursuit

SEC II. CH. I.] OF TRUTH OF TONE. 147
of some different and nobler end. I shall therefore glance at
the particular modes in which Turner manages his tone in his
present Academy pictures ; the early ones must be given up at
once. Place a genuine untouched Claude beside the Crossing
the Brook, and the difference in value and tenderness of tone
will be felt in an instant, and felt the more painfully because
all the cool and transparent qualities of Claude would have been
here desirable, and in their place, and appear to have been aimed
at. The foreground of the Building of Carthage, and the
"greater part of the architecture of the Fall, are equally heavy
and evidently paint, if we compare them with genuine passages
of Claude's sunshine. There is a very grand and simple piece of
tone in the possession of J. Allnutt, Esq., a sunset behind wil
lows, but even this is wanting in refinement of shadow, and is
crude in its extreme distance. • Not so with the recent Academy
pictures ; many of their passages are absolutely faultless ; all are
refined and marvellous, and with the exception of the Cicero's
Villa, we shall find few pictures painted within the last ten
years which do not either present us with perfect tone, or with
some higher beauty, to which it is necessarily sacrificed. If we
glance at the requirements of nature, and her superiority of
means to ours, we shall see why and how it is sacrificed.
Light, with reference to the tone it induces on objects, is
either to be considered as neutral and white, bringing out local
colors with fidelity; or colored, and consequently modifying
s 14. The two these local tints, with its own. But the power of
« ftent'to"*^ Pure white tig*1* to exhibit local color is strangely
considered. variable. The morning light of about nine or ten
is usually very pure ; but the difference of its effect on different
*.'days, independently of mere brilliancy, is as inconceivable as
Jfnexplicable. Every one knows how capriciously the colors of a
fine opal vary from day to day, and how rare the lights are which
Swing them fully out. Now the expression of the strange, pene
trating, deep, neutral light, which, while it alters no color, brings
every color up to the highest possible pitch and key of pure, har
monious intensity, is the chief attribute of finely-toned pictures
by the great colorists as opposed to pictures of equally high tone»
by masters who, careless of color, are content, like Cuyp, to lose
local tints in the golden blaze of absorbing light.

148 OF TRUTH OF TONE. [PARTE.
Falsehood, in this neutral tone, if it may be so called, is a
matter far more of feeling than of proof, for any color is possible
under such lights ; it is meagreness and feebleness only which
are to be avoided ; and these are rather matters
6y which Titian of sensation than of reasoning. But it is yet easy
attains the appear- ,, , i_ j. j. j i j, ,
ance of quality in enough to prove by what exaggerated and false
lg means the pictures most celebrated for this quality
are endowed with their richness and solemnity of color. In the
Bacchus and Ariadne of Titian, it is difficult to imagine any
thing more magnificently impossible than the blue of the distant
landscape ; — impossible, not from its vividness, but because it is
not faint and aerial enough to account for its purity of color ;
it is too dark and blue at the same time ; and there is indeed
so total a want of atmosphere in it, that, but for the difference
of form, it would be impossible to. tell the mountains (intended
to be ten miles off) from the robe of Ariadne close to the spect**
tor. Yet make this blue faint, aerial, and distant — make it in
.the slightest degree to resemble the truth of nature's color— and
all the tone of the picture, all its intensity and splendor, will
vanish on the instant. So again, in the exquisite and inimita
ble little bit of color, the Europa in the Dulwich Gallery ; the
blue of the dark promontory on the left is thoroughly absurd
and impossible, and the warm tones of the clouds equally so,
unless it were sunset ; but the blue especially, because it is
nearer than several points of land which are equally in shadow,
and yet are rendered in warm gray. But the whole value and
tone of the picture would be destroyed if this blue were altered.
Now, as much of this kind of richness of tone is always
given by Turner as is compatible with truth of aerial effect ;¦
but he will not sacrifice the higher truths of his landscape to mere
pitch of color as Titian does. He infinitely prefers
§ 18. Turner will t ¦ ,, .
not use such having the power of giving extension of space, and
fulness of form, to that of giving deep melodies of
tone ; he feels too much the incapacity of art, with its feeble
means of light, to give the abundance of nature's gradations ; and
therefore it is, that taking pure white for his highest expression of
light, that even pure yellow may give him one more step in the
scale of shade, he becomes necessarily inferior in richness of effect
to the old masters of tone, (who always used a golden highest

BEC. n. CH. I.] OE TRUTH OF TONE. 149
light,) but gains by the sacrifice a thousand more essential truths.
For, though we all know how much more like light,
essential truth by in the abstract, a finely-toned warm hue will be to
'  the feelings than white, yet it is utterly impossible
tamark the same number of gradations between such a sobered
high light and the deepest shadow, which we can between this
and white ; and as these gradations are absolutely necessary to
give the facts of form and distance, which, as we have above
shown, are more important than any truths of tone,* Turner
sacrifices the richness of his picture to its completeness — the
manner of the statement to its .matter. And not only is he
right in doing this for the sake of space, but he is right also
in the abstract question of color ; for as we observed above
(Sect. 14,) it is only the white light — the perfect unmodified
group of rays — which will bring out local color perfectly ; and
if the picture, therefore, is to be complete in its system of color,
that is, if it is to have each of the three primitives in- their
purity, it must have white for its highest light, otherwise the
purity of one of them at least will be impossible. And this leads
§18. The second us *° n°tice the second and more frequent quality
quaiity of light. 0f light, (which is assumed if we make our highest
representation of it yellow,) the positive hue, namely, which it
may itself possess, of course modifying whatever local tints it
exhibits, and thereby rendering certain colors necessary, and
certain colors impossible. Under the direct yellow light of a
descending sun, for instance, pure white and pure blue are both
impossible ; 'because he purest whites and blues that nature
could produce would be turned in some degree into gold or green
by it ; and when the sun is within half a degree of the horizon,
if the sky be clear, a rose light supersedes the golden one, still
more overwhelming in its effect on local color. I have seen the '
pale fresh green of spring vegetation in the gardens of Venice,
on the Lido side, turned pure russet, or between that and crim
son, by a vivid sunset of this kind, every particle of green color
being absolutely annihilated. And so under all colored lights,
(and there are few, from dawn to twilight, which are not slightly
* More important, observe, as matters of truth or fact. It may often
chance that, as a matter of feeling, the tone is the more important of the
two ; but with this we have here no concern.

150 OF TRUTH OF TONE. [PAKTn.
tinted by some accident of atmosphere,) there isra change of local
color, which, when in a picture it is so- exactly proportioned that
we feel at once both what the local colors are in themselves, and
what is the color and strength of the light upon them, gives us
truth of tone.
For expression of effects of yellow sunlight, parts might be
chosen out of the good pictures of Cuyp, which have never been .
equalled in art. But I much doubt if there be a single bright
% 19. The perfec- Cuyp in the world, which, taken as a whole, does
tMs respect Writer- n0* present many glaring solecisms in tone. I
feredwitiiby have not seen many fine pictures of his, which
numerous j x >
solecisms. were not utterly spoiled by the vermilion dress of
some principal figure, a vermilion totally unaffected and un-
warmed by the golden hue of the rest of the picture ; and, what
is worse, with little distinction, between its own illumined and
shaded parts; so that it appears altogether out of sunshine, the
color of a bright vermilion in dead, cold daylight. It is possible
that the original color may have gone down in all cases, or that -
these parts may have been villanously repainted : but I am the
rather disposed to believe them genuine, because even through
out the best of his pictures there are evident recurrences of
the same kind of solecism in other colors — greens for instance
— as in the steep bank on the right of the largest picture in
the Dulwich Gallery ; and browns, as in the lying cow in the
same picture, which is in most visible and painful contrast
with the one standing beside it, the flank of the standing
one being bathed in breathing sunshine, and the reposing one
laid in with as dead, opaque, and lifeless brown as ever came
raw from a novice's pallet. And again, in that marked 83,
while the figures on the right are walking in the most precious
light, and those just beyond them in the distance leave a fur
long or two of pure visible sunbeams between us and them,
the cows in the centre are entirely deprived, poor things, of
both light and air. And these failing parts, though they
often escape the eye when we are near the picture and able
to dwell upon what is beautiful in it, yet so injure its whole
effect that I question if there be many Cuyps in which vivid
colors occur, which will not lose their effect, and become cold
and flat at a distance of ten or twelve paces, retaining their

SEC. H. CH. I.] OF TRUTH OF TONE. 151
influence only when the eye is close enough to rest on the right
parts without including the whole. Take, for instance, the large
one in our National Gallery, seen from the opposite door, where
the black cow appears a great deal nearer than the dogs, and the
golden tones of the distance look like a sepia drawing rather
than like sunshine, owing chiefly to the utter want of aerial
grays indicated through them.
Now, there is no instance in the works of Turner of anything
so faithful and imitative of sunshine as the best parts of Cuyp ;
but at the same time, there is not a single vestige of the same
kind of solecism. It is true, that in his fondness for color,
S20. Turner is not Turner is in the habit of allowing excessively cold
-farrfmotrrsoarrn^ragmeil^s m his warmest pictures ; but these ar.e
the whole. never, observe, warm colors with no light upon
them, useless as contrasts while they are discords in the tone ;
but they are bits of the very coolest tints, partially removed
from the general influence, and exquisitely valuable as color,
, though, with all deference be it spoken, I think them some
times slightly destructive of what would otherwise be perfect
tone. For instance, the two blue and white stripes on the
drifting flag of the Slave Ship, are, I think, the least degree
too purely cool. I think both the blue and white would be
impossible under such a light ; and in the same way the
white parts of the dress of the Napoleon interfered by their
coolness with the perfectly managed warmth of all the rest of
the picture. But both these lights are reflexes, and it is nearly
impossible to say what tones may be assumed even by the warm
est light, reflected from a cool surface ; so that we cannot actu
ally convict these parts of falsehood, and though we should have
liked the tone of the picture better had they been slightly
warmer, we cannot but like the color of the picture better with
them as they are ; while Cuyp's failing portions are not only evi
dently and demonstrably false, being in direct light, but are as
disagreeable in 'color as false in tone, and injurious to every
thing near them. And the best proof of the grammatical
accuracy of the tones of Turner is in the perfect and unchang
ing-influence of all his pictures at any- distance. We approach
only to follow the sunshine into every cranny of the leafage, and
retire only to feel it diffused over the scene, the whole picture

152 OF TRUTH OF TONE. [PAST H.
glowing like a sun or star at whatever distance we stand, and
lighting the air between us and it ; while many even of the best
pictures of Claude must be looked close into to be felt, and lose
light every foot that we retire. The smallest of the three sea
ports in the National Gallery is valuable and right in tone when
we are close to it ; but ten yards off, it is all brick-dust, offenr
sively and evidently false in its whole hue.
The comparison of Turner with Cuyp and Claude may sound
strange in most ears ; but this is chiefly because we are not in
the habit of analyzing and dwelling upon those difficult and
S2i. The power daring passages of the modern master which do
uniting ^number n°t at first appeal to our ordinary notions of truth,
of. tones. owing to his habit of uniting two, three, or even
more separate tones in the same composition. In this also he
strictly follows nature, for wherever climate changes, tone '¦
changes, and the climate changes with every 200 feet of eleva
tion, so that the upper clouds are always different in tone from
the lower ones, these from the rest of the landscape, and in all
probability, some part of the horizon from the rest. And when
nature allows this in a high degree, as in her most gorgeous
effects she always will, she does not herself impress at once with
intensity of tone, as in the deep and quiet yellows of a July
evening, but rather with the magnificence and variety of associ
ated color, in which, if we give time and attention to it, we
shall gradually find the solemnity and the depth of twenty
tones instead of one. Now in Turner's power of associating
cold with warm light, no one has ever approached, or even ven-,
tured into the same field with him-. The old masters, content
with one simple tone, sacrificed to its unity all the exquisite
gradations and- varied touches of relief and change by which , -
nature unites her hours with each other. They gave the warmth
of the sinking sun, overwhelming all things in its gold ; but ;
they did not give those gray passages about the horizon where, .
seen through its dying light, the cool and the gloom of night
gather themselves for their victory. Whether it was in them
impotence or judgment, it is not for me to decide. I have
only to point to the daring of Turner in this respect, as some- ,
thing to which art affords no matter of comparison, as that in

SEC. II. CH. I.] OF TRUTH OF TONE. 153
which the mere attempt is, in itself, superiority. Take the
evening effect with the Temeraire. That picture will not, at
the first glance, deceive as a piece of actual sunlight ; but this
is because there is in it more than sunlight, because under the
blazing veil of vaulted fire which lights the vessel on her last
path, there is a blue, deep, desolate hollow of darkness, out of
which you can hear the voice of the night wind, and the dull
boom of the disturbed sea ; because the cold, deadly shadows
of the twilight are gathering through every sunbeam, and
moment by moment as you look, you will fancy some new film
and faintness of the night has risen over the vastness of the
departing form.
And if, in effects of this kind, time be taken to dwell upon
the individual tones, and to study the laws of their reconcile
ment, there will be found in the recent Academy pictures of this
8 82 Eecapituia- great artist a mass of various truth to which
tion- nothing can be brought for comparison, which
stands not only unrivalled, but uncontended with, and which,
when in carrying out it may be inferior to some of the picked
passages of the old masters, is so through deliberate choice
rather to suggest a multitude of truths than to imitate one, and
through a strife with difficulties of effect of which art can afford
no parallel example. Nay, in the next chapter, respecting
color, we shall see farther reason for doubting the truth of
Claude, Cuyp, and Poussin, in tone, — reason so palpable that if
these were all that were to be contended with, I should scarcely
have allowed any inferiority in Turner whatsoever ;* but I
allow it, not so much with reference to the deceptive imitations
of sunlight, wrought out with desperate exaggerations of shade,
of the professed landscape painters, as with reference to the
¦glory of Rubens, the glow of Titian, the silver tenderness of
* We must not leave the subject of tone without alluding to the works
of the late Geoige Barrett, which afford glorious and exalted passages of
light ; and John Varley, who, though less truthful in his aim, was fre
quently deep in his feeling. Some of the sketches of De Wint are also
admirable in, this respect. As for our oil pictures, the less that is said about
them the better. Callcott has the truest aim ; but not having any eye for
color, it is impossible for him to succeed in tone.

154

OF TRUTH OF TONE.

[PART H,

Cagliari, and perhaps more than all to the precious and pure
passages of intense feeling and heavenly light, holy and unde
filed, and glorious with the changeless passion of eternity, which
sanctify with their shadeless peace the deep and noble concep
tions of the early school of Italy, — of Fra Bartolomeo, Peru
gino, and the early mind of Raffaelle.

CHAPTER II.
OF TRUTH OF COLOR.
There is, in the first room of the National Gallery, a land
scape attributed to Gaspar Poussin, called sometimes Aricia,
sometimes Le or La Riccia, according to the fancy of catalogue
§i observations Prm ters. Whether it can be supposed to resemble
GPouasfn^La ^he ancient Aricia, now La Riccia, close to Albano,
Riccia. j wm no^ ^ake npon me to determine, seeing that
most of the towns of these old masters are quite as like one
place as another ; but, at any rate, it is a town on a hill, wooded
with two-and-thirty bushes, of very uniform size, and possessing
about the same number of leaves each. These bushes are all
.painted in with one dull opaque brown, becoming very slightly
greenish towards the lights, and discover in one place a bit of
rock, which of course would in nature have been cool and gray
beside the lustrous hues of foliage, and which, therefore, being
moreover completely in shade, is consistently and scientifically
- painted of a very clear, pretty, and positive brick-red, the only
thing like color in the picture. The foreground is a piece of
road, which in order to make allowance for its greater nearness,
for its being completely in light, and, it may be presumed, for
the quantity of vegetation usually present on carriage-roads, is
given in a very cool green gray, and the truth of the picture is
completed by a number of dots in the sky on the right, with a
stalk to them, of a sober and similar brown.
,„ . Not long ago, I was slowly descending this
§2. Ascompared , ., . & ° , ,, „ J ^ , .°
with the actual very bit of carnage-road, the first turn after you
leave Albano, not a little impeded by the worthy
successors of the ancient prototypes of Veiento.* It had been
* " Csecus adulator —
• Dignus Aricinos qui mendicaret ad axes,
Blandaaue devexse .iactaret basia rhedse."

156 ~ OF TRUTH OF COLOR. -[PAKTn.
wild weather when I left Rome, and all across the Campagna
the clouds were sweeping in sulphurous blue, with a clap of
thunder or two, and breaking gleams of sun along the Claudian
aqueduct lighting up the infinity of its arches like the; bridge
of chaos. But as I climbed the long slope of the Alban mount,
the storm swept finally to the north, and the noble outline of the
domes of Albano and graceful darkness of its ilex grove rose,
against pure streaks of alternate blue and amber, the upper sky
gradually flushing through the last fragments of rain-cloud in
deep, palpitating azure, half ether and half dew. The noon-day
sun came slanting down the rocky slopes of La Riccia, and its
masses of entangled and tall foliage, whose autumnal tints were
mixed with the wet verdure of a thousand evergreens, were pene
trated with it as with rain. I cannot call it color, it was con
flagration. Purple, and crimson,' and scarlet, like the curtains
of God's tabernacle, the rejoicing trees sank into the valley in
showers of light, every separate leaf quivering with buoyant and
burning life ; each, as it turned to reflect or to transmit the sun
beam, first a torch and then an emerald. Far up into the re
cesses of the valley, the green vistas arched like the hollows of
mighty waves of some crystalline sea, with the arbutus flowers
dashed along their flanks for foam, and silver flakes of orange
spray tossed into the air around them, breaking over the gray
walls of rock into a thousand separate stars, fading and kind
ling alternately as the weak wind lifted and let them fall. Every
glade of grass burned like the golden floor of heaven, opening in
sudden gleams as the foliage broke and closed above it, as sheet-
lightning opens in a cloud at sunset ; the motionless masses of
dark rock — dark though flushed with scarlet lichen, — casting
their quiet shadows across its restless radiance, the fountain
underneath them filling its marble hollow, with blue mist and
fitful sound, and over all — the multitudinous bars of amber and
rose, the sacred clouds that have no darkness, and only exist to
illumine, were seen in fathomless intervals between the solemn
and orbed repose of the stone pines, passing to lose themselves in
the last, white, blinding lustre of the measureless line where the
Campagna melted into the blaze of the sea.
Tell me who is likest this, Poussin or Turner ? Not in his
most daring and dazzling efforts could Turner himself come

BEC n. OH. n.] OF TRUTH OF COLOR. 157
near it ; but you could not at the tiine have thought or remem
bered the work of any other man as having the remotest hue or
§3. Turner him- resemblance of what you saw. Nor am I speak-
brai!ancyreto0na" &B °^ w^at is uncommon or unnatural ; there is
ture' no climate, no place, and scarcely an hour, in
which nature does not exhibit color which" no mortal effort
can imitate or approach. Por all our artificial pigments are,
even when seen under the same circumstances, dead and light-
less beside her living color ; the green of a growing leaf, the
scarlet of a fresh flower, no art nor expedient can reach ; but
in addition to this, nature exhibits her hues under an in
tensity of sunlight which trebles their brilliancy, while the
painter, deprived of this splendid aid, works still with what is
actually a gray shadow compared to the force of nature's color.
Take a blade of grass and a scarlet flower, and place them so as
to receive sunlight beside the brightest canvas that ever left
Turner's easel, and the picture will be -extinguished. So far
from out-facing nature, he does not, as far as mere vividness of
color goes, one-half reach her ; — but does he use this brilliancy
of color on objects to which it does not properly belong ? Let
us compare his works in this respect with a few instances from
the old masters.
There is, on the left hand side of Salvator's Mercury and
the Woodman in our National Gallery, something, without
doubt intended for a rocky mountain, in the middle distance,
near enough for all its fissures and crags to be dis
colors of s'aivator, tinetly visible, or, rather, for a great many awkward
scratches of the brush over it to be visible, which,
though not particularly representative either of one thing or
another, are without doubt intended to be symbolical of rocks.
Now no mountain in full light, and near enough for its details
of crag to be seen, is without great variety of delicate color.
Salvator has painted it throughout without one instant of varia
tion ; but this, I suppose, is simplicity and generalization ; — let
it pass : but what is the color ? Pure sky blue, without one grain
of gray, or any modifying hue whatsoever ; — the same brush
which had just given the bluest parts of the sky, has been more
loaded at the same part of the pallet, and the whole mountain
thrown in with unmitigated ultramarine. Now mountains only

158 OF TRUTH OF COLOR. [PARTH.
can become pure blue when there is so much air between.us
and them that they become mere flat, dark shades, every detail
being totally lost : they become blue when they become air, and
not till then. Consequently this part of Salvator's painting,
being of hills perfectly clear and near, with all their details vis
ible, is, as far as color is concerned, broad, bold falsehood — the
direct assertion of direct impossibility.
In the whole range of Turner's works, recent or of old date,
you will not find an instance of anything near enough to have
details visible, painted in sky blue. Wherever Turner gives
blue, there he gives atmosphere ; it is air, not object. Blue he
gives to his sea ; so does nature ; — blue he gives, sapphire-deep,
to his extreme distance ; so does nature ; — blue he gives to the
misty shadows and hollows of his hills ; so does nature : but
blue he gives not, where detail and illumined surface are visi
ble ; as he comes into light and character, so he breaks into -
warmth and varied hue ; nor is there in one of his works, and I
speak of the Academy pictures especially, one touch of cold "
color which is not to be accounted for, and proved right and
full of meaning.
I do not say that Salvator's distance is not artist-like ; both
in that, and in the yet more glaringly false distances of Titian
above alluded to, and in hundreds of others of equal boldness of
exaggeration, I can take delight, and perhaps should be sorry to
see them other than they are ; but it is somewhat singular to
hear people talking of Turner's exquisite care and watchfulness
in color as false, while they "receive such ^cases of preposterous
and audacious fiction with the most generous and simple cre
dulity. Again, in the upper sky of the picture of Nicolas Poussin,
before noticed, the clouds are of a very fine clear olive-green, j
about the same tint as the brightest parts of the trees beneath
§5. Poussin, and them. They cannot have altered, (or else the
laude. faQeg mugt j^yg |Deeil painted in gray,) for the hue
is harmonious and well united with the rest of the picture, and
the blue and white in the centre of the sky are still fresh and
pure. Now a green sky in open and illumined distance is very
frequent, and very beautiful ; but rich olive-green clouds, as far
as I am acquainted with nature, are a piece of color in which

BEC. n. CH. II.] OF TRUTH OF COLOR. 159
she is not apt to indulge. You will be puzzled to show me such
a thing in the recent works of Turner.* Again, take any im
portant group of trees, I do not care whose— Claude's, Salva
tor's, or Poussin's-— with lateral light (that in the Marriage of
Isaac and Rebecca, or Gaspar's sacrifice of Isaac, for instance :)
Can it be seriously supposed that those murky browns and mel
ancholy greens are representative of the tints of leaves under
full noonday sun ? I know that you cannot help looking upon
all these pictures as pieces of dark relief against a light wholly
proceeding from the distances ; but they are nothing of the
kind— they are noon and morning effects with full lateral light.
Be so kind as to match the color of a leaf in. the sun (the dark
est you like) as nearly as you can, and bring your matched
color and set it beside one of these groups of trees, and take a
blade of common grass, and set it beside any part of the fullest
light of their foregrounds, and then talk about the truth of
color of the old masters !
• And let not arguments respecting the sublimity or fidelity of
knpression be brought forward here. I have nothing whatever
to do with this at present. I am not talking about what is sub
lime, but about what is true. People attack Turner on this
ground ; — they never speak of beauty or sublimity with respect
to him, but of nature and truth, and let them support their own
favorite masters on the same grounds. Perhaps I may have the
very deepest veneration for the feeling of the old masters, but I
must not let it influence me now — my business is to match
colors, not to talk sentiment. Neither let it be said that I am
'going too much into details, and that general truths may be
obtained by local falsehood. Truth is only to be measured by

* There is perhaps nothing more characteristic of a great colorist than
his power of using greens in strange places without their being felt as such,
or at least than a constant preference of green gray to purple gray. And
this hue of Poussin's clouds would have been perfectly agreeable and allow
able, had there been gold or crimson enough in the rest of the picture to
have thrown it into gray. It is only because the lower clouds are pure
white and blue, and because the trees are of the same color as the clouds,
that the cloud color becomes false. There is a tine instance of a sky, green
in itself, but turned gray by the opposition of warm color, in Turner's
Devonport with the Dockyards.

160 OF TRUTH OF COLOR. [PABTH,
close . comparison of actual facts; we may talk forever about it
in generals, and prove nothing. We cannot tell what effect
falsehood may produce on this or that person, but we can very
well tell what is false and what is not, and if it produce on our
senses the effect of truth, that only demonstrates their imper
fection and inaccuracy, and need of cultivation. Turner's colon
is glaring to one person's sensations, and beautiful to another's.
This proves nothing. Poussin's color is right to one, soot to
another. This proves nothing. There is no means of arriving
at any conclusion but close comparison of both with the known
and demonstrable hues of nature, and this comparison will in
variably turn Claude or Poussin into blackness, and, even
Turner into gray.
Whatever depth of gloom may seem to invest the objects of
a real landscape, yet a window with that landscape seen through
it, will invariably appear a broad space of light as compared
with the shade of the room walls ; and this single circumstance
may prove to us both the intensity and the diffusion of daylight ,
in open air, and the necessity, if a picture is to be truthful iu
effect of color, that it should tell as a broad space of graduated
illumination — not, as do those of the old masters, as a patch-;
work of black shades. Their works are nature in mourning
weeds, — ovS' ev r/Xiop Ka&apop tedpa/x/jiivoi, akW vtco GV/x-
fxiyei GKia.
It is true that there are, here and there, in the Academy pic
tures, passages in which Turner has translated the unattainable
intensity of one tone of color, into the attainable pitch of a high- ;,
er one : the golden green for instance, of intense
translation of sunshine on verdure, into pure yellow, because he
knows it to be impossible, with any mixture of blue
whatsoever, to give faithfully its relative intensity of light, and
Turner always will have his light and shade right, whatever it
costs him in color. But he does this in rare cases, and even then
over very small spaces ; and I should be obliged to his critics if
they would go out to some warm, mossy green bank in full sum
mer sunshine, and try to reach its tone ; and when they find, as
find they will, Indian yellow and chrome look dark beside it, let
them tell me candidly which is nearest truth, the gold of Tur
ner, or the mourning and murky olive browns and verdigris

SEC. n. CH. II.] OF TRUTH OF COLOR. 161
greens in which Claude, with the industry and intelligence of a
Sevres china painter, drags the laborious bramble leaves over
his childish foreground.
But it is singular enough that the chief attacks on Turner
for overcharged brilliancy, are made, not when there could by
any possibility be any chance of his outstepping nature, but
when he has taken subjects which no colors of
§ 7. Notice of , . . , . « , ,
effects in which no earth could ever vie with or reach, such, for m-
can even approach stance, as his sunsets among the high clouds.
rea ity. -^en I come to speak of skies, I shall point out
what divisions, proportioned to their elevation, exist in the
character of clouds. It is the highest region, — that exclusively
characterized by white, filmy, multitudinous, and quiet clouds,
arranged in bars, or streaks, or flakes, of which I speak at pres
ent, a region which no landscape painters have ever made one
effort to represent, except Rubens and Turner — the latter taking
it for his most favorite and frequent study. Now we have been
speaking hitherto of what is constant and ' necessary in nature,
of the ordinary effects of daylight on ordinary colors, and we
repeat again, that no gorgeousness of the pallet can reach even
these. But it is a widely different thing when nature herself
takes a coloring fit, and does something extraordinary, some
thing really to exhibit her power. She has a thousand ways and
means of rising above herself, but incomparably the noblest
manifestations of her capability of color are in these sunsets
among the high clouds. I speak especially of the moment
before the sun sinks, when his light turns pure rose-color, and
when this light falls upon a zenith covered with countless cloud-
forms of inconceivable delicacy, threads and flakes of vapor,
Which would in common daylight be pure snow white, and
which give therefore fair field to the tone of light. There is
then no limit to the multitude, and no check to the intensity
of the hues assumed. The whole sky from the zenith to the
horizon becomes one molten, mantling sea of color anal fire ;
every black bar turns into massy gold, every ripple and wave
into unsullied, shadowless, crimson, and purple, and scarlet,
and colors for which there are no words in language, and no
ideas in the mind,^-things which can only be conceived while
they are visible, — the intense hollow blue of the upper sky melt-

162 OF TRUTH OF COLOR. [PARTH
ing through it all, — showing here deep, and pure, and lightless,
there, modulated by the filmy, formless body of the transparent
vapor, till it is lost imperceptibly in its crimson and gold. Now
there is no connection, no one link of association or resem-
'blance, between those skies and the work of any mortal hand
but Turner's. He alone has followed nature in these her high-.
est efforts ; he follows her faithfully, but far behind ; follows
at such a distance below her intensity that the Napoleon of last
year's exhibition, and the Temeraire of the year before, would?
look colorless and cold if the eye came upon them after one of
nature's sunsets among the high clouds. But there are a thou-
§s. Reasons for san(l reasons why this should not be believed. The
aulityof thencre" concurrence of circumstances necessary to produce
respectetoWtheir tne sunsets of which I speak does not take place
representation. ab0Ye five or six times in the summer, and then "
only for a space of from five to ten minutes, just as the sun
reaches the horizon. Considering how seldom people think
of looking for sunset at all, and how seldom, if they do,
they are in a position from which it can be fully seen, the
chances that their attention should be awake, and their posi
tion favorable, during these few flying instants of the year, is
almost as nothing. What can the citizen, who can see only the
red light on the canvas of the wagon at the end of the street,
and the crimson color of the bricks of his neighbor's chimney,
know of the flood of fire which deluges the sky from the horizon
to the zenith ? What can even" the quiet inhabitant of the Eng
lish lowlands, whose scene for the manifestation of the fire of
heaven is limited to the tops of hayricks, and the rooks' nests
in the old elm-trees, know of the mighty passages*of splendor
which are tossed from Alp to Alp over the azure of a thousand
miles of champaign? Even granting the constant vigor of
observation, and supposing the possession of such impossible
knowledge, it needs but a moment's reflection to prove how
incapable the memory is of retaining for any time the distinct
image of the sources even of its most vivid impressions. What
recollection have we of the sunsets which delighted us last year ?
We may know that they were magnificent, or glowing, but no
distinct image of color or form is retained — nothing of whose
degree (for the great difficulty with the memory is to retain, not

SEC. II. CH. II.] OF TRUTH OF COLOR. 163
facts, but degrees of fact) we could be so certain as to say of any
thing now presented to us, that it is like it. If we did say so,
we should be wrong ; for we maybe quite certain that the energy
of an impression fades from the memory, and becomes more and
more indistinct every day ; and thus we compare a faded and
indistinct image with the decision and certainty of one present to
the senses. How constantly do we affirm that the thunder-storm
of last week was the most terrible one we ever saw in our lives,
because we compare it, not with the thunder-storm of last year,
but with the faded and feeble recollection of it. And so, when
we enter an exhibition, as we have no definite standard of truth
before us, our feelings are toned down and subdued to the quiet
ness of color which is all that human power can ordinarily
attain to ; and when we turn to a piece of higher and closer
truth, approaching the pitch of the color of nature, but to
which we are not guided, as we should be in nature, by corre
sponding gradations of light everywhere around us, but which
is .isolated and cut off suddenly by a frame and a wall, and sur
rounded by darkness and coldness, what can we expect but that
it should surprise and shock the feelings ? Suppose, where the
|9. color of the Napoleon hung in the Academy last year, there
Napoleon. could have been left, instead, an opening in the
wall, and through that opening, in the midst of the obscurity of
the dim room and the smoke-laden atmosphere, there could sud
denly have been poured the full glory of a tropical sunset, rever-.
berated from the sea : How would you have shrunk, blinded, from
its scarlet and intolerable lightnings ! What picture in the room
would not have been blackness after it ? And why then do you
blame Turner because he dazzles you ? Does not the falsehood
rest with those who do not ? There was not one hue in this
whole picture which was not far below what nature would have
used in the same circumstances, nor was there one inharmoni
ous or at variance with the rest ; — the stormy blood-red of the
horizon, the scarlet of the breaking sunlight, the rich crimson
browns of the wet and illumined sea-weed ; the pure gold and
purple of the upper sky, and, shed through it all, the deep
passage of solemn blue, where the cold moonlight fell on one
pensive spot of the limitless shore — all were given with harmony
as perfect as their color was intense ; and if, instead of passing, as

164 OF TRUTH OF COLOR. [PAST H.
I doubt not you did, in the hurry of your unreflecting prejudice,
you had paused but so much as one quarter of an hour befors*
the picture, you would have found the sense of air and space
blended with every line, and breathing in every cloud, and every
color instinct and radiant with visible, glowing, absorbing light.
It is to be observed, however, in general, that wherever in
brilliant effects of this kind, we approach to anything like a
true statement of nature's color, there must yet be a distinct
difference in the impression we convey, because we
aiscrepanCcy bef cannot approach her light. All such hues are usu-
abieeebriii1ancTof ally given by her with an accompanying intensity
color and light. ^ gunbeams which dazzles and overpowers the
eye, so that it cannot rest on the actual colors, nor understand
what they are ; and hence in art, in rendering all effects of this
kind, there must be a want of the ideas of imitation, which are
the great source of enjoyment to the ordinary observer ; because^
we can only give one series of truths, those of color, and are
unable to give the accompanying truths of light, so that the
more true we are in color, the greater, ordinarily, will be tha
discrepancy felt between the intensity of hue and the feebleness
of light. But the painter who really loves nature will not, on
this account, give you a faded and feeble image, which indeed ~
may appear to you to be right, because your feelings can detect
no discrepancy in its parts, but which Ik vnows to derive its
apparent truth from a systematized falsellood. No ; he will'
make you understand and feel that art cannot imitate nature—
that where it appears to -do so, it must malign her, and mock
her. He will give you, or state to you, such truths as are in
his power, completely and perfectly ; and those which he can
not give, he will leave to your imagination. If you are ac
quainted with nature, you will know all he has given to be true, '
-and you will supply from your memory and from your heart
that light which he cannot give. If you are unacquainted with
nature, seek elsewhere for whatever may happen to satisfy your
feelings ; but do not ask for the truth which you would not
acknowledge and could not enjoy.
Nevertheless the aim and struggle of the artist must always
be to do away With this discrepancy as far as the powers of art
admit, not by lowering his color, but by increasing his light,

SEC. II. CH. II.] OF TRUTH OF COLOR. 165
jn. This dis- And. it is indeed by this that the works of Turner
TUerPna"ctimn in" are peculiarly distinguished from those of all other
other colorists. col0rists, by the dazzling intensity, namely, of the
light which he sheds through every hue, and which, far more
than their brilliant color, is the real source of their overpower
ing effect upon the eye, an effect jo reasonably made the subject
of perpetual animadversion, as if tfce sun which they represent
were quite a quiet, and subdued, and gentle, and manageable
luminary, and never dazzled anybody, under any circumstances
whatsoever. I am fond of standing by a bright Turner in the
Academy, to listen to the unintentional compliments, of the
crowd— "What a glaring thing !" "I declare I can't look at
it !" "Don't it hurt your eyes?" — expressed as if they were in
the constant habit of looking the sun full in the face, with the
most perfect comfort and entire facility of vision. It is curious
I ]2. its great ex- a^er hearing people malign some of Turner's noble
sca|enatoibuted phages of light, to pass to some really ungram-
to Rubens. matical and false picture of the old masters, in
which we have color given without light. Take, for instance,
the landscape attributed to Rubens, No. 175, in the Dulwich
Gallery. I never have spoken, and I never will speak of Rubens
but with the most reverential feeling ; and whatever imperfec
tions in his art may have resulted from his unfortunate want of
seriousness and incapability of true passion, his calibre of mind
was originally such that I believe the world may see another
Titian and another Raffaelle, before it sees another Rubens.
But I have before alluded to the violent license he occasionally
assumes ; and there is an instance of it in this picture apposite
to the immediate question. The sudden streak and circle of
yellow and crimson in the middle of the sky of that picture,
being the occurrence of a fragment of a sunset color in pure
daylight, and in perfect isolation, while at the same time it is
rather darker, when translated into light and shade, than
brighter than the rest of the sky, is a case of such bold absurd
ity, come from whose pencil it may, that if every error which
Turner has fallen into in the whole course of his life were con
centrated into one, that one would not equal it ; and as our
connoisseurs gaze upon this with never-ending approbation, we
must not be surprised that the accurate perceptions which thus

166 OF TRUTH OF COLOR. [PAETH.
take delight in pure fiction, should consistently be disgusted by
Turner's fidelity and truth.
Hitherto, however, we have been speaking of vividness qf
pure color, and showing that it is used by Turner only where
nature uses it, and in no less degree. But we have hitherto,
§ 13. Turner therefore, been speaking of a most limited and un-
nsespure^or characteristic jprtion of his works ; for Turner,
vivid color. like all great colorists, is distinguished not more
for his power of dazzling and overwhelming the eye with in
tensity of effect, than for his power of doing so by the use of
subdued and gentle means. There is no man living more cau
tious and sparing in the use of pure color than Turner. To
say that he never perpetrates anything like the blue excres
cences of foreground, or hills shot like a housekeeper's best silk
gown, with blue and red, which certain of our celebrated
artists consider the essence of the sublime, would be but
a poor compliment. I might as well praise the portraits of
Titian because they have not the grimace and paint of a clown
in a pantomime ; but I do say, and say with confidence, that
there is scarcely a landscape artist of the present day, however
sober and lightless their effects may look, who does not employ
more pure and raw color than Turner ; and that the ordinary
tinsel and trash, or rather vicious and perilous stuff, according-
to the power of the mind producing it, with which the walls of
our Academy are half covered, disgracing, in weak hands, or in
more powerful, degrading and corrupting our whole school of
art, is based on a system of color beside which Turner's is as
Vesta to Cotytto — the chastity of fire to the foulness of earth.
Every picture of this great colorist has, in one or two parts of
it, (key-notes of the whole,) points where the system of each in
dividual color is concentrated by a single stroke, as pure as it
can come from the pallet ; but throughout the great space and
extent of even the most brilliant of his works, there will not be
found a raw color ; that is to say, there is no warmth which has
not gray in it, and no blue which has not warmth in it ; and
the tints in which he most excels and distances all other men,
the most cherished and inimitable portions of his color, are, as
with all perfect colorists they must be, his grays.
It is instructive in this respect, to compare the sky of the

SEC. TT. CH. n.] OF TRUTH OF COLOR. , 167
Mercury and Argus with the various illustrations of the seren
ity, space, and sublimity naturally inherent in blue and pink, of
which every year's exhibition brings forward enough and to
spare. In the Mercury and Argus, the pale and vaporous blue
of the heated sky is broken with gray and pearly white, the gold
color of the light warming it more or less as it approaches or
retires from the sun ; but throughout, there is not a grain of
pure, blue ; all is subdued and warmed at the same time by the
mingling gray and gold, up to the very zenith, where, breaking
through the flaky mist, the transparent and deep azure of the
sky is expressed with a single crumbling touch ; the key-note of
the whole is given, and every part of it passes at once far into
glowing and aerial space. The reader can scarcely fail to re
member at once sundry works in contradistinction -to this, with
great names attached to them, in which the sky is a sheer piece
of plumber's and glazier's work, and should be valued per yard,
with heavy extra charge for ultramarine.
Throughout the works of Turner, the same truthful prin
ciple of delicate and subdued color is carried out with a care and
labor of which it is difficult to form a conception. He gives a
dash of pure white for his highest light ; but all
$14. The basis of ,, ,-,¦,¦, j. t. • • . i j -,
gray, under aii the other whites of his picture are pearled down
Sis vivid hues. .... i i -rr ¦" j- u .c
with gray or gold. He gives a fold of pure crim
son to the drapery of his nearest figure, but all his other crim
sons will be deepened with black, or warmed with yellow. In
one deep reflection of his distant sea, we catch a trace of the
purest blue ; but ¦ all the rest is palpitating with a varied and
delicate gradation of harmonized tint, which indeed looks vivid
:. blue as a mass, but is only so by opposition. It is the most
difficult, the most rare thing, to find in his works a definite
- space, however small, of unconnected color ; that is, either of a
blue which has nothing to connect it with the warmth, or of a
warm color which has nothing to connect it with the grays of
the whole ; and the result is, that there is a general system and
mSler-current of gray pervading the whole of his color, out of
which his highest lights, and those local touches of pure color,
which are, as I said before, the key-notes of the picture, flash
with the peculiar brilliancy and intensity in which he stands
alone.

168 OF TRUTH OF COLOR. [PART H.
Intimately associated with this toning down and connection
of the colors actually used, is his inimitable power of varying
and blending them, so as never to give a quarter of an inch of
§15 The variety canvas without a change in it, a melody as Well, as
o" htemost simple a harmony of one kind or another. Observe, I am
*ones- not at present speaking of this as artistical or de
sirable in itself, not as a characteristic of the great colorist, but
as the aim of the simple follower of nature. For it is strange
to see how marvellously nature varies the most general and
simple of her tones. A mass of mountain seen against- the
light, may, at first, appear all of one blue ; and so it is, blue as
a whole, by comparison with other parts of the landscape. But
look how that blue is made up. There are black shadows in it
under the crags, there are green shadows along the turf, there
are gray half-lights upon the rocks, there are faint touches of
stealthy warmth and cautious light along their edges ; every
bush, every stone, every tuft of moss has its voice in the matter/
and joins with individual character in the universal will. Who
is there who can do this as Turner will? The old masters."
would have settled the matter at once with a transparent, agree
able, but monotonous gray. Many among the moderns would
probably be equally monotonous with absurd and false colors.
Turner only would give the uncertainty — the palpitating, per
petual change — the subjection of all to a great influence, without"
one part or portion being lost or merged in it — the unity of
action with infinity of agent. And I wish to insist on this the
§16. Following more particularly, because it is one of the eternal
uMpproachaWe principles of nature, that she will not have one line ¦
variety of nature. nor coior> nor one portion nor atom of space without
a change in it. These is not one of her shadows, tints, or lines
that is not in a state of perpetual variation : I do not mean in
time, but in space. There is not a leaf in the world which has
the same color visible over its whole surface ; it has a white
high light somewhere ; and in proportion as it curves to or from
that focus, the color is brighter or grayer. Pick up a common
flint from the roadside, and count, if you can, its changes and
hues of color. Every bit of bare ground under your feet has in
it a thousand such — the gray pebbles, the warm ochre, the green
of incipient vegetation, the grays and blacks of its reflexes and

SEC. II. CH. II.] OF TRUTH OF COLOR. 169
shadows, might keep a painter at work for a month, if he were
obliged to follow them touch for touch : how much more, when
the same infinity of change is carried out with vastness of object
and space. The extreme of distance may appear at first mo
notonous ; but the least examination will show it to be full of
every kind of change — that its outlines are perpetually melting
and appearing again — sharp here, vague there — now lost alto
gether, now just hinted and still confused among each other —
and so forever in a state and necessity of change. Hence,
wherever in a painting we have unvaried color extended even
over a small space, there is falsehood. Nothing can be natural
which is monotonous ; nothing true which only tells one story.
The brown foreground and rocks of Claude's Sinon before
Priam are as false as color can be : first, because there never was
such a brown under sunlight, for even the sand and cinders
(volcanic tufa) about Naples, granting that he had studied from
these ugliest of all formations, are, where they are fresh frac
tured, golden and lustrous in full light compared to these ideals
of crag, and become, like all other rocks, quiet ahd gray when
^weathered ; and secondly, because no rock that ever nature
stained is without its countless breaking tints of varied vegeta
tion. And even Stanfield, master as he is of rock form, is apt
in the same way to give us here and there a little bit of mud,
instead of stone.
What I am next about to say with respect to Turner's color,
I should wish to be received with caution, as it admits of dis
pute. I think that the first approach to viciousness of color in
§17. His dislike of any master is commonly indicated chiefly by a
S'ror'the0^ prevalence of purple, aifd an absence of yellow. I
£ wack.yeTne think nature mixes yellow with almost every one
Starein this of lier hues, never, or very rarely, using red with-
respect. out ^ kut frequently using yellow with scarcely
any red ; and I believe it will be in consequence found that her'
favorite opposition, that which generally characterizes and gives
tone to her color, is yellow and black, passing, as it retires, into
white and blue. It is beyond dispute that the great funda
mental opposition of Rubens is yellow and black ; and that on
this, concentrated in one part of the picture, and modified in
various grays throughout, chiefly depend the tones of all his

170 OF TRUTH OF COLOR. [PARTn.
finest works. And in Titian, though there is a far greater ten
dency to the purple than in Rubens, I believe no red is ever
mixed with the pure blue, or glazed over it, which has not in it
a modifying quantity of yellow. At all events, I am nearly cer
tain that whatever rich and pure purples are introduced locally,
by the great colorists, nothing is so destructive of all fine color
as the slightest tendency to purple in general tone ; and I am
equally certain that Turner is distinguished from all the vicious
colorists of the present day, by the foundation of all his tones
being black, yellow, and the intermediate grays, while the ten
dency of our common glare-seekers is invariably to pure, cold,
impossible purples. So fond indeed is Turner of black and yel
low, that he has given us more than one composition, both
drawings and paintings, based on these two colors alone, of
which the magnificent Quillebceuf, which I consider one of the
most perfect pieces of simple color existing, is a most striking
example ; and I think that where, as in some of the late Ven-
ices, there has been something like a marked appearance of
purple tones, even though exquisitely corrected by vivid orange
and warm green in the foreground, the general color has not
been so perfect or truthful : my own feelings would always
guide me rather to the warm grays of such pictures as the Snow
Storm, or the glowing scarlet and gold of the Napoleon and
Slave Ship. But I do not insist at present on this part of the
subject, as being perhaps more proper for future examination,
when we are considering the ideal of color. ,
^The above remarks have been made entirely with reference
to the recent Academy pictures, which have been chiefly at
tacked for their color. I oy no means intend them to apply to
the early 'works of Turner, those which the en-
gia His early ¦,.,,, .,. „ . n •
works are false lightened newspaper critics are perpetually talking
about as characteristic of a time when Turner was
"really great." He is, and was, really great, from the time
when he first could hold a brush, but he never was so great as he
is now. The Crossing the Brook, glorious as it is as a composi
tion, and perfect in all that is most desirable and most ennobling
in art, is scarcely to be looked upon as a piece of color ; it is an
agreeable, cool, gray rendering of space and form, but it is not
color ; if it be regarded as such, it is thoroughly false and vapid,

6EC n. CH. n.] OF TRUi'H OF COLOR. " 171
and very far inferior to the tones of the same kind given bv
Claude. The reddish brown in the foreground of the Pall of
Carthage, with all diffidence be it spoken, is, as far as my feel
ings are competent to judge, crude, sunless, and in every way
wrong ; and both this picture and the Building of Carthage,
though this latter is far the finer of the two, are quite unworthy
of Turner as a colorist.
Not so with the drawings ; these, countless as they are, from
the earliest to the latest, though presenting an unbroken chain
of increasing difficulty overcome, and truth illustrated, are all,
.§19. His drawings according to their aim, equally faultless as to color.
invariably perfect. "Whatever we have hitherto said, applies to them
in its fullest extent ; though each, being generally the realiza
tion of some effect actually seen, and realized but once, re
quires almost a separate essay. As a class, they are far quieter
and chaster than the Academy pictures, and, were they better
known, might enable our connoisseurs to form a somewhat more
accurate judgment of the intense study of nature on which all
Turner's color is based.
One point only remains to be noted respecting his system of
color generally — its entire subordination to light and shade, a
subordination which there is no need to prove here, as every
Sao. The subjec- engraving from Ms works — and few are unen-
or°?o?orhtotffof graved — is sufficient demonstration of it. I have
chiaroscuro. before shown the inferiority and unimportance
in nature of color, as a truth, compared with light and shade.
That inferiority _ is maintained and asserted by all really great
works of color ; but most by Turner's as their color is most
intense. Whatever brilliancy he may choose to assume, is
subjected to an inviolable law of chiaroscuro, from which
there is no appeal. No richness nor depth of tint is con
sidered of value enough to atone for the loss of one particle of
.arranged light. No brilliancy of hue is permitted to interfere
With the depth of a determined shadow. And hence it is, that
while engravings from works far less splendid in color are often
Vapid and cold, because the little color employed has not been
rightly based on light and shade, an engraving from Turner is
always beautiful and forcible in proportion as the color of the
¦original has been intense, and never in a single instance has

172 ' OF TRUTH OF COLOR. fPAKTEr,
failed to express the picture as a perfect composition.* Power?
ful and captivating and faithful as his color is, it is the least
important of all his excellences, because it is the least important
feature of nature. He paints in color, but he thinks in light
and shade ; and were it necessary, rather than lose one line of
his forms, or one ray of his sunshine, would, I apprehendjibe
content to paint in black and white to the end of his life. It is
by mistaking the shadow for the substance, and aiming at the
brilliancy and the fire, without perceiving of what deep-studied
* This is saying too much ; for it not unfrequently happens that the light
and shade of the original is lost in the engraving, the effect of which is
afterwards partially recovered, with the aid of the artist himself, by intro
ductions of new features. Sometimes, when a drawing depends chiefly on
color, the engraver gets unavoidably embarrassed, and must be assisted hy
some change or exaggeration of the effect ; but the more frequent case is? ;
that the engraver's difficulties result merely from his inattention to, or wilful
deviations from his original ; and that the artist is obliged to assist him by-
such expedients as the error itself suggests.
Not unfrequently in reviewing a plate, as very constantly in reviewing a
picture after some time has elapsed since its completion, even the painter is
liable to make unnecessary or hurtful changes. In the plate of the Old
Temeraire, lately published in Pinden's gallery, I do not know whether it
was Turner or the engraver who broke up the water into sparkling ripple,
but i|; was a grievous mistake, and has destroyed the whole dignity and
value of the conception. The flash of lightning in the Winchelsea of the
England series does not exist in the original ; it is "put in to withdraw the
attention of the spectator from the sky which the engraver destroyed.
There is an unfortunate persuasion among modern engravers that color
can be expressed by particular characters of line ; and in the endeavor,|0
distinguish by different lines, different colors of equal depth, they frequently
lose the whole system of light and shade. It will hardly be credited that
the piece of foreground on the left of Turner's Modern Italy, represented in
the Art-Union engraving as nearly coal black, is in the original of a pale
warm gray, hardly darker than the sky. All attempt to record color; in
engraving, is heraldry out of its place : the engraver has no power beyond Si
that of expressing transparency or opacity by greater or less openness of
line, (for the same depth of tint is producible by lines with very different
intervals.) Texture of surface is only in a measure in the power of the steel, and
ought not to be laboriously sought after ; nature's surfaces are distinguished
more by form than texture ; a stone is often smoother than a leaf ; but if
texture is to be given, let the engraver at least be sure that he knows what
the texture of the object actually is, and how to represent it. The leaves in
the foreground of the engraved Mercury and Argus have all of them threS

SEC. n. CH. n.] OF TRUTH OF COLOR. 173
'shade and inimitable form it is at once the result and the illus
tration, that the host of his imitators sink into deserved dis
grace. With him, as with all the greatest painters, and in
Turner's more than all, the hue is a beautiful auxiliary in work
ing out the great impression to be conveyed, but" is not the
source nor the essence of that impression ; it is little more than
a visible melody, given to raise and assist the mind in the recep
tion of nobler ideas — as sacred passages of sweet sound, to pre
pare the feelings for the reading of the mysteries of God.
qr four black lines across them. What sort of leaf texture is supposed to be
represented by these ? The stones in the foreground of Turner's Llanthony
received from the artist the powdery texture of sandstone ; the engraver
covered them with contorted lines and turned them into old timber.
A still more fatal cause of failure is the practice of making out or finish
ing what the artist left incomplete. In the England plate of Dudley, there
are two offensive blank windows in the large building with the chimney on
the left. These are engraver's improvements ; in the original they are
barely traceable, their lines being excessively faint and tremulous as with
the movement of heated air between them and the spectator : their vul
garity is thus taken away, and the whole building left in one grand unbro.
ken mass. It is almost impossible to break engravers of this unfortunate
habit. I have even heard of their taking journeys of some distance in order
to obtain knowledge of the details which the artist intentionally omitted ;
and the evil will necessarily continue until they receive something like legit
imate artistical education. In one or two instances, however, especially in
small plates, they have shown great feeling ; the plates of Miller (especially
those of the Turner illustrations, to Scott) are in most instances perfect and
beautiful interpretations of the originals ; so those of Goodall in Rogers's
.works, and Cousens's in the Bivers of France ; those of the Yorkshire series
.are also very valuable, though singularly inferior to the drawings. But
-none even of these men appear capable of producing a large plate. They
have no knowledge of the means of rendering their lines vital or valuable ;
cross-hatching stands for everything ; and inexcusably, for though we can
not expect every engraver to etch like Bembrandt or Albert Durer, or every
wood-cutter to draw like Titian, at least something of the system and power
of the grand works of those men might be preserved, and some mind and
meaning stolen into the reticulation of the restless modern lines.

CHAPTER III.
OF TRUTH OF CHIAROSCURO.
It is not my intention to enter, in the present portion of the
work, upon any examination of Turner's particular effects of
light. We must know something about what is beautiful before
§1. we are not at we speak of these.
pSTuia? efects16 At present I wish only to insist upon two great
of light. principles of chiaroscuro, whieh are observed
throughout the works of the great modern master, and set at"
defiance by the ancients — great general laws, which may, or may
not, be sources of beauty, but whose observance is indisputably*
necessary to truth.
Go out some bright sunny day in winter, and look for a tree
with a broad trunk, having rather delicate boughs hanging down
on the sunny side, near the trunk. Stand four or five yards
from it, with your back to the sun. You will find that the
boughs between you and the trunk of the tree are very indis
tinct, that you confound them in places with the trunk itself,
and cannot possibly trace one of them from its insertion to its
extremity. But the shadows which they cast upon the trunk,
you will find clear, dark, and distinct, perfectly traceable
through their whole course, except when they are interrupted
by the crossing boughs. And if you retire backwards, you will
come to a point where you cannot see the intervening boughs at
all, or only a fragment of them here and there, but can still see '
their shadows perfectly plain. Now, this may serve to show you
the immense prominence and importance of shadows where
there is anything like bright light. They are, in fact, com
monly far mors conspicuous than the thing which casts them,
for being as large as the casting object, and altogether made up
of a blackness deeper than the darkest part of the casting object,
(while that object is also broken up with positive and reflected

SEC. II. CH. HI.] OF TRUTH OF CHIAROSCURO. 175"
lights,) their large, broad, unbroken spaces, tell strongly on the
eye, especially as all form is rendered partially, often totally in
visible within them, and, as they are suddenly terminated by the
sharpest lines which nature ever shows. Por no outline of ob
jects whatsoever is so sharp as the edge of a close shadow. Put
your finger over a piece of white paper in the' sun, and observe
the difference between the softness of the outline of the finger it
self and the decision of the edge of the shadow. And note also
the excessive gloom of the latter. A piece of black cloth, laid
in the light, will not attain one-fourth of the blackness of the
paper under the shadow.
' Hence shadows are in reality, when the sun is shining, the
most conspicuous thing in a landscape, next to the highest
lights. All forms are understood and explained chiefly by their
S3. And therefore agency : the roughness of the bark of a tree, for
snadowsnistItheS °f instance, is not seen in the light, nor in the shade ;
expfessfng vivid- ^ ^s onty seen between the two, where the shadows
nessofiignt. 0f the ridges explain it. And hence, if we have
to express vivid light, our very first aim must be to get the
shadows sharp and visible ; and this is not to be done by black
ness, (though indeed chalk on white paper is the only thing
which comes up to the intensity of real shadows^) but by keep
ing them perfectly fiat, keen, and even. A very pale shadow, if
it be quite flat: — if it conceal the details of the objects it crosses
—if it be gray and cold compared to their color, and very sharp
edged, will be far more conspicuous, and make everything out
of it look a great deal more like sunlight, than a shadow ten
times its depth, shaded off at the edge, and confounded with
the color of the objects on which it falls. Now
of euch distinct- the old masters of the Italian school, in almost all
of thenitaiian°r s their works, directly reverse this principle : they
blacken their shadows till the picture becomes
ifuite appalling, and everything in it invisible ; but they make
a point of losing their edges, and carrying them off by grada
tion ; in consequence utterly destroying every appearance of
sunlight. All their shadows are the faint, secondary darknesses
of mere daylight ; the sun has nothing whatever to do with them.
The shadow between the pages of the book which you hold in
your hand is distinct and visible enough, (though you are, I sup-

176 OF TRUTH OF CHIAROSCURO. [PARTE.
pose, reading it by the ordinary daylight of your room,} out of
the sun ; and this weak and secondary shadow is all that we ever
find in the Italian masters, as indicative of sunshine. Even
Cuyp and Berghem, though they know thoroughly
8.4. And partial -fy v , ,, , , - ,» • . j .
absence in the well what they are about m their foregrounds, for
get the principle in their distances ; and though
in Claude's seaports, where he has plain architecture to deal
with, he gives us something like real shadows along the stone%
the moment we come to ground and foliage with lateral lights
away go the shadows and the sun together. In the Marriage of
Isaac and Rebecca, in our own gallery, the trunks of the trees
between the water-wheel and the white figure in the middle dis
tance, are dark and visible ; but their shadows are scarcely dis
cernible on the ground, and are quite vague and lost in the
building. In nature, every bit of the shadow would have been
darker than the darkest part of the trunks, and both on the*
ground and building would have been defined and conspicuous ;.
while the trunks themselves would have been faint, confusedy
and indistinguishable, in their illumined parts, from the grass
or distance. So in Poussin's Phocion, the shadow of the stick,
on the stone in the right-hand corner, is shaded off and lost,
while you see the stick plain all the way. In nature's sunlight
it would have been the direct reverse — you would have seen the
shadow black and sharp all the way down, but you would have
had to look for the stick, which in all probability would in sev
eral places have been confused with the stone behind it.
And so throughout the works of Claude, Poussin, and Salva
tor, we shall find, especially in their conventional foliage,- and
unarticulated barbarisms of rock, that their whole sum and sub
stance of chiaroscuro is merely the gradation and variation
which nature gives in the body of her shadows,, and that all
which they do to express sunshine, she does to vary shaded
They take only one step, while she always takes two ; marking,
in the first place, with violent decision, the great transition
from sun to shade, and then varying the shade itself with a
thousand gentle gradations and double shadows, in themselves
equivalent, and more than equivalent, to all that the old masters
did for their entire chiaroscuro.
Now if there be one principle, or secret more than another,
on which Turner depends for attaining brilliancy of light, it is

HEC. II. CH. m.] OF TRUTH OF CHIAROSCURO.' 177:
his clear and exquisite drawing of the shadows, v/hatever is
. obscure, misty, or undefined in his objects or his
( 5. The perfection ' J, ' j.n j. j.i- i -,
of Turner's works atmosphere, he takes care that the shadows be
1 '""' " "'" sharp and clear — and then he knows that the light
will take care of itself, and he makes them clear, not by black
ness, but by excessive evenness, unity, and sharpness of edge.
He will keep them clear and distinct, and make them felt as
shadows, though they are so faint, that, but for their decisive
forms, we should not have observed them for darkness at all.
He will throw them one after another like transparent- veils,
along the earth and upon the air, till the whole picture palpi
tates with them, and yet the darkest of them will be a faint
gray, imbued and penetrated with light. The pavement on the
left of the Hero and Leander, is about the most thorough piece of
this kind of sorcery that I remember in art ; but of the general
principle, not. one of his works is without constant evidence.
Take the vignette of the garden opposite the title-page of Rog
ers's Poems, and note the drawing of the nearest balustrade on
the right. The balusters themselves are faint and misty, and ,
the light through them feeble ; but the shadows of them are
sharp and dark, and the intervening light as intense as it can
be left. And see how much more distinct the shadow of the
running figure is on the pavement, than the checkers of the
pavement itself. Observe the shadows on the trunk of the tree
at page 91, how they conquer all the details of the trunk itself,
and become darker and more conspicuous than any part of the
boughs or limbs, and so in the vignette to Campbell's Beech-
tree's Petition. Take the beautiful concentration of all that is
most characteristic of Italy as she is, at page 168 of Rogers's
Italy, where we have the long shadows of the trunks made by
far the most conspicuous thing in the whole foreground, and
hear how Wordsworth, the keenest-eyed of all modern poets for
¦frhat is deep and essential in nature, illustrates Turner here, as
we shall find him doing in all other points. "At the root
Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare
And slender stem, while here I sit at eve,
Oft stretches tow'rds me, like a long straight path,
Traced faintly in the greensward." Excursion, Book VI

178 OF TRUTH OF CHIAROSCURO. [PAHTH.
So again in the Rhymer's Glen, (Illustrations to Scott,). note
the intertwining of the, shadows across the path, and the check
ering of the trunks by them ; and again on the bridge in the
Armstrong's Tower ;. and yet more in the long avenue of Bri-
enne, where we have a length of two or three miles expressed.by
the playing shadows alone, and the whole picture filled with
sunshine by the long lines of darkness cast by the figures on the
snow. The Hampton Court in the England series, is another
very striking instance. In fact, the general system of execution
observable in all Turner's drawings, is to work his grounds
richly and fully, sometimes stippling, and giving infinity of
delicate, mysterious, and ceaseless detail ; and on the ground sp
prepared to cast his shadows with one dash of the brush, leaving
an excessively sharp edge of watery color. Such at least is com
monly the case in such coarse and broad instances as those I
have above given. Words are not accurate enough,
lis shadowseupon nor delicate enough to express or trace the con.
the hght. stant, all- pervading influence of the finer and
vaguer shadows throughout his works, that thrilling influence
which gives to the light they leave, its passion and its power.
There is not a stone, not a leaf, not a cloud, over which light is
not felt to be actually passing and palpitating before our eyes. =
There is the motion, the actual wave and radiation of the darted
beam — not the dull universal daylight, which falls on the land
scape without life, or direction, or speculation, equal on all
things and dead on all things ; but the breathing, animated^!
exulting light, which feels, and receives, and rejoices, and acts
— whicli chooses one thing and rejects another — which seeks, and
finds, and loses again — leaping from rock to rock, from leaf to
leaf, from wave to wave, — glowing, or flashing, or scintillating,
according to what it strikes, or in its holier moods, absorbing
and enfolding all things in the deep fulness of its repose, and
then again losing itself in bewilderment, and doubt, and dim- .
ness ; or perishing and passing away, entangled in drifting mist,
or melted into melancholy air, but still, — kindling, or declin
ing, sparkling or still, it is the living light, which breathes in .
its deepest, most entranced rest, which sleeps, but never dies.
I %eed scarcely insist farther on the marked distinction
between the works of the old masters and those of the great

BEC. H. CH. in.] OF TRUTH OF CHIAROSCURO. 179
modern-landscape-painters in this respect. It is one which the
§7. The distinc- reader can perfectly well work out for himself, by
beTweenaknolt an the slightest systematic attention,— one which he
ancieWnTkand0fmod-wi11 find existing, not merely between this work
em schools. and thatj j^ throughout the whole body of their
productions, and down to every leaf and line. And. a little
Careful watching of nature, especially in her foliage and fore
grounds, and comparison of her with Claude, Gaspar Poussin,
and Salvator, will soon show him that those artists worked
entirely on conventional principles, not representing what they
saw, but what they thought would make a handsome picture ;
and even when they went to nature, which I believe to have
been a very much rarer practice with them than their biogra
phers would have us suppose, they copied her like children, draw
ing what they knew to be there, but not what they saw there. *
I believe you may search the foregrounds of Claude, from one
end of Europe to another, and you will not find the shadow of
one leaf cast upon another. You will find leaf after leaf painted
more or less boldly or brightly out of the black ground, and you
will find dark leaves defined in perfect form upon the light ; but
you will not find the form of a single leaf disguised or inter
rupted by the shadow of another. And Poussin and Salvator
are still farther from anything like genuine truth. There is
¦nothing in their pictures which might not be manufactured in
their painting-room, with a branch or two of brambles and a
bunch or two of weeds before them, to give them the form of
the leaves. And it is refreshing to turn from their ignorant
and impotent repetitions of childish conception, to the clear,
close, genuine studies of modern artists ; for it is not Turner
only, (though here, as in all other points, the first,) who is re
markable for fine and expressive decision of chiaroscuro. Some
^passages by J. D. Harding are thoroughly admirable in this
- tespect, though this master is getting a little too much into a
'habit of general keen execution, which prevents the parts which
ought to be especially decisive from being felt as such, and
•which makes his pictures, especially the large ones, look a little
thin. But some of his later passages of rock foreground have,
* Compare Sect. II. Chap. II. § 6.

180 OF TRUTH OF CHIAROSCURO. [PART Hi
taken in the abstract, been beyond all praise, owing to the ex
quisite forms and firm expressiveness of their shadows. And
the chiaroscuro of Stanfield is equally deserving of the most
attentive study.
The second point to which I wish 'at present to direct atten
tion has reference to the arrangement of light and shade. It is
the constant habit of nature to use both her highest lights and
deepest shadows in exceedingly small quantity;
principie'of cM>ir- always in points, never in masses. She will give
S|MrandBdeep"a a large mass of tender light in sky or water, im.
intqnaiaquanstiii pressive by its quantity, and a large mass of tender .
and only in points. ghadow relieved against it, in foliage, or hill, or
building ; but the light is always subdued if it be extensive — the
shadow always feeble if it be broad. She will then fill up all
the rest of her picture with middle tints and pale grays of some
sort or another, and on this quiet and harmonious whole, she
will touch her high lights in spots — the foam of an isolated wave
— the sail of a solitary vessel— the flash of the sun from a wet
roof — the gleam of a single whitewashed cottage — or some such
sources of local brilliancy, she will use so vividly and delicately
as to throw everything else into definite shade by comparison.
And then taking up the gloom, she will use the black hollows of
some overhanging bank, or the black dress of some shaded fig
ure, or the depth of some sunless chink of wall or windows, so
sharply as- to throw everything else into definite light by com
parison ; thus reducing the whole mass of her picture to a deli
cate middle tint, approaching, of course, here to light, and
there to gloom ; but yet sharply separated from the utmost
degrees either of the one or the other.
Now it is a curious thing that none of our writers on art seem
to have noticed the great principle of nature in this respect , ^
They all talk of deep shadow as a thing that may be given in
8 9. Neglect or quantity, — one fourth of the picture, or, in certain
thS'pHncipieby effects, much more. Barry, for instance, says that
writers on art. the practice of the great painters, who "best un
derstood the effects of chiaroscuro," was, for the most part,
to make the mass of middle tint larger than the light, and the
mass of dark larger than the masses of light and middle tint
together, i.e., occupying more than one-half of the picture.

8EC. H. CH. in.] OF TRUTH OF CHIAROSCURO. 181
Now I do not know what we are to' suppose is meant by " under
standing chiaroscuro. " If it means being able to manufacture
agreeable patterns in the shape of pyramids, and crosses, and
zigzags, into which arms and legs are to be persuaded, and pas
sion and motion arranged, for the promotion and encourage
ment of the cant of criticism, such a principle may be produc
tive of the most advantageous results. But if it means, being
acquainted with the deep, perpetual, systematic, unintrusive
simplicity and unwearied variety of nature's chiaroscuro — if it
means the perception that blackness and sublimity are not syn
onymous, and that space and light may possibly be coadjutors —
then no man, who ever advocated or dreamed of such a prin
ciple, is anything more than a novice, blunderer
quent misguiding and trickster in chiaroscuro. And my firm belief
of the student. . ,, , ,, , -, .. . . . ... -.1
is, that though color is inveighed against by aU
artists, as the great Circe of art — the great transformer of mind
into sensuality — no fondness for it, no study of it, is half so
great a peril and stumbling-block to the young student, as the
•admiration he hears bestowed on such artificial, false, and jug
gling chiaroscuro, and the instruction he receives, based on
•such principles as that given us by Puseli — that " mere natural
light and shade, however separately or individually true, is not
always legitimate chiaroscuro in art." It may not always be
agreeable to a sophisticated, unfeeling, and perverted mind ; but
the student had better throw up his art at once, than proceed
on the conviction that any other can ever be legitimate. I believe
I shall be perfectly well able to prove, in following parts of the
work, that " mere natural light and shade" is the only fit and
faithful attendant of the highest art ; and that all tricks — all
visible, intended arrangement — all extended shadows and narrow
lights — everything in fact, in the least degree artificial, or tend
ing to make the mind dwell upon light and shade as such, is an
Injury, instead of an aid, to conceptions of high ideal dignity.
1 believe I shall be able also to show, that nature manages her
chiaroscuro a great deal more neatly and cleverly than people
fancy ; — that " mere natural light and shade" is a very much
finer thing than most artists can put together, and that none
'think they can improve upon it but those who never under
stood it. -

182 OF TRUTH OF CHIAROSCURO. [PABTIfi
But however this may be, it is beyond dispute that every per-'
mission given to the student to amuse himself with painting one
figure all black, and the next all white, and throwing them out
with a background of nothing— every permission
laiue o?a fimpie given to him to spoil his pocketbook with sixths of
chiaroscuro. sunshine and sevenths of shade, and other such
fractional sublimities, is so much more difficulty laid in the way.
of his ever becoming a master ; and that none are in the right
road to real excellence, but those who are struggling to render
the simplicity, purity, and inexhaustible variety of nature's own
chiaroscuro in open, cloudless daylight, giving the expanse of
harmonious light — the speaking, decisive shadow — andthe ex
quisite grace, tenderness, and grandeur of aerial opposition of
local color and equally illuminated lines. No chiaroscuro is so
difficult as this ; and none so noble, chaste, or impressive.
On this part of the subject, however, I must not enlarge at
present. I wish now only to speak of those great principles of
chiaroscuro, which nature observes, even when she is most
working for effect — when she is playing with thunderclouds and
sunbeams, and throwing one thing out and obscuring another,
with the most marked artistical feeling and intention ; — even
then, she never forgets her great rule, to give precisely the same
quantity of deepest shade which she does of highest light, and no
• more ; points of the one answering to points of the other, and
both vividly conspicuous and separated from all the rest of the
landscape. And it is most singular that this separation, which is the
great source of brilliancy in nature, should not only be unobserv
ed, but absolutely forbidden by our great writers on art, who are
§ 12. the sharp always talking about connecting the light with the
tae^tiJ|nts°froni shade by imperceptible gradations. Now so surely
her midole tint. ag tMg ig don6j aU sungnine ig logtj for impercep--
tible gradation from light to dark is the characteristic of objects
seen out of sunshine, in what is, in landscape, shadow. Nature's
principle of getting light is the direct reverse. She will cover
her whole landscape with middle tint, in which she will have as
many gradations as you please, and a great many more than you
can paint ; but on this middle tint she touches her extreme
lights, and extreme darks, isolated and sharp, so that the eye

EEC. II. CH. m.] OF TRUTH OF CHIAROSCURO. 183
goes to them directly, and feels them to be key-notes of the
whole composition. And although the dark touches are less
attractive than the light ones, it is not because they are less dis
tinct, but because they exhibit nothing ; while the bright
touches are in parts where everything is seen, and where in con
sequence the eye goes to rest. But yet the high lights do not
exhibit anything in themselves, they are . too bright and dazzle
the eye ; and having no shadows in them, cannot exhibit form,
for form can only be seen by shadow of some kind or another.
Hence the highest lights and deepest darks agree in this, that
nothing is seen in either of them ; that both are in exceedingly
small quantity, and both are marked and distinct from the
middle tones of the landscape — the one by their brilliancy, the
other by their sharp edges, even though many of the more ener
getic middle tints may approach their intensity very closely.
I need scarcely do more than tell you to glance at any one of
the works of Turner, and you will perceive in a moment the ex
quisite observation of all these principles ; the sharpness, deci
sis. The truth of s*on> conspicuousness, and excessively small quan-
Tumer. ^y, ^q^ 0f extreme light and extreme shade, all
the mass of the picture being graduated and delicate middle
tint. Take up the Rivers of Prance, for instance, and turn
over a few of the plates in succession.
1. Chateau Gaillard (vignette.) — Black figures and boats,
points of shade ; sun-touches on castle, and wake of boat, of
tight. See how the eye rests on both, and observe how sharp
and separate all the lights are, falling in spots, edged by
shadow, but not melting off into it.
2. Orleans. — The crowded figures supply both points of
shade and light. Observe the delicate middle tint of both in
the whole mass of buildings, and compare this with the black
ness of Canaletto's shadows, against which neither figures nor
anything else can ever tell, as points of shade.
3. Blois. — White figures in boats, buttresses of bridge, dome
of church on the right, for light ; woman on horseback, heads
of boats, for shadow. Note especially the isolation of the light
on the church dome.
4. Chateau de Blois. — Torches and white figures for light,
roof of chapel and monks' dresses for shade.

184 OF TRUTH OF CHIAROSCURO. [PARTH.
5. Beaugency. — Sails and spire opposed to buoy and boats.
An exquisite instance of brilliant, sparkling, isolated touches of
morning light.
6. Amboise. — White sail and clouds ; cypresses under castle.
7. Chateau of Amboise. — The boat in the centre, with its
reflections, needs no comment. Note the glancing lights under
the bridge. This is a very glorious and perfect instance.
8. St. Julien, Tours. — Especially remarkable for its preser
vation of deep points of gloom, because the whole picture is one
of extended shade.
I need scarcely go on. The above instances are taken as they
happen to come, without selection. The reader can proceed for
himself. I may, however, name a few cases of chiaroscuro
more especially deserving of his study. Scene between Quille-
bceuf and Villequier, — Honfleur, — Light Towers of the Heve,
— On the Seine between Mantes and Vernon, — The Lantern at
St. Cloud, — Confluence of Seine and Marne, — Troyes, — the first "
and last vignette, and those at pages 36, 63, 95, 184, 192, 203,
of Rogers's poems ; the first and second in Campbell, St. Mau
rice in the Italy, where note the black stork ; Brienne, Skid-
daw, Mayburgh, Melrose, Jedburgh, in the illustrations to
Scott, and the vignettes to Milton, not because these are one
whit superior to others of his works, bui because the laws of
which we have been speaking are more strikingly developed in
them, and because they have been well engraved. It is impose
sible to reason from the larger plates, in which half the chiar
oscuro is totally destroyed by the haggling, blackening, and
" making out " of the engravers.

CHAPTER IV.
OF TRUTH OF SPACE : — FIRST AS DEPENDENT ON" THE FOCUS
OF THE EYE.*
Its the first chapter of this section I noticed the distinction
between real aerial perspective, and that overcharged' contrast of
light and shade by which the old masters obtained their decep
tive effect ; and I showed that, though inferior to
clearly indicated them in the precise quality or tone of aerial color,
objects than by our great modern master is altogether more truth.
ful in the expression of the proportionate relation
of all his distances to one another. I am now about ta examine
those modes of expressing space, both in nature and art by far
the most important, which are dependent, not on the relative
hues of objects, but on the drawing of them : by far the most
important, I say, because the most constant and certain ; for
nature herself is not always aerial. Local effects are frequent
which interrupt and violate the laws of aerial tone, and induce
strange deception in our ideas of distance. I have often seen
the summit of a snowy mountain look nearer than its base, owing
, to the perfect clearness of the upper air. But the drawing of
objects, that is to say, the degree in which their details and
parts are distinct or confused, is an unfailing and certain crite
rion of their distance ; and if this be rightly rendered in a paint
ing, we shall have genuine truth of space, in spite of many
errors in aerial tone ; while, jf this be neglected, all space will
* I have left this chapter in its original place, because I am more than
ever convinced of the truth of the position advanced in the 8th paragraph ;
nor can I at present assign any other cause, than that here given, for what
is there asserted ; and yet I cannot but think that I have allowed far too
much influence to a change so slight as that which we insensibly make in
the focus of the eye ; and! that the real justification of Turner's practice,
with respect to some of his foregrounds, is to be elsewhere sought. I leave
the subject, therefore, to the reader's consideration.

186 OF TRUTH OF SPACE. [PAST H.
be destroyed, whatever dexterity of tint may be employed to
conceal the defective drawing.
First, then, it is to be noticed, that the eye, like any other
lens, must have its focus altered, in order to convey a distinct
image of objects at different distances ; so that it is totally im,
possible to see distinctly, at the same moment,
Dietote1ee™?j0eactB two objects, one of which is much farther off than
ton™I4dUistinctiy another. Of this, any one may convince himself
at one moment. .q an ingtant .Look at the bars of your window-
frame, so as to get a clear image of their lines and form, and you
cannot, while your eye is fixed on them, perceive anything but
the most indistinct and shadowy images of whatever objects may
be visible beyond. But fix your eyes on those objects, so as to
see them clearly, and though they are just beyond and apparently
beside the window-frame, that frame will only be felt or seen as
a„ vague, flitting, obscure interruption to whatever is perceived
beyond it. A little attention directed to this fact will convince
every one of its universality, and prove beyond dispute that
objects at unequal distances cannot be seen together, not from
the intervention of air or mist, but from the impossibility of the
rays proceeding from both, converging to the same focus, so
that the whole impression, either of one or the other, must
necessarily be confused, indistinct, -and inadequate.
But, be it observed (and I have only to request that whatever
I say may be tested by immediate experiment,) the difference of
focus necessary is greatest within the first five hundred yards,
§ 3. Especially an^- therefore, though it is totally impossible to see
compamwe^y*11 an object ten yards from the eye, and one a quarter
near- of a mile beyond it, at the same moment, it is per
fectly possible to see one a quarter of a mile off, and one five miles
beyond it, at the same moment. The consequence of this is,
practically, that in a real landscape, we can see the whole of
what would be called the middle distance and distance together,
with facility and clearness ; but while we do so we can see noth
ing in the foreground beyond a vague and indistinct arrange
ment of lines and colors ; and that if, on the contrary, we look
at any foreground object, so as to receive a distinct impression
of it, the distance and middle distance become all disorder and
mystery.

SEC. n. CH. IV.] OF TRUTH of space. 187
And therefore, if in a painting our foreground is anything,
our distance must be nothing, and vice versa ; for if we represent
our near and distant objects as giving both at once that distinct
H- in painting, image to the eye, which we receive in nature from
Kregrofndor each, when we look at them separately ; * and if
paSiys™criibe we distinguish them from each other only by the
|pd. air-tone ; and indistinctness dependent on positive
distance, we violate one of the most essential principles of
nature ; we represent that as seen at once which can only be
seen by two separate acts of seeing, and tell a falsehood as gross
as if we had represented four sides of a cubic object visible
together. Now, to this fact and principle, no landscape painter of the
old school, as far as I remember, ever paid the slightest atten
tion. Finishing their foregrounds clearly and sharply, and
Whichnot with vigorous impression on the eye, giving even
' leing done by the leaves of their bushes and grass with perfect
the old masters, . .. „ , , .
they could not edge and shape, they proceeded into the distance
express space. .7, , ,. . . , , , ,,- , , „ .,
with equal attention to what they could see of its
details — they gave all that the eye can perceive in a distance,
when itis fully and entirely devoted to it, and therefore, though
masters of aerial tone, though employing every expedient that
art could supply to conceal the intersection of lines, though
caricaturing the force and shadow of near objects to throw them
* This incapacity of the eye must not be confounded with its incapability
to comprehend a large portion of lateral space at once. We indeed can see,
at any one moment, little more than one point, the objects beside it being
confused and indistinct ; but we need pay no attention to this in art, be
cause we can see just as little of the picture as we can of the landscape
without turning the eye, and hence any slurring or confusing of one part of
it, laterally, more than another, is not founded on any truth of nature, but is
an expedient of the artist — and often an excellent and desirable one — to
make the eye rest where he wishes it. But as the touch expressive of a dis
tant object is as near upon the canvas as that expressive of a near one, both
are seen distinctly and with the same focus of the eye, and hence an imme
diate contradiction of nature results, unless one or other be given with an
artificial and increased indistinctness, expressive of the appearance peculiar
to the unadapted focus. On the other hand, it must be noted that the
greater part of the effect above described is consequent not on variation of
focus, but on the different angle at which near objects are seen by each of
the two eyes, when both are, directed towards the distance.

18S OF TRUTH OF SPACE. [PART II.
close upon the eye, they never succeeded in truly representing
space. Turner introduced a new era in landscape
ar6tisSUh™e s™- art, by showing that the foreground might be sunk
ca^ng1 oututhis for the distance, and that it was possible to express
principle. immediate "proximity to the spectator, without giv
ing anything like completeness to the forms of the near objects.
This is not done by slurred or soft lines, observe, (always the
sign of vice in art,) but by a decisive imperfection, a firm, but
partial assertion of form, which the eye feels indeed to be close
home to it, and yet cannot rest upon, or cling to, nor entirely
understand, and from which it is driven away of necessity^ to
those parts of distance on which it is intended to repose. And
this principle, originated by Turner, though fully carried out by
him only, has yet been acted on with judgment and success by
several less powerful artists of the English school. Some six years
ago, the brown moorland foregrounds of Copley Fielding were
very instructive in this respect. Not a line in them was made
out, not a single object clearly distinguishable. Wet broad
sweeps of the brush, sparkling, careless, and accidental as nature
herself, always truthful as far as they went, implying knowl
edge, though not expressing it, suggested everything, while they
represented nothing. But far off into the mountain distance
came the sharp edge and the delicate form ; the whole intention
and execution of the picture being guided and exerted where the
great impression of space and size was to be given. The spec
tator was compelled to go forward into the waste of hills— -
there, where the sun broke wide upon the moor, he must walk.
and wander — he could not stumble and hesitate over the near
rocks, nor stop to botanize on the first inches of his path.* And
the impression of these pictures was always great and enduring,
as it was simple and truthful. I do not know anything in art
which has expressed more completely the force and feeling of
nature in these particular scenes. And it is a farther illustra-

* There is no inconsistency, observe, between this passage and what was
before asserted respecting the necessity of botanical fidelity — where the
foreground is the object of attention. Compare Part II. Sect. I. Chap. VII.
§ 10 : — " To paint mist rightly, space rightly, and light rightly, it maybe
often necessary to paint nothing else rightly."

SKO. II. CH. IV.l OF TRUTH OF SPACE. 189
tion * of the principle we are insisting upon, that where, as in
some of his later works, he has bestowed more labor on the fore
ground, the picture has lost both in space and sublimity. And
among artists in general, who are either not aware of the princi
ple, or fear to act upon it, (for it requires no small courage, as
well as skill, to treat a foreground with that indistinctness and
mystery which they have been accustomed to consider as charac
teristic of distance,) the foreground is not only felt, as every
landscape painter will confess, to be the most embarrassing and
unmanageable part of the picture, but, in ninety-nine cases out
of a hundred, will go near to destroy the effect of the rest of
the composition. Thus Callcott's Trent is severely injured by
the harsh group of foreground figures ; and Stanfield very rarely
gets through an Academy picture without destroying much of
its space, by too much determination of near form ; while Hard
ing constantly sacrifices his distance, and compels the spectator
to dwell on the foreground altogether, though indeed, with such
foregrounds as he gives us, we are most happy so to do. But it
57. Especially of is m Turner only that we see a bold and decisive
Turner. choice of the distance and middle distance, as his
great object of attention ; and by him only that the foreground
is united and adapted to it, not by any want of drawing, or
coarseness, or carelessness of execution, but by the most precise
and beautiful indication or suggestion of just so much of even
the minutest forms as the eye can see when its focus is not
adapted to them. And herein is another reason for the vigor
'and wholeness of the effect of Turner's works at any distance ;
while those of almost all other artists are sure ta lose space as
soon as we lose sight of the details.
And now we see the reason for the singular, and to the igno
rant in art, the offensive execution of Turner's figures. I do
not mean to assert that there is any reason whatsoever, for lad
88i justification drawing, (though in landscape it matters exceed-
5™wingTntof ingly little ;) but that there is both reason and
Turner's figures, necessity for that want of drawing which gives
even the nearest figures round balls with four pink spots in
* Hardly. It would have been so only had the recently finished fore
grounds been as accurate in detail as they are abundant : they are painful, I
believe, not from their finish, "but their I alseness.

190 OF TRUTH OF SPACE- [PART n?
them instead of faces, and four dashes of the brush instead of
hands and feet ; for it is totally impossible that if the eye be
adapted to receive the rays proceeding from the utmost distance,-
and some partial impression from all the distances, it should be
capable of perceiving more of the forms and features of near
figures than Turner gives. And how absolutely necessary to the
faithful representation of space this indecision really is, might
be proved with the utmost ease by any one who had veneration
enough for the artist to sacrifice one of his pictures to his fame ;
who would take some one of his works in which the figures were
most incomplete, and have them painted in by any of our delicate
and first-rate figure-painters, absolutely preserving every color
and shade of Turner's group, so as not to lose one atom of -the
composition, but giving eyes for the pink spots, and feet for the
white ones. Let the picture be so exhibited in the Academy,
and even novices in art would feel at a glance that its truth of
space was gone, that every one of its beauties and harmonies had
undergone decomposition, that it was now a grammatical sole
cism, a painting of impossibilities, a thing to torture the eye,
and offend the mind.

||lisl||llfil iilBiJ Ilia jiSI |gaj|iMi[ali^ Sjjgll

CHAPTER V.
OF TRUTH OF SPACE : — SECONDLY, AS ITS APPEARANCE la
DEPENDENT ON" THE POWER OF THE EYE.
In the last chapter, we have seen how indistinctness of in
dividual distances becomes necessary in order to express the
adaptation of the eye to one or other of them ; we have now to
examine that kind of indistinctness which is de-
fnd'istinctness de- pendent on real retirement of the object even when
retirement of ob- the focus of the eye is fully concentrated upon it.
jecs rom leeye.^^ grg^. j.jn^ Q£ indecision is that which belongs
to all objects which the eye is not adapted to, whether near or
far off : the second is that consequent upon the want of power
in the eye to receive a clear image of objects at a great distance
from it, however attentively it may regard them.
Draw on a piece of white paper, a square, and a circle, each
about a twelfth or eighth of an inch in diameter, and blacken
them so that their forms may be very distinct ; place your
-paper against the wall at the end of the room, and retire from
it a greater or less distance according as you have drawn the
figures larger or smaller. You will come to a point where,
though you can see both the spots with perfect plainness, you
cannot tell which is the square and which the circle.
Now this takes place of course with every object in a land
scape, in proportion to its distance and size. The definite forms
of the leaves of a tree, however sharply and separately they may
|2. causes con- appear to come against the sky, are quite indis-
felatfonof tinguishable at fifty yards off, and the form of
everything becomes confused before we finally lose
sight of it. Now if the character of an object, say the front of a
house, be explained by a variety of forms in it, as the shadows in
the tops of the windows, the lines of the architraves, the seams
of the masonry, etc. ; these lessor details, as the object falls into
distance, become qonfused and undecided, each of them losing

V-V- details.

192 OF TRUTH OF SPACE. [PARTH.
/
their definite forms, but all being perfectly visible as something,
a white or a dark spot or stroke, not lost sight of, observe, but
yet so seen that we cannot tell what they are. As the distance
increases, the confusion becomes greater, until at last the whole
front of the house becomes merely a flat, pale space, in which,
however, there is still observable a kind of richness and checker
ing, caused by the details in it, which, though totally merged
and lost in the mass, have still an influence on th$ texture of
that mass ; until at last the whole house itself becomes a mere
light or dark spot whicli we can plainly see, but cannot tell what
it is, nor distinguish it from a stone or any other object.
Now what I particularly wish to insist upon, is the state of
vision in which all the details of an object are seen, and yet 3een
in such confusion and disorder that we cannot in the least tell
§ 3. instances in what they are, or what they mean. It is not mist
various objects. Detween us and the object, still less is it shade, still
less is it want of character ; it is a confusion, a mystery, an
interfering of undecided lines with each other, not a diminu
tion of their number ; window and door, architrave and frieze,
all are there : it is no cold and vacant mass, it is full and rich
and abundant, and yet you cannot see a single form so as to
know what it is. Observe your friend's face as he is coming
up to you ; first it is nothing more than a white spot ; now it is
a face, but you cannot see the two eyes, nor the mouth, even as
spots ; you see a confusion of lines, a something which you
know from experience to be indicative of a face, and yet you can
not tell how it is so. Now he is nearer, and you can see the
spots for the eyes and mouth, but they are not blank spots
neither ; there is detail in them ; you cannot see the lips, nor
the teeth, nor the brows, and yet you see more than mere spots ;
it is a mouth and an eye, and there is light and sparkle ahd ex
pression in them, but nothing distinct. Now he is nearer still,
and you can see that he is like your friend, but you cannot tell
whether he is or not ; there is a vagueness and indecision of
line still. Now you are sure, but even yet there are a thousand
things in his face which have their effect in inducing the recog
nition, but which you cannot see so as to know what they are.
Changes like these, and states of vision corresponding to
them, take place with each and all of the objects of nature, and

ms. n. CH. V.] OF TRUTH OF SPACE. 193
two great principles of truth are deducible from their observa-
 tion. First, place an object as close to the eye as
§4. Two great re- r . ¦> ..,,./
suitant truths ; you like, there is always something in it which vou
that nature is- , . J . ° /
never distinct, and cannot see, except in the hinted and mysterious
neve. u« mm manner above described. You can see the texture
of a piece of dress, but you cannot see the individual threads
which compose it, though they are all felt, and have each of
$hem influence on the eye. Secondly, place an object as far
ifrom the eye as you like, and until it becomes itself a mere spot,
there is always something in it which you can^see, though only
in the hinted manner above described. Its shadows and lines
and local colors are not lost sight of as it retires ; they get mixed
and indistinguishable, but they are still there, and there is a
difference always perceivable between an object possessing such
details and a flat or vacant space. The grass blades of a meadow
a mile off, are so far discernible that there will be a marked
difference between its appearance and that of a piece of wood
.¦(painted green. And thus nature is never distinct and never
vacant, she is always mysterious, but always abundant ; you
always see something, but you never see all.
And thus arise that exquisite finish and fulness which God
,has appointed to be the perpetual source of fresh pleasure to
the cultivated and observant eye, — a finish which no distance
can render invisible, and no nearness comprehensible ; which in
every stone, every bough, every cloud, and every wave is multi
plied around us, forever presented, and forever exhaustless.
And hence in art, every space or touch in which we can see every
thing, or in which we can see nothing, is false. Nothing can
be true which is either complete or vacant ; every touch is false
which does not suggest more than it represents, and every space
is false which represents nothing.
Now, I would not wish for any more illustrative or marked
examples of the total contradiction of these two great principles,
than the landscape works of the old masters, taken as a body : — ¦
- the Dutch masters furnishing the cases of seeing
'tio'iation ofboth everything, and the Italians of seeing nothing.
byethePoidCmasters.The rule with both is indeed the same, differently
disnncTor vi£ applied. " You shall see the bricks in the wall, and
be able to count them, or you shall see nothing but

194 OF TRUTH OF SPACE. [PARTH,
a dead flat ;" but the Dutch give you the bricks, and the Italians'
the fiat. Nature's rule being the precise reverse — "You shall
never be able to count the bricks, but you shall never see a dead
space." Take, for instance, the street in the centre of the really great :
landscape of Poussin (great in feeling at least) marked 260 in
the Dulwich Gallery. The houses are dead square masses with
a light side and a dark side, and black touches foj
from Nicholas windows. There is no suggestion of anything:, in -
any of the spaces, the light wall is dead gray, the
dark wall dead gray, and the windows dead black. How differ!-:;
ently would nature have treated us. She would have let us see
the Indian corn hanging on the walls, and the image of the Vh>
gin at the- angles, and the sharp, broken, broad shadows of the
tiled eaves, and the deep ribbed tiles with the doves upon them;-;
and the carved Eoman capital built into the wall, and the white
.and blue stripes of the mattresses stuffed out of the windows,
and the flapping corners of the mat blinds. All would have
been there ; not as such, -not like the corn, nor blinds, nor. tiles,
not to be comprehended nor understood, but a confusion of yel
low and black spots and strokes, carried far too fine for the eye
to follow, microscopic in its minuteness, and filling every atom
and part of space with mystery, out of which would have
arranged itself the general impression of truth and life.
Again, take the distant city on the right bank of the river in
.Claude's Marriage of Isaac and Rebecca, in the National -Gal
lery. I have seen many cities in my life, and drawn not a few ; |
and I have seen many fortifications, fancy ones in-
rom au e. cjU(je(q^ -which frequently supply us with very new
ideas indeed, especially in matters of proportion ; but I do not
remember ever having met with either a city or a fortress entirely
composed of round towers of various heights and sizes, all fac
similes of each other, and absolutely agreeing in the number of'
battlements. I have, indeed, some faint recollection of having de
lineated such an one in the first page of a spelling-book when I
was four years old ; but, somehow or other, the dignity and
perfection of the ideal were not appreciated,, and the volume was
not considered to be increased in value by the frontispiece.
Without, however, venturing to doubt the entire sublimity of

SEO. H. CH. V.] OF TRUTH OF SPACE. 195
the same ideal as it occurs in Claude, let us consider how nature,
if she had been fortunate enough to originate so perfect a con
ception, would have managed it: in its details. Claude has
permitted us to see every battlement, and the first impulse we
feel upon looking at the picture is to count how many there
are. Nature would have given us a peculiar confused roughness
of the upper lines, a multitude of intersections and spots, which
we should have known from experience was indicative of bat
tlements, but which we might as well have thought of creating
as of counting. Claude has given you the walls below in one
dead void of uniform gray. There is nothing to be seen, nor
felt, nor guessed at in it ; it is gray paint or gray shade, which
ever you may choose to call it, but it is nothing more. Nature
would have let you see, nay, would have compelled you to see,
thousands of spots and lines, not one to be absolutely under
stood or accounted for, but yet all characteristic and different-
from each other ; breaking lights on shattered stones, vague
shadows from waving vegetation, irregular stains of time and
weather, mouldering hollows, sparkling casements — all would
: been there — none, indeed, seen as such, none comprehen-
or like themselves, but all visible j little shadows, and
pparkles, and scratches, making that whole space of color atrans-
. parent, palpitating, various infinity.
Or take one of Poussin's extreme distances, such as that in
the Sacrifice of Isaac. It is luminous, retiring, delicate and per
fect in tone, and is quite complete enough to deceive and delight
j-s. And g. the careless eye to which all distances are alike ; nay,
Poupsin. ^ is perfect and masterly, and absolutely right if
we consider it as a sketch, — as a first plan of a distance, after
wards to be carried out in detail. But we must remember that
all these alternate spaces of gray and gold are not the landscape
itself, but the treatment of it — not its substance, but its light
and shade. They are just what nature would cast over it, and
, write upon it with every cloud, but which she would: cast in play,
and without carefulness, as matters of the very smallest possible
importance. All her work and her attention would be given to
bring out from underneath this, and through this, the forms
and the material character which this can only be valuable to
illustrate, not to conceal. Every one of those broad spaces she

196 OF TRUTH OF SPACE. [PABTH.
would linger over in protracted delight, teaching you fresh les
sons in every hairsbreadth of it, and pouring her fulness of in
vention into it, until the mind lost itself in following her,—
now fringing the dark edge of the shadow with a tufted lineof
level forest — now losing it for an instant in a breath of mistit-
then breaking it with the white gleaming angle of a narrow
brook — then dwelling upon it again in a gentle^ mounded, melt
ing undulation, over the other side of which she would carry you
down into a dusty space of soft, crowded light, with the hedges,
and the paths, and the sprinkled cottages and scattered trees
mixed up and mingled together in one beautiful, delicate, im
penetrable mystery — sparkling and melting, and passing away
into the sky, without one line of distinctness, or one instant: of
vacancy. Now it is, indeed, impossible for tne painter to follow all this
— he cannot come up to the same degree and order of infinity— -,
but he can give us a lesser kind of infinity. He has not one-
thousandth part of the space to occupy which.
tive necessity, in nature has ; but he can, at least, leave no part of
ing, of fulness and that space vacant and unprofitable. If nature car
ries out her minutiae over, miles, he has no excuse
for generalizing in inches. And if he will only give us all he
can, if he will give us a fulness as complete and as mysterious as
nature's, we will pardon him for its being the fulness of a cup
instead of an ocean. But we will not pardon him, if, because
he has not the mile to occupy, he will not occupy the inch, and
because he has fewer means, at his command, will leave half oi-"
those in his power unexerted. Still less will we pardon him for
mistaking the sport of nature for her labor, and for following
her only in her hour of rest, without observing how she has
worked for it. After spending centuries in raising the forest, .
and guiding the river, and modelling the mountain, she exults
over her work in buoyancy of spirit, with playful sunbeam and
flying cloud ; but the painter must go through the same labor,
or he must not have the same recreation. Let him chisel his
rock faithfully, and tuft his forest delicately, and then we will
allow him his freaks of light and shade, and thank him for
them ; but we will not be put off with the play before the lesson

SEC. 11. CH. V.] OF TRUTH OF SPACE. 197
—with the adjunct instead of the, essence — with the illustration
instead of the fact.
I am somewhat anticipating my subject here, because I can
scarcely help answering the objections which I know must arise
in the minds pf most readers, especially of those who axe partially
eio Breadth is artistical, respecting " generalization," " breadth,"
not vacancy. < < effect, "etc. It were to be wished that our writers
on art would not dwell so frequently on the necessity of breadth,
without explaining what it means ; and that we had more con
stant reference made to the principle which I can only remem
ber having seen once clearly explained and insisted on, — that
¦breadth is not vacancy. Generalization is unity, not destruction
of parts ; and composition is not annihilation, but arrangement
of materials; The breadth which unites the truths of nature
with her harmonies, is meritorious and beautiful ; but the
breadth which annihilates those truths by the million, is not
painting nature, but painting over her. And so the masses which
result from right concords and relations of details, are sublime
and impressive ; but the masses which result from the eclipse of
details are contemptible and painful.* And we shall show, in
following parts of the work, that distances like those of Poussin
are mere meaningless tricks of clever execution, which, when
once discovered, the artist may repeat over and over again, with
mechanical contentment and perfect satisfaction, both to himself
and to his superficial admirers, with no more exertion of intellect
nor awakening of feeling than any tradesman has in multiply
ing some ornamental pattern of furniture. Be this as it may,
however,; (for we cannot enter upon the discussion of the ques
tion here,) the falsity and imperfection of such distances admit
¦mi no dispute. Beautiful and ideal they may be ; true they are
not : and in the same way we might go through every part and
-portion of the works df the old masters, showing throughout,
dHther that you have every leaf and blade of grass staring defi
ance to the mystery of nature, or that you have dead spaces of
' * Of course much depends upon the kind of detail so lost. An artist
may generalize the trunk of a tree, where he only loses lines of bark, and do
. ns a kindness ; but he must not generalize the details of a champaign, in
|wliich there is a history of creation. The full discussion of the subject be
longs to a future part of our investigation.

198 OF TRUTH OF SPACE. [PART n,
absolute vacuity, equally determined in their denial of her ful
ness. And even if we ever find (as here and there, in their bet
ter pictures, we do) changeful passages of agreeable playing
color, or mellow and transparent modulations of mysterious
atmosphere, even here the touches, though satisfactory to the,
eye, are suggestive of nothing, — they are characterless, — they
have none of the peculiar expressiveness and meaning by which
nature maintains the variety and interest even of what she most
conceals. She always tells a story, however hintedly and
vaguely ; each of her touches is different from all the others ;.
and we feel with every one, that though we cannot tell what it
is, it cannot be anything ; while even the most dexterous dis
tances of the old masters pretend to secrecy without having any
thing to conceal, and are ambiguous, not from the concentration
of meaning, but from fhe want of it.
And now, take up one of Turner's distances, it matters not
which, or of what kind, — drawing or painting, small or great,
done thirty years ago, or for last year's Academy, as you like ;
say that of the Mercury and Argus, and look if
|11. The fulness J , -, ¦ -, T i • x i. • x- x '• ,
and mystery of every fact which I have just been pointing out in
Turner's distances. , , , ¦-, x ¦ -x ai ixi. j
nature be not carried out in it. Abundant, beyond
the power of the eye to embrace or follow, vast and various, be
yond the power of the mind to comprehend, there is yet not one
atom in its whole extent and mass which does not suggest more
than it represents ; nor does it suggest vaguely, but in such a
manner as to prove that the conception of each individual inch
of that distance is absolutely clear and complete in the master's
mind., a separate picture fully worked out : but yet, clearly aid
fully as the idea is formed, just so much of it is given, and no
more, as nature would have allowed us to feel or see ; just so
much as would enable a spectator of experience and 'knowledge
to understand almost every minute fragment of separate detail,
but appears, to the unpractised and careless eye, just what a
distance of nature's own would appear, an unintelligible mass.
Not one line out of the millions there is without meaning, yet
there is not one which is not affected and disguised by the >
dazzle and indecision of distance. No form is made out, and
yet no form is unknown.
Perhaps the truth of this system of drawing is better to be

sec. n: ch. v.] of truth of space. 199
understood, by observing the, distant character of rich architec
ture, than of any other" object. Go to the top of Highgate Hill
si2. Farther on a clear summer morning at five o'clock, and
farcnitectoai111 look at Westminster Abbey. You will receive an
drawing. impression of a building enriched with multitu-
J dinous vertical lines. Try to distinguish one of those lines all
the way down from the one next to it: You cannot. Try to
count them : You cannot. Try to make out the beginning
or end of any one of them : You cannot. Look at it generally,
and it is all symmetry and arrangement. Look at in its parts, and
it is all inextricable confusion. Am not I, at this moment, de
scribing a piece of Turner's drawing, with the same words by
which I describe nature ? And what would one of the old
.masters have done with such a building as this in his distance ?
Either he would only have given the shadows of the buttresses,
and the light and dark sides of the two towers, and two dots for
the windows ; or if more ignorant and more ambitious, he had
attempted to render some of the detail, it would have been done
vby .distinct lines, — would have been broad caricature of the deli-
cate building, felt at once to be false, ridiculous, and offensive.
. His most successful effort would only have given us, through his
carefully toned atmosphere, the effect of a colossal parish church,
without one line of carving on its economic sides. Turner, and
Turner only, would follow and render on the canvas that mystery
, of decided line, — that distinct, sharp, visible, but unintelligible
and inextricable richness, which, examined part by part, is to
the eye nothing but confusion and defeat, which, taken as a
-..Whole, is all unity, symmetry, and truth.*
, Nor is this mode of representation true only with respect to
distances. Every object, however near the eye, has something
.about it which you cannot see, and which brings, the mystery df
- distance even into every part and portion of what
fjectsasweii as • we suppose ourselves to see most distinctly. Stand
in the Piazza di St. Marco at Venice, as close to
* Vide, for illustration, Fontainebleau, in the Illustrations to Scott ; Vig
nette at opening of Human Life, in Rogers's Poems ; Venice, in the Italy ;
' Chateau de Blois ; the Rouen, and Pont Neuf , Paris, in the Rivers of
t France. The distances of all the Academy pictures of Venice, especially the
8hvlock, are most instructive.

200 OF TRUTH OF SPACE. [PART H.
the church as you can, without ' losing sight of the top of it.
Look at the capitals of the columns on the second story. You
see that they are exquisitely rich, carved all over. Tell me
their patterns : You cannot. Tell me the direction of a singlef
line in them : You cannot. Yet you see a multitude of lines,
and you have so much feeling of a certain tendency and arranged
ment in those lines, that you are quite sure the capitals are
"beautiful, and that they are all different from each other. But
I defy you to make out one single line in any one
IndfailehSod'of of them. Now go to Canaletto's painting of this
church, in the Palazzo Manfrini, taken from the
very spot on which you stood. How much has he represented of
all this ? A black dot under each capital for the shadow, and
a yellow one above it for the light. There is not a vestige nor
indication of carving or decoration of any sort or kind.
Very different from this, but erring on the other side, is the
ordinary drawing of the architect, who gives the principal lines
of the design with delicate clearness and precision, but with no
uncertainty or mystery about them ; which mystery being re
moved, all space and size are destroyed with it, and we have a
drawing of a model, not* of a building. But in the capital lying
on the foreground in Turner's Daphne hunting with Leucippus,
We have the perfect truth. Not one jag of the acanthus leaves
is absolutely visible, the lines are all disorder, but you feel in
an instant that all are there. And so it will invariably be
found through every portion of detail in his late and most per
fect works.
But if there be this mystery and inexhaustible finish merely
in the more delicate instances of architectural decoration, how
much more in the ceaseless and incomparable decoration of
8 15. stm greater nature. The detail of a single weedy bank laughs
in\nanSdscapetif1ore- the carving of ages to scorn. Every leaf and stalk
grounds. iias a design and tracery upon it, — every knot of
grass an intricacy of shade which the labor of years could never
imitate, and which, if such labor could follow it out even to the.
last fibres of the leaflets, would yet be falsely represented, for,
as in all other cases brought forward, it is not clearly seen, but
confusedly and mysteriously. That which is nearness for the
bank, is distance for its details ; and however near it may. be,

SEC. H. CH. V.] OF TRUTH OF SPACE. 201
the greater part of those details are still a beautiful incompre
hensibility.* i* It is to be remembered, however, that these truths present themselves
in all probability under very different phases to individuals of different
powers of vision. Many artists who appear to generalize rudely or rashly
are perhaps faithfully endeavoring to render the appearance which nature
bears to sight of limited range. Others may be led by their singular keen
ness of sight into inexpedient detail. Works which are painted for effect at a
/",*,- -certain distance must be always seen at disadvantage by those whose sight
is of different range from the painter's. Another circumstance to -which I
ought above to have alluded is the scale of the picture ; for there are differ
ent degrees of generalization, and different necessities of symbolism, belong
ing to every scale : the stipple of the miniature painter would be offensive
on features' of the life size, and the leaves with Tintoret may articulate on a
canvas of sixty feet by twenty-five, must be generalized by Turner on one of
four hy three. Another circumstance of some importance is the assumed
distance of the foreground ; many landscape painters seem to think their
nearest foreground is always equally near, whereas its distance from the
spectator varies not a little, being always at least its own calculable breadth
from side to side as estimated by figures or any other object of known size at
the nearest part of it. With Claude almost always ; with Turner often, as
in the Daphne and Leucippus, this breadth is forty or fifty yards ; and as
the nearest foreground object must then be at least that distance removed,
and may be much more, it is evident that no completion of close detail is in
such cases allowable, (see here another proof of Claude's erroneous prac
tice ;) with Titian and Tintoret, on the contrary, the foreground is rarely
more than five or six yards broad, and its objects therefore being only five
or six yards distant are entirely detailed.
None of these circumstances, however, in any wise affect the great princi
ple, the confusion of detail taking place sooner or later in all cases. I ought
to have noted, however, that many of the pictures of Turner in which the
**• j': confused drawing has been least understood, have been luminous twilights ;
and that the uncertainty of twilight is therefore added to that of general dis
tance. In the evenings of the south it not unfrequently happens that ob
jects touched with the reflected light of the western sky, continue even for
the space of half an hour after 'sunset, glowing, ruddy, and intense in color,
and-almost as bright as if they were still beneath actual sunshine, even till
the moon begins to cast a shadow : but in spite of this brilliancy of color all
the details become ghostly and ill-defined. This is a favorite moment of
Turner's, and he invariably characterizes it, not by gloom, but by uncer
tainty of detail. I have never seen the effect of clear twilight thoroughly
' ' rendered by art ; that effect in which all details are lost, while intense clear
ness and light are still felt in the atmosphere, in which nothing is distinctly
seen, and. yet it is not darkness, far less mist, that is the cause of conceal-
; ment. Turner's efforts at rendering this effect (as the Wilderness of En-

202 OF' TRUTH OF SPACE. [PART It.
Hence, throughout the picture, the expression of space and
size is dependent upon obscurity, united with, or rather result
ant from, exceeding fulness. We destroy both space and size,
either by the vacancy, which affords us no measure
8ize'arePdcstroyed of space, or by the distinctness, which gives us a
alike by distinct- „ . m. , . , „ „ ...
nem and by va- false one. The distance of Poussin, having no in
dication of trees, nor of meadows, nor of character
of any kind, may be fifty miles off, or may be five ; we cannot
tell — we have no measure, and in consequence, no vivid impres
sion. But a middle distance of Hobbima's involves a contra
diction in terms ; it states a distance by perspective, which -it
contradicts by distinctness of detail.
, A single dusty roll of Turner's brush is more truly expressive
of the infinity of foliage, than the niggling of Hobbima could
have rendered his canvas, if he had worked on it till doomsday.
§17. Swiftexecu- What Sir J. Reynolds says of the misplaced labor
perfection ofdl- °f his Roman acquaintance on separate leaves of
tai,s- foliage, and the certainty he expresses that a man
who attended to general character would in five minutes pro
duce a more faithful representation of a tree, than the unfortu
nate mechanist in as many years, is thus perfectly true and well
founded ; but this is not because details are undesirable, but
because they are best given by swift execution, and because, in-
dividually, they cannot be given at all. But it
moro necessary should be observed (though we shall be better able
in landscape than .... ...... .. , .
in historical sub- to insist upon this point in future) that much.of
harm and error has arisen from the supposition i.
and assertions of swift and brilliant historical painters, that the
same principles of execution are entirely applicable to landscape,
which are right for the figure. The artist who falls into ex
treme detail in drawing the human form, is apt to become dis
gusting rather than pleasing. It is more agreeable that the
general outline and soft hues of flesh should alone be given, :*
than its hairs, and veins, and lines of intersection. And even
the most rapid and generalizing expression of the human body,
gedi, Assos, Chateau de Blois, Caer-laverock, and others innumerable,) have
always some slight appearance of mistiness, owing to the indistinctness of
details ; but it remains to be shown that any closer approximation to tha
effect is possible.

BEC. H. CH. V.] OF TRUTH OF SPACE. < 203
if directed by perfect knowledge, and rigidly faithful in drawing,
will commonly omit very little of what is agreeable or impres
sive. But the exclusively generalizing landscape painter omits
the whole of what is valuable in his subject, — omits thoughts,
designs, and beauties by the million, everything, indeed, which
can furnish him with variety or expression. A distance in Lin
colnshire, or in Lombardy, might both be generalized into such
¦ blue and yellow stripes as we see in Poussin ; but whatever there
is of beauty or character in either, depends altogether on our
understanding the details, and feeling the difference between
the morasses and ditches of the one, and the rolling sea of mul
berry trees of the other. And so in every part of the subject.
I have no hesitation in asserting that it is impossible to go too
fine, or think too much about details in landscape, so that they
be rightly arranged and rightly massed ; but that it is equally
impossible to render anything like the fulness or the space of
nature, except by that mystery and obscurity of execution which
she herself uses, and in which Turner only has followed her.
We have now rapidly glanced at such general truths of nature
as can be investigated without much knowledge of what is beau
tiful. Questions of arrangement, massing, and generalization,
I prefer leaving untouched, until we know some-
tion'of the sec- thing about details, and something about what is
beautiful. All that is desirable, even in these mere
; technical and artificial points, is based upon truths and habits
of nature ; but we cannot understand those truths until we are
^acquainted with the specific forms and minor details which they
affect, or out of which they arise. I shall, therefore, proceed
td examine the invaluable and essential truths of specific charac
ter and form — briefly and imperfectly, indeed, as needs must
be, but yet at length sufficient to enable the reader to pursue, if
lie will, the subject for himself.

, '

S-EOTXO-fcT XII.
OF TRUTH OF SKIES.

CHAPTER I.
OF THE OPEN SKY.
It is a strange thing how little in general people know about ,
the sky. It is the part of creation in which nature has done
more for the sake of pleasing man, more for the soleand evident
purpose of talking to him and teaching him, than
Sl- The peculiar f r ° . , . . . ° , .
adaptation of the in any other of her works, and it is just the part in
anci teachingeofms which we least attend to her. There are not many
, of her other works in which some more material or
essential purpose than the mere pleasing of man is not answered
by every part of their organization ; but every essential pur
pose of the sky might, so far as we know, be answered, if once
in three days, or thereabouts, a great ugly black rain cloud were
brought up over the blue, and everything well watered, and so
all left blue again till next time, with perhaps a film of morning
and evening mist for dew. And instead of this, there is not a
moment of any day of our lives, when nature is not producing
scene after scene, picture after picture, glory after glory, and
working still upon such exquisite and constant principles of
the most perfect beauty, that it is quite certain it is all done ,-
for us, and intended for our perpetual pleasure. And every
man, wherever placed, however far from other sources of interest
or of beauty, has this doing for him constantly. The. noblest
scenes of the earth can be seen and known but by few ; it is
not intended that man should live always in the midst of
them, he injures them by his presence, he ceases to feel them if
he be always with them ; but the sky is for all ; bright as it is,
it is not " too bright, nor good, for human nature's daily food;"

EEC. IH. CH. I.] OE THE OPEN SKY. 205
it is fitted in all its functions for the perpetual comfort and
exalting of the heart, for the soothing it and purifying it from
its dross and- dust. Sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious,
sometimes awful, never the same for two moments together ;
almost human in its passions, almost spiritual in its tenderness,
almost divine in its infinity, its appeal to what is immortal in
us, is as distinct, as its ministry of chastisement or of blessing
52 The careless- to what is mortal is essential. And yet we never
! ftetessonslre011 attend to it, we never make it a subject of thought,
.received. but as it has to do with our animal sensations ; we
look upon all by which it speaks to us more clearly than to
brutes, upon all which bears witness to the intention of the.
Supreme, that we are to receive more from the covering vault
than the light and the dew which we share with the weed and
the worm, only as a succession of meaningless and monotonous
accident, too common and too vain to be worthy of a moment
of watchfulness, or a glance of admiration. If in our moments
of utter idleness and insipidity, we turn to the sky as a last
resource, which of its phenomena do we "speak of ? One says it
has been wet, and another it has been windy, and another it has
been warm. Who, among the whole chattering crowd, can tell
me of the forms and the precipices of the chain of tall white
mountains that girded the horizon at noon yesterday? Who
saw the narrow sunbeam that came out of the south, and smote
upon their summits until they melted and mouldered away in a
dust of blue rain ? Who saw the dance of the dead clouds when
the sunlight left them last night, and the west wind blew them
before it like withered leaves ? All has passed, unregretted as
unseen ; or if the apathy be ever shaken off, even for an instant,
it is only by what is gross, or what is extraordinary ; and yet.it
$ 8. The mostes- is n°t in the broad and fierce manifestations of the
£"S elemental energies, not in the clash of the hail,
genucst. nor the drift of the whirlwind, that the highest
characters of the sublime are developed. God is not in the
earthquake, nor in the fire, but in the still small voice. They
are but the blunt and the low faculties of our nature, which can
only be addressed through lampblack and lightning. It is in
quiet and subdued passages of unobtrusive majesty, the deep,
and the calm, and the perpetual,— that which must be sought

206 Of truth of skies. [psrtii.
ere it is seen, and loved ere it is understood,— things which the
angels work out for us daily, and yet vary eternally, which are
never wanting, and never repeated, which are to be found
always yet each found but once ; it is through these that the
lesson of devotion is chiefly taught, and the blessing of. beauty
given. These are what the artist of highest aim must study ;' it
§4. Many of our is these, by the combination of which his ideal is
totther conven- *° *>e created ; these, of which so little notice is
tional- ordinarily taken by common observers, that I fully
believe, little as people in general are concerned with art, more
of their ideas of sky are derived from pictures than from
' reality, and that if we could examine the conception formed in
the minds of most educated persons when we talk of clouds, it
would frequently be found composed of fragments of blue and
white reminiscences of the old masters.
I shall enter upon the examination of what is true in sky at
greater length, because it is the only part of a picture of which
all, if they will, may be. competent judges. What I may have to
assert respecting the rocks of Salvator, or the boughs of Claude,
I can scarcely prove, except to those whom I can immure for a
month or two in the fastnesses of the Apennines, or guide in
their summer walks again and again through the ravines of Sor
rento. But what I say of the sky can be brought to an imme
diate test by all, and I write the more decisively, in the hope that
it may be so.
Let us begin then with the simple open blue of the sky.
This is of course the color of the pure atmospheric air, not the
aqueous vapor, but the pure azote and oxygen, and it is the
total color of the whole mass of that air between
essential qualities us and the void of space. It is modified by the
of the open blue. . , ., „ .....
varying quantity of aqueous vapor suspended in it»
whose color, in its most imperfect, and therefore most visible,
state of solution, is pure white, (as in steam,) which receives, like
any other white, the warm hues of the rays of the sun, and,
according to its quantity and imperfect solution, makes the
sky paler, and at the same time more or less gray, by mixing
warm tones with its blue. This gray aqueous vapor, when very
decided,, becomes mist, and when local, cloud. Hence the sky
is to be considered as a transparent blue liquid, in which, at

SEC. m. CH. I.] OF THE OPEN SKY. 20?
various elevations, clouds are suspended, those clouds being
themselves only particular visible spaces of a substance with
which the whole mass of this liquid is more or less impregnated.
§ 6. its connec- Now, we all know this perfectly well, and yet we
tion with clouds. so far forget it in practice, that we little notice the
constant connection kept up by nature between her blue and her
clouds, and we are not offended by the constant habit of the old
masters, of considering the blue sky as totally distinct in its
nature, and far separated from the vapors which float in it.
With them, cloud is cloud, and blue is blue, and no kind of
connection between them is ever hinted at.. The sky is thought
of as a clear, high material dome, the clouds as separate bodies,
suspended beneath it, and in consequence, however delicate and
«7. its exceeding exquisitely removed in tone their skies may be,
depth. y0U a]wayS i00k at them, not through them. Now,
if there be one characteristic of the sky more valuable or neces
sary to be rendered than another, it is that which Wordsworth
has given ih the second book of the Excursion : —
" The chasm of sky above my head
Is Heaven's profoundest azure. No domain
For fickle, short-lived clouds, to occupy,
Or to pass through ;— but rather an abyss
In which the everlasting stars abide,
And whose soft gloom, and boundless depth, might tempt
1 The curious eye to look for them by day. "
And, in his American Notes, I remember Dickens notices the
same truth, describing himself as lying drowsily on the barge
deck, looking not at, but through the sky. And if you look
intensely at the pure blue of a serene sky, you will see that there
is a variety and fulness in its very repose. It is not flat dead
color, but a deep, quivering, transparent body of penetrable air,
in which you trace or imagine short, falling spots of deceiving
light, and dim shades, faint, veiled vestiges of dark vapor ; and
is. There qu?ii- it is this trembling transparency which our great
gi7enrbyen?oaearny modern master has especially aimed at and given.
masters. jjis j^g jg never laid on in smooth coats, but in
breaking, mingling, melting hues, a quarter of an inch of
which, cut off from all the rest of, the picture, is still spacious,
still infinite and immeasurable in depth. It is a painting of the

208 OF TRUTH OF SKIES. [PAfiFn.
air, something into which you can see, through fhe parts which
are near you into those which are far off ; something which has
no surface, and through which we can plunge far and farther,
and without stay or end, into the profundity of space ; — whereas,
with all the old landscape painters, except Claude, you may in
deed go a long way before you come to the sky, but you will ¦*
strike - hard against it at last. A perfectly genuine and un-
89. And by touched sky of Claude is indeed most perfect, and,
Claude. beyond praise, in all qualities of air ; though even
with him, I often feel rather that there is a great dealof pleasant -i
air between me and the firmament, than that the firmament
itself is only air. I do not mean, however, to say a. word
against such skies as that of the Enchanted Castle, or that
marked 30 in the National Gallery, or one or two which I re
member at Rome ; but how little and by how few thesejine
passages of Claude are appreciated, is sufficiently proved by the "
sufferance of such villainous and unpalliated copies as we meet
with all over Europe, like the Marriage of Isaac, in our own
Gallery, to remain under his name. In fact, I do not remember
above ten pictures of Claude's, in which the skies, whether re
painted or altogether copies, or perhaps from Claude's hand,
but carelessly laid in, like that marked 241, Dulwich Gallery, ;
were not fully as feelingless and false as those of other masters ;
while, with the Poussins, there are no favorable exceptions.
Their skies are systematically wrong ; take, for instance, the
sky of the Sacrifice of Isaac. It is here high noon, as is shown
by the shadow of the figures ; and what sort of color is the sky
§ io. Total ab- at the top of the picture ? Is it pale and gray
pXsesi°n.-pe^icaiwitk heat, full of sunshine, and unfathomable in
|en°erraintreatment dePth ? 0n the contrary, it is of a pitch of dark-..
-of open sky. nesg which, except on the Mont Blanc or Chim-
borazo, is as purely impossible as color can be. He might as
well have painted it coal black ; and it is laid on with a dead
coat of flat paint, having no one quality or resemblance of sky
about it. It cannot have altered, because the land horizon is as
delicate and tender in tone as possible, and is evidently un
changed ; and to complete the absurdity of the whole thing,
this color holds its own, without graduation or alteration, to
within three or four degrees of the horizon, where it suddenly-

BEC. IIL CH. I.] OF THE OPEN SKY. 209
becomes bold and unmixed yellow- Now the horizon at noon
may be yellow when the whole sky is covered with dark clouds,
and only one open streak of light left in the distance from which
' the whole light proceeds ; but with a clear, open sky, and oppo
site the sun, at noon, such a yellow horizon as this is physically
impossible. Even supposing that the upper part of the sky
were pale and warm, and that the transition from the one hue
to the other were effected imperceptibly and gradually, as is
invariably the case in reality, instead of taking place within a
space of two or three degrees ; — even then, this gold yellow
would be altogether absurd ; but as it is, we have in this sky
(and it is a fine picture — one of the best of Gaspar' s that 1
know,) a notable example of the truth of the old masters— two
impossible colors impossibly united ! Find such a color in
Turner's noonday zenith as the blue at the top, or such a color
at a noonday horizon as the yellow at the bottom, or such a _
connection of any colors whatsoever as that in the centre, and
then you may talk about his being false to nature if you will.
Nor is this a solitary instance ; it is Gaspar Poussin's favorite
and characteristic effect. I remember twenty such, most of
. v them worse than this, in the downright surface and opacity of
blue. Again,, look at the large Cuyp in the Dul-
cuyp in gradua- wich Gallery, which Mr. Hazlitt considers the
" finest in the world," and of which he very com-
plimentarily says, " The tender green of the valleys, the gleam
ing lake, the purple light of the hills, have an effect like the
down on an unripe nectarine !" I ought to have apologized
:;:\foefore now, for not having studied sufficiently in Covent Garden
to be provided with terms of correct and classical criticism.
One of my friends begged me to observe, the other day, that
G'laude was " pulpy ;" another added the yet more gratifying "
information that he was " juicy ;" and it is now happily dis
covered that Cuyp is " downy." Now I dare say that the sky,
of this first-rate Cuyp is very like an unripe nectarine : all that
I have to say about it is, that it is exceedingly unlike a sky.
. The blue remains unchanged and ungraduated over three-
fourths of it, down to the horizon ; while the sun, in the left-
hand corner, is surrounded with a halo, first of yellow, and then
of crude pink, both being separated from each other, and the

210 OF TRUTH OF SKIES. [PAKTII.
last from the blue, as sharply as the belts of a rainbow, and both
together not ascending ten degrees in the sky. Now it is diffi
cult to conceive how any man calling himself a painter could im
pose such a thing on the public, and still more how the public
can receive it, as a representation of that sunset purple which
invariably extends its influence to the zenith, so that there is no
pure blue anywhere, but a purple increasing in purity gradually
down to its point of greatest intensity, (about forty-five degrees -
from the horizon,) and then melting imperceptibly into the
gold, the three colors extending their influence over the whole
sky ; so that throughout the whole sweep of the heaven, there
is no one spot where the color is not in an equal state of transi
tion — passing from gold into orange, from that into rose, from
that into purple, from that into blue, with absolute equality of
change, so that in no place can it be said, " here it changes,"
andin no place, "here it is unchanging. " This is invariably r
the case. There is no such thing — there never was, and never
will be such a thing, while God's heaven remains as it is made
— as a serene, sunset sky, with its purple and rose in belts about
the sun.
Such bold, broad examples of ignorance as these would soon
set aside all the claims of the professed landscape painters to
truth, with whatever delicacy of color or manipulation they may
lis. The exceed- be disguised. But there are some skies, of the
sk!esaofethefeariy Dutch school, in which clearness and coolness
8cnookRnTheirCh haTe been aimed at, instead of depth ; and some
?aiSabi?inmSdemm*roduced merely as backgrounds to the historical.
times. subjects of the older Italians, which there is no
matching in modern times ; one would think angels had painted
them, for all is now clay and oil in comparison. It seems as if
we had totally lost the art, for surely otherwise, however little
our painters might aim at it or feel it, they would touch the
chord sometimes by accident ; but they never do, and the
mechanical incapacity is still more strongly evidenced by the
muddy struggles of the unhappy Germans, who have the feel
ing, partially strained, artificial, and diseased, indeed, but still
genuine enough to bring out the tone, if they had the mechani
cal means and technical knowledge. But, however they were
obtained, the clear tones of Hiis kind of the older Italians are

«EC. m. CH. I.] OF THE OPEN SKY. 211
glorious and enviable in the highest degree ;~ and we shall show,
when we come to speak of the beautiful, that they are one of
•the most just grounds of the fame. of the old masters.
: But there is a series of phenomena connected with the open
blue of the sky, which we must take especial notice of, as it is
. of constant occurrence in the works of Turner and Claude, the
§13. Phenomena effects, namely,' of visible sunbeams. It will be
oeamsblThSrna: necessary for us thoroughly to understand the cir-
ture and cause, cumstances under which such effects take place.
Aqueous vapor or mist, suspended in the atmosphere, be-
. comes visible exactly as dust does in the air of a room. In the
Bhadows you not only cannot see the dust itself, because unillu-
mined, but you can see other objects through the dust without
obscurity, the air being thus actually rendered more transparent
by a deprivation of light. Where a sunbeam enters, every par
ticle of dust becomes visible, and a palpable interruption to the
sight, so that a transverse sunbeam is a real obstacle to the vis
ion, you cannot see things clearly through it.
In the same way, wherever vapor is illuminated by transverse
rays, there it becomes visible as a whiteness more or less affect
ing the purity of the blue, and destroying it exactly in propor
tion to the degree of illumination. But where vapor is in
¦ shade, it has very little effect on the sky, perhaps making it a
little- deeper and grayer than it otherwise would be, but not
itself, unless very dense, distinguishable or felt as mist.
The appearance of mist or whiteness in the blue of the sky,
is thus a circumstance which more or less accompanies sun
shine, and which, supposing the quantity of vapor constant, is
SH. They Ire greatest in the brightest sunlight. When there
™sVan™cannot are n0 °l°uds in the sky, the whiteness, as it
iyt^eftom6 aflects the whole sky equally, is not particularly '
ttTwitho'uT11611 noticeable. But when there are clouds between,
clouds. ug an(j the sun, the sun being low, those clouds "
cast shadows along and through the mass of suspended vapor.
Within the space of these shadows, the vapor, as above stated,
¦ becomes transparent and invisible, and the sky appears of a pure
blue. But where the sunbeams strike, the vapor becomes visi
ble in the form of the beams, occasioning those radiating shafts
': of light which are one of the most valuable and constant accom-

212 OF TRUTH OF SKIES. [PART H,
paniments of a low sun. The denser the mist, the more distinct
and sharp-edged will these rays be ; when the air is very clear,
they are mere vague, flushing, gradated passages of light ; when
it is very thick, they are keen-edged and decisive in a high
degree. We see then, first, that a quantity of mist dispersed through'-'
the whole space of the sky, is necessary to this phenomenon;!;
and secondly, that what we usually think of as beams of greater'
brightness than the rest of the sky, are in reality only a part of
that sky in its natural state of illumination, cut off and rendered
brilliant by the shadows from the clouds, — that these shadows
are in reality the source of the appearance of beams, — that,
therefore, no part of the sky can present such an appearance,
except when there are broken clouds between it and the sun ;
and lastly,, that the shadows cast from such clouds are not
necessarily gray or dark, but very nearly of the natural pure
blue of a sky destitute of vapor.
Now, as it has been proved that the appearance of beams can
only take place in a part of the sky which has clouds between it
and the sun, it is evident that no appearance of beams can ever
§ is. Erroneous begin from the orb itself, except when there, is a
repreSatiorTot cloud or solid body of some kind between us and
DyCtne'oi'd°mas-a ^ 5 but that such appearances will almost invari-
ters- ably begin on the dark side of some of the clouds
around it, the orb itself remaining the centre of a broad blaze of
united light. Wordsworth has given us in two lines, the only
circumstances under which rays can ever appear to have origin
in the orb itself :— " But rays of light,
Now suddenly diverging from the orb,
Retired behind tlie mountain tops, or wiled
By tlie dense air, shot upwards." Excursion, Book IX.
And Turner has given us the effect magnificently in the Dart
mouth of the River Scenery. It is frequent among the old mas
ters, and constant in Claude ; though the latter, from drawing
his beams too fine, represents the effect upon the dazzled eye
rather, than the light whicli actually exists, and approximates
very closely to the ideal which we see in the sign of the Rising

BBC. IH. CH. I.] OF THE OPEN SKY. 213
Sun ; nay, I am nearly sure that I remember cases in which he
has -given us the diverging beam, without any cloud or hill in
terfering with the orb. It may, perhaps, be some-
whkh appears in what difficult to say how far it is allowable to
shouidnot b^rep- represent that kind of ray which is seen by the
dazzled eye. It is very certain that we never look
towards a bright sun without seeing glancing rays issue from
it ; but it is equally certain that those rays are no more real ex
istences than the red and blue circles whicli we see after having
been so dazzled, and that if we are to represent the rays we
ought also to cover our sky with pink and blue circles. I
should on the whole consider it utterly false in principle to
represent the visionary beam, and that we ought only to show
sn The practice that which has actual existence. Such we find to
kempercepUon be the constant practice of Turner. Even where,
catepheSomtna owing to interposed clouds, he has beams appear-
ofrays. jng to issue from the orb itself, they are broad
bursts of light, not spiky rays ; and his more usual practice is
to keep all near the sun in one simple blaze of intense light, and
from the first clouds to throw beams to the zenith, though he
often does not permit any arppearance of rays until close to the
zenith itself. Open at the 80th page of the Illustrated edition
of Rogers's poems. You have there a sky blazing with sun
beams ; but they all begin a long way from the sun, and they
are accounted for by a mass of dense clouds surrounding the
orb itself. Turn to the 7th' page. Behind the old oak, where
the sun is supposed to be, you have only a -blaze of undistin
guished light ; but up on the left, over the edge of the cloud, on
' its dark side, the sunbeam. Turn to page 192, — blazing rays
-again, but all beginning where the clouds do, not one can you
trace to the sun ; and observe how carefully the long shadow on
Sis. The total ab- the mountain is accounted for by the dim dark pro-
" Eeof Eptr- montory projecting out near the sun. I need not
mrks'of'theoid multiply examples ; you will find various modifi-
masters. cations and uses of these effects throughout his
works. But you will not find a single trace of them in the old
..masters. They give you the rays issuing from behind black
clouds, and because they are a coarse and co«mmon effect which
; could not possibly escape their observation, and because they are

214 OF TRUTH OF SKIES. [PART H.
easily imitated. They give you the spiky shafts issuing from
the orb itself, because these are .partially symbolical of ligh£
and assist a tardy imagination, as two or three rays scratched
round the sun with a pen would, though they would be rays-d
darkness instead of light.* But of the most beautiful phenom
enon of all, the appearance of the delicate ray far in the sky,
threading its way among the thin, transparent clouds, while all
around the sun is unshadowed fire, there is no record nor. ex
ample whatsoever in their works. It was too delicate and spirit
ual for them ; probably their blunt and feelingless eyes never
perceived it in nature, and their untaught imaginations were
not likely to originate it in the study.
Little is to be said of the skies of our other landscape
artists. In paintings, they are commonly toneless, crude, and
wanting in depth and transparency ; but in drawings, some very
perfect and delicate examples have been produced
6 19. Truth of the , . , „ ,, ,-, , -, c ¦ ,.
ewes of modern by various memoers ot the old water color society,
° and one or two others; but with respect to the
qualities of which we. are at present speaking, it is not right to
eompare drawings with paintings, as the wash or spunging, or
other artifices peculiar to water color, are capable of producing
an appearance of quality which it needs much higher art to pro
duce in oils.
Taken generally, the open skies of the moderns are inferior
in quality to picked and untouched skies of the greatest of the
* I have left this-passage as it stood originally, because it is right as far
as it goes ; yet it speaks with too little respect of symbolism, which is ofteu
of the highest use in religious art, and in some measure is allowable in all art.
In the works of almost all the greatest masters there are portions which are
explanatory rather than representative, and typical rather than imitative ;
nor could these be parted with but at infinite loss. Note, with respect to
the present question, the daring black sunbeams of Titian, in his woodcut
of St. Francis receiving the stigmata, and compare here Parr III. Sect. II.
Chap. IV. § 18 ; Chap. V. § 13. And though I believe that I am right in
considering all such symbolism as out of place in pure landscape, and in at
tributing that of Claude to ignorance or inability, and not to feeling, yet I
praise Turner not so much for his absolute refusal to represent the spiky ray
about the sun, as for his perceiving and rendering that which Claude never
perceived, the multitudinous presence of radiating light in the upper sky,-
and on all its countless ranks of subtile cloud.

BBC. HI. CH. I.] OF THE OPEN SKY. 215
ancients, but far superior to the average class of pictures which
5 so. Recapitnia- we have every day fathered upon their reputation.
.jktes o? htheban- Nine or ten skies of Claude might be named which
$S%, Inimi™ are n0* to be contended with, in their way, and
aeriigof.^rioSs as many of Cuyp. Teniers has given some very
truth, childish, wonderful passages, and the clearness of the early
Italian and Dutch schools is beyond all imitation. But the-
common blue daubing which we hear every day in our best gal
leries attributed to Claude and Cuyp, and the genuine skies of
Salvator, and of both the Poussins, are not to be compared for
an instant with the best works of modern times, even in quality
and -transparency ; while in all matters requiring delicate obser
vation or accurate science, — in all which was not attainable by
technicalities of art, and which depended upon the artist's
knowledge and understanding of nature, all the works of the
ancients are alike the productions of mere children, sometimes
manifesting great sensibility, but proving at the same time,
feebly developed intelligence and ill-regulated observation.

CHAPTER II.
OF TRUTH OF. CLOUDS : — FIRST, OF THE REGION OF THE CIRRUS,
Our next subject of investigation must be the specific char
acter of clouds, a species of truth which is especially neglected
by artists ; first, because as it is within the limits of possibility
§ i. Difficulty of that a cloud may assume almost any form, it is diffi-'
wherefnttii truth cn^ t° point out, and not always easy to feel, where
of clouds consists. m error consists ; and secondly, because it is totally
impossible to study the forms of clouds from nature with care
and accuracy, as a change in the subject takes place between-
^every touch of the following pencil, and parts of an outline
sketched at different instants cannot harmonize, nature never
having intended them to come together. Still if artists were
more in ihe habit of sketching clouds rapidly, and as accurately
as possible in the outline, from nature, instead of daubing down
what they call " effects" with the brush, they would soon find
there is more beauty about their forms than can be arrived at
by any random felicity of invention, however brilliant, and more
essential character than can be violated without incurring the
charge of falsehood, — falsehood, as direct and definite, though
not as traceable as error in the less varied features of organic
form. The first and most important character of clouds, is depend
ent on the different altitudes at which they are formed. The
atmosphere may be conveniently considered as divided into
$ 2. variation of tnree sPaces, each inhabited by clouds of specific
afflerenr^e'eva- character altogether different, though, in reality,
re°^ons To w'hTch tnere *s no distinct limit fixed between them by
nfenti™abeC°con" na*ure» clouds being formed at every altitude, and
sidered as belong- partaking according to their altitude, more or less
of the characters of the upper or lower regions.
The scenery of the sky is thus formed of an infinitely graduated
series of systematic forms of cloud, each of which has its own

sec. m. ch. n.] i. of the region of the cirrus. 217
region in which alone if is formed, and each of which has
specific characters which can only be properly determined by
comparing them as they are found clearly distinguished by in
tervals of considerable space. I shall therefore consider the
sky as divided into three regions — the upper region, or region
of the cirrus ; the central region, or region of the stratus ; the
lower region, or the region of the rain-cloud.
The clouds which I wish to consider as included in the upper
region, never touch even the highest mountains of Europe, and
may therefore be looked upon as never formed below an eleva-
ss. Extent or the ^on °^ a* ^eas* 15,000 feet ; they are the motion.
upper region. iegg multitudinous lines of delicate vapor with
which the blue of the open sky is commonly streaked or speckled
after several days of fine weather. I must be pardoned for
giving a detailed description of their specific characters as they
are of constant occurrence in the works of modern artists, and
J shall have occasion to speak frequently of them in future parts
of the work. Their chief characters are — first,
metrical arrange- Symmetry : They are nearly always arranged in
mentof its clouds. J , i .. J , . , , J , J °,
,' some definite and evident order, commonly in
long ranks reaching sometimes from the zenith to the horizon,
each rank composed of an infinite number of transverse bars
of about the same -length, each bar thickest in the middle, and
terminating in a traceless vaporous point at each side ; the
blanks are in the direction of the wind, and the bars of course
at "right angles to it ; these latter are commonly slightly bent
in the middle. Frequently two systems of this kind, indicative
of two currents of wind, at different altitudes intersect one
another, forming a network. Another frequent arrangement is
in groups of excessively fine, silky, parallel fibres, commonly
'tadiating, or having a tendency to radiate, from one of their
extremities, and terminating in a plumy sweep at the other : —
these are vulgarly known as "mares' tails." The plumy and
expanded extremity of. these is often bent upwards, sometimes
back and up again, giving an appearance of great flexibility and
unity at the same time, as if the clouds were tough, and would
hold together however bent. The narrow extremity is invari
ably turned to the wind, and the fibres are parallel with its
. direction. The upper clouds always fall into some modification

218 OF TRUTH of CLOUDS. [pabtq.
of one or other of these arrangements. They thus differ from
all other clouds, in havirig a plan and system ; whereas other
clouds, though there are certain laws which they cannot break,- ~
have yet perfect freedom from anything like a relative and gen
eral system of. government. The upper clouds are to the lower,
what soldiers on parade are to a mixed multitude ; no men walk
on their heads or their hands, and so there are certain.- laws
which no clouds violate ; but there is nothing except in the ;;
upper clouds resembling symmetrical discipline.
Secondly, Sharpness of Edge : The edges of the bars of the
upper clouds which are turned to the wind, are often the sharp- ,
est which the sky shows ; no outline whatever of any other kind
§5. Their exceed- °^ cloud, however marked and energetic, ever ap
ing delicacy. proaches the delicate decision of these edges. The'
outline of a black thunder-cloud is striking, from the great
energy Of the color or shade of the general mass ; but as a line,
it is soft and indistinct, compared with the edge of the cirrus,
in a clear sky with a brisk breeze. On the other hand, the edge
of the bar turned away from the wind is always soft, often im
perceptible, melting into the blue interstice between it and its
next neighbor. Commonly the sharper one edge is, the, softer
is the other, and the clouds look flat, and as if they slipped over
each other like the scales of a fish. When both edges are soft,
as is always the case when the sky is clear and windless, the' '
cloud looks solid, round, and fleecy.
Thirdly, Multitude : The delicacy of these vapors is some
times carried into such an infinity of division, that no other
sensation of number that the earth or heaven can give is so
6 6. Their num- impressive. Number is always most felt when it;
°er- is symmetrical, (vide Burke on " Sublime," Part \*
ii. sect. 8,) and, therefore, no sea-waves nor fresh leaves make -
their number so evident or so impressive as these vapors.
Nor is nature content with an infinity of bars or lines alone-
each bar is in its turn severed into a number of small undula-
tory masses, more or less connected according to the violence of
the wind. When this division is merely effected by undulation,
the cloud exactly resembles sea-sand ribbed by the tide ; but
when the division amounts to real separation we have the
mottled or mackerel skies. Commonly, the greater the division of

BEC. HI. CH.«n.] I. OF the region of the cirrus. 219
its bars, the broader and more shapeless is the rank or field, so that
in the mottled sky it is lost altogether, and we have large ir
regular fields of equal size, masses like flocks of sheep ; such
clouds are three or four thousand feet below the legitimate cirrus.
I have seen them cast a shadow on the Mont Blanc at sunset, so
that they must descend nearly to within fifteen thousand feet of
the. earth.
Fourthly, Purity of Color r " The nearest of these clouds —
those over the observer's head, being at least three miles above"
him, and nearly all entering the ordinary sphere of vision,
farther from him still, — their dark sides are much
6 *t 0&USG9 of
ttejr peculiarly grayer and cooler than those of other clouds,
owing to their distance. They are Composed of
the purest aqueous vapor, free from all foulness of earthy
gases, and of this in the lightest and most ethereal state in
which it can be, to be visible. Farther, they receive the light
of the sun in a state of far greater, intensity than lower objects,
the beams being transmitted to them through atmospheric air
far less dense, and wholly unaffected by mist, smoke, or any
other impurity. Hence their colors are more pure and vivid,
and their white less sullied than those of any other clouds.
•Lastly, Variety : Variety is never so conspicuous, as when it
is. united with symmetry. The perpetual change of form in
other clouds, is monotonous in its very dissimilarity, nor is
j 8. Theu-variety difference striking where no connection is im-
of form. plied ; but if through a range of barred clouds,
crossing half the heaven, all governed by the same forces and
falling into one general form, there be yet a marked and evident
dissimilarity between each member of the great mass — one
inore finely drawn, the next more delicately moulded, the next
more gracefully bent — each broken into differently modelled
and variously numbered groups, the variety is doubly striking,
because contrasted with the perfect symmetry of which it forms
a part. Hence, the importance of the truth, that nature never
lets one of the members of even her most disciplined groups of
~ cloud be like another ; but though each is adapted for the same
function; and in its great features resembles all the others, not
one, out, of the millions with which the sky is checkered, is
without a separate beauty and character, appearing to have had

220 OF TRUTH of clouds. » [PARTH.
distinct thought occupied" in its conception, and distinct forces
in its production ; and in addition to this perpetual invention,
visible in each member of each system, we find systems of
separate cloud intersecting one another, the sweeping lines
mingled and interwoven with the rigid bars, these in their turn
melting .into banks of sand-like ripple and flakes of drifted and
irregular foam ; under all, perhaps the massy outline of some
lower cloud moves heavily across the motionless buoyancy of the
upper lines, and indicates at once their elevation and their
repose. Such are the great attributes of the upper cloud region ;
whether they are beautiful, valuable, or impressive, it is not our
jpre'sent business to decide, nor to endeavor to discover the rea-
§ 9. Total ao- son 01" the somewhat remarkable fact, that the
ISgitert effoiuit whole field of ancient landscape, art affords, as far
Hon? inPaenclent ^ we remember, but one instance of any effort
landscape. whatever to represent the character of this cloud
region. That one instance is the landscape of Rubens in our
own: gallery, in which the mottled or fleecy sky is given with
perfect truth and exquisite beauty. To this should perhaps be
added, some of the backgrounds of the historical painters, where
horizontal lines were required, and a few level bars of white or
warm color cross the serenity of the blue. These, as far as they
go, are often very perfect, and the elevation and repose of their
effect might, we should have thought, have pointed out to the
landscape painters that there was something (I do not say
much, but certainly something) to be made out of the high
clouds. Not one of them, however, took the hint. To whom* :
among them all, can we look for the slightest realization of tho
fine and faithful descriptive passage of the " Excursion,"
already alluded to : — " But rays of light,
Now suddenly diverging from the orb,
Retired behind the mountain tops, or veiled
By the dense air, shot upwards to the crown
Of the blue firmament — aloft — and wide :
And multitudes of little floating clouds,
Ere we, who saw, of change were conscious, pierced
Through their ethereal texture, had become
Vivid as fire^Crouds separately poised,

sec. iri. ch. n.J i. of -the region Of the cirrus. 221
Innumerable multitude of forms
Scattered through half the circle of the sky ;
And giving back, and shedding each on each,
With prodigal communion, the bright hues
Which from the unapparent fount of glory '
They had imbibed, and ceased not to receive.
That which the heavens displayed the liquid deep
Repeated, but with unity sublime."
There is but one master whose works we can think of while
we read this ; one alone has taken notice of the neglected upper
sky ; it is his peculiar and favorite field ; he has watched its
S 10. The intense every modification, and given its every phase and
studyoTthemby feature ; at all hours, in all seasons, he has fol-
Tumer. lowed its passions and its changes, and has
brought down and laid open to the world another apocalypse of
heaven. There is scarcely a painting of Turner's, in which serenity of
sky and intensity of light are aimed at together, in which these
clouds are not used, though there are not two cases in which
they are used altogether alike. Sometimes they are crowded
together in masses of mingling light, as in the Shylock ; every
part and atom sympathizing in that continuous expression of
slow movement which Shelley has so beautifully touched : —
„ "Underneath the young gray dawn
A multitude of dense, white fleecy clouds,
"Were wandering in thick flocks along the mountains,
Shepherded by tlie slow, unwiUing wind."
At other times they are blended with the sky itself, felt only
here and there by a ray of light calling them into existence out
of its misty shade, as in the Mercury and Argus"; sometimes,
where great repose is .to be given, they appear in a few de
tached, equal, rounded flakes, which seem to hang motionless,
each like the shadow of the other, in the deep blue of the
zenith, as iri the Aero-Corinth ; sometimes they are scattered in
fiery flying fragments, each burning with separate energy, as in
the Temeraire ; sometimes woven together with fine threads of
intermediate darkness, melting into the blue as in the Napo
leon. But in all cases the exquisite manipulation of the master
gives to Bach atom of the multitude its own character and

222 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PARTn,
expression. Though they be countless as leaves, each has its
portion of light, its shadow, its reflex, its peculiar and separat
ing form.
Take for instance the illustrated edition of Rogers's Ppems,*
and open it at the 80th page, and observe how every attribute
which I have pointed out in the upper sky, is there rendered
with the faithfulness of a mirror ; the long lines of
sunrise on the parallel bars, the delicate curvature from the
wind, which the inclination of the sail shows you
to be from the west ; the excessive sharpness of every edge
which is turned to the wind, the faintness of every opposite one,
the breaking up of each bar into rounded masses, and finally,
the inconceivable variety with which individual form has been
given to every member of the multitude, and not only individual
form, but roundness and substance even where there is scarcely
a hairbreadth of cloud to express it in. Observe, above every
thing, the varying indication of space and depth in the whole, so
that you may look through and through from one cloud to another,
feeling not merely how they retire to the horizon, but how they
melt back, into the recesses of the sky; every interval being
filled with absolute air, and all its spaces so melting and fluctu- .
ating, and fraught with change as with repose, that as you look,.
you will fancy that the rays shoot higher and higher into the
vault of light, and that the pale streak of horizontal vapor . js
melting away from the cloud that it crosses. Now watch for.
the next barred sunrise, and take this vignette to the window,
and test it by nature's own clouds, among which you will find
forms and passages, I do not say merely like, but apparently the
actual originals of parts of this very drawing. And with whom
will you do this, except with Turner ? Will you do it with
Claude, and set that blank square yard pf blue, with its round,
white, flat fixtures of similar cloud, beside the purple infinity
of nature, with her countless multitude of shadowy lines, and
flaky waves, and folded veils of variable mist ? Will you do it
with Poussin, and set those massy steps of unyielding solidity,
* I use this work frequently for illustration, because it is the only one I
know in which the engraver has worked with delicacy enough to give tha
real forms and touches of Turner. I can reason from these plates, (in ques
tions of form only,) nearly as well as I could from the drawings.

BEC. m. CH. H.] I. OF THE REGION OF THE CIRRUS. 223
with the chariot-and-four driving up them, by the side of the
delicate forms which terminate in threads too fine for the eye to
follow them, and of texture so thin woven that the earliest stars
shine through them ? Will you do it with Salvator, and set that
volume of violent and restless manufactory smoke beside those
calm and quiet bars, which pause in the heaven as if they would
never leave it more ?
Now we have just seen how Turner uses the sharp-edged cirri
when he aims at giving great transparency of air. But it was
shown in the preceding chapter that sunbeams, or the appear-
• ance of them, are always sharper in their edge in
IIS. His use of . x-u • • ¦ x xi
the cirrus in ex- proportion as the air is more misty, as they are
most defined in a room where there is most dust
. flying about in it. Consequently, in the vignette we have been
just noticing, where transparency is to be given, though there
is a blaze of light, its beams are never edged ; a tendency to rays
is visible, but you cannot in any part find a single marked edge
of a rising sunbeam, the sky is merely more flushed in one place
than another. Now let us see what Turner does when he wants
mist. Turn to the Alps at Daybreak, page 193, in the same
book. Here we have the cirri used again, but now they have
no sharp edges, they are all fleecy and mingling with each other,
though every one of them has the most exquisite indication of
individual form, and they melt back, not till they are lost in
exceeding light, as in the other plate, but into a mysterious,
fluctuating, shadowy sky, of which, though the light penetrates
through it all, you perceive every part to be charged with
-vapor. Notice particularly the half-indicated forms even where
it is most serene, behind the snowy mountains. And now, how
are the sunbeams drawn ? no longer indecisive, flushing, palpi
tating, every one is sharp and clear, and terminated by definite
shadow ; note especially the marked lines on the upper cloud ;
finally, observe the difference in the mode of indicating the
figures, which are here misty and indistinguishable, telling only
as shadows, though they are near and large, while those in the
former vignette came clear upon the eye, though they were so
far off as to appear mere points.
Now is this perpetual consistency in all points, this concen-
tration of every d act which can possibly bear upon what we are

224 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. , [PART-H.
to be told, this watchfulness of the entire meaning and system
of nature, which fills every part and space of the
listency in every picture with coincidences of witness, which come
minor feature^ o^ Upon ugj ag x^ey woiai,j from the reality, more
fully and deeply in proportion to the knowledge we possess and
the attention we give, admirable or not ? I could go on writing
page after page on every sky of Turner's, and pointing out fresh
truths in every one. In the Havre, for instance, of the Rivers
of France we have a new fact pointed out to us with respect to
these cirri, namely, their being so faint and transparent as not
to be distinguishable from the blue of the sky, (a frequent case,)
except in the course of a. sunbeam, which, however, does not
illumine their edges, they being not solid enough to reflect
light, but penetrates their whole substance, and renders them
flat, luminous forms in its path, instantly and totally lost at its
edge. And thus a separate essay would be required by every
picture, to make fully understood the new phenomena which it
treated and illustrated. But after once showing what are the
prevailing characteristics of these clouds, we can only leave it to
the reader to trace them wherever they occur. There are
some fine and characteristic passages of this kind of* cloud given
by Stanfield, though he dares not use them in multitude, and is
wanting in those refined qualities of form which it is totally
impossible to explain in words, but which, perhaps, by simple
outlines, on a large scale, selected from the cloud forms of
various artists, I may in "following portions of the work illus
trate with the pencil.
Of the colors of these clouds I have spoken before, (Sec I.
Chap, II. ;) but though I then alluded to their purity and vivid
ness, I scarcely took proper notice of their variety ; there is
*h. The color of indeed in nature variety in all things, and it would
fee upper douds. be absurd to -insist on it in each case, yet the
colors of these clouds are so marvellous in their changefulness,
that they require particular notice. If you watch for the next
sunset, when there are a considerable number of these cirri
in the sky, you will see, especially at the zenith, that the sky
does not remain of the same color for two inches together; one
cloud has a dark side of cold blue, and a fringe of milky white ;
another, above it, has a dark side of purple and an edge of red ;

SEC. HI. CH. II.] I. OF THE REGION OF THE CIRRUS. 225
another, nearer the sun, has an under-side of orange and
an edge of gold ; these you will find mingled with, and passing
into the blue of the sky, which- in places you will not be able to
distinguish from the cool gray of the darker clouds, and which
will be itself full of gradation, now pure and deep, now faint
and feeble ; and all this is done, not in large pieces, nor on a
large scale, but.over and over again in every square yard, so that
there is no single part nor portion of the whole sky which has
not in itself variety of color enough for a separate picture, and
yet no single part which is like another, or which has not some
-peculiar source of beauty, and some peculiar arrangement of
dolor of its own. Now, instead of this, you get in the old
masters — Cuyp, or Claude, or whoever they may be — a field of
blue, delicately, beautifully, and uniformly shaded down to the
yellow _sun, with a certain number of similar clouds, each with
a dark side of the same gray, and an edge of the same yellow.
I do not say that nature never does anything like this, but I say
that her principle is to do a great deal more, and that what she
does more than this, — what I have above described, and what
you may see in nine sunsets out of ten, — has been observed,
attempted, and rendered by Turner only, and by him with a
fidelity and force which presents us with more essential truth,
and more clear expression and illustration of natural laws, in
every wreath of vapor, than composed the whole stock of
heavenly information, which lasted Cuyp and Claude their lives.
We close then our present consideration of the upper clouds,
to return to them when we know what is beautiful ; we have
at present only to remember that of these clouds, and the truths
§15. Recapituia- connected with them, none before Turner had
tion- taken any notice whatsoever ; that had they
therefore been even feebly and imperfectly represented by him,
they would yet have given him a claim to be considered more
extended and universal in his statement of truths than any of
his predecessors ; how much more when we find that deep
fidelity in his studied and perfect skies which opens new sources
of delight to every advancement of our knowledge, and to every
added moment of our contemplation.

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2W^W?

aM^^WM^WrE&M^^^W^M^i^Wi^^^

CHAPTER III.
OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS T — SECONDLY, OF THE CENTRAL CLOUD
REGION.
We have next to investigate the character of the Central
Cloud Region, which I consider as including all clouds which
are the usual characteristic of ordinary serene weather, and
Si. Extent and which touch and envelop the mountains of
of^the^S Switzerland, but never affect those of our own
cloud region. island ; they may therefore be considered as
occupying a space of air ten thousand feet in height, extending
from five to fifteen thousand feet above the sea.
These clouds, according to their elevation, appear with great ".
variety of form, often partaking of the streaked or mottled
character of the higher region, and as often, when the precur
sors of storm, manifesting forms closely connected with the
lowest rain clouds ; but the species especially characteristic of
the central region is a white, ragged, irregular, and scattered
vapor, which has little form and less color, and of which a good
example may be seen in the largest ' landscape of Cuyp, in the
Dulwich Gallery. When this vapor collects into masses, it is
partially rounded, clumsy, and ponderous, as if it would tumble
out of the sky, shaded with a dull gray, and totally devoid of '
any appearance of energy or motion. Even in nature, these
clouds are comparatively uninteresting, scarcely worth raising
our heads to look at ; and on canvas, valuable .
%2. Its character- . ' . .
istic clouds, re- only as a means of introducing light, and breaking
quiring no atten- J x xi i
tion nor thought trie monotony ot blue ; yet they are, perhaps,
tation, are there- beyond all others the favorite clouds of the Dutch
jects with the old masters. Whether they had any motive for the
adoption of such materials, beyond the extreme
facility with which acres of canvas might thus be covered with
out any troublesome exertion of thought ; or any temptation to
such selections beyond the impossibility of error where nature

SBC.m. CH. HI.] II. OF THE CENTRAL CLOUD REGION. 227
shows no form, and the impossibility of deficiency where she
shows no beauty, it is not here the place to determine. Such
skies are happily beyond' the reach of criticism, for he who tells
you nothing cannot tell you a falsehood. A little flake-white,
glazed with a light brush over the carefully toned blue, per
mitted to fall into whatever forms chance might determine,
with the single precaution that their edges should be tolerably
¦' irregular, supplied, in hundreds of instances, a sky quite good
.enough for all ordinary purposes— quite good enough for cattle
to graze, or boors to play at nine-pins under— and equally devoid
of all that could gratify, inform, or offend.
But although this kind of cloud is, as I have said, typical
of the central region, it is not one which nature is fond of.
She scarcely ever lets- an hour pass without Kome manifestation
of finer forms, sometimes approaching the upper
88. The clouds . . , . -, ,, -
of Salvator and -cirri, sometimes the lower cumulus. And then m
the lower outlines, we have the nearest approxima
tion which nature ever presents to the clouds of Claude, Salvator,
and Poussin, to the characters oi which I must request especial
attention, as it is here only that we shall have a, fair opportu
nity of comparing their skies with those of the modern school.
I shall, as before, glance rapidly at the great laws of specific
form, and so put it in the power of the reader to judge for him
self of the truth of representation.
Clouds, it is to be remembered, are not so much local vapor,
as vapor rendered locally visible by a fall of temperature. Thus
a cloud, whose parts are in constant motion, will hover on a
K Their essen- snowy mountain, pursuing constantly the same
tial characters, track upon its flanks, and yet remaining of the.
same size, the same form, and in the same place, for half a day
together. No matter how violent or how capricious the wind
may be, the instant it approaches the spot where the chilly
influence of the snow extends, the moisture it carries becomes
visible, and then and there the cloud forms on the instant,
apparently maintaining its form against the wind, though the
"careful and keen eye can see all its parts in the most rapid
motion across the mountain. The outlines of such a cloud are
of course not determined by the irregular impulses of the wind,
but by the fixed lines of radiant heat which regulate the tem-

228 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PARTH.
perature of the atmosphere of the mountain. It is' terminated},
therefore, not by changing curves, but by steady right lines of
more or less decision, often exactly correspondent with the out
line of the mountain on which it is formed, and falling there
fore into grotesque peaks and precipices. I have seen the
marked and angular outline of the Grandes Jorasses, at
Chamounix, mimicked in its every jag by a line of clouds above
it. Another resultant phenomenon is the formation of cloud
in the calm air to leeward of a steep summit ; cloud whose edges
are in rapid motion, where 'they are affected by the current of
the wind above, and stream from the peak like the smoke'of a
volcano, yet always vanish at a certain distance from it as steam
issuing from a chimney. When wet weather of some duration
is approaching, a small white spot of cloud will sometimes*
appear low on the hill flanks ; it will not move, but will increase
gradually for some little time, then diminish, still without mov^
ing ; disappear altogether, reappear ten minutes afterwards,
exactly in the same spot ; increase to a greater extent than
before, again disappear, again return, and at last permanently ;
other similar spots of cloud forming simultaneously, with
various fluctuations, each in its own spot, and at the same level
on the hill-side, until all expand, join together, and form an.
unbroken veil of threatening gray, which darkens gradually
into storm. What in such cases takes place palpably and re
markably, is more or less a law of formation in all clouds
whatsoever ; they being bounded father by lines expressive of
changes of temperature in the atmosphere, than by the impulses
of the currents of wind in which those changes take place.
Even when in rapid and visible motion across the sky, the
variations which take place in their outlines are not so much
alterations of position and arrangement of parts, as they are
the alternate formation and disappearance of parts. There is,
therefore, usually a parallelism and consistency in their great
§ 5. Their angular outlines, which give system to the smaller curves
Q>cTsionndofDout ot which they are composed ; and if these great
Ime' lines be taken, rejecting the minutiae of variation,
the resultant form will almost always be angular, and full of
character and decision. In the flock-like fields of equal massesj
each individual mass has the effect, not of an ellipse or circle,

BBC. m. CH. in.] II. OF THE CENTRAL CLOUD REGION. 229
but of a rhomboid ; the sky is crossed and checkered, not
honeycombed ; in the lower cumuli, even though the most
rounded of all clouds, the groups are not like balloons - or bub
bles, but like towers or mountains. And the result of this
arrangement in masses more or less angular, varied with, and
"chiefly constructed of, curves of the utmost freedom and beauty,
is that appearance of exhaustless and fantastic energy which
gives every cloud a marked character of its own, suggesting
resemblances to the specific outlines of organic objects. I do
not say that such accidental resemblances are a character to be
imitated ; but merely that they bear witness to the originality
and vigor of separate conception in cloud forms, which give to
the scenery of the sky a force and variety no less delightful
than that of the changes of mountain outline in a hill district
of great elevation ; and that there is added to this a spirit-like
feeling, a capricious, mocking imagery of passion and life,
totally different from any effects of inanimate form that the
earth can show. t
The minor contours, out of which the larger outlines are
composed, are indeed beautifully curvilinear ; but they are never
monotonous in their curves. First comes a concave line, then
a convex one, then an angular jag, breaking off
S6.Thecompo8i- . , ' , ¦ ?x x • tx v xi.
fionof their minor into spray, then a downright straight line, then a
curve again, then a deep gap, and a place where all
is lost and melted away, and so on ; displaying in every inch of
the form renewed and ceaseless invention, setting off grace with
rigidity, and relieving flexibility with force, in a manner
scarcely less, admirable, and far more changeful than even in the
^muscular forms of the human frame. Nay, such is the ex
quisite composition of all this, that you may take any single
fragment of any cloud in the sky, and you will find it put
together as if there had been a year's thought over the plan of
t Rearranged with the most studied inequality — with the most
• delicate symmetry — with the most elaborate contrast, a picture
in itself. You may try' every other piece ef cloud in the
heaven, and you will find them every one as perfect, and yet
not one in the least like another.
Now it may perhaps, for anything we know, or have yett
L proved, be highly expedient and proper, in art, that this varjistytp

230 * < OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [FABTir.
individuality, and angular character should be changed into a
mass of convex curves, each precisely like its
Lters, asr- given neighbor in all respects, and unbroken from be-
by s. osa. ginning to end ; — it may be highly original,
masterly, bold, whatever you choose to call it ; but it is false.-"- I
do not take upon me to assert that the clouds which in ancient
Germany were more especially and peculiarly devoted to the
business of catching princesses, off desert islands, and earryin||
them to enchanted castles, might not have possessed something
of the pillowy organization which we may suppose best adapted
for functions of such delicacy and dispatch. But I do mean to
say that the clouds which God sends upon his earth as the
ministers of dew, and rain, and shade, and with which he adorns
his heaven, setting them in its vault for the thrones of his
spirits, have not in one instant or atom of their existence, one
feature in common with such conceptions and creations. And
there are, beyond dispute, more direct and unmitigated false-"
hoods told, and more laws of nature set at open defiance in one
oi the "rolling" skies of Salvator, such as that marked 159 in
the Dulwich Gallery, than were ever attributed, even by the
ignorant and unfeeling, to all the wildest flights of Turner put
together. And it is not as if the error were only occasional. It is
systematic and constant in all the Italian masters of the seven
teenth century, and in most of the Dutch. They looked at
„ > clouds as at everything else which did not particu-
§ 8. Monotony ,-,,,,, . , . . - , . . , * , .
and falsehood of larly help them m their great end of deception,
the clouds of the -,1 ,, , f , . , . . ,.
Italian school with utter carelessness and bluntness of feeling, —
saw thatthere were a great many rounded passages
in them, — found it much easier to sweep circles than to design
beauties, and sat down in their studies, contented with per
petual repetitions of the same spherical conceptions, having
about the same relation to the clouds of nature, that a child's
carving of a turnip has to the head of the Apollo. Look at the
round things about the sun in the bricky Claude, the smallest
of the three Seaports in the National Gallery. They are a
great deal more like half-crowns than clouds. Take the ropy,
tough-looking wreath in the Sacrifice of Isaac, and find one part
of it, if you can, which is not the repetition of every other part.

SEC. ni. CH. ni.] II. OF THE CENTRAL CLOUD REGION. 231
of it, all together being as round and vapid as the brush could
draw them ; or take the two cauliflower-like protuberances iri
No. 220 of the Dulwich Gallery,- and admire the studied
similarity between them ; you cannot tell which is which ; or
take the so-called Nicholas Poussin, No. 212, Dulwich Gallery,
in which, from the brown trees tp the right-hand side of the
picture, there is not one line which is not physically impossible.
But it is not the outline only which is thus systematically
" false. The drawing of the solid form is worse still, for it is to
be remembered -that although clouds of course arrange them
selves more or less into broad masses, with a light
8 9. Vast size .
of ' congregated side and dark side, both their light and shade
|y\QacpQ f\f Cloud- are invariably composed of a series of divided
. masses, each of which has in its outline as much variety and
character as the great outline of the cloud ; presenting, there
fore, a thousand times repeated, all that I have described as
characteristic of the general form. Nor are these multitudinous
divisions a truth of slight importance in the character of sky, for
they are dependent on, and illustrative of, a quality which is
usually in a great degree overlooked, — the enormous retiring
spaces of solid clouds. Between the illuniined edge of a heaped
cloud, and that part of its body which turns into shadow, there
will generally be a clear distance of several miles, more or less
of course, according to the general size of the cloud, but in
such large masses as in Poussin and others of the old masters,
occupy the fourth or fifth of the visible sky ; the clear illumined
breadth of vapor, from the edge to the shadow, involves at least
a distance of five or six miles. We are little apt, in watching
jio. Demonstra- the changes of a mountainous range of cloud, to
" ton wyith°n\oun- reflect that the masses of vapor which compose it,
tain ranges. are huger and higher than any mountain range of
the earth ; and the distances between mass and mass are not
'. yards of air traversed in an instant by the flying form, but val
leys of changing atmosphere leagues over ; that the slow motion
of ascending curves, which we can scarcely trace, is a boiling
energy of exulting vapor rushing mto the -heaven a thousand
feet in a minute ; and that the toppling angle whose sharp edge
almost escapes notice in the multitudinous forms around it, is a
nodding precipice of storms, 3000 feet from base to summit.

232 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PAKTU,
It is not until we have actually compared the forms of the sky
with the hill ranges of the earth, and seen the soaring, Alp
overtopped and buried in one surge of the sky, that we begin to
conceive or appreciate the colossal scale of the phenomena of
the latter. But of this there can be no doubt in the mind of
any one accustomed to trace the forms of clouds among hill '
ranges — as it is there a demonstrable and evident fact, that the
space of vapor visibly extended over an ordinarily cloudy sky,
is not less, from the point nearest to the observer to the
horizon, than twenty leagues ; that the size of every mass of
separate form, if it be at all largely divided, is to be expressed .
in terms of miles ; and that every boiling heap of illuminated .
mist in the nearer sky, is an enormous mountain, fifteen or
twenty thousand feet in height, six or seven miles over an
illuminated surface, furrowed by a thousand colossal ravines,
torn by local tempests into peaks and promontories, and chang
ing its features with the majestic velocity of the volcano.
To those who have once convinced themselves of these pro
portions of the heaven, it will be immediately evident, that
though we might, without much violation of truth, omit the
I n. And conse. minor divisions of a cloud four yards over, it is
anTvarfe'ties™? the veriest audacity of falsehood to omit those of
feature. masses where for yards we have to read miles ;
first, because it is physically impossible that such a space
should* be without many and vast divisions ; secondly, because
divisions at such distances must be sharply and forcibly marked
by aerial perspective, so that not only they must be there, but
they must be visible and evident to the eye; and thirdly, because
these multitudinous divisions are absolutely necessary, in order
to express^ this space and distance, which cannot but be fully
and imperfectly felt, even with every aid and evidence that art
can give of it.
Now if an artist taking for his subject a chain of vast moun
tains, several leagues long, were to unite all their varieties of
ravine, crag, chasm, and precipice, into one solid, unbroken
§12. Not lightly mass, with one light side and one dark side, look-
to be omittea. ing like a wMte ball or paraiielopiped two yards
broad, the words "breadth," "boldness," or, "generaliza
tion," would scarcely be received as a sufficient apology for a

SEC. IH. CH. III.] II. OF THE CENTRAL CLOUD REGION. 233
proceeding so glaringly false, and so painfully degrading. But
when, instead of the really large and simple forms of mountains,
united, as they commonly are, by some great principle of com
mon organization, and so closely resembling each other as often
to correspond in line, and join in effect ; when instead of this,
we have to do with spaces of cloud twice as vast, broken up into
a multiplicity of forms necessary to, and characteristic of, their
very nature — those forms subject to a thousand local changes,
having no association with each other, and rendered visible in
a thousand places by their own transparency or cavities, where
the mountain forms would be lost in shade, — that this far
¦greater space, and this far more complicated arrangement,
should be all summed up into one round mass, with one swell
of white, and one fiat side of unbroken gray, is considered an
evidence of the sublimest powers in the artist of generalization
and breadth. Now it may be broad, it may be grand, it may be
•, beautiful, artistical, and in every way desirable. I don't say it
is not — I merely say it is a concentration of every kind of false
hood : it is depriving heaven of its space, clouds of their'buoy-
'ancy, winds of their motion, and distance of its blue.
This is done, more or less, by all the old masters, without an
•exception.* Their idea of clouds was altogether similar ; more
or less perfectly carried out, according to their
SIS. Imperfect /-,-,-, i u x • n
conceptions of power of hand and accuracy ot eye, but universally
this size and ez- ,, . .. T, .. . -, «
tent in ancient the same in conception. It was the idea ot a com
paratively small, round, puffed-up white body,
irregularly associated with other round and puffed-up white
bodies, each with a white" light side, and a gray dark side, and
a soft reflected light, floating a great way below a blue dome.
Such is the idea of a cloud formed by most people ; it is the
first, general, uncultivated notion of what we see every day.
People think of the clouds as about as large as they look — forty-
yards over, perhaps ; they see generally that they are solid
bodies subject to the same laws as other solid bodies, roundish,
whitish, and apparently suspended a great way under a high
blue concavity. So that these ideas be tolerably given with
smooth paint, they are content, and call it nature. How differ-
* Here I include even the great ones— even Titian and Veronese,— ex
cepting only Tintoret and the religious schools.

234 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PAETH.
ent it is from anything that nature ever did, or ever will do, I
have endeavored to show ; but I cannot, and do not, expect the
contrast to be fully felt, unless the reader will actually go out
on days when, either before or after -rain, the clouds arrange
themselves- into vigorous masses, and after arriving at some
thing like a conception of their distance and size, from the mode ;
in which they retire over the horizon, will for himself trace
and watch their varieties of form and outline, as mass rises over
mass in their illuminated bodies. Let him climb from step to
step over their craggy and broken slopes, let him plunge into .
the long vistas of immeasurable perspective, that guide back to
the blue sky ; and when he finds his imagination lost in their'
immensity, and his senses confused with their multitude, let him
go to Claude, to Salvator, or to Poussin, and ask them for a
like space, or like infinity.
But perhaps the most grievous fault of all, in the clouds' of
these painters, is the -utter want of transparency. Not in her
most ponderous and lightless masses will nature ever leave us
without some evidence of transmitted sunshine^
§ 14. Total want ., , ,. ¦ i ¦ i_ '
of transparency and she perpetually gives us passages in which
fn theV c°oudsnof the vapor becomes visible only by the sunshine
ancient landscape. which ft ^^ and boldg witbin itself} not
caught on its surface, but entangled in its mass — floating
fleeces, precious with the gold of heaven ; and this translucency
is especially indicated on the dark sides even of her heaviest
wreaths, which possess opalescent and delicate hues of partial
illumination, far more dependent upon the beams which pass
through them than on those which 'are reflected upon them.
Nothing, on the contrary, can be more painfully and ponder
ously opaque than the clouds of the old masters universally.
However far removed in aerial distance, and however brilliant
in light, they never appear filmy or evanescent, and their light
is always on them, not in them. And this effect is much in
creased by the positive and persevering determination on the
part of their outlines not to be broken in upon, nor interfered
with in the. slightest degree, by any presumptuous blue, or
impertinent winds. There is no inequality, no variation, no
losing or disguising of line, no melting into nothingness, nor
shattering into spray ; edge succeeds edge with imperturbable

SEC IH. CH. m.] II. OF THE CENTRAL CLOUD REGION. 235
equanimity, and nothing short of the most decided interference
on the part of tree- tops, or the edge of the picture, prevents us
from being able to follow them all the way round, like the coast
of an island.
And be it remembered that all these faults and deficiencies
are to be found in their drawing merely of the separate masses
of the solid cumulus, the easiest drawn of all clouds. But
nature scarcely ever confines herself' to such
oftheir deficiency masses ; they form but the thousandth part of
1 "'"" her variety of effect. She builds up a pyramid of
their boiling volumes, bars this across like a mountain with
the gray cirrus, envelops it in black, ragged, drifting vapor,
covers the open part of the sky with mottled horizontal fields,
breaks through these with sudden and long sunbeams, tears
up their edges with local winds, scatters over the gaps of
blue the infinity of multitude of the high cirri, and melts even
the unoccupied azure into palpitating shades. And all this is
done over and over again in every quarter of a mile. Where
Poussin or Claude have three similar masses, nature has fifty
pictures, made up each of millions of minor thoughts — fifty
aisles penetrating through angelic chapels to the Shechinah
of the blue — fifty hollow ways among bewildered hills — each
with their own nodding rocks, and cloven precipices, and
radiant summits, and robing vapors, but all unlike each other,
except in beauty, all bearing witness to the unwearied, exhaust-
legs operation of the Infinite Mind. Now, in cases like these
especially, as we observed before of general nature, though it is
altogether hopeless to follow out in the space of any one picture
this incalculable and inconceivable glory, yet the painter can at
least see that the space he has at his command, narrow and
confined as it is, is made complete use of, and that no part of it
shall be without entertainment and food for thought. If he
could subdivide it by millionths of inches, he could not reach
the multitudinous majesty of nature ; but it is at least incum
bent upon him to make the most of what he has, and not, by
exaggerating the proportions, banishing the variety and repeat
ing the forms of his clouds, to set at defiance the eternal prin-
ciples of the heavens — fitfulness and infinity. And now let us,
keeping in memory what we have seen of Poussin and Salvator,

236. OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PABT n.
take up one of Turner's skies, and see Whether he is as narrow
§16- instance of m his conception, or as niggardly in his space., It
the* sky 'of^Tux- does not matter which we take, his sublime Baby-
ner's Babylon. jon* jg a fair example for our present purpose*
Ten miles away, down the Euphrates, where it gleams last along
the plain, he gives us a drift of dark elongated vapor, melting
beneath into a dim haze which embraces the hills on the hori
zon. It is exhausted with its own motion, and broken up by
the wind in its own body into numberless groups of billowy and-
tossing fragments, which, beaten by the weight of storm down
to the earth," are just lifting themselves again on wearied wings,/
and perishing in. the effort. Above these, and far beyondt
them, the eye goes back to a broad sea of white, illuminated*
mist, or rather cloud melted into rain, and absorbed again be
fore that rain has fallen, but penetrated throughout, whether it
be vapor or whether it be dew, with soft sunshine, turning it
as white as snow. Gradually as it rises, the rainy fusion ceases,
you cannot tell where the film of blue on the left begins — but
it is deepening, deepening still, — and the cloud, with its edge
first invisible, then all but imaginary, then just felt when the
eye is not fixed on it, and lost when it is, at last rises, keen
from excessive distance, but soft and mantling in its body, as
a swan's bosom fretted by faint wind, heaving fitfully against
the delicate deep blue, with white waves, whose forms are
traced by the pale lines of opalescent shadow, shade only be
cause the light is within it, and not upon it, and which break
with their own swiftness into a driven line of level spray, win-'
nowed into threads by the wind, and flung before the following
vapor like those swift shafts of arrowy water which a great
cataract shoots into the air beside it, trying to find the earth-.
Beyond these, again, rises a colossal mountain of gray cumulus,
through whose shadowed sides the sunbeams penetrate in dim,
sloping, rain-like shafts ; and over which they fall in a broad
burst of streaming light, sinking to the earth, and showing
through their own visible radiance the three successive ranges-
of hills which connect its desolate plain with space. Above,
the edgy summit of the cumulus, broken into fragments,- recedes
* Engraved in Findel's Bible Llustrationa

SEC. HI. CH. in.] II. OF THE CENTRAL CLOUD REGION. 23^?
into the sky, which is peopled in its serenity with quiet mul
titudes of the white, soft, silent cirrus ; and under these again,
drift near the zenith, disturbed arid impatient shadows of a
darker spirit, seeking rest and finding none.
Now this is nature ! It is the exhaustless living energy with
which the universe is filled ; and what will you set beside it of
the works of other men ? Show me a single picture, in the
ti7. And in Ms whole compass of ancient art, in which I can pass
foois of Solomon. from cloud to cloud, from region to region, from
first to second and third heaven, as I can here, and you may
talk of Turner's want of truth. Turn to the Pools of Solomon,
and walk through the passages of mist as they melt on the one
hand into those stormy fragments of fiery cloud, or, on the
other, into the cold solitary shadows that compass the sweeping
hill, and when you find an inch without air and transparency,
and a hairbreadth without changefulness and thought ; and
when you can count the torn waves of tossing radiance that
gush from the sun, as you can count the fixed, white, insipidities
of Claude ; or when you can measure the modulation and the
depth. of that hollow mist, as you can the flourishes of the brush
upon the canvas of Salvator, talk of Turner's want of truth !
But let us take up simpler and less elaborate works, for there
is too much in tnese to admit of being analyzed.
In the vignette of the Lake of Como, in Rogers's Italy, the
space is so small that the details have been partially lost by the
engraver ; but enough remain to illustrate the_ great principles
of cloud from which we have endeavored to explain.
outline and char- Observe first the general angular outline of the
omo. Tobimeg on the jgft 0f xjjg gun_ jf yQU mark~the
points where the direction of their outline changes, and connect
those points by right lines, the cloud will touch, but will not
out, those lines throughout. Yet its contour is as graceful as
it is full of character — toppling, ready to change — fragile as
enormous — evanescent as colossal. Observe how, . where it
crosses the line of the sun, it becomes luminous, illustrating
what has been jobserved of the visibility of mist in sunlight.
Observe, above all, the multiplicity of its solid form, the depth
of its shadows in perpetual transition ; it is not round and
swelled, half light and half dark, but full of breaking irregular

238 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PARTE.
shadow and transparency — variable as the wind, and melting
imperceptibly above into the haziness of the sun-lighted atmos
phere, contrasted in all its vast forms with the delicacy and the
multitude of the brightly touched cirri. Nothing can surpass
the truth of this ; the cloud is as gigantic in its simplicity as the
Alp which it opposes ; but how various, how transparent, how
infinite in its organization ! .,
I would draw especial attention, both here and in all other
works of Turner, to the beautiful use of the low horizontal bars
or fields of cloud, (cirrostratus,) which associate themselves so
$ 19. Associa- frequently — more especially before storms — with
Sra?uswithtnre" the true cumulus, floating on its flariks, or capping
cumulus. jt, as if it were a mountain, and seldom ming
ling with its substance, unless in the very formation of rain.
They supply us with one of those beautiful instances, of nat
ural composition, by which the artist is superseded and ex
celled — for, by the occurrence of these horizontal flakes, the
rolling form of the cumulus is both opposed in its prin
cipal lines, and gifted with an apparent solidity and vastness,
which no other expedient could have exhibited, and which far
exceed in awf ulness the impression of the noblest mountains of
the earth. I have seen in the evening light of Italy, the Alps
themselves out-towered by ranges of these mighty clouds, alter
nately white in the starlight, and inhabited by fire.
Turn back to the first vignette in the Italy. The angular
outlines and variety of modulation in the clouds above the sail,
and the delicate atmosphere of morning into which they are
„„„ „,.. . dissolved about the breathing hills, require no
§ 20. The deep- , ,.,?.,
Based knowledge comment ; but one part of this vignette demands
of the Alps in . . ' . ., . r " . . ° ",
Turner's Lake of especial notice ; lt is the repetition of the outhne
of the snowy mountain by the light cloud above it. - *
The cause of this I have already explained (vide page 228,) and
its occurrence here is especially valuable as bearing witness to
the thorough and scientific knowledge thrown by Turner into
his slightest works. The thing > cannot be seen once in six
months ;¦ it would not have been noticed, much less intro
duced by an ordinary artist, and to the public it is a dead let-
ter, or an offence. Ninety-nine persons in a hundred would
not have observed this pale wreath of parallel cloud above the

sec. m. ch. nx] ii. of the central cloud region. 239
hill, and the hundredth in all probability says it is unnatural.
It requires the most intimate and accurate knowledge of the
Alps before such a piece of refined truth can be understood.
At the 216th page we have another and a new case, in which
clouds in perfect repose, unaffected by wind, or any influence
but that of their own elastic force, boil, rise, and melt in the
S 21. Further prin- heaven with more approach to globular form than
fi3 e»mPiified nnder any other circumstances is possible. I
inhis"Amaih. name this vignette, not only because it is most
remarkable for the buoyancy and elasticity of inward energy,
indicated through the most ponderous forms, and affords us
a' beautiful instance of the junction of the cirrostratus with
the cumulus, of which we have just been speaking (§ 19,) but
because it is a characteristic example of Turner's use of one of
the facts of nature not hitherto noticed, that the edge of a
partially transparent body is often darker than its central sur
face, because at the edge the light penetrates and passes through,
which from the centre is reflected to the eye. The sharp, cut
ting edge of a wave, if not broken into foam, frequently appears
for an instant almost black ; and the outlines of these massy
clouds, where their projecting forms rise in relief against the
light of their bodies, are almost always marked clearly and
firmly by very dark edges. Hence we have frequently, if not
constantly, multitudinous forms indicated only by outline, giving
-eharacter and solidity to the great masses of light, without tak
ing away from their breadth. And Turner avails himself of these
boldly and constantly, — outlining forms with the brush of which
no other indication is given. All the grace and solidity of the
white cloud on the right-hand side of the vignette before us,
depends upon such outlines.
As I before observed of mere execution, that one of the best
tests of its excellence was the expression of infinity ; so it may
gte noticed with respect to the painting of details generally,
that more difference lies between one artist and
insisting on the another, in the attainment of this quality, than in
ner'sVorks. in- any other of the efforts of art ; and that if we
anerni" Test of wish, without reference to beauty of composition,
or any other interfering circumstances, to form a
judgment of the truth of painting, perhaps the very first thing

240 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. . [PARTH,
we should look for, whether in one thing or another — foliage,
or clouds, or waves — should be the expression of infinity
always and everywhere, in all parts and divisions of parts. For
we may be quite sure that what is not infinite, cannot be true ;
it does not, indeed, follow that what is infinite, always is true,
but it cannot be altogether false, for this simple reason ; that
it is impossible for mortal mind to compose an infinity of any
kind for itself, or to form an idea of perpetual variation, and
to avoid all repetition, merely by its own combining resources.
The moment that we trust to ourselves, we repeat ourselves, and
therefore the moment we see in a work of any kind whatsoever,
the expression of infinity, we may bs certain that the workman
has gone to nature for it ; while, on the other hand, the mo
ment we see repetition, or want of infinity, we may be certain
that the workman has not gone to nature for it.
For instance, in the picture of Salvator before noticed, No.
220 in the Dulwich Gallery, as we see at once that the- two
masses of cloud absolutely repeat each other in every one of
§ 23. instances of their forms, and that each is composed of about
iuntte works of twelve white sweeps of the brush, all forming the
Salvator. game clirYe, and all of the same length ; and as we
ean count these, and measure their common diameter, and by
stating the same to anybody else, convey to him a full and per
fect idea and knowledge of that sky in all its parts and propor
tions, — as we can do this, we may be absolutely certain, without
reference to the real sky, or to any other part of nafure, with
out even knowing what the white things were intended for, we
may be certain that they cannot possibly resemble anything ;
that whatever they were meant for, they can be nothing but a
violent contradiction of all nature's principles and forms.
When, on the other hand, we take up such a sky as that of
Turner's Rouen, seen from St. Catherine's Hill, in the Rivers of,
-„. .^ ., , France, and find, in the first place, that he has
§24. And of the . j • ,
universal presence given us a distance over the hills in the horizon,
of lt in thoso of ¦ j. -, . . .
Turner. The con- into which, when we are tired of penetrating, we
elusions which , , , x , ¦ x
may be arrived at must turn and come back again, there being not
the remotest chance of getting to the end of it;
and when we see that from this measureless distance up to the
zenith, the whole sky is one ocean of alternate" waves of cloud

SEC. m. CH. m.] II. OF. THE CENTRAL CLOUD REGION. 241
and lighti so blended together that the eye cannot rest on any
one without being guided to the next, and so to a hundred
more, till it is lost over and over again in every wreath — that
if it divides the sky into quarters of inches, and tries to count
or comprehend the component parts of any single one of those
divisions, it is still as utterly defied and defeated by the part as
by the whole — that there is- not one line out of the millions
there which repeats another, not one which is unconnected with
another, not one which does not in itself convey histories of dis
tance and space, and suggest new and changeful form ; then
we maybe all but certain, though these forms are too mysterious
and too delicate for us to analyze — though all is so crowded and
so connected that it is impossible to test any single part by
particular laws — yet without any such tests, we may be sure
that this infinity can only be based on truth — that it must
be nature, because man could not have originated it, and that
every form must be faithful, because none is like another. And
.therefore it is that I insist so constantly on this great quality
of landscape painting, as it appears in Turner ; because it, is
not merely a constant and most important truth in itself, but it
almost amounts to a demonstration of -every other truth. And
it will be found a far rarer attainment in the works of other
„„„ „, men than is commonly supposed, and the sign,
J25. The multi- , . „»¦,.-, , . , -
plication of ob- wherever it is really found, of the very highest art.
jects, or increase „ , , » ,,-,,., ,7 -,
S® their size, win .bor we are apt to forget that the greatest number
pressure of iu- is no nearer infinity than the least, if it be definite
resource of nov- , number- ; and the vastest bulk is no nearer infinity
than the most minute, if it be definite bulk ; so
that a man may multiply his objects forever and ever, and be no
nearer infinity than he had reached with one, if he do not vary
them and confuse them ; and a man may reach infinity in every
touch and line, and part, and unit, if in these he be truthfully
ayarious and obscure. And we shall find, the more we examine
the works of the old masters, that always, and in all parts, they
are totally wanting in every feeling of infinity, and therefore in
all truth: and even in the works of the moderns, though the aim
is far more just, we shall frequently perceive an erroneous choice
of means, and a substitution of mere number or bulk for real in
finity.

242 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PARTH
And therefore, in concluding our notice of the central cloud
region, I should wish to dwell particularly on those skies of
Turner's, in which we have the whole space of the heaven covered:-
§26. Farther in- with the delicate dim flakes of gathering vapor,
frf thfgray skies which are the intermediate link between the. cen-
of Turner. . x^.gj region an(j that of the rain-cloud, and which
assemble and grow out of the air ; shutting up the heaven withli '¦
a gray interwoven veil, before the approach of storm, faint, but - . :
universal, letting the light of the upper sky pass pallidly through"
their body, but never rending a passage for the ray. We have
the first approach and gathering of this kind of sky most glori
ously given in 'the vignette at page 115 of Rogers's Italy, which is
one of the most perfect pieces of feeling (if I may transgress my
usual rules for an instant) extant in art, owing to the extreme
grandeur and stern simplicity of the strange and ominous forms
of level cloud behind the building. In that at page 223,- there
are passages of the same kind, of exceeding perfection. The sky .
through which the dawn is breaking in the Voyage of Columbus,
and that with the Moonlight under the Rialto, in Rogers's Poems,
the skies of the Bethlehem, and the Pyramids in Finden's Bible
series, and among the Academy pictures, that of the Hero and
Leander, and Flight into Egypt, are characteristic and noble ex
amples, as far as any individual works can be characteristic of
the universality of this mighty mind. I ought not to forget the
magnificent solemnity and fulness of the wreaths of gathering •.'
darkness in the Folkestone.
We must not pass from the consideration of the central cloud
region without noticing the general high quality of the cloudf
drawing of Stanfield. He is limited in his range, and is apt in
. g,. The excel. extensive compositions to/repeat himself, neither is ,
drawtag'o? cstan- he ever Tei7 refined ; but his cloud-form is firmly
field- and fearlessly chiselled, with, perfect knowledge,
though usually with some want of feeling. As far as it goes, it
is very grand and very tasteful, beautifully developed in the
space of its solid parts and full of action. Next to Turner, he is
incomparably the noblest master of cloud-form of all our artists ;
in fact, he is the only one among them who really can draw a
cloud. For it is a very different thing to rub, out an irregular
white space neatly with the handkerchief, or to leave a bright

SEC. HI. CH. DI.] II. OF THE CENTRAL CLOUD REGION. ,243
little bit of paper in the middle of a wash, and to give the real,
anatomy of cloud-form with perfect articulation of
§ 28. The average . . ' -rrr-i -, , ¦ -,
standing of the criiaroscuro. We have multitudes of painters who
can throw a light bit of straggling vapor across
their sky, or leave in it delicate and tender passages of breaking
light ; but this is a very different thing from taking up each of
those bits or passages, and giving it structure, and parts, and
solidity. The eye is satisfied with exceedingly little, as an indi
cation of cloud, and a few clever sweeps of the brush on wet pa
per may give all that it requires ; but this is not drawing clouds,
nor will it ever appeal fully and deeply to the mind, except when
it occurs only as a part of a higher system. And there is not
one of our modern artists, except Stanfield, who can do mucb
more than this. As soon as they attempt to lay detail upon their
clouds, they appear to get bewildered, forget that they are deal
ing with forms regulated by precisely the same simple laws of
light and shade as more substantial matter, overcharge their
color, confuse their shadows and dark sides, and end in mere
ragged confusion. I believe the evil arises from their never at
tempting to render clouds except with the brush ; other objects,
at some period of study, they take up with the chalk or lead, and
so learn something of their form ; but they appear to consider
clouds as altogether dependent on cobalt and camel's hair, and
sb never understand anything of their real anatomy. But what
ever the cause, I cannot point to any central clouds of the
moderns, except those of Turner and Stanfield, as really showing
much knowledge of, or feeling for, nature, though all are supe
rior to the conventional and narrow conceptions of the ancients.
We are all right as far as we go, our work may be incomplete,
but it is not false ; and it is far better, far less injurious to the
"mind, that we should be little attracted to the sky, and taught
to be -satisfied with a light suggestion of truthful form, than
„ that we should be drawn to it by violently pronounced outline
: and intense color, to find in its finished falsehood everything to
displease or to mislead — to hurt our feelings, if we have founda
tion for them, and corrupt them, if we have none.

CHAPTER IV.
OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS : THIRDLY, OF THE REGION OF THE
RAIN-CLOUD.
The clouds which I wish to consider as characteristic of the
lower, or rainy region^ differ not so much in their real nature
from those of the central and uppermost regions, as in appear
ance, owing to their greater nearness. For the cen-
SiflerenceX char- tral clouds, and perhaps even the high cirri, de
ader between the ., ., .„ ...... .. . . jv.-j
lower and central posit moisture, if not distinctly ram, as is sulncient-
en" cnieliy on" * ly proved by the existence of snow on the highest
proximity. peaks of the Himaleh ; and when, on any such
mountains, we are brought into close contact with the central
clouds,* we find them little differing from the ordinary rain-
cloud of the plains, except by being slightly less dense and dark.
But the apparent differences, dependent on proximity, are most
marked and important.
In the first place, the clouds of the central region have, as has
been before observed, pure and aerial grays for their dark sides, ,
owing to their necessary distance from the observer ; and as this
distance permits a multitude of local phenomena
aifierence in co- capable of influencing color, such as accidental sun
beams, refractions, transparencies, or local mis'ts
and showers, to be collected into a space comparatively small, tlie
colors of these clouds are always changeful and palpitating ; and
whatever degree of gray or of gloom may be mixed with them is
invariably pure and aerial. But the nearness of the rain-cloud
rendering it impossible for a number of phenomena to be at once
* I am unable to say to what height the real rain-cloud may extend;
perhaps there are no mountains which rise altogether above storm. I have ,
never been in a violent storm at a greater height than between 8000 and
9000 feet above the level of the sea. There the rain-cloud is exceedingly
light, compared to the ponderous darkness of the lower air.

SEC. m. CH. IV.] III. OF THE REGION OF THE RAIN-CLOUD. 245
visible, makes its hue of gray monotonous, and (by losing the
blue of distance) Warm and brown compared to that of the upper
clouds. This is especially remarkable on any part of it which
may happen to be illumined, which is of a brown, bricky,
ochreous tone, never bright, always coming in dark outline on
1 the lights of the central clouds. But it is seldom that this takes
place, and when it does, never over large spaces, little being
usually seen of the rain-cloud but its under and dark side. This,
when the cloud above is dense, becomes of an inky and cold
gray, and sulphureous and lurid if there be thunder in the air.
With these striking differences in color, it presents no fewer
nor less important in form, chiefly from losing almost all defi-
niteness of character and outline. It is sometimes nothing more
than a thin mist, whose outline cannot be traced,
niteness of form, rendering the landscape locally indistinct or dark >
if its outline be visible, it is ragged and torn ;
rather a spray of cloud, taken off its edge and sifted by the wind,
than an edge of the cloud itself. In fact, it rather partakes of
the nature, and assumes the appearance, of real water in the
state of spray, than of elastic vapor. This appearance is en
hanced by the usual presence of formed rain, carried along with
it in a columnar form, ordinarily, of course, reaching the
ground like a veil, but very often suspended with the cloud, and
hanging from it like a jagged fringe, or over it in light, rain be
ing always lighter than the cloud it falls from. These columns,
or fringes, of rain arei often waved and bent by the wind, or
twisted, sometimes even swept upwards from the cloud. The
velocity of these vapors, though not necessarily in reality greater
than that of the central clouds, appears greater, owing to their
proximity, and, of course, also to the usual presence of amore vio
lent wind. They are also apparently much more in the power of
8 4. They are *he wind, having less elastic force in themselves; but
lyfeanieTreat they are precisely subject to the same great laws of
^m- form which regulate the upper clouds. They are
not solid bodies borne about with the wind, but they carry the
wind with them, and cause it. Every one knows, who has ever
been out in a- storm, that the time when it rains heaviest is pre
cisely the time when he cannot hold up his umbrella ; that the
Wind is carried with the cloud, and lulls when it has passed.

246 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PART n.
Every one who has ever seen rain in a hill country, knows that
a rain-cloud, like any other, may have all its parts in rapid mo
tion, and yet, as a whole, remain in one spot. I remember once,
when in crossing the Tete Noire, I had turned up the valley to
wards Trient, I noticed a rain-cloud forming on the Glacier de
Trient. With a west wind, it proceeded towards the Col de
Balme, being followed by a prolonged wreath of vapor, always
forming exactly at the same spot over the glacier. This long,_
serpent-like line of cloud went on at a great rate till it reached the
valley leading down from the Col de Balme, under the slate rocks
of the Croix de Fer. There it turned sharp round, and came
down this valley, at right angles to its former progress, and
finally directly contrary to it, till it came down within five hun
dred feet of the village, where it disappeared; the line behind
always advancing, and always disappearing, at the same spot.
This continued for half an hour, the long line describing the
curve of a horseshoe ; always coming into existence, and always
vanishing at exactly the same places ; traversing the space be
tween with enormous swiftness. This cloud, ten miles off,
would have looked like a perfectly motionless wreath, in the
form of a horseshoe, hanging over the hills.
To the region of the rain-cloud belong also all those phenom-
ena of drifted smoke, heat-haze, local mists in the morning or
evening ; in valleys, or over water, mirage, white
§ 5. Value, to the , .b ' r. . ,! „s'
painter, of the steaming vapor rising in evaporation from moist
and open surfaces, and everything which visibly
affects the condition of the atmosphere without actually assum
ing the form of cloud. These phenomena are as perpetual in all
countries as they are beautiful, and afford by far the most effec
tive and valuable means which the painter possesses, for modifi
cation of the forms of fixed objects. The upper clouds are dis^-
tinct and comparatively opaque, they do not modify, but con
ceal ; but through the rain-cloud, and its accessory phenomena,
all that is beautiful may be made manifest, and all that is hurt
ful concealed ; what is paltry may be made to look vast, and
what is ponderous, aerial ; mystery may be obtained without
obscurity, and decoration without disguise. And, accordingly,
nature herself uses it constantly, as one of her chief means of
most perfect effect ; not in one country, nor another, but every-

SEC. HI. CH. IV.] III. OF THE REGION OF THE RAIN-CLOUD. 247
where^everywhere,-at least, where there is anything worth call
ing landscape. I cannot answer for the desert of the Sahara,
but I know that there can be no greater mistake, than supposing
that delicate and variable effects of mist and rain-cloud are pecu
liar to northern climates. I have never seen in any place or
- country effects of mist more perfect than in the Campagna of
Rome, and among the hills of Sorrento. It is there-
t 6. ' The old „ ° .
masters have not fore matter of no little marvel to me, and I con-
stance of the ceive that it can scarcely be otherwise to any reflect-
rain-'cFoud, and ing person, that throughout the whole range of an.
.Very few efforts at . , n , x xi x j? xi
it. Gaspar Pons- cient landscape art, there occurs no instance ot the
painting of a real rain-cloud, still less of any of the
more delicate phenomena characteristic of the region. ' ' Storms' '
indeed, as the innocent public persist in calling such abuses of
nature and abortions of art as the two windy Gaspars in our
National Gallery, are common enough ; massive concretions bi
ink and indigo, wrung and twisted very hard, apparently in a
vain effort • to get some moisture out of them ; bearing up
courageously and successfully against a wind,, whose effects on
the trees in the foreground can be accounted for only on the sup
position that they are all of the India-rubber species. Enough
of this in all conscience, we have, and to spare ; but for the le
gitimate rain-cloud, with its ragged and spray-like edge, its
veilly transparency, and its columnar burden of blessing, neither
it, nor anything like it, or approaching it, occurs in any paint
ing of the old masters that I have ever seen ; and I have seen
enough to warrant my affirming that if it occur anywhere, it
must be through accident rather than intention. Nor is there
stronger evidence of any perception, on the part of these much
respected artists, that there were such things in the world as
mists or vapors. If a cloud under their direction ever touches a
mountain, it does it effectually and as if it meant to do it.
There is no mystifying the matter ; here is a cloud, and there is a
hill ; if it is to come on at all, it comes on to some purpose, and
there is no hope of its ever going off again. We have, therefore,
little to say of the efforts of the old masters, in any scenes which
might naturally have been connected with the clouds of the
lowest region; except that the faults of form specified in con
sidering the central clouds, are, by way of being energetic or

248 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PAET n.
sublime, more glaringly and audaciously committed in their
" storms ;" and that what is a wrong form among clouds possess
ing form, is there given with increased generosity of fiction to
clouds which have no form at all.
Supposing that we had nothing to show in modern art, of the
region of the rain-cloud, but the dash of Cox, the blot of de
Wint, or even the ordinary stormy skies of the body of our in- .
§ 7. The great ferior water-color painters, we might yet laugh all
moderns°L this efforts of the old masters to utter scorn. But one
respect. among our water-color artists, deserves especial no
tice — before we ascend the steps of. the solitary throne — as hav
ing done in his peculiar walk, what for faithful and pure truth,
truth indeed of a limited range and unstudied application, but
yet most faithful and most pure, will remain unsurpassed if not
unrivalled, — Copley Fielding. We are well aware how much of
I 8. works of what he has done depends in a great degree upon
Copley Fielding, particular tricks of execution, or on a labor some
what too mechanical to be meritorious ; that it is rather the .
texture than the plan of his sky which is to be admiredj-
and that the greater part of what is pleasurable in it will fall
rather under the head of dexterous imitation than of definite
thought. But whatever detractions from his merit we may
be compelled to make on these grounds, in considering art
as the embodying of beauty, or the channel of mind, it is
impossible, when we are speaking of truth only, to pass by
his down scenes and moorland showers, of some years ago, in
which he produced some of the most perfect and faultless
passages of mist and rain-cloud which art has ever seen. Wet»
§9. His peculiar transparent, formless, full of motion, felt rather by
truth. their shadows on the hills than by their presence
in the sky, becoming dark only through increased depth of space,
most translucent where most sombre, and light only through in
creased buoyancy of motion, letting the blue through their inter
stices, and the sunlight through their chasms, with the irregular
playfulness and traceless gradation of nature herself, his skies
will remain, as long as their colors stand, among the most sim
ple, unadulterated, and complete transcripts of a particular na
ture which art can point to. Had he painted five instead of five
hundred such, and gone on to other sources of beauty, he.might,

SEC. IH. CH. IV.] III. OF THE REGION OF THE RAIN-CLOUD. 249
there can be little doubt, have been one of our greatest artists.
But it often, grieves us to see how his power is
§10. His weakness .. .,, , °. , , , ,, , r.
and its probable limited to a particular moment, to that easiest mo-
ment for imitation, when knowledge of form may
be superseded by management of the brush, and the judgment
of the colorist by the manufacture of a color ; the moment when
all form is melted down and drifted away in the descending veil
6f rain, and when the variable and fitful colors of the heaven are
lost in the monotonous gray of its storm tones.* We can only
account for this by supposing that there is something radically
wrong in his method of study ; for a man of his evident depth
of feeling and pure love of truth ought not to be, cannot be, ex
cept from some strange error in his mode of out-of-door practice,
thus limited in his range, and liable to decline of power. We
have little doubt that almost all such failures arise from the ar
tist's neglecting the use of the chalk, and supposing that either
the power of drawing forms, or the sense of their beauty, can be
maintained unweakened or unblunted, without constant and la
borious studies in simple light and shade, of form only. The
brush is at once the artist's greatest aid and enemy ; it enables
him to make his power available, but at the same time, it under
mines his power, and unless it be constantly rejected for the pen
cil, never can be rightly used. But whatever the obstacle be, we
do not doubt that it is. one which, once seen, may be overcome or
removed ; and we are in the constant hope of seeing this finely-
minded artist shake off his lethargy, break the shackles of habit,
seek in extended and right study the sources of real power, and
become, what we have full faith in his capability of being, one
of the leading artists of his time.
* I ought here, however, to have noted another effect of the rain-cloud,
which, so far as I know, has been rendered only by Copley Fielding. It is
seen chiefly in clouds gathering for rain, when the sky is entirely covered
with a gray veil rippled or waved with pendent swells of soft texture, but
excessively hard and liny in their edges. I am not sure that this is an
Igreeable or impressive form of the rain-cloud, but it is a frequent one, and
it is often most faithfully given by Fielding ; only in some cases the edges
becoming a little doubled and harsh have given a look of failure or misad
venture to some even of the best studied passages ; and something of the
same hardness of line is occasionally visible in his drawing of clouds by
whose nature it is not warranted.

250 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PARTH.
In passing to the works of our greatest modern master, it
must be premised that the qualities which constitute a most es
sential part of the truth of the rain-cloud, are in no degree to be
rendered by engraving. . Its indefiniteness of torn
of reasoning1 on and transparent form is far beyond the power of
TurnernfCrom Sen- even our best engravers : I do not say beyond their
gravmgs. possible power, if they would make themselves art
ists as well as workmen, but far beyond the power they actually
possess ; while the depth and delicacy of the grays which Turner
employs or produces, as well as the refinement of his execution^ !
are, in the nature of things, utterly beyond all imitation by the
opaque and lifeless darkness of the steel. What we say of his
works, therefore, must be understood as referring only to the
original drawings ; though we may name one or two instances ,
in which the engraver has, to a certain degree, succeeded in dis
tantly following the intention of the master.
Jumieges, in the Rivers of -France, ought perhaps, after what
we have said of Fielding, to be our first object of attention, be
cause it is a rendering by Turner of Fielding's particular mo
ment, and the only one existing, for Turner never
Ing of Fielding's repeats himself . One picture is allotted to one
ment"1 Yn ao truth ; the statement is perfectly and gloriously
made, and he passes on to speak of a fresh portion
of God's revelation.* The haze of sunlit rain of this most mag
nificent picture, the gradual retirement of the dark wood into
its depth, and the sparkling and evanescent light which sends its
variable flashes on the abbey, figures, foliage, and foam, require
no comment — they speak home at once. But there is added to
this noble composition an incident which may
1 13. Illustration , \ .-,,,,. , , i
of the nature of serve us at once for a farther illustration of the na-
posed forms of ture and forms of cloud, and for a final proof how
deeply and philosophically Turner has studied them.
We have on the right of the picture, the steam and the smoke
of a passing steamboat. Now steam is nothing but an artificial -
cloud in the process of dissipation ; it is as much a cloud as
those of the sky itself, that is, a quantity of moisture rendered
visible in the air by imperfect solution. Accordingly, observe
* Compare Sect. I. Chap. IY. § 5.

EEC. HI. CH. TV.] III. OF THE REGION OF THE RAIN-CLOUD. 251
how exquisitely irregular apd broken are its forms, how sharp
and spray-like ; but with all the facts observed which were
pointed out in Chap; II. of this Section, the convex side to the
wind, the sharp edge on that side, the other soft and lost.
Smoke, on the contrary, is an actual substance existing indepen
dently iri the air, a solid opaque body, subject to no absorption
nor dissipation but that of tenuity. Observe its volumes ; there
is no breaking up nor disappearing here ; the wind carries its
elastic globes before it, but does not dissolve nor break them.*
Equally convex and void of angles on all sides, they are the ex
act representatives of the clouds of the old masters, and serve at
once to show the ignorance and falsehood of these latter, and
the accuracy of study which has guided Turner to the truth.
'From this picture we should pass to theLlanthony,f which is
the rendering of the moment immediately following that given
in the Jumieges. The shower is here half exhausted, half
passed by, the last drops are rattling faintly through the glim
mering hazel boughs, the white torrent, swelled by the sudden
storm, flings up its hasty jets of springing spray to
§14. .Moment of ' 6, *\ f J * s ° £ £
retiring rain in meet the returning light ; and these, as if the hea-
theilanthony. xxjt.x-xt.j- j x l ¦ -
¦ ; ¦ ven regretted what it had given, and were taking
it back,^|i8|s, as they leap, into vapor, and fall not again, but
vanish in the shafts of the sunlight J — hurrying, fitful, wind-
woven sunlight — which glides through the thick leaves, and
* It does not do so until the volumes lose their density by inequality of
motion, and by the expansion of the warm air which conveys them. They
are then, of course, broken into forms resembling those of clouds.
t No conception can be formed of this picture from the engraving. It
is perhaps the most marvellous piece of execution and of gray color exist
ing, except perhaps the drawing presently to be noticed, Land's End.
Nothing else can be set beside it, even of Turner's own works — much less
of any other man's.
t I know no effect more strikingly characteristic of the departure of a
Storm than the smoking of the mountain torrents. The exhausted air is so
thirsty of moisture, that every jet of spray -is seized upon by it, and con
verted into vapor as it springs ; and this vapor rises so densely from the
surface of the stream as to give it the exact appearance of boiling water. I
have seen the whole course of the Arve at Chamonix one line of dense
cloud, dissipating as soon as it had risen ten or twelve feet from the surface,
but entirely concealing the water from an observer placed above it.

252 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PARTtt,
paces along the pale rocks like rain ; half conquering, half
quenched by the very mists which it summons itself from the
lighted pastures as it passes, and gathers out of the drooping
herbage and from the streaming crags ; sending them with
messages of peace to the far summits of the yet unveiled moun
tains whose silence is still broken by the sound of the rushing
rain. With this noble work we should compare one of which we can
better judge by the engraving — the Loch Coriskin, in the illus
trations to Scott, because it introduces us"- to another and a most
remarkable instance of the artist's vast and varied
meiicing, chosen knowledge. When rain falls on a moun bain
meanmg foTLoch composed ehiefly of barren rocks, their surfaces,
being violently heated by the sun, whose most in
tense warmth always precedes rain, occasion sudden and violent
evaporation, actually converting the first shower into steam.
Consequently, upon all such hills, on the commencement of
rain, white volumes of vapor are instantaneously and universally
formed, which. rise, are absorbed by the atmosphere, and again
descend in rain, to rise in fresh volumes until the surfaces of
the hills are cooled. Where there is grass or vegetation, this
effect is diminished ; where there is foliage it scarcely takes
place at all. Now this effect has evidently been especially
chosen by Turner for Loch Coriskin, not only because it ena
bled him to relieve its jagged forms with veiling vapor, but to
tell the tale which no pencilling could, the story of its utter ab
solute barrenness of unlichened, dead,, desolated rock : —
" The wildest glen, but this, can show
Some touch of nature's genial glow,
On high Benmore green mosses grow,
And heath-bells bud in deep Glencoe.
And copse on Cruchan Ben ;
But here, above, around, below.
On mountain, or in glen,
Nor tree, nor plant, nor shrub, nor flower,
Nor aught of vegetative power,
The wearied eye may ken ;
But all its rocks at random thrown, .
Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone."
Lord of the Isles, Canto HI.

SEC. m. CH. IV.] III. OF THE REGION OF THE RAIN-CLOUD. 253
Here, again, we see the absolute" necessity of scientific and en
tire acquaintarice with nature, before this great artist can be un
derstood. That which, to the ignorant, is little more than an
unnatural and meaningless confusion of steam-like vapor, is to
the experienced such a full and perfect expression of the charac
ter of the spot, as no means of art could have otherwise given..
In the Long Ships Lighthouse, Land's End, we have clouds
without rain — at twiliglrt — enveloping the cliffs of the coast, but
concealing nothing, every outline being visible through their
1 16. The drawing gloom ; and not only the outline — for it is easy to
'|r^X' ££nd?- do this— but the surface. The bank of rocky coast
™d- approaches the spectator inch by inch, felt clearer
and clearer as it withdraws from the garment of cloud — not by
edges more and more defined, but by a surface more and more
unveiled. We have thus the painting, not of a mere transpar
ent veil, but of a solid body of cloud, every inch' of whose in-
* creasing distance is marked and felt. But the great wonder of
the picture is the intensity of gloom which is attained in pure
warm gray, without either blackness or blueness. It is a gloom,
dependent rather on the enormous space and depth indicated,
than on actual pitch of color, distant by real drawing, without
. a grain of blue, dark by real substance, without a stroke of
blackness ; and with all this, it is not formless, but full of indi
cations of character, wild, irregular, shattered, and indefinite —
full of the energy of storm, fiery in haste, and yet flinging back
out of its motion the fitful swirls of bounding drift, "of tortured
• vapor-tossed up like men's hands, as in defiance of the tempest,
the jets of resulting whirlwind, hurled back from the rocks info
the face of the coming darkness ; which, beyond all other charac
ters, mark the raised passion of the elements. It is this un
traceable, unconnected, yet perpetual form — this
uai 'character of fulness of character absorbed in the universal en-
toparts' ergy — which distinguish nature and Turner from
all their imitators. To roll a volume of smoke before the wind,
to indicate motion or violence by monotonous similarity of line
and direction, is for the multitude ; but to mark the indepen
dent passion, the tumultuous separate existence of every wreath
of writhing vapor, yet swept away and overpowered by one om
nipotence of storm, and thus to bid us

254 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PAKT n
" Be as a Presence or a motion — one
Among the many there  while the mists
Flying, and rainy vapors, call out shapes
And phantoms from the crags and solid earth,
As fast as a musician scatters sounds
Out of an instrument," —
this belongs only to nature and to him.
The drawing of Coventry may be particularized as a farther
example of this fine suggestion of irregularity and fitfulnesgj,;
through very constant parallelism of direction, both in rain and
sis. Deep studied clouds. The great mass of cloud, which traverses:
raSc^ou^in the the whole picture, is characterized throughout by
Coventry. severe right lines, nearly parallel with each other^
into which every one of its wreaths has a tendency to range it
self ; but no one of these right lines is actually and entirely par
allel to any other, though all have a certain tendency, more or
less defined in each, which impresses the mind with the most
distinct idea oi parallelism. Neither are any of the lines actu
ally straight and unbroken ; on the contrary, they are all made
up of the most exquisite and varied curved, and it is the imag
ined line which joins the apices of these — a tangent to them
all, which is in reality straight.* They are suggested, not rep
resented, right lines ; but the whole volume of cloud is visibly
and totally bounded by them ; and, in consequence, its whole
body is felt to be dragged out and elongated by the force of the
tempest which it carries with it, and every one of its wreaths to
be (as was before explained) not so much something borne before
or by the wind, as the visible form and presence of the wind it
self. We could not possibly point out a more magnificent piece
of drawing as a contrast to such works of Salvator -
witii forms given as that before alluded to (159 Dulwich Gallery).
Both are rolling masses of connected cloud ; but
in Turner's, there is not one curve that repeats another, nor one
curve in itself monotonous, nor without character, and yet every
part and portion of the cloud is rigidly subjected to the same
forward, fierce, inevitable influence of storrti. In Salvator's,
every curve repeats its neighbor, every curve is monotonous in
itself, and yet the whole cloud is curling about hither and
* Note especially the dark uppermost outline of the mass.

SEC. in. CH. IV.] III. OF THE REGION OF THE RAIN-CLOUD. 255
thither, evidently^ without the slightest notion where it is going
to, and unregulated by any general influence whatsoever. I
could not bring together two finer or more instructive exam
ples, the one of everything that is perfect, the other of every
thing that is childish or abominable, in the representation of
the same facts.
But there is yet more to be noticed in this noble sky of Tur
ner's. Not only are the lines of the rolling cloud thus irregular
in their parallelism, but those of the falling rain are equally
§20. Entire ex- varied in their direction, indicating the gusty
pesr°b™minuIte changef ulness of the wind, and yet kept so straight
cnmstencesta the and stern in their individual descent, that we are
Coventry. no^ suffere(j tp forget its strength. This impres
sion is still farther enhanced by the drawing of the smoke, which
blows every way at once, yet turning perpetually in each of its
swirls back in the direction of the wind, but so suddenly and
violently, as almost to assume the angular lines of lightning.
Farther, to complete the impression, be it observe'd that all the
cattle, both upon the near and distant hill-side, have left off
grazing, and are standing stock still and stiff, with their heads
down and their backs to the wind ; and finally, that we may be
told not only what the storm is, but what it has been, the gut
ter at the side of the road is gushing in a complete torrent, and
particular attention is directed to it by the full burst of light in
the sky being- brought just above it, so that all its waves are
bright with the reflection.
But I have not quite done with this noble picture yet. Im
petuous clouds, twisted rain, flickering sunshine, fleeting shad
ow, gushing water, and oppressed cattle, all speak the same
£21. Especially story of tumult, fitfulness, power, and velocity.
haTs^for"!^ 0nly one thing is wanted, a passage of repose to
tremerepose. coritrast with it all, and it is given. High and
far above the dark volumes of the swift rain-cloud, are seen on
the left, through their opening, the quiet, horizontal, silent
flakes of the highest cirrus, resting in the repose of the deep sky.
Of all else that we have noticed in this drawing, some faint idea
can be formed from the engraving : but not the slightest of the
delicate and soft forms of these pausing vapors, and still less of
the exquisite depth and palpitating tenderness of the blue with

256 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PART IX
which they- are islanded. Engravers, indeed, invariably lose;
the effect of all passages of cold color, under the mistaken-
idea that it is to be kept pale in order to indicate distance ;
whereas it ought commonly to be darker than the rest of the
sky. To appreciate the full truth of this passage, we must under
stand another effect peculiar to the rain-cloud, that its openings
exhibit the purest blue which the sky ever shows. For, as we
saw in the first chapter of this section, that aqueous
§22. The truth of .-, x xi l 1 -x j- i
this particular vapor always turns the sky more or less gray, it tol-
Fy pufe' blue sky lows that we never can see the azure so intense as
rain, "and "Sow when the greater part of this vapor has just fallen
in rain. Then, and then only, pure blue sky be
comes visible in the first openings, distinguished especially
by the manner in which the clouds melt into it ; their edges
passing off in faint white threads and fringes, through which the
blue shines more and more intensely, till the last trace of vapor
is lost in its perfect color. It is only the upper white clouds,
however, which do this, or the last fragments of rain-clouds,
becoming white as they disappear, so that the blue is never cor
rupted by the cloud, but only paled and broken with pure white,
the purest white which the sky ever shows. Thus we have a
melting and palpitating color, never the same for two inches
together, deepening and broadening here and there into intensi
ty of perfect azure, then drifted and dying away through every
tone of pure pale sky, into the snow white of the filmy cloud.
Over this roll the determined edges of the rain-clouds, throwing
it all far back, as-a retired scene, into the upper sky. Of this
s 23. Absence of effect the old masters, as far as I remember, have
wOTks^Ttne m taken no cognizance whatsoever ; all with them
masters. jgj ag we partiaiiy noticed before, either white cloud
or pure blue : they have no notion of any double-dealing or
middle measures. They bore a hole in the sky, and let you up
into a pool of deep, stagnant blue, marked off by the clear round ~
edges of imperturbable, impenetrable cloud on all sides — beau
tiful in positive color, but totally destitute of that exquisite
gradation and change, that fleeting, panting, hesitating effort,,
with which the first glance of the natural sky is shed through
the turbulence of the earth-storm.

BEC m. CH. IV.] III. OF THE REGION OF THE RAIN-CLOUD. 25?
They have some excuse, however, for not attempting this, In
the nature of their material, as one accidental dash of the brush
with water-color on a piece of wet or damp paper, will come
nearer the truth and transparency of this rain-
8' 24 Success of
our water -color biue than the labor of a day in oils ; and the puri-
aering. use of it ty and felicity of some of the careless, melting
y umer. water-color skies of Cox and Tayler may well make
us fastidious in all effects of this kind. It is, however, only in
the drawings of Turner that we have this perfect transparency
and variation of blue, given in association with the perfection
of considered form. In Tayler and Cox the forms are always
partially accidental and unconsidered, often essentially bad, and
always incomplete ; in Turner the dash of the brush is as com
pletely under the rule of thought and feeling as its slowest line ;
all that it does is perfect, and could not be altered, even in a
hairbreadth, without injury ; in addition to this, peculiar man
agement and execution are used in obtaining quality in the color
itself, totally different from the manipulation of any other artist ;
and none, who have ever spent so much as one hour of their lives
over his drawing, can forget those dim passages of dreamy blue,
barred and severed with a thousand delicate and soft and snowy
forms, which, gleaming in their patience of hope between the
troubled rushing of the racked earth-cloud, melt farther and
farther back into the height of .heaven, until the eye is bewildered
and the heart lost in the intensity of their peace. Ir do not say
that this is beautiful — I do not say it is ideal, nor refined — I
only ask you to watch for the first opening of the clouds after
the next south rain, and tell me if it be not true ?
The Gosport affords us an instance more exquisite even than
the passage above named in the Coventry, of the use of this melt
ing and dewy blue, accompanied by two distances of rain-cloud,
525. Expression one towering over the horizon, seen blue with ex-
n!ntherGo'spor1t^ cessive distance through crystal atmosphere ; the
and other works! other breaking overhead in the warm, sulphurous
fragments of spray, whose loose and shattering transparency,
'being the most essential characteristic of the near rain-cloud, is
precisely that which the old masters are sure to contradict.
Look, for instance, at the wreaths of cloud ? in the Dido and
iEneas of Gaspar Poussin, with their unpleasant edges cut as

258 - OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PAKTIX.
hard and solid and opaque and sinooth as thick black paint can
make them, rolled up oyer one another like a dirty
with Gaspar pous- sail badly reefed ; or look at the agreeable transpar
in the Dido and ency and variety of the cloud-edge where it cuts
the Mountain in N. Poussin's Phocion,- and com
pare this with the wreaths which float across the precipice in the
second vignette in Campbell, or which gather around the Ben
Lomond, the white rain gleaming beneath their dark transparent
shadows; or which drift up along the flanks of the wooded
hills, called from the river by the morning light, in the Oak-
hampton ; or which island the crags of Snowdon in the Llanv
beris, or melt along the Cumberland hills, while Turner leads us
across the sands of Morecambe Bay, This last drawing de
serves especial notice ; it is of an evening in spring, when the
south rain has ceased at sunset, and through the lulled and
golden air, the confused and fantastic mists float up along the
hollows of the mountains, white and pure, the resurrection in,
spirit of the new-fallen rain, catching shadows from the preci
pices, and mocking the dark peaks with their own mountain-like
but melting forms till the solid mountains seem in motion like
those waves of cloud, emerging and vanishing as the weak wind
passes by their summits ; while the blue, level night advances
along the sea, and the surging breakers leap up to catch the last
light from the path of the sunset.
I need not, however, insist upon Turner's peculiar power of
rendering mist, and all those passages of intermediate mystery,
between earth and air, when the mountain is melting into the
cloud, or the horizon into the twilight ; because
§ 27. Turner's . ' . . . 6 '
power of render- iris supremacy m these points is altogether undis
puted, except by persons to whom it would be im
possible to prove anything which did not fall under the form
of a Eule of Three. Nothing is more natural than that the
studied form and color of this great artist should be little under
stood, because they require for the full perception of their mean
ing and truth, such knowledge and such time as not one in a
thousand possesses, or can bestow ; but yet the truth of them for
that very reason is capable of demonstration, and there is hope
of our being able to make it in some degree felt and compre- '
bended even by those to whom it is now a dead letter, or. an

BEC. m. CH. IV.] III. OF THE REGION OF THE RAIN-CLOUD. 259
offence. But the aerial and misty effects of landscape, being
§ as. His effects of matters of which the eye should be simply cogniz-
£ if not at once ant, and without effort of thought, as it is of light,
Sl?cJS0morethDe must> where they are exquisitely rendered, either
BoS™dthanrnt: he felt at once, or prove that degree of blindness
ture herself. and bluntness in the feelings of the observer
which there is little hope of ever conquering. Of course for per
sons who have never seen in their lives a cloud vanishing on a
mountain-side, and 'whose conceptions of mist or vapor are
limited to ambiguous outlines of spectral hackney-coaches and
bodiless lamp-posts, discern through a brown combination of
gulphur, soot, and gaslight, there is yet- some hope ; we cannot,
indeed, tell them what the morning mist is like in mountain air,
but far be it from us to tell them that they are incapable of feel
ing its beauty if they will seek it for themselves. But if you have
ever in your life had one opportunity with your eyes and heart
open, of seeing the dew rise from a hill-pasture, or the storm
gather on a sea-cliff, and if you have yet no feeling for the glori
ous passages of bungled earth and heaven which Turner calls up
before you into breathing, tangible being, there is indeed no
hope for your apathy — art will never touch you, nor nature in
form. It would be utterly absurd, among the innumerable passages
of this kind given throughout his works, to point to one as more
characteristic or more perfect than another. The Simmer Lake,
829. various in- near Askrig, for expression of mist pervaded with
stances. sunlight,— the Lake Lucerne, a recent and unen-
graved drawing, for the recession of near mountain. form, not
into dark, but into luminous cloud, the most difficult thing to
do in art, — the Harlechj for expression of the same phenomena,
shown over vast spaces in distant ranges of hills, the Ehren-
breitstein, a recent drawing, for expression of mist, rising from
the. surface of water at sunset, — and, finally, the glorious Ober-
wesel and Nemi,* for passages of all united, may, however, be
named, as noble instances, though in naming five works I insult
fife hundred.
One word respecting Turner's more violent storms, for we
* In the possession of B. G. Windus, Esq , of Tottenham.

260 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PARTH.'
have hitherto been speaking only of the softer rain-clouds, asso
ciated with gusty tempest, but not of the thunder-cloud and
the whirlwind. If there be any one point in
more violent8 ef- which engraver s disgrace themselves more than in
m-e'neve'r ren'de'red' another, it is in their rendering of dark and furi-
by engravers. Qug s^orm# j^ appears to be utterly impossible to
force it into their heads, that an artist does not leave, his color
with a sharp edge and an angular form by accident, or that they
may have the pleasure of altering it and improving upon it ; and
equally impossible to persuade them that energy and gloom may
in some circumstances be arrived at without any
tem'ofeumdscapSe extraordinary expenditure of ink. I am aware of
engraving. ^q engraver of the present day whose ideas of a
storm-cloud are not comprised under two heads, roundness and
blackness ; and, indeed, their general principles of translation
(as may be distinctly gathered from their larger works) arc the
following : 1. Where the drawing is gray, make the paper
black. 2. Where the drawirig is white, cover the page with
zigzag lines. 3. Where the drawing has particularly tender
tones, cross-hatch them. 4. Where any outline is particularly -
angular, make it round. 5. Where there are vertical reflections
in water, express them with very distinct horizontal lines. 6.
Where there is a passage of particular simplicity, treat it in sec
tions. 7. Where there is anything intentionally concealed*
make it out. Yet, in spite of the necessity which all engravers
impose upon themselves, of rigidly observing this code of gen
eral laws, it is difficult to conceive how such pieces of work, as
the plates of Stonehenge and Winchelsea, can ever have been
presented to the public, as in any way resembling,
§32. The; storm in r . r „ . . -"i -,¦,,-. x xi
the stonehenge. or possessing even the most fanciful relation to the
Turner drawings of the same subjects. The origi
nal of the Stonehenge is perhaps the standard of storm-drawing,
both for the overwhelming power and gigantic proportions and
spaces of its cloud-forms, and for the tremendous qualities of
lurid and sulphurous colors which are gained in them. All its
forms are marked with violent angles, as if the whole muscular
energy — so to speak — of the cloud, were writhing in every fold,.
and their fantastic and fiery volumes have a peculiar horror — an
awful life — shadowed out in their strange, swift," fearful outlines,

SEC. m. CH. IV.] IU. OF THE REGION OF THE RAIN-CLOUD. 261
which oppress the mind more than even the threatening of their
gigantic gloom. The white lightning, not as it is drawn by less
observant or less capable painters, in zigzag fortifications, but
in its own dreadful irregularity of streaming fire, is brought
down, not merely over the dark clouds, but through the full
light of an illumined opening to the blue, which yet cannot
abate the brilliancy of its white line ; and the track of the last
flash along the ground is fearfully marked by the dog fowling-
over the fallen shepherd, and the ewe pressing her head upon
the body of her dead lamb. ^
I have not space, however, to enter into examination of
Turner's storm-drawing ; I can only warn the public against
supposing that its effect is ever rendered by engravers. The
133 Generai great principles of Turner are angular outline,
effects m riTenby vastness and energy of form, infinity of gradation,
predion oMaiimg an<^ depth without blackness. The great princi-
¦h""1' pies of the engravers (vide Psestum, in Kogers's
Italy, and the Stonehenge, above alluded to) are rounded outline,
no "edges, want of character, equality of strength, and blackness
without depth.
I have scarcely, I see, on referring to what I have written,
sufficiently insisted on Turner's rendering of the rainy fringe,
whether in distances, admitting or concealing more or less of
the extended plain, as in the Waterloo, and Eichmond (with the
girl and dog in the foreground,) or as in the Dunstaffnage, Glen-
coe, St. Michael's Mount, and Slave Ship, not reaching the
.earth, but suspended in waving and twisted lines from the dark
ness of the zenith. But I have no time for farther development
of f articular points ; I must defer discussion of them until we
take up each picture to be viewed as a whole ; for
Ion df ctnel 'set the division of the sky which I have been obliged
to make, in order to render fully understood the
peculiarities of character in the separate cloud regions, prevents
my speaking of any one work with justice to its concentration of
various truth. Be it always remembered that we pretend- not>
at present, to give any account or idea of the sum of the works
of any painter, much less of the universality of Turner's ; but
only to explain in what real truth, as far as it is explicable, con
sists, and to illustrate it by those pictures in which it most dis-

262 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PAKTU,
tinctly occurs, or from which it is most visibly absent. Arid it
will only be in the full and separate discussion of individual
works, when we are acquainted also with what is beautiful, that
we shall be completely able to prove or disprove the presence of
the truth of nature.
The conclusion, then, to which we are led by our present ex
amination of the truth of clouds, is, that the old masters at
¦ tempted the representation of only one among the thousands of
their systems of scenery, and were altogether false in the little
they attempted ; while we can find records in modern art of
every form or phenomenon of the heavens, from the highest film
that glorifies the ether to the wildest vapor that darkens the
dust, and in all these records we find the most clear language;.
and close thought, firm words, and true message, unstinted ful
ness and unfailing faith.
And indeed it is difficult for us to conceive how, even without
such laborious investigation as we have gone through, any per
son can go to nature (for a single day or hour:
8 35. Sketch of a , , 6 . 1n , , . 6 . J. >
few of the skies when she is really at work in any of her nobler
as a whole, com- spheres of action, and yet retain respect for the old
.works of Turner masters ; finding, as find he will, that every scene
and of the old i ¦ -, - • , -, , -, * i- ,
masters. Morning which rises, rests, or departs before him, bears
with it a thousand glories of which there is not
one shadow, one image, one trace or line, in any of their works ;
but which will illustrate to him, at every new instant, some pas
sage which he had not before understood in the high works of
modern art. Stand upon the peak of some isolated mountain at
daybreak, when the night mists first rise from off the plains,
and watch their white and lake-like fields as they float in level
bays and winding gulfs about the islanded summits of the lower
hills, untouched yet by more than dawn, colder and more quiet
than a windless sea under the moon of midnight ; watch when
the first sunbeam is sent upon the silver channels, how the foam
of their undulating surface parts and passes away ; and down
under their depths, the glittering city and green pasture lie like
Atlantis, between the white paths of winding rivers ; the flakes
of light falling every moment faster and broader among the
starry spires, as the wreathed surges break and vanish above
them, and the confused crests and ridges of the dark hills

SEC m. CH. IV.] III. OF THE REGION OF THE RAIN-CLOUD. 263
shorten their gray shadows upon the plain. Has Claude given
j 36. Noon with this ? Wait a little longer, and you shall see those
gathering storms. scattered mists rallying in the ravines, and floating
uptowardsyou, along the winding valleys, till they couch in quiet
masses, iridescent with the morning light,* updn the broad
breasts of the higher hills, whose leagues of massy undulation will
melt back and back into that robe of material light, until they
fade away, lost in its lustre, to appear again above, in the serene
heaven, like a wild, bright, impossible dream, f oundationless and
inaccessible, their very bases vanishing in the unsubstantial and
.mocking blue of the deep lake below. f Has Claude given this ?
Wait yet a little longer, and you shall see those mists gather
themselves irito white towers, and stand like fortresses along the
promontories, massy and motionless, only piled with every in
stant higher and higher into the sky,t and casting longer shad-.
ows athwart the rocks ; and out of the pale blue of the horizon
you will see forming and advancing a troop of narrow, dark,
pointed vapors, § which will cover the sky, inch by inch, with
their gray network, and take the light off the landscape with an
eclipse which will stop the singing of the birds and the motion
of the leaves together ; and then you will see horizontal bars of
black shadow forming under them, and lurid wreaths create
themselves, you know not how, along the shoulders of the hills ;
you never see them form, but when you look back to a place
which was clear an instant ago, there is a cloud on it, hanging
by the precipices, as a hawk pauses over his prey. || Has Claude
given this ? And then you will hear the sudden rush of the
awakened wind, and you will see those watch-towers of vapor
swept away from their foundations, and waving curtains of
opaque rain let down to the valleys, swinging from the burdened
clouds in black, bending fringes, % or pacing in pale columns
* I have often seen the white thin, morning cloud, edged with the seven
colors of the prism. I am not aware of the cause of this phenomenon, for
if fakes place not when we stand with our backs to the sun, but in clouds
near the sun itself, irregularly and over indefinite spaces, sometimes taking
place in the body of the cloud. The colors are distinct and vivid, but have
a kind of metallic lustre upon them.
f Lake Lucerne. t St. Maurice (Rogers's Italy).
§ Vignette, the Great St. Bernard. j .Vignette of the Andes.
1 St. Michael's Mount— England series;

264 OF TRUTH OF CLOUDS. [PART H.
along the lake level, grazing its surface into foam as they go.
And then, as the sun sinks, you shall see the storm
tempest.unserene drift for an instant from off the hills, leaving their
midnight. Tbroad. sides smoking, and loaded yet with snow-
white torn, steam-like rags of capricious vapor, now gone, now
gathered again ; * while the smouldering sun, seeming not far
away, but burning like a red-hot ball beside you, and as if you
could reach it, plunges through the rushing wind and rolling
cloud with headlong fall, as if it meant to rise no more, dyeing
all the air about it with blood, f Has Claude given this ? And
then you shall hear the fainting tempest die in the hollow of
the night, and you shall see a green halo kindling on the sum
mit of the eastern hills, J brighter — brighter yet, till the large
white circle of the slow moon is lifted up among the barred
clouds, § step by step, line by line ; star after star she quenches
with her kindling light, setting in their stead an army of pale,
penetrable, fleecy wreaths in the heaven, to give light upon the
earth, which move together, hand in hand, company by com
pany, troop by troop, so measured in their unity of motion, that
the whole heaven seems to roll with them, and the earth to reel
under them. Ask Claude, or his brethren, for that. And then
$ 38. And sunrise wa^ Je^ ^or one hour, until the east again becomes
on the Alps. purple, | and the heaving mountains, rolling against
iti-in darkness, like waves of a wild sea, are drowned one by one
in the glory of its burning ; watch the white glaciers blaze in
their winding paths about the mountains, like mighty serpents
with scales of fire ; watch the columnar peaks of solitary snow,
kindling downwards, chasm by chasm, each in itself a new morn
ing ; their long avalanches cast down in keen streams brighter
than the lightning, sending each his tribute of driven snow, like
altar-smoke, up to the heaven ; the rose-light of their cileht
domes flushing that heaven about them and above them, pierc
ing with purer light through its purple lines of lifted cloud, cast
ing a new glory on every wreath as it passes by, until the whole
* Illustration to the Antiquary. Goldeau, a recent drawing of the high
est order.
f Vignette to Campbell's Last Man. % Caerlaverock. § St. Denis.
[ Alps at Daybreak (Rogers's Poems :) Delphi, and various vignettes.

gEO. m.' CH. TV.] III. OF THE REGION OF^THE RAIN-CLOUD. 265
heaven — one scarlet canopy, — is interwoven with a roof of wav
ing flame, and tossing, vault beyond vault, as with the drifted
wings of many companies ot angels ; and then, when you can
look no more for gladness, and when you are bowed down with
fear and love of the Maker and Doer of this, tell me who has
best delivered this His message unto men !

CHAPTER V.
EFFECTS OF LIGHT RENDERED BY MODERN ART.
1 have before given my reasons (Sect. II. Chap. III.) for not
wishing at present to enter upon the discussion of particular ef
fects of light. Not only are we incapable of rightly viewing
them, or reasoning upon them, until we are ac-
me'reiyeat present quainted with the principles of the beautiful ; but,
exaCfing1 the as I distinctly limited myself, in the present por-
SfHght rendered tion of the work, to the examination of general
1 '" r truths, it would be out of place to take cognizance
of the particular phases of light, even if it were possible to do
so, before we have some more definite knowledge of the mate
rial objects which they illustrate. I shall therefore, at present, -.'
merely set down a rough catalogue of the effects of light at dif
ferent hours of the day, which Turner has represented: naming
a picture or two, as an example of each, which we will hereafter
take up one by one, and consider the physical science and the
feeling together. And I do this, in the hope that,.
§ 2. Hopes of the .,-,.. , . . , , ,/' ,
author for assist- in the mean time, some admirer of the old masters
ance in the future ... . . . , ,. . , „ .. , £
investigation of will be kind enough to select from the works ot
any one of them, a series of examples of the same
effects, and to give me a reference to the pictures, so that I may
be able to compare each with each ; for, as my limited knowl
edge of the works of Claude or Poussin does not supply me with
the requisite variety of effect, I shall be grateful for assistance.
The following list, of course, does not name the hundredth
part of the effects of light given by Turner ; it only names those
which are distinctly and markedly separate from each other,
and representative each of ari entire class. Ten or twelve ex
amples, often many more, might be given of each ; every one of, _
which would display the effects of the same hour and light,
modified by different circumstances of weather, situation, and
character of objects subjected to them, and especially by the

o. m. cri. v.]

EFFECTS OF 'LIGHT, ETC.

267

management of the sky ; but it will be generally sufficient for
our purposes to examine thoroughly one good example of each.
The prefixed letters express the direction of the light. P.
front light (the sun in the centre, or near the top of the pic
ture ;) L. lateral light, the sun out of the picture on the right
or left of the spectator ; L. P. the light partly lateral, partly
fronting the spectator, as when he is looking south, with the
sun in the south-west ; L. B. light partly lateral, partly behind
the spectator, as when he is looking north, with the sun in the
south-west.

MORNING.

L.  An hour "before sunrise in winter. Violent
storm, with rain, on the sea. Light
houses seen through it.
F  An hour before sunrise. Serene sky, with
light clouds. Dawn in the distance.
L  Ten minutes before sunrise. Violent
storm. Torchlight.
P. . . ¦ .Sunrise. Sun only half above the horizon.
Clear sky, with light cirri.
P  Sun just disengaged from horizon. Misty,
with light cirri.
P..... Sun a quarter of an hour risen. Sky cov.
ered with scarlet clouds.
L.F... Serene sky. Sun emerging from a bank
of cloud on horizon, a quarter of an hour
risen.
L.F. . .Same hour. Light mists in flakes on hill
sides. Clear air.
L.F... Light flying rain-clouds gathering in val-
.'leys. Same hour:
L.B... Same hour. A night storm rising off the
mountains. Dead calm.
L  Sun half an hour risen. Cloudless sky.
I/. . . . .Same hour. Light mists lying in the val
leys.
P.  Same hour. Bright cirri. Sun dimly seen
through battle smoke, with conflagra
tion.
L.., . .Sun an hour risen. Cloudless and clear.

NAMES OP PICTURES.
Lowestoffe, Suffolk.
Vignette to Voyage of Co>
lumbus.
Fowey Harbor.
Vignette to Human Life.
Alps at Daybreak.
Castle Opnor.
Orford, Suffolk.
Skiddaw.
Oakhampton.Lake of Geneva.
Beaugency.Kirby Lonsdale.
Hohenlinden.
Buckfastleigh.

268

EFFECTS OF LIGHT

[parth.

NOON AND AFTERNOON.

Dead calm, with heat. Cloud-
and bright, with

L.B.. .Midday. less.
L  Same hour. Serene
streaky clouds.
L  Same hour. Serene, with multitudes of
the high cirrus.
L  Bright sun, with light wind and elouds.
F  Two o'clock. Clouds gathering for rain,
with heat.
F  Bain beginning, with light clouds and
wind.
L  Soft rain, with heat.
L.F. . .Great heat. Thunder gathering.
L  Thunder breaking down, after intense
heat, with furious wind.
L  Violent rain and wind, but cool.
L.F. . .Furious storm, with thunder.
L.B.. .Thunder retiring, with rainbow. Dead
calm, with heat.
L  About three o'-clock, summer. Air very
cool and clear. Exhausted thunder
clouds low on hills.
F  Descending sunbeams through soft clouds,
after rain.
L  Afternoon, very clear, after rain. A few
clouds still on horizon. Dead calm.
F. . . . .Afternoon of cloudless day, with heat.

NAMES OI MCTUEES. '
Corinth.Lantern at St. Cloud.
Shylock, and other Ven.
ices.
Eichmond, Middlesex.
Warwick. Blenheim.
Piacenza. Caldron Snout Fall.
Malvern.Winchelsea.Llamberis, Coventry, &c.
Stonehenge, Passtum, &c.
Nottingham.Bingen.Carew Castle.
Saltash.
Mercury and Argus. Ober-
wesel. Nemi.

EVENING.
L  An hour before sunset. Cloudless.
F  Half an hour before sunset. Light clouds.
Misty air.
F. ....Within a quarter of an hour of sunset.
Mists rising. Light cirri.
L.F. ..Ten minutes before sunset. Quite cloud
less.
F... ..Same hour. Tumultuous spray of illu
mined rain-cloud.
F  Five minutes before sunset. Sky covered
with illumined cirri.
LB... Same hour. Serene sky. Full moon ris
ing.

Trematon Castle.
Lake Albano. Florence.
Dater Hora Quieti.
Durham.
Solomon's Pools, Slave-
ship.
Temeraire. Napoleon,
Various vignettes.
Kenil worth.

BEC. m. CH. V.] RENDERED ET MODERN ART.

269

L...L.F. L.B.L.B.L.B.L.B. L.B.L.F.

.Sun setting. Detached light cirri and clear
air.
.Same hour. Cloudless. New moon.
.Same hour. Heavy storm clouds. Moon-
rise.
.Sun just set. Sky covered with clouds.
New moon setting.
.Sun five minutes set. Strong twilight,
with storm clouds. Full moonrise.
.Same hour. Serene, with light clouds.
.Same hour. Serene. New moon.
.Sun a. quarter of an hour set. Cloudless,
.Sun half an hoqr set. Light cirri.
.Same hour. Dead calm at sea. New moon
and evening star.
.Sun three quarters of an hour set. Moon
struggling through storm clouds, over
heavy sea.

NAMES OF PICTURES.
Amboise.

Troyes.First vignette.
of Memory.
Caudebec.

Pleasures

Wilderness" of Engedi.
Assos.
Montjan.Pyramid of Caius Cestius.
Chateau de Blois.
Clairmont.Cowes.Folkestone.

NIGHT.
F  An hour after Bunset. No moon. Torch
light.
F,, . . .Same hour. Moon rising. Fire from fur
naces. ,
L.F... .Same hour, with storm clouds. Moon
rising.
L  Same hour, with light of rockets and fire,
F. . . . .Midnight. Moonless, with light-houses.
Same hour, with fire-light.
' ' !-, '\.$P  Ditto. Full moon. Clear air, with delicate
clouds. Light-houses.
Ei, . . .Ditto, with conflagration, battle smoke, and
storm.
P — '.Ditto. Moonlight through mist. Build
ings illuminated in interior.
P  Ditto. Full moon with halo. Light rain-
t|||i,y' clouds.
-P..... Full moon. Perfectly serene. Sky cov
ered with white cirri.

St. Julien. Tours.
Dudley.Nantes.
Juliet and her Nurse.
Calais.
Burning of Parliament
Houses.
Towers of the Hev6.
Waterloo.
Vignette. St. Herbert's
Isle.
St. Denis.
Alnwick. Vignette of Ri
alto, and Bridge of Sighs.

S-BOTIO-TST XV.
OF TRUTH OP EARTH.

CHAPTER I.
OF GENERAL STRUCTURE.
Bv truth of earth, we mean the faithful representation of the'
facts and forms of the bare ground, considered as entirely
divested of vegetation, through whatever disguise, or under what
ever modification the clothing of the landscape,
6 1. First laws of . ~ -i • x xi i j • x
the organization may occasion. Ground is to the landscape painter
their importance what the naked human body is to the historical.
The growth of vegetation, the action of water, and
even of clouds upon it and around it, are so far subject and sub
ordinate to its forms, as the folds of the dress and the fall of the
hair are to the modulation of the animal anatomy. Nor is this
anatomy always so concealed, but in all sublime compositions,
whether of nature or art, it must be seen in its naked purity.
The laws of the organization of the earth are distinct and fixed
as those of the animal frame, simpler and broader, but -equally
authoritative and inviolable. Their results may be arrived at
without knowledge of the interior mechanism ; but for that
very reason ignorance of them is' the more disgraceful, and vio
lation of them more unpardonable. They are in the landscape,
the foundation of all other truths — the most necessary, there
fore, even if they were not in themselves attractive ; but they
are as beautiful as they are essential, and every abandonment of
them by the artist must end in deformity as it begins in false
hood. That such abandonment is constant and total in the worlfs of
the old masters, has escaped detection, only because of persona
generally cognizant of art, few have spent time enough in hill

SEC. IV. CH. I.] OF GENERAL STRUCTURE. 271
countries to perceive the certainty of the laws of hill anatomy ;
j 2. The slight at- an(* because few, even of those who possess such
S1<,nt0ordlthaemy opportunities, ever think of the common earth be-
stady by modem neath their feet, as anything possessing specific
artists. form, or governed by steadfast principles. That
such abandonment should have taken place cannot be surprising,
after what we have seen of their fidelity to skies. Those artists
who, day after day, could so falsely represent what was forever
. before their eyes, when it was to be one of the most important
and attractive parts of their picture, can scarcely be expected to
give with truth what they could see only partially and at inter
vals, and what was only to be in their picture a blue line in the
horizon, or a bright spot under the feet of their figures.
That such should be all the space allotted by the old land
scape painters to the most magnificent phenomena of nature ;
that the only traces of those Apennines, which in Claude's walks
along the brow of the Pincian, forever bounded his horizon with
- their azure wall, should, in his pictures, be a cold white outline
in the extreme of his tame distance ; and that Salvator's so
journs among their fastnesses should only have taught him to
shelter his banditti with such paltry morsels of crag as an Alpine
Btream would toss down before it like a foam-globe ; though it
may indeed excite our surprise, will, perhaps, when we have
seen how these slight passages are executed, be rather a subject
of congratulation than of regret. It might, indeed, have short
ened our labor in the investigation of mountain truth, had not
modern artists been so vast, comprehensive, and multitudinous
in their mountain drawings, as to compel us, in order to form
the .slightest estimate of their knowledge, to enter into some
examination of "every variety of hill scenery. "We shall first gain
some general notion of the broad organization of large masses,
and then take those masses to .pieces, until we come down to the
crumbling soil of the foreground.
Mountains are, to the rest of the body of the earth, what vio
lent muscular action is to the body of man. The
structure of the muscles and tendons of its anatomy are, in the
are its action, ke mountain, brought out with fierce and convulsive
pa us its rest. energy5 full of expression, passion, and strength ;
the plains and the lower hills are the repose and the effortless

272 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PART Hi
motion of the frame, when its muscles' lie dorriiarit arid con*
cealed beneath the lines of its beauty, yet ruling those lines in
their every undulation. This, then, is the first grand principle
of the truth of the earth. The spirit of the hills is action ; that
of the lowlands, repose ; and between these there is to be found
every variety of motion and of rest ; from the inactive plaify
sleeping like the firmament, with cities for stars, to the fierj
peaks, which, with heaving bosoriis and exulting limbs, with the
clouds drifting like hair from their bright foreheads, lift up
their Titan hands to Heaven, saying, " I live forever !"
But there is this difference between the action of the earthy
and that of a living creature, that while the exerted limb marks
its bones and tendons through the flesh, the excited earth casts
off the fiesh altogether, and its bones eome out
come out from from beneath. Mountains are the bones of the
underneath the .. ,-,. . . -, , -, . .,-,.,.
plains, and are earth, their highest peaks are invariably those
"u ' !  parts of its anatomy which in the plains lie buried
under five and twenty thousand feet of solid thickness of super
incumbent soil, and which spring up in the mountain ranges in
vast pyramids or wedges, flinging their garment of earth away
from them on each side. The masses of the lower hills are laid
over and against their sides, like the masses of lateral masonry
.against the skeleton arch of an unfinished bridge, except that
they slope up to and lean against the central ridge : and, finally,
upon the slopes of these lower hills are strewed the level beds of '
sprinkled gravel, sand, and clay, which form the extent of the
champaign. Here then is another grand principle of the truth
of earth, that the mountains must come from under all, and be
the support of all ; and that everything else must be laid in their
arms, heap above heap, the plains being the uppermost. Op
posed to this truth is every appearance of the hills being laid
upon the plains, or built upon them. Nor is this a truth only of
the earth on a large scale, for every minor rock (in position)
comes out from the soil about it as an island out of the sea, lift
ing the earth near it like waves beating on its sides.
Such being the structure of the framework of the earth, it is
ne"xt to be remembered that all soil whatsoever, wherever it is
accumulated in greater quantity than is sufficient to nourish the
moss of the wallflower, has been so, either by the direct trans-

beo. iv. ch. i.] Of general structure. 273
porting agency of water, or under the guiding influence and
1 5. structure of power of water. All plains capable of cultivation
8efve?!ains Their are deposits from some kind of water — some from
S£m 'aeposTted swift and tremendous currpnts, leaving their soil in
by quiet water. SWeepmg banks and furrowed ridges — others, and
this is in mountain districts almost invariably the case, by slow
deposit from a quiet lake in the mountain hollow, which has
been gradually filled by the soil carried into it by streams, which
soil is of course finally left spread at the exact level of the sur
face of the former lake, as level as the quiet water itself. Hence
we constantly meet with plains in hill districts, which fill the
hollows of the hills with as perfect and faultless a level as water,
and out of which the steep rocks rise at the edge with as little
previous disturbance, or indication of their forms beneath, as
they do from the -margin of a quiet lake. Every delta — and
there is one at the head of every lake in every hill-district; — sup
plies an instance of this. The rocks at Altorf plunge beneath
the plain, which the lake has left, at as sharp an angle as they
do into the lake itself beside the chapel of Tell. The plain of
the Arve, at Sallenche, is terminated so sharply by the hills to
the south-east, that I have seen a man sleeping with his back
supported against the mountain, and his legs stretched on the
plain ; the slope which supported his back rising 5000 feet
above him, and the couch of his legs stretched for five miles be
fore him. In distant effect these champaigns lie like' deep, blue,
undisturbed water, while the mighty hills around them burst
out from beneath, raging and tossing like a tumultuous sea.
The valleys of Meyringen, Interlachen, Altorf, Sallenche, St.
Jean de Maurienne ; the great plain of Lombardy itself, as seen
from Milan or Padua, under the Alps, the Euganeans, and the
Apennines ; and the Campo Felice, under Vesuvius, are a few, ,
out of the thousand instances, which must occur at once to the
mind of every traveller.
Let the reader now open Rogers's Italy, at the seventeenth
page, and look at the vignette which heads it of the battle of
Marengo. It needs no comriient. It cannot but carry with it,
after what has been said, the instant conviction
.ly'Tame^stai that Turner is as much of a geologist as he is of a
wngo. painter. It is a summary of all we have been say-

-.%.;:

274 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PARTD
ing, and a summary so distinct and clear, that without any such
explanation it must have forced upon the mind the impression
of such facts — of the plunging of the hills underneath the plain
— of the perfect level and repose of this latter laid in their arms,
and of the tumultuous action of the emergent summits.
We find, according to this its internal structure, which, I be
lieve, with the assistance of Turner, can scarcely now be misun
derstood, that the earth may be considered as divided into three
§7. General dm- great classes of formation, which geology has
tfoa18 "respiting already named for us. Primary— the rocks, which,
ment^plaS'ofm-" though in position lower than all others, rise to
vesagation. form the central peaks, or interior nuclei of all
mountain ranges. Secondary — the rocks which are laid in beds
above these, and which form the greater proportion of all hill
scenery. Tertiary — the light beds of sand, gravel, and clay,
which are strewed upon the surface of all, forming plains and
habitable territory for man. We shall find it convenient, in ex
amining the truth of art, to adopt, with a little modification, the
geological arrangement, considering first, the formation and
character of the highest or central peaks ; then the general
structure of the lower mountains, including in this division
those composed of the various slates which a geologist would call
primary ; and, lastly, the minutiae and most delicate characters
of the beds bf these hills, when they are so near as to become
foreground objects, and the structure of the common soil which
usually forms the greater space of an artist's foreground. Hence
our task will arrange itself into three divisions — the investiga
tion of the central mountains, of the interior mountains, and of
the foreground.

CHAPTER II.
OF THE CENTRAL MOUNTAINS.
It does not always follow, because a mountain is the highest
of its group, that it is in reality one of the central range. The
Jungfrau is only surpassed in elevation, in the chain of which it
is a member, by the Sohreckhorn and Finster-Aar-
cbaracter of the horn ; but it is entirely a secondary mountain.
ail" parts of "the But the central peaks are usually the highest, and
maybe considered as the chief components of all
mountain scenery in the snowy regions. Being composed of the
same rocks in all countries, their external character is the same
everywhere. Its chief essential points are the following.
Their summits are almost „ invariably either pyramids or
wedges. Domes may be formed by superincumbent snow, or
appear to be formed by the continuous outline of a sharp ridgo
S8. Their ar- seen transversely, with its precipice to the specta-
"yramuts118 or tor ; but wherever a rock appears, the uppermost
' by^erticlJr'^ termination of that rock will be a steep edgy ridge,
mea- or a sharp point, very rarely presenting even a gen-
, tie slope on any of its sides, but usually inaccessible unless en
cumbered with snow.
These pyramids and wedges split vertically, or nearly so, giv
ing smooth faces of rock, either perpendicular or very steeply
inclined, which appear to be laid against the central wedge or
peak, like planks upright against a wall. The surfaces of these
Bhow close parallelism ; their fissures are vertical, and cut them
smoothly, like the edges of shaped planks. Often groups of
these planks, if I may so call them, rise higher than those be
tween them and the central ridge, forming detached ridges in
clining towards the central one. The planks are cut trans
versely, sometimes by graceful curvilinear fissures ; sometimes
by straight fissures, which are commonly parallel to the slope of
one of the sides of the peak, while the main direction of the

276 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PARTH.
planks or leaves is parallel to that of its other side, or points "
directly to its summit. But the universal law of fracture is—
first, that it is clean and sharp, having a perfectly smooth sur
face, and a perfectly sharp edge to all the fissures ; secondly, that
every fissure .is steeply inclined, and that a horizontal line, or
one approaching to it, is an impossibility, except in some turn,
of a curve.
Hence, however the light may fall, these peaks are seen
marked with sharp and defined shadows, indicating the square
edges of the planks of which they are made up, which shadows
e s causing sometimes are vertical, pointing to the summit'5;
fSoiingr°ai °ut are oftener parallel to one of the sides of the
artichoke or rose. peak, and intersected by a second series, parallel to
the other side. Where there has been much disintegration, the
peak is often surrounded with groups of lower ridges or peaks,
like the leaves of an artichoke or a rose, all evidently part and
parcel of the great peak ; but falling back from it, as if it were
a budding flower, expanding its leaves one by one.
Now, if I were giving a lecture on geology, and were search-.
ing for some means of giving the most faithful idea possible of
the external appearance caused by this structure Oi the primary
hills, I should throw my geological outlines aside,
statement of these and take up Turner's vignette of the Alps at Day-
facts by Turner "
in his Alps at break. After what has been said, a single glance
at it will be enough. Observe the exquisite deci
sion with which the edge of the uppermost plank of the great
peak is indicated by its clear dark side and sharp shadow ; then
the rise of the second low ridge on its side, only to descend again
precisely in the same line ; the two fissures of this peak, one
pointing to its summit, the other rigidly parallel to the great
slope whicli descends towards the sun; then the sharp white
aiguille on the right, with the great fissure from its summit,
rigidly and severely square, as marked below, where another
edge of rock is laid upon it. But this is not all ; the black rock
in the foreground is equally a member of the mass, its chief
slope parallel with that of the mountain, and all its fissures and
lines inclined in the same direction ; and, to complete the mass
of evidence more forcibly still, we have the dark mass on the
-left articulated with absolute right lines, as parallel as if they

SBC. IV. CH. n.] OF THE CENTRAL MOUNTAINS. 277
had been drawn with a ruler, indicating the tops of two of these
huge plates or planks, pointing, with the universal tendency, to
the great ridge, and intersected by fissures parallel to it.
Throughout the extent of mountain, not one horizontal line,
nor an approach to it, is discernible. This cannot be chance —
it cannot be composition — it may not be beautiful — perhaps na
ture is very wrong to be so parallel, and very disagreeable in be
ing so straight ; — but this is nature, whether we admire it or
not. In the vignette illustration to Jacqueline, we have another
series of peaks, whose structure is less developed, owing to
their distance, but equally clear and faithful in all points, as far
as it is given. But the vignette of Aosta> in the
!5. Vignette of T . ° , f '
tne Andes and Italy, is perhaps more striking than any that
could be named for its rendering of the perfect
parallelism of the lower and smaller peaks with the great lines
of the mass they compose ; and that of the Andes, the second in
.¦Campbell, for its indication of the multitudes of the vertical and
plank-like beds arranged almost like the leaves of a flower.
This last especially, one of the very noblest, most faithful, most
scientific statements of mountain form which even Turner has
ever made, can leave little more to be -said or. doubted.
Now, whenever these vast peaks, rising from 12,000 to 24,000
feet above the sea, form part of anything like a landscape, that
is to say, whenever the spectator beholds them from the region
of vegetation, or even from any distance at which
S 6. Necessary ...
distance, and con- it is possible to get something like a view of their
effect on all such whole mass, they must be ait so great a distance from
him as to become aerial and faint in all their de
tails. Their summits, and all those higher masses of whose char
acter we have been speaking, can by no possibility be nearer to
him than twelve or fifteen miles ; to approach them nearer he
must climb — must leave the region of vegetation, and' must con
fine his view to a part, and that a very limited one, of the moun
tain he is ascending. Whenever, therefore, these mountains are
seen over anything like vegetation, or are seen in mass, they
must be in the far distance. Most artists would treat an hori
zon fifteen miles off very much as if it were mere air ; and
though the greater clearness of the upper air permits the high

278 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. \ [PART It
summits to be seen with extraordinary distinctness, yet they
never can by any possibility have dark or deep shadows, or in
tense dark relief against a light. Clear they may be, but faint
they must be, and their great and prevailing characteristic, as
distinguished from other mountains, is want" of apparent solid
ity. They rise in the morning light rather like sharp shades,
cast up into the sky, than solid earth. Their lights are pure,
roseate, and cloud-like — their shadows transparent, pale, and
opalescent, and often indistinguishable from the air around
them, so that the mountain-ton is seen in the heaven only by its
flakes of motionless fire.
Now, let me once more ask, though I am sufficiently tired of
asking, what record have we of anything like this in the works
of the old masters ? There is no vestige in any existing pieture-
of the slightest effort to represent the high hill
5 7. Total want b . . , . °
of any rendering ranges ; and as for such drawing of their forms as
mena'ln ancient we have found in Turner, we might as well look
for them among the Chinese. Very possibly it
may be all quite right, — very probably these men showed the
most cultivated taste, the most unerring judgment, in filling
their pictures with mole-hills and sand-heaps. Very probably
the withered and poisonous banks of Avernus, and the sand and
cinders of the Campagna, are much more sublime things than
the Alps ; but still what limited truth it is, if truth it be, when
through the last fifty pages we have been pointing out fact after
fact, scene af ber scene, in clouds and hills, (and not individual
facts nor scenes, but great and important classes of them,) and
still we have nothing to say when we. come to the old masters ;
but, "they are not here." Yet this is what we hear so con
stantly called painting " general " nature.
Although, however, there is no vestige among the old masters
of any effort to represent the attributes of the higher mountains
seen in comparative proximity, we are not altogether left with
out evidence of their having thought of them as
S 8. Character . 6 °
of therepresenta- sources of light m the extreme distance, as for ex-
tions of Alps in _ . . T
the distances of ample, m that of the reputed Claude in our .Na
tional Gallery, called the Marriage of Isaac and
Rebecca. I have not the slightest doubt of its being a most exe
crable copy ; for there is not one touch nor line of even decent

BEC. IV. CH. II.] OF THE CENTRAL MOUNTAINS. 279
painting in thenvhole picture ; but as connoisseurs have consid
ered it a Claude, as it has been put in our Gallery for a Claude,
and as people admire it every day for a Claude, I may at least
presume it has those qualities of Claude in it which are wont to
excite the public admiration, though it possesses none of those
which sometimes give him claim to it ; and I have so reasoned,
and shall continue to reason upon it, especially with respect to
facts of form, which cannot have been much altered by the
copyist. In the distance of that picture (as well as in that of
, the Sinon before Priam, which I have little doubt is at least
partially original, and whose central group of trees is a very noble
piece of painting) is something white, which I believe must be
intended for a snowy mountain, because I do not see that it
can well be intended for anything else.' Now no
want of magnitude mountain of elevation sufficient to be so sheeted
'"with perpetual snow, can by any possibility sink so
low on the horizon as this something of Claude's, unless it be at
a distance of from fifty to seventy miles. At such distances,
though the outline is invariably sharp and edgy to an excess, yet
all the circumstances of aerial perspective, f aintness of shadow,
and isolation of light, which I have described as characteristic
of the Alps fifteen miles off, take place, of course, in a threefold
degree ; the mountains rise from the horizon like transparent
films, only distinguishable from mist by their excessively keen
edges, and their brilliant flashes of sudden light ; they are as
unsubstantial as the air itself, and impress their enormous size
by means of this aerialness, in a far greater degree at these vast
distances, than even when towering above the spectator's head.
Now, I ask of the candid observer, if there be the smallest ves
tige of an effort to attain — if there be the most miserable, the
most contemptible shadow of attainment of such an effect by
Claude ? Does that white thing on the horizon look seventy
miles off ? Is it faint, or fading, or to be looked for by the eye
before it can be found out ? Does it look high ? does it look
large ? does it look impressive ? You cannot but feel that there
is not a vestige of any kind or species of truth in that horizon ;
and that, however artistical it may be, as giving brilliancy to the
distance, (though, as far as I have any feeling in the matter, it
pnly gives coldness,) it is, in the very branch of art. on which

280 , OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PART n
Claude's reputation chiefly rests, aerial perspective, hurling de
fiance to nature in her very teeth.
But there are worse failures yet in this unlucky distance,
Aerial perspective is not a matter of paramount importance, be
cause nature infringes its laws herself and boldly too, though
Sio. And violation never in a case like this before us ; but there are
of specific form. some laws which nature never violates — her laws of
form. No mountain was ever raised to the level of perpetual
snow, without an infinite multiplicity of form. Its foundation
is built of a hundred minor mountains, and, from these, great
buttresses run in converging ridges to the central peak. There
is no exception to this rule ; no mountain 15,000 feet high is
ever raised without such preparation and variety of outwork
Consequently, in distant effect, when chains of such peaks are
visible at once, the multiplicity of form is absolutely oceanic ;
and though it is possible in near scenes to find vast and simple
masses composed of lines which run unbroken for a thousand
feet, or more, it is physically impossible when these masses are
thrown seventy miles back, to have simple outlines, for then
these large features become mere jags, and hillocks, and are
heaped and huddled together with endless confusion. To get a
simple form, seventy miles away, mountain lines would be re
quired unbroken for leagues ; and this, I repeat, is physically
impossible. Hence these mountains of Claude, having no indi
cation of the' steep vertical summits which we have shown to be
the characteristic of the central ridges, having soft edges instead
of decisive ones, simple forms (one line to the plain on each
side) instead of varied and broken ones, and being painted with
a crude raw white, havirig no transparency, nor filminess, nor
air in it, instead of rising in the opalescent mystery which inva
riably characterizes the distant snows, have the forms and the
colors of heaps of chalk in a lime-kiln, not of Alps. They are
destitute of energy, of height, of distance, of splendor, and of
variety, and are the work of a man, whether Claude or not,, who
had neither feeling for nature, nor knowledge of art.
I should not, however, insist upon the faults of this picture,
in. Even in his believing it to be a copy, if I had ever seen, even
6est works. in hig mogt genume wortS) an extreme distance of
Claude with. any of the essential characters of nature. But

SEC. IV. CH. n.] OF THE CENTRAL MOUNTAINS.^ 1281
although in his better pictures we have always beautiful draw
ing of the air, which in the copy before us is entirely wanting,
the real features of the extreme mountain distance are equally
neglected or maligned in all. There is, indeed, air between us
and. it ; but ten miles, not seventy miles, of space. Let us ob
serve a little more closely the practice of nature in such cases.
The multiplicity of form which I have shown to be necessary
in the outline, is not less felt in the body of the mass. For, in
rll extensive hill ranges, there are five or six lateral chains sep-
arated by deep valleys, which rise between the
fusti-ation. of the spectator and the central ridge, showing their tops
distant charac- L ., ' , ° ,--,,,
ter of mountain one over another, wave beyond wave, until the eye
is carried back to the faintest and highest forms of
the principal chain. These successive ridges, and I speak now
not merely of the Alps, but of mountains generally, -even as low
as 3000 feet above the sea, show themselves in extreme distance
merely as vertical shades, with very sharp outlines, detached
from one another by greater intensity, according to their near
ness. It is with the utmost difficulty that the eye can discern
any solidity or roundness in them ; the lights and shades of
solid form are both equally lost in the blue of the atmosphere,
and the mountain tells only as a flat, sharp-edged film, of which
multitudes intersect and overtop one another, separated by the
greater faintness of the retiring masses. This is the most
. simple and easily imitated arrangement possible, and yet, both
in nature and art, it expresses distance and size in a way other
wise quite unattainable. For thus, the whole mass of one
mountain being of one shade only, the smallest possible differ
ence in shade will serve completely to detach it from another,
and thus ten or twelve distances may be made evident, when the
darkest and nearest is an aerial gray as faint as the sky ; and the
beauty of such arrangements carried out as nature carries them,
to their highest degree, is, perhaps, the most striking feature
connected with hill scenery : you will never, by any chance,
perceive in extreme distance, anything like solid
Bive'appeamnceCof form or projection of the hills. Each is a dead,
transparency. fla^ perpendicu]ar fiim or shade, with a sharp
edge darkest at the summit, and lost as it descends, and about
Equally dark whether turned towards the light or from it j

282 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [parth.
and of these successive films of mountain you will probably
have half a dozen, one behind another, all showing with per
fect clearness their every chasm and peak in the outline, and
not one of them showing the slightest vestige of solidity, but
on the contrary, looking so thoroughly transparent, that if it
so happens, as I have seen frequently, that a conical near hill
meets with its summit the separation of two" distant ones,
so that the right-hand slope of the nearer hill forms an ap
parent continuation of the right-hand slope of the left-hand
farther hill, and vice versa, it is impossible to get rid of the
impression that one or the more distant peaks is seen through
the other.
I may point out in illustration of these facts, the engravings
of two drawings of precisely the same chain of distant hills, —
Stanfield's Borromean Islands, with the St. Gothard in the
§ w. illustrated distance, and Turner's Arona, also with the St.
T2Serh aid0 stsa£- Gothard in the distance. Far be it from me to
mean Mands^of indicate the former of these plates as in any way
the latter. exemplifying the power of Stanfield, or affecting
hi.s reputation ; it is an unlucky drawing, murdered by the en
graver, and as far from being characteristic of Stanfield as it is
from being like nature, but it is just what I want, to illustrate
the particular error of which I speak ; and I prefer showing
this error where it accidentally exists in the works of a really,
great artist, standing there alone, to point it out where it is
confused with other faults and falsehood* in the works of in
ferior hands. The former of these plates is an example of
everything which a hill distance is not, and the latter of every
thing which it is. In the former, we have the mountains cov
ered with patchy lights, which being of equal intensity whether
near or distant, confuse all the distances together ; while the
eye, perceiving that the light falls so as to give details of solid
form, yet finding nothing but insipid and formless spaces dis
played by it, is compelled to suppose that the whole body of the
hill is equally monotonous and devoid of character ; and the
effect upon it is not one whit more impressive and agreeable
than might be received from a group of sand-heaps, washed into
uniformity by recent rain.
Compare with this the distance of Turner in Arona. It is

BEC. IV. CH. n.J OF THE CENTRAL MOUNTAINS. 283
totally impossible here tox say which way the light falls on the
distant hills, except by the slightly increased decision of their
sis. Turner's edges turned towards it, but the greatest attention
irona. }g pai<j t0 get these edges decisive, yet full of grada
tion, and perfectly true in character of form. All the rest of
ihe mountain is then indistinguishable haze, and by the bring
ing of these edges more and more decisively over one another,
Turner has given us between the right-hand side of the picture
and the snow, fifteen distinct distances, yet every one of these
distances in itself palpitating, changeful, and suggesting sub
division into countless multitude. Something of this is trace
able even in the engraving, and all the essential characters are
¦ierfectly well marked. I think even the least experienced eye
can scarcely but feel the truth of this distance as compared with
Stanfield's. . In the latter, the eye gets something of the form,
and therefore wonders it sees no more ; the impression on it,
fhereforej is of hills within distinctly visible distance; indis
cernible through want of light or dim atmosphere ; and the
effect is, of course, smallness of space, with obscurity of light
and thickness of air. In Turner's the eye gets nothing of the
substance, and wonders it sees so much of the outline ; the im
pression is, therefore, of mountains. too far off to be ever dis
tinctly seen, rendered clear by brilliancy of light and purity of
atmosphere ; and the effect, consequently, vastness of space,
with intensity of light and crystalline transparency of air.
These truths are invariably given in every one of Turner's
distances, that is to say, we have always in them two principal
facts forced on our notice ; transparency, or filminess of mass,
arid excessive sharpness of edge. And I wish par.
Ltance ofX far^e ticularly to insist upon this sharpness of edge, be-
characterizeadwaby cause it is not a casual or changeful habit of nature ;
verysharpoutime. -t .g the unfailing characteristic of all very great
distances. It is quite a mistake to suppose that slurred or melt
ing lines are characteristic of distant large objects ; they may
be so, as before observed, (Sec. II. Chap. IV. § 4,) when the
focus of the eye is not adapted to them ; but, when the eye is
really directed to the distance, melting lines are characteristic
only of thick mist and vapor between us and the object, not of
the removal of the object. If a thing has character upon its

284 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PARTE.
outline, as a tree for instance, or a mossy stone, the farther it
is removed from us, the sharper the outline of the whole mass
-will become, though in doing so, the particular details which
make up the character will become confused in the manner de
scribed in the same chapter. A tree fifty yards from us, taken
as a mass, has a soft outline, because the leaves and interstices
have some effect on the eye. But put it ten miles off against
the sky, and its outline will be so sharp that you cannot tell it
from a rock. There are three trees on the Mont Saleve, about
five miles from Geneva, which from the city, as they stand on
the ridge of the hill, are seen defined against the sky. The
keenest eye in the world could not tell them from stories. So in
a mountain five or six miles off, bushes, and heather, and
roughnesses of knotty ground and rock, have still some effect
on the eye, and by becoming confused and mingled as before
described, soften the outline. But let the mountain be thirty
miles off, and its edge will be as sharp as a knife. Let it, as in
the case Of the Alps, be seventy or eighty miles off, and though it
has become so faint that the morning mist is not so transparent,
its outline will be beyond all imitation for excessive sharpness.
Thus, then, the character of extreme distance is always exces
sive keenness of edge. If you soften your outline, you eithei
put mist between you and the object, and in doing so diminish
your distance, for it is impossible you should see so far through
mist as through clear air ; or, if you keep an impression of clear
air, you bring the object close to the observer, diminish its size
in proportion, and if the aerial colors, excessive blues, etc., be
retained-, represent an impossibility.
Take Claude's distance (in No. 244, Dulwich Gallery,)* on
the right of the picture. It is as pure blue as ever came from
the pallet, laid on thick ; you cannot see through it, there is
not the slightest vestige of transparency or filmi-
this' decision in ness about it, and its edge is soft and blunt.
Claude. TT . „ . .
Hence, if it be meant for near hills, the bine is
impossible, and the want of details impossible, in the clear at
mosphere indicated through the whole picture. If it be meant
for extreme distance, the blunt edge is impossible, and the
* One of the most genuine Claudes I know.

tea rv. ch. n.] of the central mountains. 285
opacity is impossible. I do not know a single distance of the
Italian school to which the same observation is not entirely
applicable, except, perhaps, one or two of Nicholas Poussin's.
They always involve, under any supposition whatsoever, at least
two impossibilities.
I need scarcely mention in particular ariy more of the works
of Turner, because there is not one of his mountain distances in
which these facts are not fully exemplified. Look at the last
,./m. . vignette— the Farewell, in Rogers's Italy ; observe
£ 18. The perpet- ° . ' f ¦> '
pal rendering of the excessive sharpness of all the edges, almost
amounting to lines, in the distance, while there is
scarcely one decisive edge in the foreground. Look at tho hills
of the distance in the Dunstaffnage, Glencoe, and Loch Achray,
(illustrations to Scott,) in the latter of which the left-hand side
of the Benvenue is actually marked with a dark line. In fact,
Turner's usual mode of executing these passages is perfectly evi
dent in all his drawings ; it is not often that we meet with a
very broad dash of wet color in his finished works, but in these
distances, as we before saw of his shadows, all the effect has
been evidently given by a dash of very moist pale color, prob
ably turning the paper upside down, so that a very firm edge
may be left at the top of the mountain as the color dries. And
in the Battle of Marengo we find the principle carried so far as
to give nothing more than actual outline for the representation
of the extreme distance, while all the other hills in the picture
are distinctly darkest at the edge. This plate, though coarsely
¦executed, is yet one of the noblest illustrations of mountain
character and magnitude existing.
Such, then, are the chief characteristics of the highest peaks
and extreme distances of all hills, as far as the forms of the
rocks themselves, and the aerial appearances es-
snow, how imper- peciallv belonging to them, are alone concerned.
fecfly studied. ™ ¦ -, , xV -xxv
There is, however, yet another point to be con
sidered — the modification of their form caused by incumbent
snow. Pictures of Winter scenery are nearly as common as moon
lights, and are usually executed by the same order of artists,
tbat is to say, the most incapable ; it being remarkably easy to
; represent the moon as a white wafer on a black ground, or to

286 of truth of earth. (par^tx
scratch out white branches on a cloudy sky. Nevertheless^
among Flemish paintings several valuable representations: of
winter are to be found, and some clever pieces of effect among
the moderns, as Hunt's, for instance, and De Wint's. But all
such efforts end in effect alone, nor have I ever in any single
instance seen a snow wreath, I do not say thoroughly, but even
decently, drawn.
In the range of inorganic nature, I doubt if any object can
be found more perfectly beautiful than a fresh, deep snow-drift>,
seen under warm light.* Its curves are of inconceivable per
fection and changef ulness, its surface and transparency alike
exquisite, its light and shade of inexhaustible variety and
inimitable finish, the shadows sharp, pale, and of heavenly
color, the reflected lights intense and multitudinous, and
mingled with the sweet occurrences of transmitted light. No
mortal hand can approach the majesty or loveliness of it, yet it
is possible by care and skill at least to suggest the preciousness
of its forms and intimate the nature. of its light and shade ; but
this has never been attempted ; it could not be done except by
artists of a rank exceedingly high, and there is something about
the feeling of snow in ordinary scenery which such men do not
like. But when the same qualities are exhibited on a magnifi
cent Alpine scale and in a position where they interfere with no
feeling of life, I see not why they should be neglected, as they
have hitherto been, unless that the difficulty of reconciling the
brilliancy of snow with a picturesque light and shade, is so great
that most good artists disguise or avoid the greater part of
upper Alpine scenery, and hint at the glacier so slightly, that
they do not feel the necessity of careful study of its forms.
Habits of exaggeration increase the evil : I have seen a sketch
from nature, by one of the most able of our landscape painters,-
in which a cloud had been mistaken for a snowy summit, and
the hint thus taken exaggerated, as was likely, into an enormous
mass of impossible height, and unintelligent form, when the
mountain itself, for which the cloud had been mistaken, though
subtending an angle of about eighteen or twenty degrees, instead
of the fifty attributed to it, was of a form so exquisite that it
* Compare Part III. Sect. I. Chap. 9, § 5.

sec. rv. ch. n.] of the central mountains. 287
might have been a profitable lesson truly studied to Phidias.
Nothing but failure can result from such methods of sketching,
nor have I ever seen a single instance of an earnest study of
snowy mountains by any one. Hence, wherever they are intro
duced, their drawing is utterly unintelligent, the forms being
those of white rocks, or of rocks lightly • powdered with snow,
showing sufficiently that not only the painters have never studied
the mountain carefully from below, but that they have never
climbed into the snowy region. Harding's rendering of the
high Alps (vide the engraving of Chamonix, and of the "Wengern
Alp, ih the illustrations to Byron) is best ; but even he shows
no perception of the real anatomy. Stanfield paints only white
rocks instead of snow. Turner invariably avoids the difficulty,
though he has shown himself capable of grappling with it in the
ice of the Liber Studiorum, (Mer de Glace,) which is very cold
and slippery and very like ice ; but of the crusts and wreaths of
the higher snow he has taken no cognizance. Even the vignettes
to 'Rogers's Poems fail in this respect. It would be vain to
attempt in this place to give any detailed account of the phe
nomena of the upper snows ; but it may be well to note those
"general principles which every artist ought to keep in mind
when he has to paint an Alp.
Snow is modified by the under forms of the hill in some sort,
as dress is by the anatomy of the human frame.
"•3iesneofa its And as no dress can be well laid on without con

forms on the Alps. , . , , , , , , , ,
ceivmg the body beneath, so no Alp can be drawn
unless its under form is conceived first, and its snow laid on
afterwards. Every high Alp has as much snow upon it as it can hold
or carry. It is not, observe, a mere coating of snow of given
depth throughout, but it is snow loaded on until the rocks
can hold no more. The surplus does not fall in the win- '
ter, because, fastened by continual frost, the quantity of snow •
which an Alp can carry is greater than each single winter can
bestow ; it falls in the first mild days of spring in enormous
avalanches. Afterwards the melting continues, gradually re
moving from all the steep rocks the small quantity of snow
which was all they could hold, and leaving them black and bare
among the accumulated fields of unknown depth, which occupy

288 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PARTH,
the capacious valleys and less inclined superfices of the moun
tain. Hence it follows that the deepest snow does not take nor
indicate the actual forms of the rocks on which it lies, but it
hangs from peak to peak in unbroken and sweeping festoons, or
covers whole groups of peaks, which afford it sufficient hold,
with vast and unbroken domes : these festoons and domes being
guided in their curves, and modified in size, by the violence and
prevalent direction of the winter winds.
We have, therefore, every variety of indication of the under
mountain form ; first, the mere coating, which is soon to be with
drawn, and which shows as a mere sprinkling or powdering after
a storm on the higherpeaks ; then the shallow incrustation on the
steep sides glazed by the running down of its frequent meltings,
frozen again in the night ; then the deep snow more or less
cramped or modified by sudden eminences of emergent roekj or
hanging in fractured festoons and huge blue irregular cliffs on
the mountain flanks, and over the edges and summits of their
precipices in nodding drifts, far overhanging, like a cornice,
(perilous things to approach the edge of from above ;) finally,
the pure accumulation of overwhelming depth, smooth, sweep;
ing, and almost cleftless, and modified only by its lines of drift
ing. Countless phenomena of exquisite beauty belong to each
of these conditions, not to ,speak of the transition of the snow
into ice at lower levels ; but all on which I shall at present in
sist is that the artist should not think of his Alp merely as a
white mountain, but conceive it as a group of peaks loaded with
an accumulation of snow, and that especially he should avail
himself of the exquisite curvatures, never failing, by which the
snow unites and opposes the harsh and broken lines of the rock.
I shall enter into farther detail on this subject hereafter ; at
present it is useless to do so, as I have no examples to refer to,
either in ancient or modern art. No statement of these facts
has hitherto been made, nor any evidence given even of their
observation, except by the most inferior painters.*
Various works in green and white appear from time to time
* I hear of some study of Alpine scenery among the professors at Gene
va ; but all foreign landscape that I have ever met with has been so utterly
ignorant that I hope for nothing except from our own painters.

SEC. IV. CH. n.] OF THE CENTRAL MOUNTAINS. - 289
on the walls of the Academy, like the Alps indeed, but so fright- -
fully like, that we shudder and sicken at the sight of them, as
521. Average we &° when our best friend shows us into his
sSlandf its dining-room, to see a portrait of himself, which
Sceiy'ye't been5 ' ' everybody thinks very like. ' ' We should be glad
caught. to see fewer of these, for Switzerland is quite be
yond the power of any but first-rate men, and is exceedingly bad
practice for a rising, artist,; but, let us express a hope tliat
Alpine scenery will not continue to be neglected as it has been,
by those who alone are capable of treating it. We love Italy,
but we have had rather a surfeit of it lately ; — too many peaked
caps and flat-headed pines. We should be very grateful to
Harding and Stanfield if they would refresh us a little among
the snow,, and give us, what we believe them to be capable of
giving us, a faithful expression of Alpine ideal. We are well
aware of the pain inflicted on an artist's mind by the preponder
ance of black, and white, and green, over more available" colors ;
but there is nevertheless in generic Alpine scenery, a fountain
of feeling yet unopened — a chord of harmony yet untouched by
art. It will be struck by the first man who can separate what
is national, in Switzerland, from what is ideal. We do hot
want chalets and three-legged stools, cow-bells and buttermilk.
We want the pure and holy hills, treated as a link between
heaven and earth.

CHAPTER III.
OF THB INFERIOR MOUNTAINS.
We have next to investigate the character of those interme-
% 1. The inferior diate masses which constitute the greater part of
Sashed front a11 hm scenery, forming the outworks of the high.
in! Cdfvidedbyinto ranges, and being almost the sole constituents of
beds' such lower groups as those of Cumberland, Scot
land, or South Italy.
All mountains whatsoever, not composed of the granite or
gneiss rocks described in the preceding chapter, nor volcanic,
(these latter being comparatively rare,) are composed of beds,
not of homogeneous, heaped materials, but of accumulated lay
ers, whether of rock or soil. It may be slate, sandstone, lime
stone, gravel, or clay ; but whatever the substance, it is laid
in layers, not in a mass. These layers are scarcely ever hori
zontal, and may slope to any degree, often occurring vertical, the
boldness of the hill, outline commonly depending in a great de
gree on their inclination. In consequence of this division into
beds, every mountain will have two great sets of lines more ' or
less prevailing in its contours — one indicative of the surfaces of
the beds, where they come out from under each other — and the
other indicative of the extremities or edges of the beds, where-
their continuity has been interrupted. And these two great sets
of lines will commonly be at right angles with each other, or
nearly so. If the surface of the bed approach a horizontal line,
its termination will approach the vertical, and this is the most
usual and ordinary way in which a precipice is produced.
Farther, in almost all rocks there is a third division of sub
stance, which gives to their beds a tendency to split transversely
in some directions rather than others, giving rise to what geolo-
sg Farther divi ?ists ca^ " Jomts>" and- throwing the whole rock
sion of these beds into blocks more or less rhomboidal ; so that the.
beds are not terminated by torn or ragged edges,
but by faces comparatively smooth and even, usually inclined to

sec. rv. ch. nx] of the inferior mountains. 291
each other at some definite angle. The whole arrangement may
be tolerably represented by the bricks of a wall, whose tiers may
be considered as strata, and whose sides and extremities will
represent thejoints by which those strata are divided, varying,
however, their direction in different rocks, and in the same rock
under differing circumstances.
Finally, in the slates, grauwackes, and some calcareous beds,
in the greater number, indeed, of mountain rocks, we find
another most conspicuous feature of general structure — the lines
of lamination, which divide the whole rock into an
Les of lamina- infinite number of delicate plates or layers, some
times parallel to the direction or " strike" of the
strata, oftener obliquely crossing it,'and sometimes, apparently,
altogether independent of it, maintaining a consistent and un
varying slope through a series of beds contorted and undulating
in every conceivable direction. These lines of lamination extend
their influence to the smallest fragment, causing it (as, for ex
ample, common roofing slate) to break smooth in one direction,
and with a ragged edge in another, and marking the faces of the
beds and joints with distinct and numberless lines, commonly
far. more conspicuous in a near view than the larger and more
important divisions.
Now, it, cannot be too carefully held in mind, in examining
the principles of mountain structure, that nearly all the laws of
nature with respect to external form are rather universal ten-
- . dencies, evidenced by a plurality of instances, than
seeming uncer- imperative necessities complied with by all. For
wMch these laws instance, it may be said to be a universal law with
respect to the boughs of all trees that they incline
their extremities more to the ground in proportion as they are
lower on the trunk, and that the higher their point of insertion
is, the more they share in the upward tendency of the trunk
itself. But yet there is not a single group of boughs in any one
tree which does not show exceptions to the rule, and present
boughs lower in insertion, and yet steeper in inclination, than
their neighbors.' Nor is this defect or deformity, but the result
of the constant habit of nature to carry variety into her very
principles, and. make the symmetry and beauty of her laws the
pore felt by the grace and accidentalism with which they are

292 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PART H.
carried out. No one familiar with foliage could - doubt for an
instant of the necessity of giving evidence of this downward
tendency in the boughs ; but it would be nearly as great an
offence against truth to make the law hold good with every indi
vidual branch, as not to exhibit its influence on the majority,-
Now, though the laws of mountain form are mote rigid and con-:
stant than those of vegetation, they are subject to the same
species of exception in carrying out. Though every mountain
has these great tendencies in its lines, not one in a thousand of
those lines is absolutely consistent with and obedient to this
universal tendency. There are lines in every direction, and of
almost every kind, but the sum and aggregate of those lines will
invariably indicate the universal force and influence to which
they are all subjected ; and of these lines there will, I repeat,
be two principal sets or classes, pretty nearly at right angles
with each other. When both are inclined, they give rise to
peaks or ridges ; when one is nearly horizontal and the other
vertical, to table-lands and precipices.
This then- is the broad organization of all hills, modified
afterwards by time and weather, concealed by superincumbent
soil and vegetation,- and ramified into- minor and more delicate
details in a way presently to be considered, but nevertheless uni
versal in its great first influence, and giving to all mountains a
particular cast and inclination ; like the exertion of voluntary
power in a definite direction, an internal spirit, manifesting
itself in every crag, and breathing in every slope, flinging and
forcing -the mighty mass towards the heaven with an expression
and an energy like that of life.
Now, as in the case of the structure of the central peaks
described above, so also here, if I had to give a clear idea of this
organization of the lower hills, where it is seen in its greatest.
§5. The perfect perfection, with a mere view to geological truth, I
the'minTu'rner^s should not refer to any geological drawings, but I
Loch coriskin. sh0uld take the Loch Coriskin of Turner. It has
luckily been admirably engraved, and for all purposes of reason
ing or form, is nearly as effective in the print as in the drawing.
Looking at any group of the multitudinous lines which make up
this mass of mountain, they appear to be running anywhere and
everywhere ; there are none parallel to each other, none resem-

SEC. TV. CH. in.] OF THE INFERIOR MOUNTAINS. 293
bling each other for a moment ; yet the whole mass is felt at
once to. be composed with the most rigid parallelism, the surfaces
of the beds towards the left, their edges or escarpments towards
the right. In the centre, near the top of the ridge, the edge of
a bed is beautifully defined, casting its shadow on the surface of
¦ the one beneath it ; this shadow marking by tliree jags the
chasms caused in the inferior one by three of its parallel joints.
s^Every peak in the distance is evidently subject to the same
great influence, and the evidence is completed by the flatness'
and evenness of the steep surfaces of the beds which rise out of
-"the lake on the extreme right, parallel with those in the centre,
Turn to Glencoe, in the same series (the Illustrations to Scott).
"• We have in the mass of mountain on the left, the most beautiful
indication of vertical beds of a finely laminated rock, terminated
"56. Glencoe and ^J even joints towards the precipice; while the
.other works. whole sweep of the landscape, as far as the most
• distant peaks, is evidently governed by one great and simple
, tendency upwards to the left, those most distant peaks themselves ,
¦ lying over one another in the same direction. In the Daphne
-hunting with Leucippus, the mountains on the left descend in
¦ two precipices to the plain, each of which is formed by a vast
¦ escarpment of the beds whose upper surfaces are shown between
the two cliffs, sinking with an even slope from the summit of
the lowest to the base of the highest, under which they evi
dently descend, being exposed in this manner for a length of five
or six miles. The same structure is shown, though with more
complicated development, on the left of the Loch Katrine.
i 7! Especially the But perhaps the finest instance, or at least the most
,%nt Lebanon., marke(l 0f all, will be found in the exquisite Mount
Lebanon, with the convent of St. Antonio, engraved in Finden's
Bible. There is not one shade nor touch on the rock which isl
not indicative of the lines of stratification ; and every fracture
is marked with a straightforward simplicity which makes you
: sf eel that the artist has nothing in his heart but a keen love of
•the pure unmodified truth; there is no effort to disguise the
repetition of forms, no apparent aim at artificial arrangement or
scientific grouping ; the rocks are laid one above another with
-unhesitating decision ; every shade is understood in a moment,
felt as a dark side, or a shadow, or a fissure, and you may step

294 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PART n.
from one block or bed to another until you reach the mountain
summit. And yet, though there seems no effort to disguise the
repetition of forms, see how it is disguised, just as nature would
have done it, by the perpetual play and changefulness of the
very lines which appear so parallel ; now bending a little up, or
down, or losing themselves, or running into each other, the old.
story over and over again, — infinity. For here is still the' great
distinction between Turner's work and that of a common artist.
Hundreds could have given the -parallelism of blocks, but none
but himself could have done so without the actual repetition of
a single line or feature.
Now compare with this the second mountain from the left in
the picture of Salvator, No. 220 in the Dulwich Gallery. The
whole is first laid in with a very delicate and masterly gray,
right in tone, agreeable in color, quite unobiec-
§8. Compared S ' ° . B,,M, ,, Jn
with the work of tionable for a beginning. But how is this rnaae
into rock? On the light side Salvator gives us a
multitude of touches, all exactly like one another, and therefore,
it is to be hoped, quite patterns of perfection in rock-drawing,
since they are too good to be even varied. Every touch is a
dash of the brush, as nearly as possible in the shape of a comma,
round and bright at the top, convex on its right side, concave
on its left, and melting off at the bottom into the gray. These
are laid in confusion one above another, some paler, some
brighter, some scarcely discernible, but all alike in shape.
Now, I am not aware myself of any particular object, either in
earth or heaven, which these said touches do at all resemble or
portray. I do not, however, assert that they may not resemble
something — feathers, perhaps ; but I do say, and say with per
fect confidence, that they may be Chinese for rocks, or Sanscrit
for rocks, or symbolical of rocks in some mysterious and un
developed character ; but that they are no more like rocks than
the brush that made them. The dark sides appear, to embrace
and overhang the lights ; they cast no shadows, are broken by
no fissures, and furnish, as food for contemplation, nothing but
a series of concave curves.
Yet if we go on to No. 269, we shall find something a great
deal worse. I can believe Gaspar Poussin capable of commit
ting as much sin against nature as most people ; but I certainly

3. IV. CH. nx] OF THE INFERIOR MOUNTAINS. 295
not suspect him of having had any .hand in this thing, at least
1 And of Pons- a^er ne was ten years old. -Nevertheless, it shows
what he is supposed capable of by his admirers,
d will serve for a broad illustration of all those absurdities
lich he himself in a less degree, and with feeling and thought
atone for them, perpetually commits. • Take the white bit of
c-k on the opposite side of the river, just above the right arm
the Niobe, and tell me of what the square green daubs of the
ush at its base can be conjectured to be typical. Rocks with
le-brown light sides, and rich green dark sides, are a phenom-
on perhaps occurring in some of the improved passages of
iture among our Cumberland lakes ; where I remember once
iving seen a bed of roses, of peculiar magnificence/ tastefully
Ld artistically assisted in effect by the rocks above it being
inted pink to match ; but I do not think that they are a kind
thing which the clumsiness and false taste of nature can be
pposed frequently to produce ; even granting that these same
reeps of the brush could, by any exercise of the imagination,
i-conceived representative of a dark, or any other side, which
far more than I am inclined to grant ; seeing that there is no
¦st shadow, no appearance of reflected light, of substance, or
character on the edge ; nothing, in short, but pure, staring
¦een paint, scratched heavily on a white ground. Nor is there
touch in the picture more expressive. All are the mere drag-
ng of the brush here and there and everywhere, without mean-
g or intention ; winding, twisting, zigzagging, doing anything
fact which may serve to break up the light and destroy its
eadth, without bestowing in return one hint or shadow of any-
ing like form. This picture is, indeed, an extraordinary case,
it the Salvator above mentioned is a characteristic and exceed-
gly favorable example of the usual mode of mountain drawing
aeng the, old landscape painters.* Their admirers may be
lallenged to bring forward a single instance of their express-
g, or even appearing to have noted, the great laws of structure
iove explained. Their hills are, without exception, irregular
* I have above exhausted all terms of vituperation, and probably dis
ced the reader ; and yet I have not spoken with enough severity : I
low not any terms of blame that are bitter enough to chastise justly tha
Juntain drawings of Salvator in the pictures of the Pitti Palace.

396 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PART u.
earthy heaps, without energy or direction of, any kind, marked
with shapeless shadows and meaningless lines ; sometimes, in
deed, where great sublimity has been aimed at, approximating
to the pure and exalted ideal of rocks, which, in the most artis-
tical specimens of China cups and plates, we see suspended from
aerial pagodas, or balanced upon peacocks' tails, but never war
ranting even the wildest theorist in the conjecture that their
perpetrators had ever seen a mountain in their lives. Let us,
however, look farther into the modifications of character by
which nature conceals the regularity of her first plan ; for
although all mountains are organized as we have seen, their
organization is always modified, and often nearly concealed, by
changes wrought upon them by external influence.
We ought, when speaking of their stratification, to have
noticed another great law, which must, however, be understood
with greater latitude of application than any of the others, as
very far from imperative or constant in particular
external influence Cases, though Universal in its influence On the ag
on mountain form. , » 11 TX • XT X XI V 1_ 1 • X.
gregate of all. lt is that the lines by which
rocks are terminated, are always steeper and more inclined
to the vertical as we approach the summit of the mountain.
Thousands of cases are to be found in every group, of rocks
and lines horizontal at the top of the mountain and vertical
at the bottom ; but they are still the exceptions, and the
average out of a given number of lines in any rock formation
whatsoever, will be found increasing in perpendicularity as they
rise. Consequently the great skeleton lines of rock outline
are always concave ; that is to say, all distant ranges of rocky
mountain approximate more or less to a series of concave curves,
meeting in peaks, like a range of posts with chains hanging
between. I do not say that convex forms will not perpetually '
occur, but that the tendency of the majority will always b« to
assume the form of sweeping, curved valleys, with angular
peaks ; not of rounded convex summits, with angular valleys.
This structure is admirably exemplified in the second vignette in '
Rogers's Italy, and in Piacenza.
But although this is the primary form of all hills, and that
which will always cut against the sky in every distant range, there
are two great influences whose tendency is directly the. reverse,

SEC. IV. CH. III. J OF THE INFERIOR MOUNTAINS. 297-
and which modify, to a great degree, both the evidences of strat-
e u. The gentle ification and this external form. These are aqueous
vi^eous^ erosion and disintegration. The latter only is to
ton- be taken into consideration when we have to do
with minor features of crag ; but the former is a force in con
stant action — of the very utmost importance — a force to which
one-half of the great outlines of all mountains is entirely owing,
and which-has muck influence upon every one of their details.
Now the tendency of aqueous action over a large elevated
surface is always to make that surface symmetrically and evenly
convex and dome-like, sloping gradually more and more as it
descends, until it reaches an inclination of about 40°, at which
slope ,it will descend perfectly straight to the valley ; for at that
slope the soil washed from above will accumulate upon the hill
side, as it cannot lie in steeper beds. This influence, then, is
exercised more or less on all mountains, with greater or less effect
in proportion as the rock is harder or softer, more or less liable
to decomposition, more or less recent in date of elevation, and
more or less characteristic in its original forms ; . but it
, universally induces, in the lower parts of mountains, a series
of the most exquisitely symmetrical convex curves, terminating,
as they descend to the valley, in uniform and uninterrupted
slopes ; this symmetrical structure being perpetually interrupted
by cliffs and projecting masses, which give evidence of the
interior parallelism of the mountain anatomy, but which inter
rupt the convex forms more frequently by rising out of them,
than by indentation.
'(-. There remains but one fact more to be noticed. All moun
tains, in some degree, but especially those which are composed of
. joft or decomposing substance, are delicately and symmetrically
furrowed by the descent of streams. The traces of
effect of the ac- their action commence at the very summits, fine
as threads, and multitudinous, like the uppermost
branches of a delicate tree. They unite in groups as they descend,
concentrating gradually into dark undulating ravines, into "
which the body of the mountain descends on each side, at first
in a convex curve, but at the bottom with the same uniform
slope on each side which it assumes in its final descent to tho
plain, unless the rock be very hard, when the stream will cut

298 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PART II.
itself a vertical chasm at the bottom of the curves, and there
will be no even slope.* If, on the other hand, the rock be very
sbft, the slopes will increase rapidly in height and depth from
day to day ; washed away at the bottom and crumbling at the
top, until, by their reaching the summit of the masses of rock
which separate the active torrents, the whole mountain is divided
into a series of penthouse-like ridges, all guiding to its summit,
and becoming steeper and narrower as they ascend ; these ih
their turn being divided by similar, but smaller ravines — caused
in the same manner — into the same kind of ridges ; and these
again by another series, the arrangement being carried finer and
farther according to the softness of the rock. The south side
of Saddleback, in Cumberland, is a characteristic example ; and .
the Montagne du Tacondy, in Chamonix, a noble instance of
one of these ridges or buttresses, with all its subdivisions, on a
colossal scale.
Now we wish to draw especial attention to the broad and
bold simplicity of mass, and the excessive complication of de
tails, which influences like these, acting on an enormous scale,
si3. The exceed- must inevitably produce in all mountain groups;
coItoBu?causeri oyf because each individual part and promontory,
these influences. being compelled to assume the same symmetrical
curves as its neighbors, and to descend at precisely the same
slope to the valley, falls in with their prevailing lines, and be
comes a part of a great and harmonious whole, instead of an
unconnected and discordant individual. It is true that each of
these members has its own touches of specific character, its own
projecting crags and peculiar hollows ; but by far the greater
portion of its lines will be such as unite with, though they do
not repeat, those of its neighbors, and carry out the evidence of
one great influence and spirit to the limits of the scene. This
effort is farther aided by the original unity and connection, of
the rocks themselves, which though it often may be violently
interrupted, is never without evidence of existence ; for the very
"interruption itself forces the eye to feel that there is something
* Some terrific cuts and chasms of this kind occur on the north side of
the Valais, from Sion to Briey. The torrent from the great Aletsch glacier
descends through one of them. Elsewhere chasms may be found as nar
row, but few so narrow and deep.

SEC. IV. \CH. III.] OF THE INFERIOR MOUNTAINS. 299
to be interrupted, a sympathy and similarity of lines and frac
tures, which, however full of variety and change of direction,
never lose the appearance of symmetry of one kind
U4. And mui- ,, *¦ £ J J .
ApHcity of fea- or another. But, on the other hand, it is to be
remembered that these great sympathizing masses
are not one mountain, but a thousand mountains ; that they are
originally composed of a multitude of separate eminences, hewn
and chiselled indeed into associating form, but each retaining
still its marked points and features of .character, — that each of
these individual members has, by the very process which assimi
lated it to the rest, beeri divided and subdivided into equally
multitudinous groups of minor mountains ; finally, that the
whole complicated system is interrupted forever and ever by
daring manifestations of the inward mountain will — by the
precipice which has submitted to no modulation of the torrent,
and the peak which has bowed itself to no terror of the storm.
Hence we see that the same imperative laws which require per
fect, simplicity of mass, require infinite and termless complica
tion of detail, — that there will not be an inch nor a hairbreadth
of the gigantic heap which has not its touch of separate char
acter, its own peculiar curve, stealing out for an instant and
then melting into the common line ; felt for a moment by the
blue mist of the hollow beyond, then lost when it crosses the
enlightened slope, — that all this multiplicity will be grouped
into larger divisions, each felt by their increasing aerial per
spective, and their- instants of individual form, these into
•larger, and these into larger still, until all are merged in the
great impression and prevailing energy of the two or three vast
dynasties which divide the kingdom of the scene.
There is no vestige nor shadow of, approach to such treat
ment as this in the whole compass of ancient art. Whoever the
.'master, his hills, wherever he has attempted them, have not the
slightest trace of association or connection ; they
negiected ?neaS are separate, conflicting, confused, petty and pal-
dent art. try heapg of earth . there ig n0 marking 0f dis-
tances or divisions in their body ; they may have holes in them,
but no yalleys,— protuberances and excrescences, but no parts ;
and in consequence are invariably diminutive and contemptible
in their whole appearance and impression.

300 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PARTH,
But look at the mass of mountain on the right in Turner's.
Daphne hunting with Leucippus. It is simple,, broad, and
united as one surge of a swelling sea ; it rises in an unbroken
sie The fidelity ^me ai0ng the valley, and lifts its promontories
TurSsDapnne w^n an eclual slope. But it contains in its body
and Leucippus. ten thousand hills. There is not a quarter of ah
inch of its surface without its suggestion of increasing distance
and individual form. First, on the right, you have a range" of
tower-like precipices, the clinging wood climbing along, their
ledges and cresting their summits, white waterfalls gleaming
through its leaves ; not, as in Claude's scientific ideals, poured
in vast torrents over the top, and carefully keeping all the way
down on the most projecting parts of the sides ; but stealing
down, traced from point to point, through shadow after shadow,
by their evanescent foam and flashing light, — here a wreath, and
there a ray, — through the deep chasms and hollow -ravines, out
of which rise the soft rounded slopes of mightier mountain,
surge beyond surge, immense and numberless, of delicate and
gradual curve, accumulating in the sky until their garment of
forest is exchanged for the shadowy fold of slumbrous morning
cloud, above which the utihost silver peak shines islanded and
alone. Put what mountain painting you will beside this, of any
other artist, and its heights will look like mole-hills in com
parison, because it will not have the ,unity nor the multiplicity
which are in nature, and with Turner, the signs of size.
Again, in the Avalanche and Inundation, we have for the
whole subject nothing but one vast bank of united mountain,
and one stretch of uninterrupted valley. Though the bank, is
broken into promontory beyond promontory, peak
Avaianche and above peak, each the abode of a new tempest, the
Inundation. - ., _ . A ,
arbiter ot a separate desolation, divided from each
other by the rushing of the snow, by the motion of the storm,
by the thunder of the torrent ; the mighty unison of their dark
and lofty line, the brotherhood of ages, is preserved unbroken ;
and the broad valley at their feet, though measured league after
league away by a thousand passages of sun and darkness, and
marked with fate beyond fate of hamlet and of inhabitant, lies
yet but as a straight and narrow channel, a filling furrow before
the flood. Whose work will you compare with this ? Salvator's.

SEC. IV. CH. III.]' OF THE INFERIOR MOUNTAINS. 301
gray heaps of earth, seven yards high, covered with bunchy
brambles, that we may be under no mistake about the size,
thrown about at random in a little plain, beside a zigzagging
river, just wide enough to admit of the possibility of there being
fish in it, and with banks just broad enough to allow the
respectable angler or hermit to sit upon them conveniently in
" the foreground ? Is there more of nature in such paltriness,
think you, than in the valley and the mountain which bend to
each other like the trough of the sea ; with the flank of the one
swept in one surge into the height of heaven, until the pine
forests lie on its immensity like the shadows of narrow clouds,
and the hollow of the other laid league by league into the blue
of the air, until its white villages flash in the distance only like
the fall of a sunbeam ?
. : But let us examine by what management of the details them
selves this wholeness and vastness of effect are given. We have
" just seen (§ 11) that it is impossible for the slope of a mountain,
not actually a precipice of rock, to exceed 35° or
among secondary 40°, and that by far the greater part of all hill-
•--¦ hills of steep „ _ „ . . 1
slopes or high surface is composed ot graceful curves of much less
...jirecipce degree than this, reaching 40° only as their ulti
mate and utmost inclination. It must be farther observed that
the interruptions to such curves, by precipices or steps, are
always small in proportion to the slopes themselves. Precipices
rising vertically more than 100 feet are very rare among the
secondary hills of which we are speaking. I am not aware of
any cliff in England or Wales where a plumb-line can swing
clear for 200 feet ; and even although sometimes, with intervals,
breaks, and steps, we get perhaps 800 feet of a slope of 60° or
70°, yet not only are these cases very rare, but even these have
httle influence on the great contours of a mountain 4000 or
5000 feet in elevation, being commonly balanced by intervals of
ascent not exceeding 6° or 8°. The result of which is, first,
that the peaks and precipices of a mountain appear as little
more than jags or steps emerging from its great curves ; and,
secondly, that the bases of all hills are enormously extensive as
compared with their elevation, so that there must be always a
horizontal distance between the observer and the summit five
or six times exceeding the perpendicular one.

302 i OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PARTH,
Now it is evident, that whatever the actual angle of eleva-
'tion of the mountain may be, every exhibition of this horizontal
distance between us and the summit is an addition to its height^
and of course to its impressiveness ; while every
quent expression endeavor to exhibit its slope as steep and sudden^
toncerin°their as^ is diminution at once of its distance and elevation;
In consequence nature is constantly endeavoring
to impress upon us this horizontal distance, which, even in
spite of all her means of manifesting it, we are apt to forget or
underestimate ; and all her noblest effects depend on the full
measurement and feeling of it. And it is to the abundant and
marvellous expression of it by Turner, that I would direct
especial attention, as being that which is in itself demonstrative
of the highest knowledge and power — knowledge, in the con
stant use of lines of subdued slope in preference to steep or
violent ascents, and in the perfect subjection of all such
features, when they necessarily occur, to the larger masses ; and
power, in the inimitable statements of retiring space by-mere
painting of surface details, without the aid of crossing shadows,
divided forms, or any other artifice.
The Caudebec, in the Bivers of France, is a fine instance of
almost every fact which we have been pointing out. We have
in it, first, the clear -expression of what takes place constantly
among hills, — that the river, as it passes through
ment of ail these the valley, will fall backwards and forwards from
facts in various ¦ -, x ¦ -i l • x>x-j>t i -xt. n
works of Turner, side to side, lying first, if 1 may so speak, with all
its weight against the hills on the one, side, and
then against those on the other ; so that, as here it is exquisitely
told, in each of its circular sweeps the whole force of its current
is brought deep and close to the bases of the hills, while the
water on the side next the plain is shallow, deepening gradually.
In consequence of this, the hills are cut away at their bases by
the current, so that their slopes are interrupted by precipices
mouldering to the water. Observe first, how nobly Turner has
given us the perfect unity of the whole mass of hill, making us
understand that every ravine in it has been cut gradually by
streams. The first eminence, beyond the city, is not disjointed
from, or, independent of, the one succeeding, but evidently part
of the same whole, originally united, separated only by the

SEC. IV. CK. IU.} OE THE INFERIOR MOUNTAINS. 303
action of the stream between. The association of the second
and third is still more clearly told, for we see that there has been
a little longitudinal valley running along the brow of their
former united mass, which, after the ravine had been cut
between, formed the two jags which Turner has given us at the
same point in each of their curves. This great triple group
has, however, been originally distinct from those beyond it ; for
we see that these latter are only the termination of the enormous
even slope, which appears again on the extreme right, having
been interrupted by the rise of the near hills. Observe how the
descent of the whole series is kept gentle and subdued, never
suffered to become steep except where it has been cut away by
the river, the sudden precipice caused by which is exquisitely
marked in the last two promontories, where they are defined
against the bright horizon ; and, finally, observe how, in the
ascent of the nearest eminence beyond the city, without one cast
shadow or any division of distances, every yard of surface is felt
to-be retiring by the mere painting of its details, — how we are
permitted to walk up it, and along its top, and are carried,
before we are half way up, a league or two forward into the pic
ture. The difficulty of doing this, however, can scarcely be
appreciated except by an artist.
I do not mean to assert that this great painter is acquainted
with the geological laws and facts he has thus illustrated ; I am
not aware whether he be or not ; I merely wish. to demonstrate,
in points admitting of demonstration, that intense
considering geoio- observation of, and strict adherence to truth,
which it is impossible to demonstrate in its less
tangible and more delicate manifestations. However I maj feel
the truth of every touch „and line, I cannot prove truth, except
in large and general features ; and I leave it to the arbitration
of every man's reason, whether it be not likely that the painter
who is thus so rigidly faithful in great things that every one of
his pictures might be the illustration of a lecture on the physical
sciences, is not likely to be faithful also in small.
Honfleur, and the scene between Clairmont and Mauves,
supply us with farther instances of the same grand simplicity
of treatment ; and the latter is especially remarkable for its
expression of the furrowing of the hills by descending water, in

304 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. - [PART It
the complete roundness and symmetry of their curves, and in the
delicate and sharp shadows which are cast in 'the
of retirmgPsurface undulating ravines. It is interesting to compare
trastedUrwith °the with either of these noble works such hills as those
work of Claude. rf 01audej Qn the j^ rf ^ picture marked
^260 in the Dulwich Gallery. There is no detail nor surface in
one of them ; not an inch of ground for us to stand upon ; we
must either sit astride upon the edge, or fall to the bottom. I
could not point tp a more complete instance of mountain
calumniation ; nor can I oppose it more completely, in every
circumstance, than with the Honfleur of Turner, already men
tioned ; in which there is not one edge nor division admitted,
and yet we are permitted to climb up the hill from the town,
and pass far into the mist along its top, and so descend mile
after mile along the. ridge to seaward, until, without one break ,
in the magnificent unity of progress, we are carried down to the
utmost horizon. And contrast the brown paint of Claude,
which you can only guess to be meant for rock or soil because it
is brown, with Turner's profuse, pauseless richness of feature,
carried through all the enormous space — the unmeasured wealth
of exquisite detail, over which the mind can dwell, and walk,
and wander, and feast forever, without finding either one break
in its vast simplicity, or one vacuity in its exhaustless splendor.
But these, and hundreds of others which it is sin not to.
dwell upon — wooded hills and undulating moors of North Eng
land — rolling surges of park and forest of the South — soft and
„ „„ - vine-clad ranges of French coteaux, casting their
§23. The same ° . , . ¦
moderation of obliqtie shadows on silver leagues of glancing rivers,
slope in the con. -, -,. , ., , , . „ . , ,
tours of his high- — and olive- whitened promontories of Alp and
er hills. . . *
Apennine, are only instances of Turner s manage
ment of the lower and softer hills. In the bolder examples of
his powers, where he is dealing with lifted masses of enormous
mountain, we shall still find him as cautious in his use of violent
slopes or vertical lines, and still as studied in his expression of
retiring surface. We never get to the top of one of his hills
Without being tired with our walk ; not by the steepness,
observe, but by the stretch ; for we are carried up towards the
heaven by such delicate gradation of line, that we scarcely feel
that we have left the earth before we find ourselves among the

sec. rv. ch. m.] of the inferior mountains. 305,
clouds. The Skiddaw, in the illustrations to Scott, is a noble
instance of this majestic moderation. The mountain lies in the
morning light, like a level vapor ; its gentle lines of ascent are
scarcely felt by the eye ; it rises without effort or exertion, by
the mightiness of its mass ; every slope is full of slumber ; and
we know not how it has been exalted, until we find it laid as a
floor for the walking- of the eastern clouds. So again in the
Fort Augustus, where the whole elevation of the hills depends
on- the soft lines of swelling surface which undulate back
through leagues of mist carrying us unawares higher and higher
above the diminished lake, until, when we are all but exhausted
with the endless distance, the mountains make their last spring,
and bear us, in that instant of exertion, half way to heaven.
I ought perhaps rather to have selected, as instances of moun
tain form, such elaborate works as the Oberwesel or Lake of Uri,
but I have before expressed my dislike of speaking of such mag-
m. The peculiar nificent pictures as these by parts. And indeed all
ve?tigaung0f the proper consideration of the hill drawing of Turner
truths of hmout- rilust be deferred until we are capable of testing it
Une' by the principles of beauty ; for, after all, the most
essential qualities of line, — those on which all right delineation
of mountain character must depend, are those which are pnly to
be explained or illustrated by appeals to our feeling of what is
beautiful. There is an expression and a feeling about all the
hill lines of nature, which I think I shall be able, hereafter, to
explain ; but it is not to be reduced to line and rule — not to
be measured by angles or described by compasses — not to be
chipped out by the geologist, or equated by the mathematician.
It is intangible, incalculable — a -thing to be felt, not understood
—to be loved, not comprehended — a music of the eyes, a melody
of the heart, whose truth is known only by its sweetness.
I can scarcely, without repeating myself to tediousness, enter
at present into proper consideration of the mountain drawing of
other modern painters. We have, fortunately, several by whom
I jj WorkB of the noble truths which we have seen so fully exem-
82™ mc!arrkson Plined by Turner are also deeply felt and faithfully
stanfleid. rendered ; though there is a necessity, for the per
fect statement of them, of such an unison of freedom of thought
With perfect mastery over the greatest mechanical difficulties, as

306 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PART n.'
we can scarcely hope to see attained by more than one man in
our age. Very nearly the same words which we used in refer
ence to Stanfield's drawings of the central clouds, might be ap
plied to his rendering of mountain truth. He occupies exactly
the same position with respect to other artists in earth as in
cloud. None can be said really to draw the mountain as he
will, to have scT perfect a mastery over its organic development ;
but there is, nevertheless, iri all his works, some want of feehng
and individuality. He has studied and mastered his subject to
the bottom, but he trusts too much to that past study, and
rather invents his hills from his possessed stores of knowledge/
than expresses in them the fresh ideas received from nature.
Hence, in all that he does, we feel a little too much that the
hills are his own. We cannot swear to their being" the particu
lar crags and individual promontories which break the cone of
Ischia, or shadow the waves of Maggiore. We are nearly sure*
on the contrary, that nothing but the, outline is local, and that
all the filling up has been done in the study, Now, we have
§ 26. importance already shown (Sect. I. Chap. III.) that particular
?nd?vMuCailatr™h truths are more important than general ones, and
in hiii drawing, this is just one of the cases in which that rule
especially applies. Nothing is so great a sign of truth and
beauty in mountain drawing as the appearance of individuality
— nothing is so great a proof of real imagination and inven
tion, as the appearance that nothing has been imagined or in
vented. We ought to feel of every inch of inountairi, that it
must have existence in reality, that if we had lived near the
place we should have known every crag of it, and that there
must be people to whorii every crevice and shadow of the pic
ture is fraught with recollections, and colored with associations.
The moment the artist can make us feel this — the moment he
can make us think that he has done nothing, that nature has
done all— that moment he becomes ennobled, be proves himself
great. As long as we remember him, we cannot respect him.
We honor him most when we most forget him. He becomes
great when he becomes invisible. And we may, perhaps, be
permitted to express our hope that Mr. Stanfield will— pur con
viction that he must — if he would advance in his rank as an ar
tist, attend more to local character, and give us generally less of

SEC. IV. CH. m.] OF THE INFERIOR MOUNTAINS. 307
the Stanfield limestone. He ought to study with greater atten
tion the rocks which afford finer divisions and more delicate
¦ parts (slates and gneiss ;) ahd he ought to observe more fondly
and faithfully those beautiful laws and lines of swell and curva
ture, by intervals of which nature sets off and relieves the
energy of her peaked outlines. He is at present apt to be too
rugged, and, in consequence, to lose size. Of his best manner of
drawing hills, I believe I can scarcely give a better example than
the rocks of Suli, engraved in Finden's illustrations to Byron.
It is very grand and perfect in all parts arid points.
Copley Fielding is peculiarly graceful and affectionate in his
drawing of the inferior mountains. But as with his clouds so
with his hills ; as long as he keeps to silvery films of misty out
line, or purple shadows mingled with the evening
Copiey Fielding, light, he is true and beautiful ; but the moment he
ee ng. -w-jt}1(jraws the mass out of its veiling mystery, he
is lost. His worst drawings, therefore, are those on which he
has spent most time ; for he is sure to show weakness wherever
he gives detail. We believe that all his errors proceed, as we
. observed before, from his not working with the chalk or pencil ;
and that if he would paint half the number of pictures in the
year which he usually produces, and spend his spare time in
hard dry study of forms, the half he painted would be soon
worth double the present value of all. For he really has deep
and genuine feeling of hill character — a far higher perception of
space, elevation, incorporeal color, and all those qualities -which
are the poetry of mountains, than any other of our water-color
painters ; and. it is an infinite pity that he should not give tp
these delicate feelings the power of realization, which might be
attained by a little labor. A few thorough studies of his favor
ite mountains, Ben-Venue or Ben-Cruachan, in clear, strong,
front chiaroscuro, allowing himself neither' color nor mist, nor
any means of getting over the ground but downright drawing,
would, we think, open his eyes to sources of beauty of which he
now takes no cognizance. He ought not, however, to repeat the
same subjects so frequently, as the casting about of the mind for
means of varying them blunts the feelings to truth. And he
should remember that an artist, who is not making progress, is
nearly certain to be retrograding ; and that progress is not to be.

308 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PART n.
made by working in 'the study, or by mere labor bestowed on
the repetition of unchanging conceptions.
J. D. Harding would paint mountains very nobly, if he made
them of more importance in his compositions, but they are
usually little more than backgrounds for his foliage or build
ings ; and it is his present system to make his
S. b. Harding backgrounds very slight. His color is very beauti
ful : indeed, both his and Fielding's are far more
refined than Stanfield's. We wish he would oftener take up1
some wild subject dependent for interest on its mountain forms
alone, as we should anticipate the highest results from his per
fect drawing ; and we think that such an exercise, occasionally -
gone completely through, would counteract a tendency which
we perceive in his present distances, to become a little thin and
cutting, if not incomplete. -
The late G. Bobson was a man most thoroughly acquainted
with all the characteristics of our own island hills ; and some of
the outlines of John Varley showed very grand feeling of energy
of form. *

CHAPTEK IV.
OF THE FOREGROUND.
We have now only to observe the close characteristics of the*
rocks and soils to which the large masses of which we have
been speaking, owe their ultimate characters.
" We have already seen that there exists a
were the chief marked distinction between those stratified rocks
|hcient landscape whose beds are ainorphous and without subdi-
: ' . vision, as many limestones and sandstones, and
those which are divided by lines of lamination, as all slates.
The last kind of rock is the more frequent in nature, and forms
the greater part of all hill scenery ; it has, however, been suc
cessfully grappled with by few, even of the moderns, except
Turner ; while there is no single example of any aim at it or
thought of it among the ancients, whose foregrounds, as far as
it is possible to guess at their intention through their concen
trated errors, are chosen from among the tufa and travertin of
the lower Apennines, (the ugliest as well as the least character
istic rocks of nature,) and whose larger features of rock scenery,
if we look at them with, a predetermination to find in them a
resemblance of something, may be pronounced at least liker the
mountain limestone than anything else. I shall glance, there
fore, at the general characters of these materials first, in order
that we may be able to appreciate the fidelity of rock-drawing
on which Salvator's reputation has been built.
The massive limestones separate generally into irregular
blocks, tending to the form of cubes or parallelopipeds, and ter
minated by tolerably smooth planes. The weather, acting on
the edges of these blocks, rounds them off ; but
lmestonesyaThe the frost, which, while it cannot penetrate nor
the1 ^ck?'" its' split the body of the stone, acts energetically on
tone's? of1 at the angles, splits off the rounded fragments, and
Ble8' supplies sharp, fresh, and complicated edges.

310 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PARTn.'
Hence the angles of such blocks are usually marked by a series
of steps and fractures, in which the peculiar character of the
rock is most distinctly seen ; the effect being increased in many
limestones by the interposition of two or three thinner beds be
tween the large strata of which the block has been a part ; these
thin laminae breaking easily, and supplying a number of fissures
and lines at the edge of the detached mass. Thus, as a general
principle, if a rock have character anywhere, it will be on the
angle, and however even and smooth its great planes may be> it
will usually break into variety where it turns a corner. In one
of the most exquisite pieces of rock truth ever put on canvas,
the foreground' of the Napoleon in the Academy, 1842, this
principle was beautifully exemplified in the complicated frac
tures of the upper angle just where it turned from the light,
while the planes of the rock were varied only by the modulation
they owed to the waves. It follows from this structure that the
edges of all rock being partially truncated, first by large frac
tures, and then by the rounding of the fine edges of these by the
weather, perpetually present convex transitions from the light to
the dark side, the planes of the rock almost always swelling a
little from the angle.
Now it will be found throughout the works of Salvator, that
his most usual practice was to give a concave sweep of the brush
for his first expression of the dark side, leaving the paint dark
est towards the light ; by which daring and orig.
acute angles inal method of procedure he has succeeded in cov-
OflllRfid \}V til 6 '
meeting of con- ering his foregrounds with forms which approxi
mate to those of drapery, of ribbons, of crushed
cocked hats, of locks of hair, of waves, leaves, or anything, in
short, flexible or tough, but which of course are not only unlike,
but directly contrary to the forms which nature has impressed
on rocks.*
* I have cut out a passage in this place which insisted on the angular
character of rocks, — not because it was false, but because it was incomplete,
and I cannot explain it nor complete it Without example. It is not the ab
sence of curves, but the suggestion of hardness through curves, and of the
under tendencies of the inward structure, which form the true characteris
tics of rock form ; and Salvator, whom neither here nor elsewhere I have
abused enough, is not wrong because he paints curved rocks, but because
his curves are the curves of ribbons and not of rocks ; and the differ-

SEC. IV. CH. IV.] OF THE FOREGROUND. 311
And the circular and sweeping strokes or stains which are
dashed at random over their surfaces, only fail of destroying al]
resemblance whatever to rock structure from their frequent
64. peculiar dis- want of any meaning at all, and from the impos-
mdSeln"!" sibility of our supposing any of them to be repre-
rocks of nature. sentative of shade. Now, if there be any part of
landscape in which nature develops her principles of light and
shade more clearly than another, it is rock; for the dark
sides of fractured stone receive brilliant reflexes from the
lighted surfaces, on which the shadows are marked with
the most exquisite precision, especially because, owing tp the
parallelism of cleavage, the surfaces lie usually in directions
nearly parallel. Hence every crack and fissure has its shadow
and reflected light separated with the most delicious distinctness,
and the organization and solid form of all . parts are told with a
decision of language, which, to be followed with anything like
fidelity, requires the most transparent color, and the most deli-
s & Peculiar con- ca*e an<i scientific drawing. So far are the works
tathe ?ocks0o'f °^ *ne °^ landscape-painters from rendering this,
laivator. xj^ y. js exceedingly rare to find a single passage
in which the shadow can even be distinguished from the dark
side — they scarcely seem to know the one to be darker than the
other ; arid the strokes of the brush are not used to explain or ex
press a form known or conceived, but are dashed and daubed
about without any aim beyond the covering of the canvas. " A
rock," the old masters appear to say to themselves, " is a great
irregular, formless, characterless lump ; but it must have shade
upon it, and any gray marks will do for that shade."
Finally, while few, if any, of the rocks of na-
wa'nt of any ex- ture are untraversed by delicate and slender fissures,
ness or brittle- whose black sharp lines are the only means by which
the peculiar quality in which rocks most differ from
ence between rock curvature and other curvature I cannot explain ver'
bally, but I hope to do it hereafter by illustration ; and, at present, let the
reader study the rock-drawing of the Mont St. Gothard subject, in the Liber
Studiorum, and compare it with any examples of Salvator to which he may
happen to have access. All the account of rocks here given is altogether'
inadequate, and I only do not alter it because I flrst wish to give longer
study to the subject.

312 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PART It
the other objects of the landscape, brittleness, can be effectually
suggested, we look in vain among the blots and stains with
which the rocks of ancient art are loaded, for any vestige or
appearance of fissure or splintering. Toughness and malleabil
ity appear to be the qualities whose expression is most aimed at ;
sometimes sponginess, softness, flexibility, tenuity,
particular1 ph> and occasionally transparency. Take, for instance,
the foreground of Salvator, in No. 220 of the Dul-.
wich Gallery. There is, on the right-hand side of it, an object,
which I never walk through the room without contemplating
for a minute or two with reriewed solicitude and anxiety of mind, -
indulging in a series of very wild and imaginative conjectures as
to its probable or possible meaning. I think there is reason to
suppose that the artist intended it either for a very large stone,
or for the trunk of a tree ; but any decision as to its being either
one or the other of these must, I conceive, be the extreme of
rashness. It melts into the ground on one side, and might 'rea
sonably be conjectured to form a part of it, having no trace, of
woody structure or color ; but on the other side it presents a
series of concave curves, interrupted by cogs like those of a
water-wheel, which the boldest theorist would certainly not feel
¦himself warranted in supposing symbolical of rock. The forms
which this substance, whatever it be, assumes, will be found re
peated, though in a less degree, in the foreground of No. 159,
where they are evidently meant for rock.
Let us contrast with this system of rock-drawing, the faithful,
scientific, and dexterous studies of nature which we find in the
works of Clarkson Stanfield. He is a man especially to be op
posed to the old masters, because he usually oon-
|8. . Compared £ . ' f
with the works of lines himself to the same rock subjects as they— -
the mouldering and furrowed crags of the second
ary formation which arrange themselves more or less into
broad and simple masses ; and in the rendering of these it is im
possible to go beyond him. Nothing can surpass his care, his
firmness, or his success, in marking the distinct and sharp light
and shade by which the form is explained, never confusing it
with local, color, however richly his surface-texture may be
given ; while the wonderful play of line with which he will vary,
and through which he will indicate, the regularity of stratificar

¦BEC. IV. CH. IV.] ( OF THE FOREGROUND. 313
tion, is almost as instructive as that of nature herself. I cannot
point to any of his works as better or more characteristic than
others, ; but his Ischia, in the present British Institution, may be
taken as a fair average example. The Botallack Mine, Corn
wall, engraved in the Coast Scenery, gives us a very finished and
generic representation of rock, whose primal organization has
been violently affected by external influences. We have the
stratification and cleavage indicated at its base, every fissure be
ing sharp, angular, and decisive, disguised gradually, as it rises
by the rounding of the surface and the successive furrows caused
by the descent of streariis. But the exquisite drawing of the
foreground is especially worthy of notice. No huge concave
sweeps of the brush, no daubing or splashing here. Every inch
of it is brittle and splintery, and the fissures are explained to the
eye by the most perfect, speaking light and shade, — we can
Stumble oyer the edges of them. The East Cliff, Hastings, is
another very fine example, from the exquisite irreg-
opposition in ev- ularity with which its squareness of general struc-
>,.., Pa ^re .g varje(j an(j (ijggujge,^ Observe how totally -
contrary every one of its lines is to the absurdities of Salvator.
Stanfield's are all angular and straight, every apparent curve
made up of right lines, while Salvator's are all sweeping and
flourishing like so much penmanship. Stanfield's lines pass
-away into delicate splintery fissures. Salvator's are broad daubs
^throughout. Not one of Stanfield's lines is like another. Every
one of Salvator's mocks all the rest. All Stanfield's curves,
where his universal angular character is massed, as on the left
-hand side, into large sweeping forms, are convex. Salvator's are
every one concave.
The foregrounds of J. D. Harding and rocks of his middle ,
distances ale also thoroughly admirable. He is not quite so
various and undulating in his line as Stanfield, and sometimes,
S 10. The rockB *n nis- middle distances, is wanting in solidity,
m J. d. Harding, owing to a little confusion of the dark side and
shadow with each other, or with the local color. But his work,
ill near passages of fresh-broken, sharp-edged rock, is absolute
perfection, excelling Stanfield in the perfect freedom and facil
ity with which his fragments are splintered and scattered ; true
in every line without the least apparent effort. Stanfield's best

314 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PART IT
works are laborious, but Harding's rocks fall from, under his
hand as if they had just crashed down the hill-side, flying on
the instant into lovely form. In color also he incomparably
surpasses Stanfield, who is apt to verge upon mud, or be cold in
his gray. The rich, lichenous, and changeful warmth, and deli
cate weathered grays of Harding's rock, illustrated as they are
by the most fearless, firm, and unerring drawing, render his-
wild pieces of torrent shore the finest things, next to the work
of Turner, in English foreground art.
J. B. Pyne has very accurate knowledge of limestone rock,-
and expresses it clearly and forcibly ; but it is much to be
regretted that this clever artist appears to be losing all sense of
color and is getting more and more mannered in execution, evi
dently never studying from nature except with the previous de
termination to Pynize everything.*
Before passing to Turner, let us take one more glance at the
foregrounds of the old masters, with reference, not to their man
agement of rock, which is comparatively a rare component part
of their foregrounds, but to the common soil which
of loose earth and they were obliged to paint constantly, and whose
forms and appearances are the same all over the
world. A steep bank of loose earth of any kind, that has been
at all exposed to the weather, contains in it, though it may not
* A passage which I happened to see in an Essay of Mr. Pyne's, in the
Art-Union, about nature's " foisting rubbish" upon the artist, sufficiently ex
plains the cause of this decline. If Mr. Pyne will go to nature, as all
great men have done, and as all men who mean to be great must do, that is
not merely to be helped, but to be taught by her ; and will once or twice take
her gifts, without looking them in the mouth, he will most assuredly find—
and I say this in no unkind or depreciatory feeling, for I should say the
same of all artists who are in the habit of only sketching nature, and not
studying her — that her worst is better than his best. I am quite sure that
if Mr. Pyne, or any other painter who has hitherto been very careful in his
choice of subject, will go into the next turnpike-road, and taking the first
four trees that he comes to in the hedge, give them a day each, drawing them
leaf for leaf, as far as may be, and even their smallest boughs with as much
care as if they were rivers, or an important map of a newly-surveyed coun
try, he will find, when he has brought them all home, that at least three
out of the four are better than the best he ever invented. Compare Part
III. Sect. I. Chap. III. § 12, 13, (the reference in the note ought to be to
Chap. XV § 7.)

ms. IV. CH.JTV.] OF THE FOREGROUND. 315
be three feet high, features capable of giving high gratification
to a careful observer. It is almost a fac-simile of a mountain
dope of soft and decomposing rock ; it possesses nearly as much
Variety of character, and is governed by laws of organization no
less rigid. It is furrowed in the first place by undulating lines,
by the descent of the rain, little ravines, which are cut precisely
at the same slope as those of the mountain, and leave ridges
scarcely less graceful in their contour, and beautifully sharp in
their chiselling. Where a harder knot of ground or a stone oc
curs, the earth is washed from beneath it, and ac-
fi 12 ¦ Its exceed-
inggraceandfui- cumulates above it, and there we have a little precis
ness of feature. . , , . . ... ,,
pice connected by a sweeping curve at its summit
with the great slope, and casting a sharp dark shadow ; where
the soil has been soft, it will probably be washed away under
neath until it gives, way, and leaves a jagged, hanging, irregular
line, of fracture ; and all these circumstances are explained to
the eye in sunshine with the most delicious clearness ; every
-touch of shadow being expressive of some particular truth of
structure, and bearing witness to the symmetry into which the
whole mass has been reduced. Where this operation has gone
on long, and vegetation has assisted in softening the outlines, we
have aur ground brought into graceful and irregular curves, of
infinite variety, but yet always .so connected with each other,
and guiding to each other, that the eye never feels them as sepa
rate things, nor. feels inclined to count them, nor perceives a
likeness in one to the other ; they are not -repetitions of each
other, but are different parts of one system. Each would be
||i&perfect without the one next to it.
• Now it is all but impossible to express distinctly the particu
lars wherein this fine character of curve consists, and to show in
definite examples, what it is which makes one representation
813. The ground right, and another wrong. The ground of Ten-
ofTeniers. iergj for instance, in No. 139 in the Dulwich Gal
lery, is an example of all that is wrong. It is a representation
of the forms of shaken and disturbed soil, such as we should see
here and there after an earthquake, or over the ruins of fallen
buildings. It has not one contour nor character of the soil of
nature, and yet I can scarcely tell you why, except that the
curves repeat one another, and are monotonous in their flow,

316 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PART H,
and are unbroken by the delicate angle and momentary pause
with which the feeling of nature would have touched them, and
are disunited ; so that the eye leaps from this to that, and does
not pass from one to the other without being able to stop,
drawn on by the continuity of line ; neither is there any undula
tion or furrowing of watermark, nor in one spot or atom of the
whole surface, is there distinct explanation of form to the eye by
means of a' determined shadow. All is mere sweeping of the
brush over the surface with various ground colors, without a
single indication of character by means of real shade.
Let not these points be deemed unimportant ; the truths of
form in common ground are quite as valuable, (let me anticipate
myself for a moment,) quite as beautiful, as any others which
nature presents, and in lowland landscape they
§14. Importance r . . „ n. , . , . \ .-'
of these minor present us with a species ot line which it is quite
parts and points. , . .......... ,. xi ix
impossible to obtain in any other way, — the alter
nately flowing and broken line of mountain scenery, which,
however small its scale, is always of inestimable value, contrast
ed with the repetitions of organic form which we are compelled
to give in vegetation. A really great artist dwells on every inch
of exposed soil with care and delight, and renders it one of the
most essential, speaking and pleasurable parts of his composi
tion. And be it remembered, that the man who, in the most
conspicuous part of his foreground, will violate truth with every
stroke of the pencil, is not likely to be more careful in other
parts of it ; and that in the little bits which I fix upon for ani
madversion, I am not pointing out solitary faults, but only the
most characteristic examples of the falsehood which is every
where, and which renders the whole foreground one mass of
contradictions and absurdities. Nor do I myself
§15. The observ- . ,-,.„, -,-
ance of them is see wherein the great difference lies between a mas-
the real distinction , -. . ,.,, -, • en
between the mas- ter and a novice, except in the rendering of the
ter and the novice. „ , ,, „ . . . T . x l •
finer truths, of which I am at present speaking.
To handle the brush freely, and to paint grass and weeds with
accuracy enough to satisfy the eye, are accomplishments which
a year or two's practice will give any man ; but to trace among
the grass and weeds those mysteries of invention and combina
tion, by which nature appeals to the intellect — to render the
delicate fissure, and descending curve, and undulating shadow

BBC. IV. CH. IV.] OF THE FOREGROUND. 317
of the mouldering soil, with gentle and fine finger, like the
touch of the rain itself — to find even in all that appears most
trifling or contemptible, fresh evidence of the constant working
of the Divine power " for glory and for beauty," and to teach it
and proclaim.it to the unthinking and the unregardless — this,
as it is the peculiar province and faculty of the master-mind, so
it is the peculiar duty which is demanded of it by the Deity.
, It would take me no reasonable nor endurable time, if I were
to point out one half of the various kinds and classes of false
hood which the inventive faculties of the old masters succeeded
§16. The ground ^n originating, in the drawing of foregrounds. It
of cuyp. jg not this man, nor that man, nor one school nor
another ; all agree in entire repudiation of everything resembling
facts, and in the high degree of absurdity of what they substi
tute for them. Even Cuyp, who evidently saw and studied near
nature, as an artist should do — not fishing for idealities, but
taking what nature, gave him, and thanking her for it — even
he appears to have supposed that the drawing of the earth might
be trusted to chance or imagination, and, in consequence, strews
si?. And of kls banks with lumps of dough, instead of stones.
Claude. Perhaps, however, the " beautiful foregrounds" of
Claude afford the most remarkable instances of childishness and
incompetence of all. That of his morning landscape, with the
large group of trees and high single-arched bridge, in the
National Gallery, is a pretty fair example of the kind of error
which he constantly falls into. I will not say anything of the
agreeable composition of the three banks, rising one behind
another from the water. I merely affirm that it amounts to a
demonstration that all three were painted in the artist's study,
without any reference to nature whatever. In fact, there is
quite enough intrinsic evidence in each of them to prove this,
seeing that what appears to be meant for vegetation upon them,
amounts to nothing more than a green stain on their surfaces,
the more evidently false because the leaves of the trees twenty
yards farther off are all perfectly visible and distinct ; and that
the sharp lines with which each cuts against that beyond it, are
not only such as crumbling earth could never show or assume,
{but are maintained through their whole progress ungraduated,
unchanging, and unaffected 1 y any of the.circumstances of vary-

318 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PARTII.
ing shade to which every one of nature's lines is inevitably sub-'
§18. The, entire jected. In fact, -the whole arrangement is the
cMdtehness a of imP°tent struggle of a tyro to express, by successive
the latter. edges, that approach of earth which^ he finds him
self incapable of expressing by the drawing of the surface.
Claude wished to make you understand that the edge of his pond
came nearer and nearer : he had probably often tried -to do this
with an unbroken bank, or a bank only varied by the delicate
and harmonized anatonay of nature ; and he had found that
owing to his total ignorance of the laws of perspective, such
efforts on his part invariably ended in his reducing his pond to
the form of a round 0, and making it look perpendicular.
Much comfort and solace of mind, in ¦ such unpleasant circum
stances, may be derived from instantly dividing the obnoxious
bank into a number of successive promontories, and developing
their edges with completeness and intensity.. Every school-girl's
drawing, as soon as her mind has arrived at so great a degree of
enlightenment as to perceive that perpendicular water is objec
tionable, will supply us with edifying instances of this unfailing
resource ; andihis foreground of Claude's is only one out of the
thousand cases in which he has been reduced to it.-
§19. Compared . .. .. .
with the work of And if lt be asked, how the proceeding differs
from that of nature, I have only to point to na
ture herself, as she is drawn in the foreground of Turner's
Mercury and Argus, a case precisely similar to Claude's, of
earthy crumbling banks cut away by water. It will be found
in this picture (and I am now describing nature's work and
Turner's with the same words)' that the whole distance is
given by retirement of solid surface ; and that if ever an edge.
is expressed, it is only felt for an instant, and then lost again ;
so that the eye cannot stop at it and prepare for a long jump
to another like it, but is guided over it, and round it, into
the hollow beyond ; and thus the whole receding mass of
ground, going back for more than a quarter of a mile, is made
completely one — no part of it is separated from the rest for an
instant — it is all united, and its modulations are members, not
divisions of its mass. But those modulations are countless-
heaving here, sinking there— now swelling, now mouldering,
now blending, now breaking— giving, in fact, to the foreground

SBC. IV. CH. IV.] OF THE FOREGROUND. 319
of this universal master, precisely the same qualities which we
have before seen in his hills, as Claude gave to his foreground
precisely the same qualities which we had before found in his
hills, — infinite unity in the one case, finite division in the other.
Let us, then, having now obtained some insight into the
principles of the old masters in foreground drawing, contrast
them throughout with those of our great modern master. The
investigation of the excellence of Turner's drawing
6 20. General fea- , , , , . ., , 6
foes of Turner's becomes shorter and easier as we proceed, because
the great distinctions between his work and that
of other painters are t"he same, whatever the object or subject
may be ; and after once showing the general characters of the
particular specific forms under consideration, we have only to
point, in the works of Turner, to the same principles of infinity
and variety in carrying them out, which we have before insisted
upon with reference to other subjects.
The Upper Pall of the Tees, Yorkshire, engraved in the
England series, may be given as a standard example of rock-
draWing to be opposed to the work of Salvator. We have, in the
sai. Geological great face of rock which divides the two streams,
Sb^e the Fail horizontal lines which indicate the real direction
of the Tees. 0f the strata, and these same lines are given in
ascending perspective all along the precipice on the right. But
we see also on the central precipice fissures absolutely vertical,
Which inform us of one series of joints dividing these horizontal
strata ; and the exceeding smoothness and evenness of the preci
pice itself inform us that it has been caused by a great separa
tion of substance in the direction of another more important line
of joints, yunning in a direction across the river. Accordingly,
we see on the left that the whole summit of the precipice is
divided again and again by this great series of joints into verti
cal beds, which lie against each other with their sides towards
us, and are traversed downwards by the same vertical lines trace
able on the face of the central cliff. Now, let me direct especial
attention to the way in which Turner has marked over this gen
eral aud grand unity, of structure, the modifying
vefsnrfMesTnd effects of the weather and the torrent. Observe
fractured edges. ^ ^ who]e gurface of the hm above the preoi.

320 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PART H.
pice on the left * is brought into one smooth, unbroken curva
ture of gentle convexity, until it comes to the edge of the preci
pice, and then, just on the angle, "(compare § 2,) breaks into the
multiplicity of fissure which marks its geological structure.
Observe how every one of the separate blocks, into which it
divides, is rounded and convex in its salient edges turned to ihe
weather, and how every one of their inward angles is marked clear
"and sharp by the determined shadow and transparent reflex.
Observe how exquisitely graceful are all the curves of the convex
surfaces, indicating that every one of them has been modelled by
the winding and undulating of running water ; and how grad
ually they become steeper as they descend, until they are torn
§ 83. And perfect down into , the face of the precipice. Finally,
unity. observe the exquisite variety of all the touches
which express fissure or shade ; every one in varying directions
and with new forms, and yet throughout indicating that per
fect parallelism which at once explained to us the geology of the
rock, and falling into one grand mass, treated with the same
simplicity of light and shade which a great portrait painter adopts
in treating the features of the human face ; which, though each
has its own separate chiaroscuro,- never disturb the wholeness and
grandeur of the head, considered as one ball or mass. So here,
one deep and marked piece of shadow indicates the greatest
proximity of the rounded mass ; and from this every shade
becomes fainter and fainter, until all are lost in the obscurity
and dimness of the hanging precipice and the shattering fall.
Again, see how the same fractures just upon the edge take place
with the central cliff above the right-hand fall, and how the
force of the water is told us by the confusion of debris accumu
lated in its channel. In fact, the great quality about Turner's
drawings which more especially proves their transcendent truth,
is the capability they afford us of reasoning on past and future
phenomena, just as if we had the actual rocks before us ; for
this indicates not that one truth is given, nor another, not that
a pretty or interesting morsel has been selected here and there,
but that the whole truth has been given, with all the relations
of its parts ; so that we can pick and choose our points of pleas-
* In the light between the waterfall and the large dark mass on the ex
treme right.

SBC. IV. CH. IV.] OF. THE FOREGROUND. 321
ure or of thought for ourselves, and reason upon the whole with
the same certainty which we should after having climbed and
hammered over the rocks bit by bit. With this draw-
who'se history is ing before him, a geologist could give a lecture upon
told us by the de- , , ° , ,• , . ¦ , 7,
tails of the draw- the whole system of aqueous erosion, and speculate
as safely upon the past and future states of this very
spot, as if he were standing and getting wet with the spray.
He would tell you, at once, that the waterfall was in a. state of
rapid recession ; that it had once formed a wide cataract just at
the spot where the figure is sitting on the heap of debris ; and
that when it was there, part of it came down by the channel on
the left, its bed being still marked by the delicately chiselled
lines of fissure. He would tell you that the foreground had
also once been the top of the fall, and that the vertical fissures
on the right .of it we're evidently then the channel of a side
stream. He would tell you that the fall was then much lower
than it is now, and that being lower, it had less force, and cut
itself a narrower bed ; and that the spot where it reached the
higher precipice is marked by the expansion of the wide basin
which its increased violence has excavated, and by the gradually
increasing concavity of the rocks below, which we see have been
hollowed into a complete vault by the elastic bound of the
water. But neither he nor I could tell you with what exquisite
and finished marking of every fragment and particle of soil or
rock, both in its own structure and the evidence it bears of these
great influences, the whole of this is confirmed and carried out.
With this inimitable drawing we may compare the rocks in
the foreground of the Llanthony. These latter are not divided
by joints, but into thin horizontal and united beds, which the
torrent in its times of flood has chiselled away,
instance of an ex- leaving one exposed under another, with the sweep-
rnTes°m thle£fan- ing marks of its eddies upon their edges. And
here we have an instance of an exception to a gen
eral rule, occasioned by particular and local action. We have
seen that the action of water over any surface universally,
whether falling, as in rain, or sweeping, as a torrent, induces
convexity of form. But when we have rocks in situ, as here,
exposed at their edges to the violent Uction of an eddy, that eddy
will cut a vault or circular space for itself, (as we saw on a large

322 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. . [PART H,
scale with the high waterfall,) and we have a concave curve in,
terrupting the general contours of the rock. And thus Turner
(while every edge of his masses is rounded, and, the moment we
rise above the level of the water, all is convex) has interrupted
the great contours of his strata with concave curves, precisely
where the last waves of the torrent have swept against the ex
posed edges of the beds. Nothing could more strikingly prove
the depth of that knowledge by which every touch of this con
summate artist is regulated, that universal command of subject
which never acts for a moment on anything conventional or
habitual, but fills every corner and space with new evidence of
knowledge, and fresh manifestation of thought.
The Lower Pall of the Tees, with the chain-bridge, might
serve us for an illustration of all the properties and forms of ver
tical beds of rock, as the upper fall has of horizontal ; but we
§26. Turner's pass rather to observe, in detached pieces of fore-
teched^iocksdof ground, the particular modulation of parts which
weathered stone. camiot be investigated in the grand combinations j
qf general mass.
The blocks of stone which form the foreground of the TTlles-.
water are, I believe, the finest example in the world of the fin-'
ished drawing of rocks which have been subjected to violent
aqueous action. Their surfaces seem to palpitate from the fine-
touch of the waves, and every part of them is rising or falling in
soft swell or gentle depression, though the eye can scarcely trace
the fine shadows on which this chiselling of the surface depends.
And with all this, every block of them has individual character,'
dependent on the expression of the angular lines of which its
contours were first formed, and which is retained and felt
through all the modulation and nielting of the water-worn sur
face. And what is done here in the most important part of the
picture, to be especially attractive to the eye, is often done by
Turner with lavish and overwhelming power, in the accumulated
debris of a wide foreground, strewed with the ruin of ages, as,
for instance, in the Junction of the Greta and Tees, where he .
has choked the torrent bed with a mass of shattered rock,
thrown down with the profusion and carelessness of nature her
self ; and yet every separate block is a study, (and has evidently
been drawn from nature,) chiselled and varied in its parts, as ii

BEC. IV. CH. IV.] OF THE FOREGROUND. 323
it were to be the chief member of a separate subject ; yet with
out ever losing, in a single instance, its subordinate position, or
occasioning, throughout the whole accumulated multitude, the
repetition of a single line.
I consider cases like these, of perfect finish and new concep
tion, applied and exerted in the drawing of every member of a
confused and almost countlessly-divided system, about the most
wonderful, as well as the most characteristic pas-
com'piicated fore- sages of Turner's foregrounds^ It is done not less
810011 ' marvellously, though less distinctly, in the indi
vidual parts of all his broken ground, as in examples like these
of separate blocks. The articulation of such a passage as the
nearest bank, in the picture we have already spoken of at so
great length, the Upper Eall of the Tees, might serve us for a
day's study, if we were to go into it part by part ; but it is im
possible to do this, except with the pencil ; we can only repeat
the same general observations, about eternal change and un
broken unity, and tell you to observe how the eye is kept
throughout on solid and retiring surfaces, instead of being
thrown, as by Claude, on flat and equal edges. You cannot find
a single edge in Turner's work ; you are everywhere kept upon
round surfaces, and you go back on these you cannot tell how —
never taking a leap, but progressing imperceptibly along the un
broken bank, till you find yourself a quarter of a mile into the
picture, beside the figure at the bottom of the waterfall.
Finally, the bank of earth on the right of the grand drawing
of Penmaen Mawr, may be taken as the standard of the repre
sentation of soft soil modelled by descending rain ; and may
$28. And of loose serve to snow us now exquisite in character are the
BOil- resultant lines, and how full of every species of
attractive and even sublime quality, if we only are wise enough
not to scorn the study of them. The higher the mind, it may
be taken as a universal rule, the less it will scorn that which
appears to be small or unimportant ; and the rank of a painter
may always be determined by observing how he uses, and with
what respect he views the minutise of nature. Greatness of
mind is not shown by admitting small things, but by making
small things great under its influence. He who can take no in
terest in what is small, will take false interest in what is great ;

324 OF TRUTH OF EARTH. [PART It
he who cannot make a bank sublime, will make a mountain
ridiculous. It is not until we have made ourselves acquainted with these
simple facts of form, as they are illustrated by the slighter works
of Turner, that we can become at all competent to enjoy the
combination of all, in such works as the Mercury
of a'u in the ideal and Argus, or Bay of Baiae, in which the mind is
thee£cademypic- at first bewildered by the abundant outpouring, of
the master's knowledge. Often as I have paused
before these noble works, I never felt on returning to them as if
I had ever seen them before ; for their abundance is so deep and
various that the mind, according to its own temper at the time
of seeing, perceives some new series of truths rendered in them,
just as it would on revisiting a natural scene ; and detects -new
relations and associations of these truths which set the whole
picture in a different light at every return to it. And this effect
is especially caused by the management of the foreground ; for"
the more marked objects of the picture may be taken one by
one, and thus examined and known ; but the foregrounds of
Turner are so united in all their parts that the eye cannot take
them by divisions, but is guided from stone to stone, and bank
to bank, discovering truths totally different in aspect, according
to the direction in which it approaches them, and approaching
them in a different direction, and viewing them as a part of a
new system, every time that it begins its course at a new point.
§so. And the One lesson, however, we are invariably taught by
ieereceive8dirom all> however approached or viewed,— that the work
*"¦ of the Great Spirit of nature is as deep and unap
proachable in the lowest as in the noblest objects, — that the
Divine mind is as visible in its full energy of operation on every
lowly bank and mouldering stone, as in the lifting of the pillars
of heaven, and settling the foundation of the earth ; and that
to the rightly perceiving mind, there is the same infinity, the
same majesty, the same power, the same unity, and the same
perfection, manifest in the casting of the clay as in the scatter
ing of the cloud, in the mouldering of the dust as in the kin
dling of the day-star.

SZEQTTO-ISr "V.
OF TEUTH OP WATER.

CHAPTER I.
OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY THE ANCIENTS.
Of all inbrganic substances, acting in their own proper na'-
ture, and without assistance or combination, water is the most
.wonderful. If we think of it as the source of all the changeful-
si. sketch of ness and beauty which we have seen in clouds ;
¦taflnftragencyof then as the instrument by which the earth we have
water. contemplated was modelled into symmetry, and its
crags chiselled into grace ; then as, in the form of snow, it robes
the mountains it has made, with that transcendent light which
we could not have conceived if we had not seen ; then as it ex
ists in the form of the torrent — in the iris which spans it, in the
morning mist which rises from it, in the deep crystalline pools
which mirror its hanging shore, in the broad lake and glancing
river; finally, in that which is to all human minds the best
emblem of unwearied, unconquerable power, the wild, various,
fantastic, tameless unity of the sea ; what shall we compare to
this mighty, this universal element, for glory and for beauty ?
or how shall we follow its eternal changef ulness of feeling ? It
is like trying to paint a soul.
To suggest the ordinary appearance of calm water — to lay on
eanvas as much evidence of surface and reflection as may make
us understand that water is meant — is, perhaps, the easiest task
of art ; and even ordinary running or falling water
with which a com- may be sufficiently rendered, by observing careful
S ofru?maynbe curves of projection with a dark ground, and break-
ffibiiity heoi°a ing a little white over it, as we see done with
faithful one. judgment and truth by Ruysdael. But to paint

326 '" OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PART n.
the actual play of hue on the reflective surface, or to give the
forms and fury of water when it begins to show itself — to give
the flashing and rocket-like velocity of a noble cataract, or the
precision and grace of the sea waves, so exquisitely modelled,
though so mockingly transient — so mountainous in its form, yet
so cloud-like in its motion — with its variety and delicacy of
color, when every ripple and wreath has some peculiar passage
of reflection upon -itself alone, and the radiating and scintillat-.
ing sunbeams are mixed with the dim hues of transparent depth
and dark' rock below ; — to, do this .perfectly, is beyond the power
of man ; to do it even partially, has been granted to but one or
two, even of those -few who have dared to, attempt it. ,
As the general laws which govern the appearances of water
have equal effect on all its forms, it would be injudicious to
treat the subject in divisions ; for the same forces which govern
the waves and foam of the torrent, are equally in-
properiy dividing fluential on those of the sea ; and it will be more,
convenient to glance generally at the system of
water-painting of each school and artist, than to devote separate
chapters to the examination of the lake, river, or sea-painting of
all. We shall, therefore, vary our usual plan, and look first at
the water-painting of the ancients ; then at that of the moderns
generally ; lastly, at that of Turner.
It is necessary in the outset to state briefly one or two of t'-ie
optical conditions by which the appearance of the surface of
water is affected ; to describe them all would require a separate
§4. inaccuracy of essaJ> even if I possessed the requisite knowledge,.
effect among 'Iu which I. do not. The accidental modifications
painters. under which general laws come into play are
innumerable, and often, in their extreme complexity, inexpli
cable-, I suppose, even by men of the most extended optical
knowledge. What I shall here state are a few only of the broad- ,
est laws verifiable by the reader's immediate observation, but of
which nevertheless, I have found artists frequently ignorant ;
swing to their habit of sketching from nature without thinking
or reasoning, and especially of finishing at home. It is not
often, I believe, that an artist draws the reflections, in water as
de sees them ; over large spaces, and in weather that is not very
calm, it is nearly impossible to do so ; when it is possible, some-

BEC. V. CH. I.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY THE ANCIENTS. 32?
times in haste, and sometimes in idleness, and sometimes under
the idea of improving nature, they are slurred or misrepresented ;
it is so easy to give something like a suggestive resemblance of
calm water, that, even when the landscape is finished from
nature, the water is merely indicated as something that may be
done at any time, and then, in the home work, come the cold
leaden grays with some, and the violent blues and .greens with
others, and the horizontal lines with the feeble, and the bright
touches and sparkles with the'dexterous, and everything that is
shallow and commonplace with all. Now, the fact is, that there
is hardly a roadside pond or pool which has not as much land
scape in it as above it. It is not the brown, muddy, dull thing
we suppose it to be ; it has a heart like ourselves, and in the bot
tom of that there are the boughs of the tall trees, and the blades
of the shaking grass, and all manner of hues, of variable, pleas
ant light out of the sky ; nay, the ugly gutter, that .stagnates
over the drain bars, in the heart of the foul cityj is not altogether
base ; down in that, if you will look deep enough, you may see
the dark, serious blue of far-off sky, and the passing of pure
clouds. It is at your own will that you see in that despised
,. stream, either the refuse of the street, or the image of the sky —
so it is with almost all other things that we unkindly despise.
Now, this farseeing is just the difference between the great
and the vulgar painter ; the common man knows the roadside
pool is muddy, and draws its mud ; the great painter sees beneath
and behind the brown surface what will take him a day's work
to follow, but he follows it, cost what it will. And if painters
would only go out to the nearest common and take the nearest
dirty pond among the furze, and draw, that thoroughly, not con
sidering that it is water, that they are drawing, and that water
must be dpne in a certain way ; but drawing determinedly what
they see, that is to say, all the trees, and their shaking leaves,
and all the hazy passages of disturbing sunshine ; and the bot
tom seen in the clearer little bits at the edge, and the stones of
it, and all the sky, and the clouds far down in the middle, drawn
as completely, and more delicately they must be, than the real
clouds abote, they would come home with such a notion of
water-painting as might save me and every one else all trouble
of writing more about the matter ; but now they do nothing of

328 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PART n.
the kind, but take the ugly, round, yellow surface for granted,
or else improve it, and, instead of giving that refined, complex,
delicate, but saddened and gloomy reflection in the polluted
water, they clear it up with coarse flashes of yellow, and green,
and blue, and spoil their own eyes, and hurt ours ; failing, of
course, still more hopelessly in touching the pure, inimitable
light of waves thrown loose ; and so Canaletto is still thought to
have painted canals, and Vandeyelde and Backhuysen to have
painted sea, and the uninterpreted streams and maligned sea
hiss shame upon us from all their rocky beds and hollow shores.
I approach, this part of my subject with more despondency,
than any other, and that for several reasons ; first, the water
painting of all the elder landscape painters, excepting a few of
the better passages of Claude and Ruysdael, is so
J 5. Difflcultyof vi i j n • j i x-
treating tMs part execrable, so beyond all expression and explanation
bad ; and Claude's and Ruysdael's best so cold and
valueless, that I do not know how to address those who like such
painting ; I do not know what their sensations are respecting
sea. I can perceive nothing in Vandevelde or Backhuysen of
the lowest redeeming merit ; no power, no presence of intellect
— or evidence of perception — of any sort or kind ; no resem
blance — even the feeblest — of anything natural ; no invention-
even the most sluggish— of anything agreeable. Had they given
us staring green seas with hatchet edges, such as we see Her
Majesty's ships so-and-so fixed into by the heads or sterns in the
first room of the Royal Academy, the admiration of them would
have been comprehensible ; there being a natural predilection
in the mind of men for green waves with curling tops, but not
for clay and wool ; so that though I can understand, in some
sort, why people admire everything else in old art, why they ad
mire Salvator's rocks, and Claude's foregrounds, and Hobbima' s
trees, and Paul Potter's cattle, and Jan Steen's pans ; and while
I can perceive in all these likings a root which seems right and
legitimate, and to be appealed to ; yet when I find they can even
endure the sight of a Backhuysen on their room walls (I speak
seriously) it makes me hopeless at once. I may be wrong, or
they may be wrong, but at least I can conceive of no principle
or opinion common between us, which either can address or un
derstand in the other ; and yet I am wrong in this want of con-

MSC. V. CH. I.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY THE ANCIENTS. 329
ception, for I know that Turner once liked Vandevelde, and I
can trace the evil influence of Vandevelde on most of his early
sea painting, but Turner certainly could not ' have liked Van-
-'develde without some legitimate cause. Another discouraging
point is that I cannot catch a wave, nor Daguerreotype it, and
so there is no eoming to pure demonstration ; but the forms
and hues of water must always be in some measure a matter of
dispute and feeling, and the more so because there is no perfect
or even tolerably perfect sea painting to refer to : the sea never
has been, and I fancy never will be nor can be painted ; it is
only suggested by means of more or less spiritual and intelligent
conventionalism ; and though Turner has done enough to sug
gest the sea mightily and gloriously, after all it is by conven
tionalism still, and there remains so much that is unlike nature;
that it is always possible for those who do not feel his- power
to" justify their dislike, on very sufficient and reasonable grounds ;
and to maintain themselves obstinately unreceptant of the good,
by insisting on the deficiency which no mortal hand can supply,
and which commonly is most manifest on the one hand, where
most has been achieved on the other.
' With calm water the case is different. Pacts are ascertain
able and demonstrable there, and by the notice of one or two of
the simplest, we may obtain some notion of the little success and
intelligence of the elder painters in this easier field, and so
prove their probable failure in contending with greater difficul
ties. First : Water, of course, owing to its transparency, possesses
hot a perfectly reflective surface,, like that of speculum metal,
> but a surface whose reflective power is dependent on the angle
at which the rays to be reflected fall. The smaller
S6. General laws , . , ,, , n ^ j
which regulate the this angle, the greater are the number oi rays re-
fereu°mFirst° the fleeted. Now, according to" the number of rays
itePref?eCctive bu"- reflected is the force of the image of objects above,
and according to the number of rays transmitted is
the perceptibility of objects below the water. Hence the visi
ble .transparency and reflective power of water are in inverse
ratio; In' looking down into it from above, we receive trans
mitted rays which exhibit either the bottom, or the objects float
ing in the water ; or else if the water be deep and clear, we

330 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PART Ho
receive very few rays, and the water looks black. In looking
along water we receive reflected rays, and therefore the image,
of objects above it. Hence, in shallow water on a level shore
the bottom is seen at our feet, clearly ; it becomes more and
more obscure as it retires, even though the water do not increase
in depth, and at a distance of twelve or twenty yards — more- or
less according to our height above the water — becomes entirely
invisible; lost in the lustre of the reflected surface.
Second : The brighter the objects reflected, the larger the
angle at which reflection is visible ; it is always to be remem
bered that, strictly speaking, only light objects are reflected, and
§7. The inherent that the darker ones are seen only in proportion to
modmesWdark re- *he number of rays of light that they can send ; so
Sof'affert "bright *hat a dark object comparatively loses its power to
ones' affect the surface of water, and the water in the
space of a dark reflection is seen partially with the image of the
object, and partially transparent. It will be found on observa
tion that under a bank — suppose with dark trees above showing.
spaces of bright sky, the bright sky is reflected distinctly, and
the bottom of the water is in those spaces not seen ; but in the
dark spaces of reflection we see the bottom of the water, and
the color of that bottom and of the water itself mingles with and
modifies that of the color of the trees casting the dark reflection.
This is one of the most beautiful circumstances connected
with water surface, for by these means a variety of color and a
grace and evanescence are introduced in the reflection otherwise
impossible. Of course at great distances even the darkest ob
jects cast distinct images, and the hue of the water cannot be
seen, but in near water the occurrence of its own color modify
ing the dark reflections, while it leaves light ones unaffected, is
of infinite value.
Take, by way of example, an extract from my own diary at
Venice. " May 17th, 4 p.m. Looking east the water is calm, and re
flects the sky and vessels, with this peculiarity ; the sky, which
is pale blue, is in its reflection of the same kind of blue, only a
little deeper ; but the vessels' hulls, which are black, are reflected
in pale sea green, i.e., the natural color of the water under sun
light ; while the orange masts of the vessels, wet with a recent

BEC. V. OH. I.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY THE ANCIENTS. 331
shower, are reflected without change of color, only not quite so
bright as above. One ship has a white, another a red stripe,"
(I ought to have said horizontal along the gunwales,) ' of these
the water takes no notice. '
" What is curious, a boat passes across with white and dark
figures, the water reflects the dark ones in green, and misses out
all the white ; this is chiefly owing to the dark images being op-
feposed to the bright reflected, sky."
I have left the passage about the white and red stripe, be
cause it will be useful to us presently ; all that I wish to insist
upon here is the showing of the local color (pea green) of the
water in the spaces which were occupied by dark reflections, and
the unaltered color of the bright ones.
Third : Clear water takes no shadow, and that for two rea-
, sons \. A perfect surface of speculum metal takes no shadow,
(this the reader may instantly demonstrate for himself,) and a
88. Water takes perfectly transparent body as air takes no shadow ;
no shadow. hence water, whether transparent or reflective^
takes no shadow.
But shadows, or the forms of them, appear on water frequently
and sharply : it is necessary carefully to explain the causes of
; these, as they are one of the most eminent sources of error in
water painting.
'First : Water in shade is much more reflective than water in
sunlight. Under sunlight the local color of the water is com
monly vigorous and active, and forcibly affects, as we have seen,
all the dark reflections, commonly diminishing their depth.
Under shade, the reflective power is in a high degree increased,*
and it will be found most frequently that the forms of shadows
are expressed on the surface of water, not by actual shade, but
by more genuine reflection of objects above. This is another
most important and valuable circumstance, arid we owe to it
some phenomena of the highest beauty.
A very muddy river, as the Arno for instance at Florence, is
seen during sunshine of its own yellow color, rendering all
reflections discolored and feeble. At twilight it recovers its
* I state this merely as a fact : I am unable satisfactorily to account for
it on optical principles, and were it otherwise, the investigation would he
of little interest to the general reader, and little value to the artist.

332 OF TRUTH OF WATER. ' [part n.
reflective power to the fullest extent, and the mountains of Car
rara are seen reflected in it as clearly as if it were a crystalline
lake. The Mediterranean, whose determined blue yields to
hardly any modifying color in daytime, receives at evening the,
image of its rocky shores. On .our own seas, seeming shadows
are seen constantly cast in purple arid blue, upon pale green.
These are no shadows, but the pure reflection of dark or blue
sky above, seen in the shadowed space, refused by the local color
of the sea in the sunlighted spaces, and turned more or less pur
ple by the opposition of the vivid green.
We have seen, however, above, that the local color of water,
while it comparatively refuses dark reflections, accepts bright
ones without deadening them. Hence when a shadow is thrown
across a space of water of strong local color,, re-
of dark reflections ceiving, alternately, light and dark reflections, it "
has no power of increasing the reflectiveness of the
water in the bright spaces, still less of diminishing it ; hence,
on all the dark reflections it is seen more or less distinctly, on
all the light ones it vanishes altogether.
Let us take an instance of the exquisite complexity of effect
induced by these various circumstances in co-operation.
Suppose a, space of clear water showing the bottom under a
group of trees, showing sky through their branches, casting -
shadows on the surface of the water, which we will suppose also
to possess some color of its own. Close to us, we shall see the
bottom, with the shadows of the trees clearly thrown upon it,
and the color of the water seen in its genuineness by transmit
ted light. Farther off, the bottom will be gradually lost sight
of, but it will be seen in the dark reflections much farther than
1 in the light ones. At last it ceases to affect even the former,
and the pure surface effect takes place. The blue bright sky is
reflected truly, but the dark trees are reflected imperfectly, and
the color of the water is seen instead. Where the shadow falls
on these dark reflections a darkness is seen plainly, which' is
found to be composed of the pure clear reflection of the dark
trees ; when it crosses the reflection of the sky, the shadow of
course, being thus fictitious, vanishes.
Farther, of course on whatever dust and other" foulness may
be present in water, real shadow falls clear and dark in propor-

B&C. V. CH, l.J OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY THE ANCIENTS. 333
tion to the quantity of solid substance present. On very muddy
rivers, real shadow falls in sunlight nearly as sharply as on
land ; on our own sea, the' apparent shadow caused by increased
reflection, is much increased in depth by the chalkiness and im
purity of the water.
Farther, when surface is rippled, every ripple, up to a certain
variable distance on each side of the spectator, and at a certain
angle between him and the sun, varying with the size and shape
of the ripples, reflects to him a small image of the sun. Hence
those dazzling fields of expanding light so often seen upon the
sea. Any object that comes between the sun and these ripples,
takes from them th'e power of reflecting the sun, and in conse
quence, all their light ; hence any intervening objects cast appar
ent shadows upon such spaces of intense force, and of the, exact
shape, and in the exact place of real shadows, and yet which are
no more real shadows than the withdrawal of an image of a
piece of white paper from a mirror is a shadow on the mirror.
Farther, in all shallow water, more or less in proportion to its
shallowness, but in some measure, I suppose, up to depths of
forty or fifty fathoms, and perhaps more, the local color of the
water depends in great measure on light reflected from the bot
tom. This, however, is especially manifest in clear rivers like
the Rhone, where the absence of the light reflected from below
forms an apparent shadow? often visibly detached some distance
from the floating object which casts it.
The following extract from my own diary at
the'wate™ofesthe Geneva, with the subsequent one, which is a con-
"J" *" tinuation of that already given in part at Venice,
will illustrate both this and the other points we have been stat
ing- ,
" Geneva, 21st April, Morning.
" The sunlight falls from the cypresses of Rousseau's island
straight towards the bridge. The shadows of the bridge and of
the trees fall on the water in leaden purple, opposed to its gen
eral hue of aquamarine green. This green color is caused by the
light being reflected from the bottom, though the bottom is not
seen; as is evident by its becoming paler towards the middle of

334 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PART HV
the river, where the water shoals, on which pale part the purple
shadow of the small bridge falls most forcibly, which shadow,
however, is still only apparent, being the absence of this reflected
light, associated with the increased reflective power of the water,
which in those spaces reflects blue sky above. A boat swings in
the shoal water ; its reflection is cast in a transparent pea-green,
which is considerably darker than the pale aquamarine Of the
surface at the spot. Its shadow is detached from it just about
half the depth of the reflection ; which, therefore, forms a
bright green light between the keel of the boat and its shadow ;
where the shadow cuts the reflection, the reflection is darkest
and something like the true color of the boat ; where the shadow
falls out of the reflection, it is of a leaden "purple, pale. The
boat is at an angle of about 20° below. Another boat nearer, in
deeper water, shows no shadow, whatsoever, and the reflection
is marked by its transparent green, while the surrounding water
takes a lightish blue reflection from the sky."
The above notes, after what has been said, require no com
ment ; but one more case must be stated belonging to rough
water. Every large wave of the sea is in ordinary circumstances
divided into, or rather covered by, innumerable smaller waves,
each of which, in all probability, from some of its edges or sur
faces reflects the sunbeams ; and hence result a glitter, polish,
and vigorous light over the whole flank of the wave, which are,
of course, instantly withdrawn within* the space of a cast shadow,
whose form, therefore, though it does not affect the great body
or ground of the water in the least, is sufficiently traceable by
the withdrawal of the high lights ; also every string and wreath
of foam above or within the wave takes real shadow, and thus
adds to the impression.
I have not stated one-half of the circumstances which produce
or influence effects of shadow on water ; but lest I should con
fuse or weary the reader, I leave him to pursue the subject for
himself ; enough having been stated to establish this general
principle, that whenever shadow is seen on clear water, and, in
a measure, even on foul water, it is not, as on land, a dark shade
subduing where it falls the sunny general hue to a lower tone ;
but it is a space of an entirely different, color, subject itself, by
its susceptibility of reflection, to infinite varieties of depth and

SEC. V. CH. I.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY THE ANCIENTS. 335
hue, and liable, under certain circumstances, to disappear alto
gether ; and that, therefore, whenever we have to paint such
shadows, it is not only the hue of the water itself that we have
to consider, but all the circumstances by which in the position
;¦*;¦ attributed to them such shaded spaces could be affected.
!'-v ^ Fourth : If water be rippled, the side of every ripple next to
us reflects a piece of the sky, and the side of every ripple farthest
from us reflects a piece of the opposite shore, or of whatever ob
jects may be beyond the ripple. But as we soon
- - lippie on distant lose sight of the farther sides of the ripples on the
retiring surface, the whole rippled space will then
" be reflective of the sky only. Thus, where calm distant water
receives reflections of high shores, every extent of rippled sur-
face appears as a bright line interrupting that reflection with the
color of the sky.
Fifth : When a ripple or swell is seen at such an angle as to
afford a view of its farther side, it carries the reflection of ob-
jects farther down than calm water would. Therefore all mo
tion in water elongates reflections, and throws
6f rfnectionVby them into confused vertical lines. The real amount
of this elongation is not distinctly visible, except
in the case of very bright objects, and especially of lights, as
of the sun, moon, or lamps by a river shore, whose reflections
are hardly ever seen as circles or points, which of course they are
on perfectly calm water, but as long streams of tremulous light.
But it is strange that while we are constantly in the habit of
seeing the reflection of the sun, which ought to be a mere circle,
elongated into a stream of light extending from the horizon to
the shore, the elongation of the reflection of a sail or other ob
ject to one-half of this extent is received, if represented in a pic
ture, with incredulity by the greater number of spectators. In
one of Turner's' Venioss the image of the white lateen-sails of
the principal boat is about twice as long as the sails themselves. •
I have heard the truth of this simple effect disputed over and
over again by intelligent persons, and yet on any water so ex
posed as the lagoons of Venice, the periods are few and short
when there is so little motion as that the reflection of sails a
mile off shall not affect the swell within six feet of the spectator.
There is, however, a strange arbitrariness about this elonga-

336 OF TRUTH OF WATER., [PART H.
tion of reflection, which prevents it froin being truly felt. If
we see on an extent of lightly swelling water surface the image
of a bank of white clouds, with masses of higher accumulation
at intervals, the water will not usually reflect the whole bank in
an elongated form, but it will commonly take the eminent parts,
and reflect them in long straight columns of defined breadth,
and miss the intermediate lower parts altogether ; and even in
doing this it will be capricious, for it will take one eminence,
and miss another, with no apparent reason ; and often when the
sky is covered with white clouds, some of those clouds will cast
long tower-like reflections, and others none, so arbitrarily that
the spectator is often puzzled to find out which are the accepted
and which the refused.
In many cases of this kind it will be found rather that the eye
is, from want of use and care, insensible to the reflection than
that the reflection is not there ; and a little thought and careful ¦
observation will show us that what we commonly suppose to be
a surface of uniform color is, indeed, affected more or less by an
infinite variety of hues, prolonged, like the sun image, from a
great distance, and that our apprehension of its lustre, purity,
and even of its surface, is in no small degree dependent on our
feeling of these multitudinous hues, which the continual motion '
of that surface prevents us from analyzing or understanding for
what they are.
Sixth : Rippled water, of which we can see the farther side of
the waves, will reflect a perpendicular line clearly, a bit of its
length being given on the side of each wave, and easily joined
§ 13. Effect of hy the eye. But if the line slope, its reflection will
hOT?zontaiaterand he excessively confused and disjointed ; and if hori-
inciined images. zontal, nearly invisible. It was this circumstance
which prevented the red and white stripe of the ships at Venice,
noticed above, from being visible.
Seventh : Every reflection is the image in reverse of just so
much of the objects beside the water, as we could see if we were
placed as much under the level of the water as we are actually
§14. To what above it. If an object be so far back from the
fs^i^ibif^o-m hank, that if we were five feet under the water
above. leYe] we coxli^ n0^ gee ft over ^e bank, then, stand
ing five feet above the water, we shall not be able to see its im-

SEC. V. CH. I.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY THE ANCIENTS. 337
age under the reflected bank. Hence the reflection of all objects
that have any slope back from the water is shortened, and at last
disappears as we rise above it. Lakes seen from a great height
appear like plates of metal set in the landscape, reflecting the
sky but none of their shores.
-.¦ Eighth : Any given point of the object above the water is re,
fleeted, if reflected at all, at some spot in a, vertical line beneath
it, so long as the plane of the water is horizontal. On rippled
§15. Deflection waiter a slight deflection sometimes takes place, and
agitatedwater011 tne ima&e of a vertical tower will slope a little
away from -the wind, owing to the casting of the
image on the sloping sides of the ripples. On the sloping sides
of large waves the deflection is in proportion to the slope. For
rough practice, after the slope of the wave is determined, let the
artist turn his paper until it becomes horizontal, and then paint
the. reflections of any object upon it as on level water, and he
will be right.
Such are the most common and general optical laws which are
to be taken into consideration in the painting of water. Yet,
. .in the application of them, as tests of good or bad water paint-
§J6. Necessity of mg> we must be cautious in the extreme. An ar-
weHas o?scienco! ^ist maT know all these laws, and comply with them,
taken ""by Jreat an(* Je^ paint water execrably ; and he maybe igno-
men- rant of every one of them, and, in their turn, and in
certain places, violate every one of them, and yet paint water
gloriously. Thousands of exquisite effects take place in nature,
utterly inexplicable, and which can be believed only while they
are seen ; the combinations and applications 6f the above laws
are so varied and complicated that no knowledge or labor could, ^
v if , applied analytically, keep pace with them. Constant and
eager watchfulness, and portfolios filled with actual statements
of water-effect, drawn on the spot and on the instant, are worth
more to the painter than the most extended optical knowledge ;
without these all his knowledge will end in a pedantic falsehood. ..
With these it does not matter how gross or how daring here and
there may be his violations of this or that law ; his very trans
gressions will be admirable.
It may be said, that this is a dangerous principle to advance
in these days of idleness. I cannot help it ; it is true, and must

338 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [part H.
be affirmed. Of all contemptible criticism, the most to be con
temned is that which punishes great works of art when they
fight without armor, and refuses to feel Or acknowledge the
great spiritual refracted sun of their truth, because it has risen
at a false angle, and burst upon them before its appointed time.
And yet, on the other hand, let it be observed that it is not feel
ing, nor fancy, nor imagination, so called, that I have put be
fore science, but watchfulness, experience, affection and trust in
nature ; and farther let it be observed, that there is a difference*
between the license taken by one man and another, which.
makes one license admirable, and the other punishable ; and
that this difference is of a kind sufficiently discernible by every
earnest person, though it is not so explicable as that we can be
forehand say where and when, or even to whom, the license is to
be forgiven. In the Paradise of Tintoret, in the Academy of
Venice, the Angel is seen in the distance driving Adam and Eve
out of the garden. Not, for Tintoret, the leading to the gate
with consolation or counsel ; his strange ardor of conception is
seen here as everywhere. Full speed they fly, the angel and the
human Creatures ; the angel wrapt in an orb of light floats on,
stooped forward iri his fierce flight, and does not touch the
ground ; the chastised creatures rush before him in abandoned
terror. All this might have been invented by another, though
in other hands it would assuredly have been offensive ; but one
circumstance which coiripletes the story could have been thought
of or dared by none but Tintoret. The Angel casts a shadow
before him towards Adam and Eve.
Now that a globe of light should cast a shadow is a license,, as
far as mere optical matters are concerned, of the most audacious
kind. But how beautiful is the circumstance in its application
here, showing that the angel, who is light to all else around
him, is darkness to those whom he is commissioned to banish
forever. I have before noticed the license of Rubens in making his
horizon an oblique line. His object is to carry the eye to a
given point in the distance. The road winds to it, the clouds
fly at it, the trees nod to it, a flock of sheep scamper towards it,
a carter points his whip at it, his horses pull for it, the figures
push for it, and the horizon slopes to it. If the horizon had

SHOJ V. OH. I.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY THE ANCIENTS. 339
been horizontal, it would have embarrassed everything and
everybody. r* In Turner's Pas de Calais there is a buoy poised on the ridge
of a near wave. It casts its reflection vertically down the flank
of the wave, which slopes steeply. I cannot tell whether this is •
a license or a mistake ; I suspect the latter, for the same thing
occurs not unfrequently in Turner's seas ; but I am almost cer
tain that it would have been done wilfully in this case, even had
the mistake been pointed out, for the vertical line is necessary
to the picture, and the eye is so little accustomed to catch the
real bearing of the reflections on the slopes of waves that it does
not feel the fault.
In one of the smaller rooms of the Uffizii at Florence, off the
Tribune, there are two so-called Claudes ; one a pretty wooded
landscape, I think a copy, the other a marine with architecture,
very sweet and genuine. The sun is setting at the
censes or errors side of the picture, it casts a long stream of light
o" cihudeTcuypf upon the water. This stream of light is oblique,
and comes from the horizon, where it is under the
sun, to a point near the centre of the picture. If this had been
done as a license, it would be an instance of most absurd and
unjustifiable license, as the fault is detected by the eye in a mo
ment, and there is no occasion nor excuse for it. But I imagine
it to be an instance rather of the harm of imperfect science.
Taking his impression instinctively from nature, Claude usually
did what is right and put his reflection vertically under the sun ;
probably, however, he had read in some treatise on optics that
every point in this reflection was in a vertical plane between the
sun, and spectator ; or he might have noticed walking on the
shore that the reflection came straight from the sun to his feet,
and intending to indioate the position of the spectator, drew in
his next picture the reflection sloping to the supposed point, the
error beirig excusable enough, and plausible enough to have been
lately revived and systematized.* .
' - * Parsey's " Convergence of Perpendiculars," I have not space here to
enter into any lengthy exposure of this mistake, but reasoning is fortu
nately unnecessary, the appeal to experiment being easy. Every picture
is the representation, as before stated, of a vertical plate of glass, with what
might be seen through it, drawn on its surface. Let a vertical plate of

340 OF TRUTH OF WATER. fPAETH.
In the picture of Cuyp, No. 83 in the Dulwich Gallery, the
post at the end of the bank casts three or four radiating reflec
tions. This is visibly neither license nor half science, but pure
ignorance. Again, in the picture attributed to Paul Potter, No.
.176, Dulwich Gallery, I believe most people must feel, the.mo-
ment they look at it, that there is something wrong with the
water, that it looks odd, and hard, and like ice or lead ; and
though they may not be able to tell the reason of the impression.
— for when they go near they will find it smooth and lustrous,
and prettily painted — yet they will not be able to shake off the
unpleasant sense of its being like a plate of bad mirror set in a
model landscape among moss, rather than like a pond. The
reason is, that while this water receives clear reflections from the
fence and hedge on the left, and is everywhere smooth and evi
dently capable of giving true images, it yet reflects none of the
cows. In the Vandevelde (113) there is not a line of ripple or swell
in any part of the sea ; it is absolutely windless, and the near
boat casts its image with great fidelity, which being unprolonged
downwards informs us that the calm is perfect, (Rule V.,) and
being unshortened informs us that we are on a level with the
water, or nearly so. (Rule VII.) Yet underneath the vessel on
the right, the gray shade which stands for reflection breaks 'off
immediately, descending like smoke a little way below the hull,
then leaving the masts and sails entirely unrecorded. This I
imagine to be not ignorance, but unjustifiable license. Vande
velde evidently desired to give an impression of great extent of
surface, and thought that if he gave the reflection more faith- v
fully, as the tops of the masts would come down to the nearest
part of the surface, they would destroy the evidence of distance,
and appear to set the ship above the boat instead <of beyond it.
glass be taken, and wherever it be placed, whether the sun be at its side or
at its centre, the reflection will always be found in a vertical line under the
sun, parallel with the side of the glass. The pane of any window looking to .
sea is all the apparatus necessary for this experiment, and yet it is not long
since this very principle was disputed with me by a man of much taste and
information, who supposed Turner to be wrong in drawing the reflection
straight down at the side of his picture, as in his Lancaster Sands, and in
numerable other instances.

SEC. V. CH. I.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY THE ANCIENTS. 341
I doubt not in such awkward hands that such would indeed have
been the case, but he is not on that account to be excused for
painting his surface with gray horizontal lines, as is done by
nautically-disposed children ; for no destruction of distance in
the ocean is so serious a loss as that of its liquidity. It is better
to feel a want of extent in the sea, than an extent which we
might walk upon or play'at billiards upon.
¦ Among all the pictures of Canaletto, which I have ever seen,
and they are not a few, I remember but one or two where there
is any variation from one method of treatment of the water.
§ is. And cana- ^-e almost always covers the whole space of it with
fctto. one monotonous ripple, composed of a coat of well-
chosen, but perfectly opaque and smooth sea-green, covered with
a certain number, I cannot state the exact average, but it varies
from three hundred and fifty to four hundred and upwards, ac
cording to the extent of canvas to be covered, of white concave
touches, which are very properly symbolical of ripple.
And, as the canal retires back from the eye, he very geometri
cally -diminishes the size of his ripples, until he arrives at an
even fleld of apparently smooth water. By our sixth rule, this
rippling water as it. retires should show more and more of the
reflection of the sky above it, and less and less of that of objects
beyond it, until, at two or three hundred yards down the canal,
the whole fleld of water should be one even gray or blue, the
color of the sky receiving no reflections whatever of other ob
jects. What does Canaletto do ? Exactly in proportion as he
retires, he displays more and more of the reflection of objects,
and less and less, of the sky, until, three hundred yards away, all
theshouses are reflected as clear and sharp as in a quiet lake.
This, again, is wilful and inexcusable violation of truth, of
which the reason, as in the last case, is the painter's conscious-,
ness of weakness. It is one of the most difficult things in the
world to express the light reflection of the blue sky on a distant
ripple, and to make the eye understand the cause of the color,
and the motion of the apparently smooth water, especially where
there are buildings above to be reflected, for the eye never un
derstands the want of the reflection. But it is the easiest and
most agreeable thing in the world to give the inverted image : it
occupies a vast space of otherwise troublesome distance in the

342 OF TRUTH OF WATER._ [PART It
simplest way possible, and is understood by the eye at once.
Hence Canaletto is glad, as any other inferior workman would
be, not to say obliged, to give the reflections, in the distance.
But when he comes up close to the spectator, he finds the
smooth surface just as troublesome near, as the ripple would
have been far off. It is a very nervous thing for an ignorant
artist to have a great space of vacant snfooth water to deal with,
close to him, too far down to take reflections from buildings,
and yet which must be made to look flat and retiring and trans
parent. Canaletto, with his sea-green, did not at all feel him
self equal to anything of this kind, and had therefore no re
source but in the white touches above described, which occupy
the alarming space without any troublesome necessity for knowl
edge or invention, and supply by their gradual diminution some
means of expressing retirement of surface. It is easily underr.
stood, therefore, why he should adopt this system, which is just
what any awkward workman would naturally cling to, trusting,
to the inaccuracy of observation of the public to secure him
from detection.
Now in all these cases it is not the mistake or the license
itself, it is-not the infringement of this or that law which con
demns the picture, but it is the spirit and habit of mind in
§19 whynnpar- which the license is taken, the cowardice or blunt-
uonabie. ness 0f feeling, which infects every part alike, and
deprives the whole picture of vitality. Canaletto, had he been a
great painter, might have cast his reflections wherever he chose,
and rippled the water wherever he chose, and painted his sea
sloping if he chose, and neither I nor any one else should have
dared to say a word against him ; but he is a little and a bad
painter, and so continues, everywhere multiplying and magnify
ing mistakes, and adding apathy to error, until nothing can any
more be pardoned in him. If it be but remembered that every
one of the surfaces of those multitudinous ripples is in nature a
mirror which catches, according to its position, either the image
of the sky or of the silver beaks of the gondolas, or of their
black bodies and scarlet draperies, or of the white marble, or
the green sea-weed on the low stones, it cannot but be felt that
those waves would have something more of color upon them
than that opaque dead green. Green they are by their own na-

BEO. V. CH. I.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY THE ANCIENTS. 343
ture, but it is a transparent arid emerald hue, mixing itself with
the thousand reflected tints without overpowering the weakest
of them ; and thus, in every one of those individual waves, the
truths of color are contradicted by Canaletto by the thousand.
Venice is sad and silent now, to what she was in his time ; the
canals are choked gradually one by one, and the foul water laps
more and more sluggishly against the rent foundations ; but
even yet, could I but place the reader at the early morning on
the quay below the Rialto, when the market boa'ts, full laden,
float into groups _ of golden color, and let him watch the dash
ing of the water about their glittering steely heads, and under
the shadows of the vine leaves, and show him the purple of the
grapes and the figs, and the glowing of the scarlet gourds carried
away in long streams upon the waves, and among them, the
crimson fish baskets, plashing and sparkling, and flaming as the
morning sun falls on their wet tawny sides, and above, the
painted sails of the fishing boats, orange and white, scarlet and
blue, and better than all such florid color, the naked, bronzed,
burning limbs of the seamen, the last of the old Venetian race,
who yet keep the right Giorgione color on their brows and
bosoms, in strange contrast with the sallow sensual degradation
of the creatures that live in the cafes of the Piazza, he would
not be merciful to Canaletto any more.
Yet even Canaletto, in relation to the truths he had to paint,
is spiritual, faithful, powerful, compared to the Dutch painters
of, sea. It is easily understood why his green paint and concave
S so. The Dutch touches should be thought expressive of the water
painters of sea. on whicn the real colors are not to be discerned but
fey attention, which is never given ; but it is not so easily under
stood, considering how many there are who love the sea, and
look at it, that Vandevelde and such others' should be tolerated.
As I before said, I feel utterly hopeless in addressing the admir
ers of these men, because I do not know what it is in their
works which is supposed to be like nature. Foam appears to me
to curdle and cream on the wave Bides and to fly, flashing from
their crests, and not to be set astride upon them like a peruke ;
and waves appear to me to fall, and plunge, and toss, and nod,
and crash over, and not to curl up like shavings ; and water ap
pears to me, when it is gray, to have the gray of stormy air

844 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PARTH.
mixed with its own deep, heavy, thunderous, threatening blue,
and not the gray of the first coat of cheap paint on a deal door ;
and many other such things appear to me which, as far as I can
conjecture by what is admired of marine painting, appear to no
one else ; yet I shall have something more to say about these
men presently, with respect to the effect they have had upon
Turner ; and something more, I hope, hereafter, with the help ;
of illustration. There is a sea-piece of Ruysdael's in ' the Louvre * which,
though nothing very remarkable in any quality of art, is at least
forceful, agreeable, and, as far as it goes, natural ; the waves
have much freedom of action, and power of eolor ;
ciau'de, ani sal- the wind blows hard over the shore, and the whole
picture may be studied with profit as a proof that
the deficiency of color and everything else in Backhuysen's
works, is no fault of the Dutch sea. There is sublimity and
power in every field of nature from the pole to the line ; and
though the painters of one country are often better and greater,
universally, than those of another, this is less because the sub
jects of art are wanting anywhere, than because one country or
one age breeds mighty and thinking men, and another none.
Ruysdael's painting of falling water and brook scenery is also
generally agreeable — more than agreeable it can hardly be con
sidered. There appears no exertion of mind in any of his
works ; nor are they calculated to produce either harm or good
by their feeble influence. They are good furniture pictures, un
worthy of praise, and undeserving of blame.
* In the last edition of this work was the following passage :— " I wish
Ruysdael had painted one or two rough seas. I believe if he had he might
have saved the unhappy public from much grievous victimizing, both in
mind and pocket, for he would have shown that Vandevelde and Back
huysen were not quite sea-deities." The writer has to thank the editor of
Murray's Handbook of Painting in Italy for pointing out the oversight.
He had passed many days in the Louvre before the above passage was
written, but had not been in the habit of pausing long anywhere except in
the last' two rooms, containing the pictures of the Italian school. The
conjecture, however, shows that he had not ill-estimated the power of
Ruysdael ; nor does he consider it as in anywise unfitting him for the task
he has undertaken, that for every hour passed in galleries he has passed days
on the sea-shore.

SEC

V. CH. I.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY THE ANCIENTS. 345

, The seas of Claude are the finest pieces of water-painting in
ancientart. I do not say that I like them, because they appear
"to me selections of the particular moment when the sea is most
insipid and characterless ; but I think that they are exceedingly
true to the forms and time selected, or at least that the fine in
stances of them are so, of which there are exceedingly few.
' On the right hand of one of the marines of Salvator, in the
Pitti palace, there is a passage of sea reflecting the sunrise, which
is thoroughly good, and very like Turner ; the rest of the picture,
as the one opposite to it, utterly virtueless. I have not seen
any other instance of Salvator's painting water with any care, it
is usually as conventional as the rest of his work, yet conven
tionalism is perhaps more tolerable in water-painting than else
where ; and if his trees and rocks had been good, the rivers
• might have been generally accepted without objection.
The merits of Poussin as a sea or water painter may, I think,
be sufficiently determined by the Deluge in the Louvre, where
P2. Nicholas the breaking up of the fountains of the deep is
Poussin. typified by the capsizing of a wherry over a weir.
In the1 outer porch of St. Mark's at Venice, among the mosa
ics on the roof, there is a representation of the deluge.. The*
ground is dark blue ; the rain is represented in bright white un
dulating parallel stripes ; between these stripes is seen the massy
outline of the ark, a bit between each stripe, very dark and
hardly distinguishable from the sky ; but it has a square win
dow with a bright golden border, which glitters out conspicu
ously, and leads the eye to the rest — the sea below is almost con
cealed with dead bodies.
On the font of the church of San Frediano at Lucca, there is
a representation of— possibly— the Israelites and Egyptians in
the Red Sea. The sea is typified by undulating bands of stone,
each band composed of three plies (almost the same type is to be
seen in the glass-painting of the twelfth and thirteenth centu
ries, as especially at Chartres). These bands would perhaps be
hardly felt as very aqueous, but for the fish which are interwoven
with them in a complicated manner, their heads appearing at
one side of every band, and their tails at the other.
Both of these representatives of deluge, archaic and rude as
they are, I consider better, more suggestive, more inventive, and

346 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PART 'It.
more natural, than Poussin's. Indeed, this is not saying any
thing very depreciatory, as regards the St. Mark's one, for the
glittering of the golden window through the rain is wonderfully
well conceived, and almost deceptive, looking as if it had just
caught a gleam of sunlight on its panes, and there is some
thing very sublime in the gleam of this light above the floating
corpses. But the other instance is sufficiently grotesque and
imperfect, and yet, I speak with perfect seriousness, it is, I
think, very far preferable to Poussin's.
On the other hand, there is a just medium between the mean
ness and apathy of such a conception, as his, and the extrava
gance, still more contemptible, with which the subject has been
treated in modern days.* I am not aware that I can refer to
any instructive example of this intermediate course, for I fear
the reader, is by this time wearied of hearing of Turner, and the
plate of Turner's picture of the deluge is so rare that it is of no
use to refer to it.
It seems exceedingly strange that the great Venetian painters-
should have left us no instance, as far as I know, of any marine
effects carefully studied. As already noted, whatever passages of
sea occur in their backgrounds are merely broad
and Florentines, extents of blue or green surface, fine in color, and
coming dark usually against the horizon, well
enough to be understood as sea, (yet even that not always with
out the help of a ship,) but utterly unregarded in all questions
of completion and detail. The water even in Titian's landscape
is almost always violently though grandly conventional, and sel
dom forms an important feature. Among the religious schools
very sweet motives occur, but nothing which for a moment can
be considered as real water-painting. Perugino's sea is usually
very beautifully felt ; his river in the fresco of Sta. Maddalena
at Florence is freely indicated, and looks level and clear ; the
reflections of the trees given with a rapid zigzag stroke of the
brush. On the whole, I suppose that the best imitations of level
water, surface to be found in ancient art are in the clear Flemish
* I am here, of course, speaking of the treatment of the subject as a
landscape only ; many mighty examples of its conception occur Where the
sea, and all other adjuncts, are entirely subservient to the figures, as with
Raffaelle and M. Angelo.

; '> 8KC. V. CH. I.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY THE ANCIENTS.

347

landscapes. Cuyp'B are Usually very satisfactory, but even the
best of these attain nothing more tha.n the -agreeable suggestion
of calm pond or river. Of any tolerable representation of water
in agitation, or under any circumstances that bring out its
power and character, I know no instance ; and the more capa
ble of noble treatment the subject happens to be, the more man
ifest invariably is the painter's want of feeling in every effort,
and of knowledge -in every line.

CHAPTER II.

OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY THE MODERNS.
There are few men among modern landscape painters, who
cannot paint quiet water at least suggestively, if not faithfully.
Those who are incapable of doing this, would scarcely be consid
ered artists at all; and anything like the ripples
of theemoaernBVin of Canaletto, or the black shadows of Vandevelde,
painting quiet wa- . -, . -, -, , .
ter. The lakes of would be looked upon as most unpromising, even
in the work of a novice. Among those who most
fully appreciate and render the qualities of space and surface in
calm water, perhaps Copley Fielding stands first. His expanses
of windless lake are among the most perfect passages of his
works ; for he can give surface as well as depth, and make his
lake look not only clear, but, which is far more difficult, lus
trous. He is less dependent than most of our artists upon reflect
tions; and can give substance, transparency, and extent, where
another painter would be reduced to paper ; and he is exquisitely
refined in his expression of distant breadth, by the delicate, line
of ripple interrupting the reflection, and by aerial qualities of
color. Nothing, indeed, can be purer or more refined than his
general feeling of lake sentiment, were it not for a want of sim
plicity — a fondness for pretty, rather than impressive color, and
a consequent want of gome of the higher expression of repose.
Hundreds of men might be named, whose works are highly
instructive in the rnanagement of calm water. De Wint is sin
gularly powerful and certain, exquisitely bright and vigorous in
color. The late John Varley produced some noble
§ 2. The calm rlv- _ J r
ers of De wint, j. passages. 1 have seen, some seven vears ago,
Holland, etc. * i ,_ T tt -n -i i • , T ,, . ,
works by J. Holland, which were, I think, as near
perfection as water-color can be carried — for bona fide truth,
refined and finished to the highest degree. But the power of
modern artists is not brought out until they have greater diffi-

SEC. V. CH. n.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED JBY THE MODERNS. 349
cutties to struggle with. Stand for half an hour beside the fall
**! ™. v °* Schaffhausen, on the north side where the rapids
§3. The character r
of bright and vio- are long, and watch how the vault of water first
lent faUing water. , , " . , . >
bends, unbroken, in pure, polished velocity, over
the arching rocks at the brow of the cataract, covering them
with a dome of crystal twenty feet thick — so swift that its mo
tion is -unseen except when a foam globe from above darts over
it like a falling star ; and how the trees are lighted above it un
der all their leaves, at the instant that it breaks into foam ; and
how all the hollows of that foam burn with green fire like so
much shattering chrysoprase ; and how, ever and anon, startling
you with its white flash, a jet of spray leaps hissing out of the
fall like a rocket, bursting in the wind and driven away in dust,
filling the air with light ; and how, through the- curdling
wreaths of the restless, crashing abyss below, the blue of the
water, paled by the foam in its body, shows purer than the sky
through white rain-cloud; while the shuddering iris stoops in
'tremulous stillness over all, fading and flushing alternately
through the choking spray and shattered sunshine, hiding itself
at last among the thick golden leaves which toss to and fro in
sympathy with the wild water ; their dripping masses lifted at
intervals, like sheaves of loaded corn, by some stronger gush
from the cataract, and bowed again upon the mossy rocks as its
roar dies away ; the dew gushing from their thick branches
'through drooping clusters of emerald herbage, and sparkling in
white threads along the dark rocks of the shore, feeding the
lichens which chase and checker them with purple and silver.
I believe, when you have stood by this for half an hour, you will
have discovered that there is something more in nature than, has
84. As given by heen given by Ruysdael. Probably you will not be
Nesfleid. much disposed to think of any mortal work at the
time ; but when you look back to what you have seen, and are
inclined to compare it with art, you will remember — or ought to
remember — Nesfleid. He is a man of extraordinary feeling,
both for the color and the spirituality of a great waterfall ; ex
quisitely delicate in his management of the changeful veil of
spray or mist ; just in his curves and contours ; and unequalled
in color except by Turner. None of our water-color painters
can approach him in the management of the variable hues of

350 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PARTH.
clear water over weeded rocks ; but his feeling for it often leads
him a little too far, and, like Copley Fielding, he loses sightof
simplicity and dignity for the sake of delicacy or prettiness.
His waterfalls are, however, unequalled in their way ; and, if he
would remember, that in all such scenes there is much gloom as
well as much splendor, and relieve the lustre of his attractive
passages of color with more definite and prevalent grays, and
give a little more substance to parts of his picture unaffected by
spray, his work would be nearly perfect. His seas are also most
instructive ; a little confused in chiaroscuro, but refined in form
and admirable in color.
J. D. Harding is, I think, nearly unequalled in the drawing
of running water. I do not know what Stanfield would do ; I
have never seen an important piece of torrent drawn by him ; but
I believe even he could scarcely contend with the
water-lrtwTnga of magnificent abandon of Harding's brush. There is
ng. perhaps nothing which tells more in the drawing
of water than decisive and swift execution ; for, in a rapid touch
the hand naturally falls into the very curve of projection which
is the absolute truth ; while in slow finish, all precision of curve
and character is certain to be lost, except under the hand of an
unusually powerful master. But Harding has both knowledge
and velocity, and the fall of his torrents is beyond praise ; inipa*
tient, chafing, substantial, shattering, crystalline, and capri
cious ; full of various form, yet all apparently instantaneous and
accidental, nothing conventional, nothing dependent upon par
allel lines or radiating curves ; all broken up and dashed to
pieces over the irregular rock, and yet all in unity of motio'n.
The color also of his falling and bright water is
and painting o\ very perfect ; butj in the dark and level parts of
his torrents he has taken lip a bad gray, which
has hurt some of his best pictures. His gray in shadows under
rocks or dark reflections is admirable ; but it is when the stream
is in full light, and unaffected by reflections in distance, that he
gets wrong. We believe that the fault is in a want of expression
of darkness in the color, making it appear like a positive hue of
the water, for which it is much too dead and cold.
Harding seldom paints sea, and it is well for Stanfield that he
does not, or the latter would have to look to his crown. All

SEC V. CH. n.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY THE MODERNS. 351
that we have seen from his hand is, as coast sea, quite faultless ;
we only wish he would paint it more frequently ; always, how
ever, with a veto upon French fishing-boats. In the Exhibition
of 1842, he spoiled one of the most superb pieces of seashore
and sunset which modern art has produced, with the pestilent
square sail of one of these clumsy craft, which the eye could not
escape from.
Before passing to Our great sea painter, we must' again refer
to the works of Copley Fielding. It is with his sea as with his
•sky, he can only paint one, and that an easy one, but it is, for,
17. The sea of a^ that, an impressive and a true one. No man
itfexcetmng"8' has ever given, with the same flashing freedom,
grace and rapidity. ^e race 0f a running tide under a stiff breeze, nor
caught, with the same grace and precision, the curvature of the
¦ breaking wave, arrested or accelerated by the wind. The for
ward fling of his foam, and the impatient run of his surges,
whose quick, redoubling dash we can almost hear, as they break
in their haste upon their own boso.ms, are nature itself, and his
sea gray or green was, nine years ago, very' right, as color ; al
ways a little wanting in transparency, but never cold or toneless.
Since that time, he seems to have lost the sense of greenness in
water, and_has verged more and more on the purple and black,
. with unhappy results. His sea was always dependent for effect
on its light or dark relief against the sky, even when it possessed
color ; but it now has lost all local color and transparency to
gether, and is little more than a study of chiaroscuro in an ex
ceedingly ill-chosen gray. Besides, the perpetual repetition of
the same idea is singularly weakening to the mind. Fielding,
in all his life,^)an orily be considered as having produced one sea
picture. __ The others are duplicates. He ought to go to some
sea of perfect clearness and brilliant color, as that on the coast
of Cornwall, or of the Gulf of Genoa, and study it sternly in
broad daylight, with no black clouds nor drifting rain to help
him out df his difficulties. He would then both learn his
Btrength and add to it.
But there is one point in all his seas deserving especial praise
§8. its high aim — a marked aim at character. He desires, especial-
«t character. jy m njg jatter works, not so much to produce an
agreeable picture, a scientific piece of arrangement, or delightful

352 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PAKTH,
melody of color, as to make us feel the utter desolation, the
cold, withering, frozen hopelessness of the continuous storm
and merciless sea. And this is peculiarly remarkable in his de
nying himself all color, just in the little bits which an artist of
inferior mind would paint in sienna and cobalt. If a piece of
broken wreck is allowed to rise for an instant through the boil
ing foam, though the blue stripe of a sailor's jacket, or a red
rag of a flag would do all our hearts good, we are not alio wed, to
have it ; it would make us too comfortable, and prevent us from
shivering and shrinking as we look, and the artist, with admir
able intention, and most meritorious self-denial, expresses his
piece of wreck with a dark, cold brown. Now we
In'the requisite think this aim and effort worthy of the highest
quality of giays. prajge^ an£ we onjy ^^ xj^ ]egson yfQXQ taken Up
and acted on by our other artists ; but Mr. Fielding should
remember that nothing of this kind can be done with success
unless by the most studied management of the general tones of
the picture ; for the eye, deprived of all means of enjoying the
gray hues, merely as a contrast to bright points, becomes pain
fully fastidious in the quality of the hues themselves, and de
mands for its satisfaction such melodies and richness of gray as
may in some degree atone to it for the loss of points of stimulus.
That gray which would be taken frankly and freely for an ex
pression of gloom, if it came behind a yellow sail or a red cap,
is examined with invidious and merciless intentness when there
is nothing to relieve it, and, if not able to bear the investiga
tion, if neither agreeable nor variable in its hue, renders the
picture weak instead of impressive, and unpleasant instead of
awful. And indeed the management of nature
the 'grays of na- might teach him this ; for though, when using
violent contrasts, she frequently makes her gloom
somewhat monotonous, the moment she gives up her vivid color,'
and depends upon her desolation, that moment she begins to
steal the greens into her sea-gray, and the browns and yellows
into her cloud-gray, and the expression of variously tinted light
through all. Nor is Mr. Fielding without a model in art, for
the Land's End, and Lowestoffe,' and Snowstorm, (in the Acad
emy, 184&,) of Turner, are nothing more than passages of the
most hopeless, desolate, uncontrasted grays, and yet are three of

SEC. V. CH. Hi] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY THE MODERNS. 353
the very finest pieces of color that have come from his hand.
Ahd we sincerely hope that Mr. Fielding will gradually feel the
necessity of such studied melodies of quiet color, and will
neither fall back into the old tricks of contrast, nor continue to
paint with purple and ink. If he will only make a few care
ful studies of gray from the mixed atmosphere of spray, rain,
and mist of a gale that has been three days hard at work, not of
a rainy squall, but of a persevering and powerful stqrm, and not
where the sea is turned into milk and magnesia by a chalk coast,
but where it breaks pure and green on gray slate or white gran
ite, as along the cliffs of Cornwall, we think his pictures would
present some of the finest examples of high intention and feel
ing to be found in modern art.
The works of Stanfield evidently, and at all times, proceed
_'from the hand of a man who has both thorough knowledge of
his subject, and thorough acquaintance with all the means and
s n. works of principles of art. We never criticise them, be-
perfe^tknowiedge cause we feel, the moment we look carefully at
and power. ^he drawing of any single wave, that the knowl
edge possessed by the master is much greater than our own,
and therefore believe that if anything offends us in any part (
of the work, it is nearly certain to be our fault, and not the
painter's. The local color of Stanfield's sea is singularly true
and powerful, and entirely independent of any tricks bf chiaro
scuro. He will carry a mighty wave up against the sky, and
make its whole body dark and substantial against the distant
light, using all the while nothing more than chaste and unexag-
gerated local color to gain the relief. His surface is at once lus
trous, transparent, and accurate to a hairbreadth in every
curve ; and he is entirely independent of dark skies, deep blues,
driving spray, or any other means of concealing want of form,
or atoning for it. He fears no difficulty, desires no assistance,
takes his sea in open daylight, under general sunshine, and
vpaints the element in its pure color and complete forms. But
we wish that he were less powerful, and more in
fecting."1 General teresting ; or that he were a little less Diogenes-
sSefb^odCTn like, and did not scorn all that he does not want.
art' Now that he has shown us what he can do with
out such aids, we wish he would show us what he can do with

354 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PART It
them. He is, as we have already said, wanting in what we have
just been praising in Fielding-— impressiveness. We should like
him to be less clever, and more affecting— less wonderful, and
more terrible ; and as the very first step towards such an end, to
learn how to conceal. We are, however, trenching upon matters
with which we have at present nothing to do ; our concern is
now only with truth, and one work Of Stanfield alone presents
us with as much concentrated knowledge of sea and sky, as,
diluted, would have lasted any One of the old masters his life.
And let it be especially observed, how extensive and how varied
is the truth of our modern masters — how it comprises a com
plete history of that nature of which, from the ancients, you
only here and there can catch a stammering descriptive syllable
— how Fielding has given us every character of the quiet lake,
Robson * of the mountain tarn, De Wint of the lowland river,
Nesfleid -of the radiant cataract, Harding of the roaring torrent,
Fielding of the desolate sea, Stanfield of the blue, open, bound
less ocean. Arrange all this in your mind, observe the perfect
truth of it in all its parts, compare it with the fragmentary
falsities of the ancients, and then, come with me to Turner.
* I ought before to have alluded to the works of the late G. Robson.
They are a little disagreeable in execution, but there is a feeling of the char
acter of deep calm water in them quite unequalled, and different from the
works and thoughts of all other men.

CHAPTER III.
OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY TURNER.
I believe it is a result of the experience of all artists, that
it is the easiest thing in the world to give a certain degree of
depth and transparency to water ; but that it is next thing to
impossible, to give a full impression of surface. If
§1. The difficulty a .¦ , ¦ ¦ 1 u • ^
of givmg surface no reflection be given — a ripple being supposed —
the water looks like lead : if reflection be given, it
in nine cases out of ten looks morbidly clear and deep, so that
we always go down into it, even when the artist most wishes us
to glide over it; Now, this difficulty arises from the very same
circumstance which "occasions the frequent failure in effect of
the best drawn foregrounds, noticed in Section II. Chapter III.,
the change, namely, of focus necessary in the eye in order tore-
ss. is dependent ceive rays of light coming from different distances.
of the6 eye?ctaand Go to the edge of a pond, in a perfectly calm day,
the'refllctedWrays a* some place where there is duckweed floating on
are perceived. tne surface,— not thick, but a leaf here and there.
Now, you may either see in the water the reflection of the sky,
or you may see the duckweed ; but you cannot, by any effort,
see both together. If you look for the reflection, you will be
sensible of a sudden change or effort in the eye, by which it
adapts itself to the reception of the rays which have come all the
way from the clouds, have struck on the water, and so been sent
up again to the eye. The focus you adopt is one fit for great
distance ; and, accordingly, you will feel that you are looking
down a great way under the water, while the leaves of the duck
weed, though they lie upon the water at the very spot on which
you are gazing so intently, are felt only as a vague, uncertain
interruption, causing a little confusion in the image below, but
entirely indistinguishable as leaves, — and even their color un
known and unperceived. Unless you think of them, you will

356 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PABT II.
not even feel that anything interrupts your sight, so excessively
slight is their effect. If, on the other hand, you make up your
mind to look for the leaves of the duckweed, you will perceive
an instantaneous change in the effort of the eye, by which it
becomes adapted to receive near rays — those which have only
come from the surface of the pond. You will then see the deli
cate leaves of the duckweed with perfect clearness, and in vivid
green ; but while you do so, you will be able to perceive noth
ing of the reflections in the very water on which they float; —
nothing but a vague flashing and melting of light and, dark
hues, without form or meaning, which, to investigate, or find
out what they mean or are, you must quit your hold of the duck
weed, and plunge down.
Hence it appears, that whenever we see plain reflections of
comparatively distant objects, in near water, we cannot possibly
see the surface, and vice versa ; so that when in a painting we
give the reflections with the same clearness with
ness occasioned which they are visible in nature, we presuppose the
ter by distinctness effort of the eye to look under the surface, and,
of reflections. „ jxxi j- j • j j!
of course, destroy the surface, and induce an ef
fect of clearness which, perhaps, the artist has not particularly
wished to attain, but which he has found himself forced into, by
his reflections, in spite of himself. And the reason of this effect
of clearness appearing preternatural is, that people are not in
the habit of looking at water with the distant focus adapted to
the reflections, unless by particular effort. We invariably, un
der ordinary circumstances, use the surface focus ; and, in con
sequence, receive nothing more than a vague and confused
impression of the reflected colors and lines, however clearly,
calmly, and vigorously all may be defined underneath, if we
choose to look for them. We do not look for them, but glide
along over the surface, catching only playing light and
capricious color for evidence of reflection, except where we come
to images of objects close to the surface, which the surface focus
is of course adapted to receive ; and these we see clearly, as of
the weeds on the shore, dr of sticks rising out of the water, etc.
Hence, the ordinary effect of water is only to be rendered by
giving the reflections of the margin clear and distinct (so clear
they usually are in nature, that it is impossible to tell where the

SEC V. CH. m.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY TURNER. 357
water begins ;) but the moment we touch the reflection of dis
tant objects, as of high trees or clouds, that instant we must
become vague and uncertain in drawing, and, though vivid in
¦ color and light as the object itself, quite , indistinct in form and
84. How avoided feature. If we take such a piece of water as that
y Turner. in the foreground of Turner's Chateau of Prince
¦ Albert, the first impression from it is,—" What a wide surface /"
We glide over it a quarter of a mile into the picture before 'we
know where we are, and yet the water is as calm and crystalline
as a mirror ; but we are not allowed to tumble into it, and gasp
forbreath as we go down, — we are kept upon the surface, though
that surface is flashing and radiant with every hue of cloud, and
sun, and sky, and foliage. But the secret is in the drawing of
these reflections.* We cannot tell when we look at them and
for them, what they mean. They have all character, and are
evidently reflections of something definite and determined ; but
. yet they are all uncertain and inexplicable ; playing color and
palpitating shade, which, though we recognize in an instant for
images of something, and feel that the water is bright, and
lovely, and calm, we cannot penetrate nor interpret : we are
not allowed to go down to them, and we repose, as we should in
nature, upon the lustre of the level surface. It is in this power
of saying everything, and yet saying nothing too plainly, that
the perfection of art here, as in all other cases, consists. But .
. as it was before shown in Sect. II. Chap. III. that
on' distant water the focus of the eye required little alteration after
the first half mile of distance, it is evident that on
the distant surface of water, all reflections will be seen plainly ;
* Not altogether. I believe here, as in a former case, I have attributed
far too much influence to this change of focus. In Turner's earlier
works the' principle is not found. In the rivers of the Yorkshire drawings,
every reflection is given clearly, even to the farthest depth, and yet the
surface is not lost, and it would deprive the painter of much power if he
were not sometimes so to represent them, especially when his object is
repose ; it being, of course, as lawful for him to choose one adaptation of
the sight as another. I have, however, left the above paragraphs as flrst
written, because they are true, although I think they make too much of an
unimportant matter. The reader may attribute to them such weight as he
thinks fit. He is referred to § 11 of this chapter, and to § 4 of the flrst
chapter of this section.

358 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PARTH,
for the same focus adapted to a moderate distance of surface will
receive with distinctness rays coming from the sky, or from any
other distance, however great. Thus we always see the reflec
tion of Mont Blanc on the Lake of Geneva, whether we take
pains to look for it or not, because the water upon which it is
cast is itself a mile off ; but if we would see the reflection of
Mont Blanc in the Lac de Chede, which is close to us, we must
take some trouble about the matter, leave the green snakes
swimming upon the surface, and plunge for it. Hence reflec
tions, if viewed collectively, are always clear in proportion to the
distance of the water on which they are cast. And now look at
Turner's Ulleswater, or any of his distant lake expanses, and you
will find every crag and line of the hills rendered in them with
absolute fidelity, while the" near surface shows nothing but a
vague confusion of exquisite and lustrous tint. The reflections
even of the clouds will be given far off, while those of near boats
and figures will be confused and mixed among each other,
except just at the water-line.
And now we see what Vandevelde ought to have done with.
the shadow of his ship spoken of in the first chapter of this sec
tion. In such a calm, we should in nature, if we had looked
The error of ^or the reflection, have seen it clear from the
water-line to the flag on the mainmast ; but iri so
doing, we should have appeared to ourselves to be looking under
the water, and should have lost all feeling of surface. When
we looked at the surface of the sea, — as we naturally should, — we
should have seen the image of the hull absolutely clear and per
fect, because that image is cast on distant water ; but we should
have seen the image of the masts and sails gradually more con
fused as they descended, and the water close to us would have
borne only upon its surface a maze of flashing color and indefi
nite hue. Had Vandevelde, therefore, given the perfect image
of his ship, he would have represented a truth dependent on a
particular effort of the eye, and destroyed his surface. But his
business was to give, not a distinct reflection, but the colors of
the reflection in mystery and disorder upon his near water, all
perfectly vivid, but none intelligible ; and had he done so, the
eye would not have troubled itself to search them out ; it would
not have cared whence or how the colors caine, but it would

8 6.
Vandevelde.

SBC. V. OH. ni.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY TURNER. 359
have felt them to be true and right, and rested satisfied upon
the polished surface of the clear sea. _ Of the perfect truth, the
best examples I can give are Turner's Saltash and Castle Upnor.
Be it next observed that the reflection of all near objects is,
by our fifth rule, not an exact copy of the parts of them which
We see above the water, but a totally different view and arrange-
_ ment of them, that which we should get if we were
S 7. difference in. ... , ,. . __°
arrangement of looking at them from beneath. Hence we see the
parts between the -,,•-,.-, . . , ....
reflected object dark sides of leaves hanging over a stream, in their
reflection, though we see the light sides above, and
all objects and groups of objects are thus seen in the reflection
under different lights, and in different positions with respect to
each other from those which they assume above ; some which we
seeon.the bank being entirely lost in their reflection, and others
which we cannot see on the bank brought into view. Hence
nature contrives never to repeat herself, and the surface of water
is not a mockery, but a new view of what is above it. And this
iiffererice in what is represented, as well as the obscurity of the
representation, is one of the chief sources by which the sensation
of surface is kept up in the reality. The reflection is not so
remarkable, it does not attract the eye in the same degree when
it is entirely different from the images above, as when it mocks
them and repeats them, and we feel that the space and surface
have color and character of their own, and that the bank is one
thing and the water another. It is by not making this change
manifest, and giving underneath a mere duplicate of what is
seen above, that artists are apt to destroy the essence and sub
stance of water, and to drop us through it.
Now one instance will be sufficient to show the exquisite care
of Turner in this respect. On the left-hand side of his Notting
ham, the water (a smooth canal) is terminated by a bank fenced
up with wood, on which, just at the edge of the
from the" works water, stands a white sign-post. A quarter of a
of Turner. mile ^^ the j^ on wnich Nottingham Castle
stands rises steeply nearly to the top of the picture. The
upper part of this hill is in bright golden light, and the lower
in very deep gray shadow, against which the white board of
the sign-post is seen entirely in. light relief, though, being
turned from the light, it is itself in delicate middle tint,

360 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PART H.
illumined only on the edge. But the image of all this in the
canal is very different. First, we have the reflection of the
piles of the bank, sharp and clear, but under this we have not
what we see above it, the dark baseoi the hilV(for this being a
quarter of a mile back, we could not see over the fence if we
were looking from below,) but the golden summit of the hill,
the shadow of the under part having no record nor place in the
reflection. But this summit, being very distant, cannot be seen
clearly by the eye while its focus is adapted to the surface of
the water, and accordingly its reflection is entirely vague and
confused ; you cannot tell what it is meant for, it is mere play- .
ing golden light. But the sign-post, being on the bank close to
us, will be reflected clearly, and accordingly its distinct image
is seen in the midst of this confusion. But it now is relieved,-
not against the dark base, but against the illumined summit of
the hill, and it appears, therefore, instead of a white space
thrown out froin blue shade, a dark gray space thrown, out from
golden light. I do not know that any more magnificent example
could be given of concentrated knowledge, or of the daring
s 9 The boldness statement .of most difficult truth. For who but this
shown inth^ob- consummate artist would have had courage, even
servanceof it. jf he jja(j perceived the laws which required it,. to
undertake in a" single small space of water, the painting of an
entirely new picture, with all its tones and arrangements altered,
— what was made above bright by opposition to blue, being
underneath made cool and dark by opposition to gold ; — or would
have dared to contradict so boldly the ordinary expectation of
the uncultivated eye, to find in the reflection a mockery for the
reality ? But the reward is immediate, for not only is the change
most grateful to the eye, and most exquisite as composition, but
the surface of the water in consequence of it is felt to be as
spacious as it is clear, and the eye rests not on the inverted
image of the material objects, but on the element which receives
them. And we have a farther instance in this passage of the
close study which is required to enjoy the works of Turner, for
another artist might have altered the reflection or confused it,
, but he would not have reasoned upon it so as to find out what
the exact alteration must be; and if we had tried to account for
the reflection, we should have found it false or inaccurate. But

SEC. V. CH. in.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY TURNER. 361
the master mind of Turner, without effort, showjsrs its knowl
edge into every touch, and we have only to trace out even his
slightest passages, part by part, to find in them the universal
working of the deepest thought, that consistency of every minor
truth which admits of and invites the same ceaseless study as
the work of nature herself.
There is, however, yet another peculiarity in Turner's paint
ing of smooth water, which, though less deserving of admira
tion, as being merely a mechanical excellence, is not less won-
§10. The texture derful than its other qualities, nor less unique — a
nert pafntvngo'f peculiar texture, namely, given to the most delicate
calm water. ^m^s 0f ^g surf ace, when there is little reflection
from anything except sky or atmosphere, and which, just at the
points where other painters are reduced to paper, gives to the
surface of Turner the greatest appearance of substantial liquidity.
' It is impossible to say how it is produced ; it looks like some
modification of body color ; but it certainly is not body color
used as by other men, for I have seen this expedient tried over
and over again without success ; and, it is often accompanied by
crumbling touches of a dry brush, which never could have been
put upon body color, and which could not have shown through
underneath it. As a piece of mechanical excellence, it is one of
the most remarkable things in the works of the master ; and it
brings the truth of his water-painting up to the last degree of
perfection, often rendering those passages of it the most attrac
tive and delightful, which from their delicacy and paleness of
tint, would have been weak and papery in the hands of any
other man. The best instance of it I can give, is, I think, the
distance of the Devonport with the Dockyards.
After all, however, there is more in Turner's painting of
water surface than any philosophy of reflection, or any
peculiarity of means, can account for or accomplish ; there is a
Sii. its united might and wonder .about it which will not admit
qualities. 0f our -yffryg and hows. Take, for instance, the
picture of the Sun of Venice going to Sea, of 1843, respecting
which, however, there are one or two circumstances which may
as well be noted besides its water-painting. The reader, if he
has not been at Venice, ought to be made aware that the Vene
tian fishing-boats, almost without exception, carry canvas painted

362 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PABTH,
with bright colors, the favorite design for the centre being either
a cross or a large sun with many rays, the favorite colors being
^red, orange, and black, blue occurring occasionally. The radi.
ance of these sails and of the bright and grotesque vanes at the
mast-heads under sunlight is beyond all painting, but it is
strange that, of constant occurrence as these boats are on all the
lagoons, Turner alone should have availed himself of them..
Nothing could be more faithful than the boat which was the
principal object in this picture, in the cut of the sail, the filling
of it, the exact height of the boom above the deck, the quarter
ing of it with color, finally and especially, the hanging of the
fish-baskets about the bows. All these, however, are compara
tively minor merits, (though not the blaze of color which the
artist elicited from the right use of these circumstances,) but the
peculiar power of the picture was the painting of the sea sur
face, where there, were no reflections- to assist it. A stream of
splendid color fell from the boat, but that occupied the centre
only ; in the distance, the city and crowded boats threw down
some playing lines, but these still left on each side of the boat
a large space of water reflecting nothing but the morning sky;;
This was divided by an eddying swell, on whose continuous sides
the local color of the water was seen, pure aquamarine, (a beau
tiful occurrence of closely-observed truth,) but still there re
mained a large blank space of pale water to be treated, the sky
above had no distinct details and was pure faint gray, with
broken white vestiges of cloud : it gave no help therefore. But
there the water lay, no dead gray flat paint, but downright
clear, playing, palpable surface, full of indefinite hue, and retir
ing as regularly and visibly back and far away, as if there had
been objects all over it to tell the story by perspective. Now it
is the doing of this which tries the painter, and it is his having
done this which made me say above that " no man had ever
painted the surface of calm water but Turner." The San Ben
edetto, looking towards Fusina, contained a similar passage,
equally fine ; in one of the Canale della Guidecca the specific
green color of the water is seen, in front, with the shadows of
the boats thrown on it in purple ; all, as it retires, passing into
the pure reflective blue.
But Turner is not satisfied with this. He is never altogethef

bbc. v, cm m.] of water, as painted by turner. 363
content unless he can, at the same time that he takes advantage
of all the placidity of repose, tell us something either about the
i' a Relation of Past commotion of the water, or of some present
- various circum- stirring of tide or current which its stillness does
6t&nc6s or just , , .
agitation, etc., by not show, or give us something or other to think
the in>-st trifling , , ._ °
• incidents, as in about and reason upon, as well as to look at.
Take a few instances. His Cowes, Isle of Wight,
. is a summer twilight about half an hour, or more, after sunset.
Intensity of repose is the great aim throughout, and 'the unity
of tone of the picture is one of the finest things that Turner has
ever' done. But there is not only quietness, there is the very
deepest solemnity in the whole of the light, as well as in the
stillness of the vessels ; and Turner wishes to enhance this feel
ing by representing not only repose, but . power in repose, the
emblem, in the sea, of the quiet ships of war. Accordingly, he
¦takes, the greatest possible pains to get his surface polished,
calm, and smooth, but he indicates the reflection of a buoy,
floating a full quarter of a mile off, by three black strokes with
wide intervals between them, the last of which touches the water
within twenty yards of the spectator. Now these three- reflec
tions can only indicate the farther sides of three rises of an
enormous swell, and give by their intervals of separation, a.
space of from twelve to twenty yards for the breadth of each
wave, including the sweep between them, and this swell is
farther indicated by the reflection of the new moon falling, in a
-wide zigzag line. The exceeding majesty which. this single cir
cumstance gives to the whole picture, the sublime sensation of
power and knowledge of former exertion which we instantly re
ceive from it, if we have but acquaintance with nature enough
to understand its language, render this work not only a piece of
the most refined truth, (as which I have at present named it,)
but to my mind, one of the highest pieces of intellectual art ex
isting. Again, in the scene on the Loire, with the square precipice and
fiery sunset, in the Rivers of France, repose has been aimed at in
the same way, and most thoroughly given ;- but the immense
width of the river at this spot makes it look like
the' Loire and a lake or sea, and it was therefore necessary that
we should be made thoroughly to understand and

JO* OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PARTO.
feel that this is not the calm of still water, but the- tran
quillity Of a majestic current. Accordingly, a boat swings at
anchor ori the right ; and the stream, dividing at its bow, flows
towards us in two long, dark waves, especial attention to which
is enforced by the one on the left being brought across the
reflected stream of sunshine, which it separates, and which is
broken in the nearer water by the general undulation and agita . .
tion caused by the boat's wake; a wake caused by the waters',
passing it, not by its going through the water.
Again, in the Confluence of the Seine and Marne, we have
the repose of the wide river stirred by the paddles of the steam
boat, (whose plashing we can almost hear, for we are especially-
§14. Expression compelled to look at them by their being made
°aiSedtrbry recoil *ne central note of the composition — the blackest
from shore. object in it, opposed to the strongest light,) and
this disturbance is not merely caused by the two lines of
surge from the boat's wake, for any other painter must
have given these, but Turner never rests satisfied till he has
told you all in his power ; and he has not only given the
receding surges, but these have gone on to the shore, have
, struck upon it, and been beaten back from it in another -
line of weaker contrary surges, whose point of intersec
tion with those of the wake itself is marked by the sudden
subdivision and disorder of the waves of the wake on the ex
treme left, and whose reverted direction is exquisitely given
where their lines cross the calm water, close to the spectator, and
marked also by the sudden vertical spring of the spray just
where they intersect the swell from the boat ; and in order that
we may fully be able to account for these reverted waves, we are
allowed, just at the extreme right-hand limit of the picture, to
see the point where the swell from the boat meets the shore. In ,
the Chaise de Gargantua we have the still water lulled by the
dead calm which usually precedes the most violent storms, sud
denly broken upon by a tremendous burst of wind from' the
gathered thunder-clouds, scattering the boats, and raising the
§ is. various water into rage, except where it is sheltered by the
other instances. \y\\^ jn the Jumieges and Vernon we have farther
instances of local agitation, caused, in the one instance, by a
steamer, in the other, \s? the large water-wheels under the

BEC. V. CH. in.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY TURNER. 365
bridge, not, observe, a mere splashing about the wheel itself,
ithis is too far off to be noticeable, so that we should not have
even known that the objects beneath the bridge were water-
wheels, but for the agitation recorded a quarter of a mile down
the river, where its current crosses the. sunlight. And thus
there will scarcely ever be found a piece of quiet water by Tur
ner, without some story in it of one kind or another ; some
times a slight, but beautiful incident; — oftener, as in the Cowes,
something on which the whole sentiment and intention of the
picture in a great degree depends ; but invariably presenting
some new instance of varied knowledge and observation, some
fresh appeal to the highest faculties of the mind.
Of extended surfaces of water, as rendered by Turner, the
Loch Katrine and Derwent-water, of the Illustrations to Scott,
and the Loch Lomond, vignette in Rogers's Poems, are charac-
§m Turner's teristic instances. The first of these gives us the
tantexfaSLsof most distant part of the lake entirely under the
terruptedalby'rip- influence of a light breeze, and therefore entirely
ple- without reflections of the objects on its borders ;
but the whole near half is untouched by the wind, and on that
is cast the image of the upper part of Ben- Venue and of the
islands. The second gives us the surface, with just so much
motion upon it as to prolong, but not to destroy, the reflections
of the dark woods, — reflections only interrupted by the ripple
of the boat's wake. And the third gives us an
grossed by sun- example of the whole surface so much affected by
--C^ ' ripple as to bring into exercise all those laws which
we have seen so grossly violated by Canaletto. We see in the
nearest boat that though the lines of the gunwale are much
^blacker and more conspicuous than that of the cutwater, yet the
gunwale lines, being nearly horizontal, have no reflection what
soever ; while the line of the cutwater, being vertical, has a dis
tinct reflection of three times its own length. But even these
tremulous reflections are only visible as far as "the islands ;
beyond them, as the lake retires into distance, we find it receives
only the reflection of the gray light from the clouds, and runs
in one flat white field up between the hills ; and besides all this,
we have another phenomenon, quite new, given to us, — the bril
liant gleam of light along the centre of the lake. This is not

366 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PARTJi
caused by ripple, for it is cast on a surface rippled all over ; but
it is what we could not have without ripple, — the light of a pass
age of sunshine. I have already (Chap. I., § 9) explained the
cause of this phenomenon, which never can by any possibility
take place on calm water, being the multitudinous reflection of
the sun from the sides of the ripples, causing an appearance of
local light and shadow ; and being dependent, like real light and
shadow, on the passage of the clouds, though the dark parts of
the water are the reflections of the clouds, not the shadows of
them ; and the bright parts are the reflections of the sun, and
not the light of it. This little vignette, then, will entirely
complete the system of Turner's universal truth in quiet water.
We have seen every phenomenon given by him, — the clear reflec
tion, the prolonged reflection, the reflection broken by ripple,
and finally the ripple broken by light and shade ; and it is
especially to be observed how careful he is, in this last case,
when he uses the apparent light and shade, to account for it by
showing us in the whiteness of the lake beyond, its universal
subjection to ripple.
We have not spoken of Turner's magnificent drawing of dis
tant rivers, which, however, is dependent only on more com
plicated application of the same laws, with exquisite perspective.
§18. ms drawing The sweeps of river in the Dryburgh, (Illustra-
of distant rivers, ^ions to Scott,) and Melrose, are bold and char
acteristic examples, as well as the Rouen from St. Catherine's
Hill, and the Caudebec, in the Rivers of France. The only .
ihing which in these works requires particular attention, is the
care with which the height of the observer above the river is in
dicated by the loss of the reflections of its banks. This is, per
haps, shown most clearly in the Caudebec. If we had been on
a level with the river, its whole surface would have been dark
ened by the reflection of the steep and high banks ; but being
far above it, we can see no more of the image than we could of
the hill itself, if it were actually reversed under the water ; and
therefore we see that Turner gives us only a narrow line of dark
water, immediately under the precipice, the broad surface reflect
ing only the sky. This is also finely shown on the left-hand side
of the Dryburgh.
But all these early works of the artist have been eclipsed bj

BEC. V. CH. ni.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY' TURNER. 367
some recent , drawings of Switzerland. These latter are not to
be^described by any words, but they must be noted here not only
as presenting records of lake effect on grander
face" associated scale, and of more imaginative character than any
ftithmiht. other of his works, but as combining effects of the
surface of mist with the surface of water. Two or three of the
Lake of Lucerne, seen from above, give the melting of the
mountain promontories beneath into the clear depth, and above -
into the clouds ; one of Constance shows the vast lake at even
ing, seen not as water, but its surface covered with low white
mist, lying league beyond league in the twilight like a fallen
space of moony cloud ; one of Goldau shows the Lake of Zug
appearing through the chasm of a thunder-cloud under sunset,
its whole surface one blaze of fire, and the promontories of the
hills thrown out against it, dike spectres; another of Zurich
gives the playing of the green waves of the river among white
^streams of moonlight : two purple sunsets on the Lake of Zug
are distinguished for the glow obtained without positive color,
the, rose and purple tints being in great measure brought by
opposition out of browns : finally, a drawing executed in 1845
of the town of Lucerne from the lake is unique for its expression
of water surface reflecting the clear green hue of sky at twilight.
¦ It will be remembered that it was said above, that Turner
was the only painter who had ever represented the surface of
calm or the force of agitated water. He obtains this expression
" §20. His drawing '°* force in falling or running water by fearless and
withapec5iiMaeei ful1 rendering of its forms. He never loses him-
-. pression of weight. geif and his subject in the splash of the fall— his
I presence of mind never fails as he goes down ; he does not
blind us with the spray, or veil the countenance of his fall
with its own drapery. A little crumbling white, or lightly
; kibbed paper, will soon give the effect of indiscriminate foam ;
but nature gives more than foam — she shows beneath it, and
through it, a peculiar character of exquisitely studied form
bestowed on every wave and line of fall ; and it is this variety
of definite character which Turner always aims at, rejecting, as
much as possible, everything that conceals or overwhelms it.
Thus, in the Upper Fall of the Tees, though the whole basin of
the fall is blue and dim with the rising vapor, yet the whole

368 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PAKT H.
attention of the spectator is directed to that which it was
peculiarly difficult to render, the concentric zones and delicate
curves of the falling water itself ; and it is impossible to express
.with what exquisite accuracy these are given. They are the
characteristic of a powerful stream descending without impedi
ment or break, but from a narrow channel, so as to expand as it
falls. They are the constant form which such a stream assumes
as it descends ; and yet I think it would be difficult to point to
another instance of their being rendered in art. You will find
nothing in the waterfalls even of our best painters, but spring
ing lines of parabolic descent, and splashing, shapeless foam ;
and, in consequence, though they may make you understand the
swiftness of the water, they never let you feel the weight of it ;
the stream in their hands looks active, not supine, as if it
leaped, not as if it fell. Now water will leap a
doninent and little way, it will leap down a weir or over a stone,
cataracts, xiow but it tumbles over a high fall like this ; and' it is
given y m. -^hen we have lost the parabolic line, and' arrived
at the catenary, — when we have lost the spring of the fall, and
arrived at the plunge of it, that we begin really to feel its weight'
and wildness. Where water takes its first leap from the top, it
is cool, and collected, and uninteresting, and mathematical, but
it is when it finds that it has got into a scrape, and has farther
to go than it thought for, that its character comes out ; it is
then that it begins to writhe, and twist, and sweep out zone
after zone in wilder stretching as it falls, and to send down the
rocket-like, lance-pointed, whizzing shafts at its sides, sounding
for the bottom. And it is this prostration, this hopeless aban
donment of its ponderous power to the air, which is always
peculiarly expressed by Turner, and especially in the case before
us ; while our other artists, keeping to the parabolic line, where
they do not lose themselves in smoke and foam, make their cata
ract look muscular and wiry, and may consider themselves for
tunate if they can keep it from stopping. I believe the majesty
of motion which Turner has given by these concentric catenary
lines must be felt even by those who have never seen a high
waterfall, and therefore cannot appreciate their exquisite fidelity
to nature. In the Chain Bridge over the Tees, this passiveness and-

SEC. V. CH. m.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY TURNER. 369
swinging of the water to and fro are yet more remarkable ;
while we have another characteristic of a great Waterfall given
to us, that the wind, in this instance coming up the valley
against the current, takes the spray up off the edges, and carries
it back in little torn, reverted rags and threads, seen in delicate
form against the darkness on the left. But we must understand
a little more about the nature of running water before we can
appreciate the drawing either of this, or any other of Turner's
torrents. When water, not in very great body, runs in a rocky bed
much interrupted by hollows', so that it can rest every now and
then in a pool as it goes along, it does not acquire a continuous
§82. Bifference in Tel°city of motion. It pauses after every leap,
ter%henncontinS: and curdles about, and rests a little, and then
torupUtedWThYin- goes on aSain 5 and if in this comparatively tran-
fllKKoiiofrTof <luil and rational state of mind it meets with an
to bed, obstacle, as a rock or stone, it parts on each side
of it with a little bubbling <foam, and goes round ; if it comes
to a step in its bed, it leaps it lightly, and then after a little
plashing at the bottom, stops again to take breath. But if its
bed be on a continuous slope, not much interrupted by hollows,
so that it cannot rest, or if its own mass be so increased by flood
that its usual resting-places are not sufficient for it, but that it
is perpetually pushed out of them by the following current,
before it has had time to tranquillize itself, it of course gains
velocity with every yard that it runs ; the impetus got at one
leap is carried to the credit of the next, until the whole stream
becomes one mass of unchecked, accelerating motion. Now
when water in this state comes to an obstacle, it does not part
at it, but clears it, like a race-horse ; and when it comes to a
hollow, it does not fill it up and run out leisurely at the other
side, but it rushes down into it and comes up again on the other
side, as a ship into the hollow of the sea. Hence the whole
appearance of the bed of the stream is changed, and all the lines
df the water altered in their nature. The quiet stream is a suc
cession of leaps and pools ; the leaps are light and springy, and
parabolic, arid make a great deal of splashing when they tumble
into the pool ; then we have a space of quiet curdling water, and
another similar leap below. But the stream when it has gained

370 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PABT H.
an impetus takes the shape of its bed, never stops, is equally
§ 23. Rut the con- deeP and equally swift everywhere, goes down into
t!'kes'theS6hap^ every hollow, not with a leap, but with a swing, not ¦
of its bed. foaming, nor splashing, but in the bending line of a
strong sea-wave, and comes up again on the other side, over rock
and ridge, with the ease of a bounding leopard ; if it meet ¦ a
rock three or four feet above the level of its bed, it will neither
part nor foam, nor express any concern about the matter, but
clear it in a smooth dome of water, without apparent exertion,
coming down again as smoothly on the other side ; the whole
surface of the surge being drawn into parallel lines by its ex
treme velocity, but foamless, except in places where the form of
the bed opposes itself at some direct angle to such a line of fall,
and causes a breaker ; so that the whole river has the- appearance
of a deep and raging sea, with this only difference, that the
torrent- waves always break backwards, and sea-waves forwards.
§ 24. its exquisite Thus, then, in the water which has gained an im-
curved lines. petus, we have the most exquisite arrangements of
curved lines, perpetually changing from convex to concave, and
vice versa, following every swell and hollow of the bed with
their modulating grace, and all in unison of motion, presenting
perhaps the most beautiful series of inorganic forms which
nature can possibly produce ; for the sea runs too much into
similar and concave curves with sharp edges, but every motion
of-the torrent is united, and all its curves are modifications of
beautiful line.
We see, therefore, why Turner seizes on these curved lines of
the torrent, not only as being among the most beautiful forms
of nature, but because they are an instant expression of the
§25. Turner's utmost power and velocity, and tell us how the
thctnltoricai8 °f torrent has been flowing before we see it. For the
truth. ieap an(j splash might be seen in the sudden freak-
ishness of a quiet stream, or the fall of a rivulet over a mill-
dam ; but the undulating line is the exclusive attribute of the
mountain-torrent,* whose fall and fury have made the valleys
* On a large scale it is so, but the same lines are to be seen for the mo
ment whenever water becomes exceedingly rapid, and yet feels the bottom
as it passes, being not thrown up or cast clear of it. In general, the draw
ing of water fails from being too interrupted, the forms flung hither and

SEC. V. -CH. in.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY TURNER. 371

j

echo for miles ; and thus the moment we see one of its curves
over a stone in the foreground, we know how far it has come,
; and how fiercely. And. in the drawing we have been speaking
of, the lower fall of the Tees, iri the' foreground of the Killie-
crankie-and Rhymer's Glen, and of the St. Maurice, in Rogers's
Italy, we shall find the most exquisite instances of the use of
such lines j but the most perfect of all in the Llanthony Abbey,
, which, may be considered as the standard of tor-
ite drawing ofthe rent-drawing. The chief light of the picture here
rent in the.Lian- falls upon the surface of the stream, swelled by
recent rain, and its mighty waves come rolling
down "close to the spectator, green and clear, but pale with
anger, in gigantic, unbroken, oceanic curves, bending into
each other without break or foam, though jets of fiery spray
are cast into the air along the rocky shore, and rise in the sun
shine in dusty vapor. The whole surface is one united race of
mad motion ; all the waves dragged, as I have described, into
lines and furrows by their swiftness, and every one of these fine
forms is drawn with the most studied chiaroscuro of delicate
color, grays and greens, as silvery and pure as the finest passages
of Paul Veronese, and with a refinement of execution which the
eye strains itself in looking into. The rapidity and gigantic
force of this torrent, the exquisite refinement of its color, and
, the vividness of foam which is obtained through a general middle
thither,' and broken up and covered with bright touches, instead of being
wrought out in their real unities of curvature. It is difficult enough to
draw a curved surface, even when it is rough and has texture ; but to indi
cate the varied and .sweeping forms of a crystalline and polished substance,
requires far more skill and patience than most artists possess. In some
respects, 4t is impossible. I do not suppose any means of art are capable
of rightly expressing the smooth.Tnultitudinous rippling of a rapid rivulet of
shallow water, giving its transparency lustre and fully-developed forms ;
and the greater number of the lines and actions of torrent-waves are
equally inexpressible. The effort should, nevertheless, always be made, and
whatever is sacrificed in color, freedom, or brightness, the real contours
ought always in some measure to be drawn, as a careful draughtsman se
cures those of -flesh, or any other finely-modelled surface. It is better, iu
many respects, the drawing should miss. of being like water, than that it -
should miss in this one respect the grandeur of water. Many tricks of
scratching and dashing will bring out a deceptive resemblance ; the deter
mined and laborious rendering of CQntour alone secures sublimity.

372 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PARTE!
tint, render it about the most perfect piece of painting of run
ning water in existence.
Now this picture is, as was noticed in bur former reference to
-it, full of expression of every kind of motion : the clouds are in
wild haste ; the sun is gleaming fast and fitfully through the
§ 27 And of the leaves ; the rain drifting away along the hill-
ien"nPtho Mer- s^e > and the torrent, the principal object, to
cury and Argus, complete the impression, is made the wildest
thing of all and not only wild before us, and with us, but bear
ing with it in its every motion, from its long course, the record of
its rage. Observe how differently Turner uses his torrerit when
the spirit of the picture is repose. In the Mercury and Argus,
we have also a stream in the foreground ; but, in coming down
to us, we see it stopping twice in two quiet and glassy pools,
upon which the drinking cattle cast an unstirred image. From
the nearest of these, the water leaps in three cascades into an
other basin close to us ; it trickles in silver threads through the
leaves at its edge, and falls tinkling and splashing (though in
considerable body) into the pool, stirring its quiet surface, at
which a bird is stooping to drink, with concentric and curdling
ripples which divide round the stone at its farthest border, and
descend in sparkling foam over the lip of the basin. Thus we
find, in every case, the system of Turner's truth entirely unbro
ken, each phase and phenomenon of nature being recorded ex
actly where it is most valuable and impressive.
We have not, however, space to follow out the variety of his
torrent-drawing. The above two examples are characteristic of
the two great divisions or classes of torrents — that whose motion
is continuous, and whose motion is interrupted : all
' drawing of running water will resolve itself into the
representation of one or other of these. The descent of the dis
tant stream in the vignette to the Boy of Egremond is slight,
but very striking ; and the Junction of the Greta and Tees, a
singular instance of the bold drawing of the complicated forms
of a shallow stream among multitudinous rocks. A still finer
example occurs in a recent drawing of Dazio Grande, on the SL,
Gothard, the waves of the Toccia, clear and blue, fretting among
the granite debris which were brought down by the storm that
destroyed the whole road. In the Ivy bridge the subject is the

BEC. V. -CH. m.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY TURNER, -i 373
rest of the torrerit in a pool among fallen rocks, the forms of the
stones are seen through the clear brown water, and their reflec
tions mingle with those of the foliage.
More determined efforts have at all periods been made in sea
"painting than in torrent painting, yet less successful. As above
stated, it is easy to obtain a resemblance of broken running wa-
§29. Sea painting. ter hy tricks and dexterities, but the sea must be
Z\y representing legitimately drawn ; it cannot be given as utterly
foam- disorganized and confused, its weight and mass
must be expressed, and the efforts at expression of it end in
failure with all but the most powerful men ; even with these
few a partial success must be considered worthy of the highest

As the right rendering of the Alps depends on power of draw
ing snow, so the right painting of the sea must depend, at least
in all coast scenery, in no small measure on the power of' draw
ing foam. Yet there are two conditions of foam of invariable
occurrence on breaking waves, of Which I have never seen the
slightest record attempted ; first the thick creamy curdling over
lapping massy form which remains for a moment only after the
fall of , the wave, and is seen in perfection in its running up the
beach ; and secondly, the thin white coating into which this
subsides, which opens into oval gaps and clefts, marbling the
waves over their whole surface, and connecting the breakers on
a flat shore by long dragging streams of white.
It is evident that the difflcultyof expressing either of these
two conditions must be immense. The lapping and curdling
form is difficult enough to catch even when the lines of its un
dulation alone are considered ; but the lips, so to speak, which
lie along these lines, are full, projecting, and marked by beauti
ful light and shade ; each has its high light, a gradation into
shadow of indescribable delicacy, a bright reflected light and a
dark cast shadow ; to draw all this requires labor, and care, and
firmness of work, which, as I imagine, must always, however
skilfully bestowed, destroy all impression of wildness, accidental
ism, and evanescence, and so kill the sea. Again, the openings
in the thin subsided foam in their irregular modifications of
circular and oval shapes dragged hither and thither, would be
hard enough to draw even if they could be seen on a flat sur-

374' OF TRUTH OF WATER. [TAKT n.
face ; instead of which, every one of the openings is seen in un
dulation on a tossing surface, broken up over small surges and
ripples, and so thrown into perspectives of the most hopeless.
intricacy. Now it is not easy to express the lie of a pattern
with oval openings on the folds of drapery. I do not know that
any one under the mark of Veronese or Titian could even do
this as it ought to be done, yet in drapery much stiffness and
error may be overlooked ; not so in sea,— the slightest inaccu
racy, the slightest want of flow and freedom in the line, is at
tached by the eye in a moment of high treason, and I believe
success to be impossible.
Yet there is not a wave or any violently agitated sea on which
both these forms do not appear, the latter especially, after
some time ot storm, extends over their whole surfaces ; the
reader sees, therefore, why I said that sea could only be painted
by means of more or less dexterous conventionalisms, since two
of its most enduring phenomena cannot be represented at all.
Again, as respects the form of breakers on an even shore,
there is difficulty of no less formidable kind. There is in them
an irreconcilable mixture of fury and formalism. Their hollow
surface is marked by parallel lines, like those of a
shore-breakers, smooth mill-weir, and graduated by reflected and
a so neipressi e. trangmi^e(j lights of the most wonderful intricacy,
its curve being at the same time necessarily of mathematical
purity and precision ; yet at the top of this curve, when it nods'
over, there is a sudden laxity and giving way, the water swings
and jumps along the ridge like a shaken chain, and the motion
runs from part to part as it does through a serpent's body.
Then the wind is at work on the extreme edge, and instead of
letting it fling itself off naturally, it supports it, and drives it
back, or scrapes it off, and carries it bodily away ; so that the
spray at the top is in a continual transition between forms pro
jected by their own weight, and forms blown and carried off.
with their weight overcome ; then at last, when it has come
down, who shall say what shape that may be called, which shape
has none of the great crash where it touches the beach.
I think it is that last crash which is the great taskmaster.
Nobody can do anything with it. I have seen Copley Fielding
come very close to the jerk and nod of the lifted threatening

SEC. V. CH. in.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY TURNER. 375
edge, curl it very successfully, and without any look of its hav
ing been in papers, down nearly to the beach, but the final fall
has no thunder in it. Turner has tried hard for it once or
twice, but it will not do. The moment is given in the Sidon
of the Bible Illustrations, and more elaborately in a.painting of
Bamborough ; in both these cases there is little foam at the bot
tom, and the fallen breaker looks like a wall, yet grand always ;
and in the latter picture very beautifully assisted in expression
by the tossing of a piece of cable, which some figures are drag
ging ashore, and which the breaker flings into the air as it falls.
Perhaps the most successful rendering of the forms was in the
Hero and Leander, but there the drawing was rendered easier
by the powerful effect of light which disguised the foam.
" It is not, however, from the shore that Turner usually studies
his sea. Seen from the land, the curl of the breakers, even in
nature, is somewhat uniform and monotonous ; the size of the
§31. Their effect, waves out at sea is uncomprehended, and those.
6eenfromethe,hen nearer the eye seem to succeed and resemble each
shore. other, to move slowly to the beach, and. to break
in the same lines and forms.
Afloat even twenty yards from the shore, we receive a totally
different impression. Every wave around us appears vast —
'every one different from all the rest — and the breakers present,
now that we see them with their backs towards us, the grand,
extended, and varied lines of long curvature, which are peculi
arly expressive both of velocity and power. Recklessness, be
fore unfelt, is manifested in the mad, perpetual, changeful, undi
rected motion, not of wave after wave, as it appears from the
shore, but of the very same water rising and falling. Of waves
that successively approach and break, each appears to the mind
a separate individual, whose part being performed, it perishes,
and is succeeded by another ; and there is nothing-in this to im
press us with the idea of restlessness, any more than in any suc
cessive and continuous functions of life and death. But it is
when we perceive that it is no succession of wave, but the same
water constantly rising, and crashing, and recoiling, and rolling
in again in new forms and with fresh fury, that we perceive the
perturbed spirit, and feel the intensity of its unwearied rage.
The sensation of power is also trebled ; for not only is the vast-

S76 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PART IL
ness of apparent size much increased, but the whole action is
different; it is not a passive wave rolling sleepily forward up til
it tumbles heavily, prostrated upon the beach, but a sweeping
exertion of tremendous and living strength, which does not now
appear to fall, but to burst upon the shore ; which never per
ishes, but recoils and recovers.
Aiming at these grand characters of the Sea, Turner almost
always places the spectator, not on the shore,- but twenty or •
thirty yards from it, beyond the first range of the breakers, as in
the Land's End, Fowey, Dunbar, and Laugharne.
pression of heavy The latter has been well engraved, and may. be
taken as a standard of the expression of fitfulness
and power. The grand division of the whole space of the sea
by a few dark continuous furrows of tremendous swell, (the
breaking of one of which alone has strewed the rocks in front
with ruin,) furnishes us with an estimate of space and strength, ,
which at once reduces the men upon the shore to insects ; and
yet through this terrific simplicity there is indicated a fitfulness
and fury in the tossing of the individual lines, which give to
the whole sea a wild, unwearied, reckless incoherency, like that
of an enraged multitude, whose masses act together in frenzy,
while not one individual feels as another. Especial attention is
to be directed to the flatness of all the lines, for the same prin
ciple holds in sea which we have seen in mountains. All the
size and sublimity of nature are given not by the height, but by
the breadth of her masses : and Turner, by following her in her
sweeping lines, while he does not lose the elevation of its surges,
adds in a tenfold degree to their power : farther, observe the pecu
liar expression of weight which there is in Turner's
§ 33. With pecu- ^ . * .
Bar expression of waves, precisely of the same kind which we saw in
his waterfall. We have not a cutting, springing,
elastic line — no jumping or leaping in the waves : that is the
characteristic of Chelsea Reach or Hampstead Ponds in a storm.
But the surges roll and plunge with such prostration and hurl
ing of their mass against the shore, that we feel the rocks are
shaking under them ; and, to add yet more to this impression,
observe how little, comparatively, they are broken by the
wind ; above the floating wood, "and along the shore, we have
indication of a line of torn spray ; but it is a mere fringe along

SEC. V. CH. in.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY TURNER. 377
the ridge of the surge — no interference with its gigantic body,
The wind has no power over its tremendous unity of force and
weight. Finally, observe how, on the rocks on the left, the vio
lence and swiftness of the rising wave are indicated by precisely
the same lines which we saw were indicative of fury in the tor
rent. The water on these rocks is the body of the wave which
has just broken, rushing up over them ; arid in doing so, like
the torrent, it does not break, nor foam, nor part upon the rock,
but accommodates itself to every one of, its swells and hollows,
with undulating lines, whose grace and variety might alone serve
us for a day's study ; and it is only where two streams of this
rushing water meet in the hollow of the rock, that their force is
shown by the vertical bound of the spray.
In the distance of this grand picture, there are 'two waves
which entirely depart from the principle observed by all the
rest, and spring high into the air. They have a message for us
which it is important that we should understand.
Hon' of recoiling Their leap is,not a preparation for breaking, neither
is it caused by their meeting with a rock. It is caused
by their encounter with the recoil of the preceding wave. When
a large surge, in the act of breaking, just as it curls over, is
hurled against the face either of a wall or of a vertical rock, the
.sound of the. blow is not a crash nor a roar ; it is a report as loud
as, and in every respect similar to, that of a great gun, and the
wave is dashed back from the rock with force scarcely dimin
ished, but reversed in direction, — it now recedes from the shore,
and at the instant that it" encounters the following breaker, the
result is the vertical bound of both which is here rendered by
Turner. Such a recoiling wave will proceed out to sea through
¦ ten or twelve ranges of following breakers, before it is overpow-
. ered. The effect of the encounter is more completely and pal
pably given in the Quilleboeuf, in the Rivers of France. It is
peculiarly instructive here, as informing us of the nature of the
coast, and the force of the waves, far more clearly than any
spray about the rocks themselves could have done. But the
effect of the blow at the shore itself is given in the
stroke of a'break- Land's End, and vignette to Lycidas. Under f a-
er on the shore. Yorab]:e cjrclimstances, with an advancing tide un-
der a heavy gale, where the breakers feel the shore underneath

878 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PART n.
them a moment before they touch the rock, so as to nod over
when they strike* the effect is nearly incredible except to an eye
witness. I have seen the whole body of the wave rise in one
white, vertical, broad fountain, eighty feet above the sea, half of
it beaten so fine as to be borne away by the wind, the rest turn
ing in the air when exhausted, and falling back with a weight
and crash like that of an enormous waterfall. This is given
most completely in the Lycidas, and the blow of a less violent
wave among broken rocks, not meeting it with an absolute wall,
along the shore of the Land's End. This last picture is a study
of sea whose whole organization has been broken
character of sea up by constant recoils from a rocky coast. The
on a rocky coast T , . , , J . , ..
given by Turner Laugharne gives the surge and weight of the
m the Land's End. . , ,. , n , ,
ocean in a gale, on a comparatively level shore ;
but the Land's End, the entire disorder of the surges when
every one of them, divided and entangled among promontories
as it rolls in, and beaten back part by part from walls of rock on
this side and that side, recoils like the defeated division of a
great army, throwing all behind it into disorder, breaking up
the succeeding waves into vertical ridges, which in their turn,
.yet more totally shattered upon the shore, retire in more hope
less confusion, until the whole surface of the sea becomes one
dizzy whirl of rushing, writhing, tortured, undirected rage,
bounding, arid crashing, and coiling in an anarchy of enormous
power, subdivided into myriads of waves, of which every one is
not, be it remembered, a separate surge, but part and portion
of a vast one, actuated by internal power, and giving in every
direction the mighty undulation of impetuous line which glides
over the rocks and writhes in the wind, overwhelming the one,
and piercing the other with the form, fury, and swiftness of a
sheet of lambent fire. And throughout the rendering of all
this, there is not one false chrve given, not one which is not the
perfect expression of visible motion ; and the forms of the infi
nite sea are drawn ^throughout with that utmost mastery of art
which, through the deepest study of every line, makes every line
appear the wildest child of chance, while yet each is in itself a
subject and a picture different from all else around. Of the
color of this magnificent sea I have before spoken ; it is a sol
emn green gray, (with its foam seen dimly through the dark-

SEC. V. CH. m.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED' BY TURNER. 379
ness of twilight,) modulated with the fulness, changef ulness,
and sadness of a deep, wild melody.
The greater number of Turner's paintings of open sea belong
to a somewhat earlier period than these drawings ; nor, gener
ally speaking, are they of equal value. It appears to me that the
artist had at that time either less knowledge of, or
. qf Turner's car- less delight m, the characteristics of deep water than
of coast sea, and that, in consequence, he suffered
;-himself to be influenced by some of the qualities of the Dutch
sea-painters. In particular, he borrowed from them the habit
of casting a dark shadow on the near waves, so as to bring out a
stream of light behind ; and though he did this in a more legiti
mate way than they, that is to say, expressing the light, by
touches on the foam, and indicating the shadow as cast on
foamy surface, still the habit has induced much feebleness and
conventionality in the pictures of the period. His drawing of
the waves was also somewhat petty and divided, small forms
covered with white flat spray, a condition which I doubt not the
artist has seen on some of the shallow Dutch seas, but which I
have never met with myself, and of the rendering of which
therefore I cannot speak. Yet even in these, which I think
among fhe poorest works of the painter, the expressions of
breeze, motion, and light, are very marvellous ; and it is in
structive to compare them either with the lifeless works of the
Dutch themselves, or with any modern imitations of them, as
for instance with the seas of Callcott, where all the light is
white and all the shadows gray, where no distinction is made
between water and foam, or between real and reflective shadow,
and which are generally without evidence of the artists having
ever seen the sea.
Some pictures, however, belonging to this period of Turner
are free from the Dutch infection, and show the real power of
the artist. A very important one is in the possession of Lord '
Francis Egerton, somewhat heavy in its forms, but remarkable
for the grandeur of distance obtained at the horizon ; a much
smaller, but more powerful example is the Port Ruysdael in the
possession of E. Bicknell, Esq., with which I know of no work
at all comparable for the expression of the white, wild, cold,
comfortless waves of northern sea, even though the sea is almost

380 - OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PART II,
subordinate to the awful rolling clouds. Both these pictures are
very gray. The Pas de Calais has more color, and shows more
art than either, yet is less impressive. Recently, two marines
of the same subdued color have appeared (1843) among his more
radiant works. One, Ostend, somewhat forced and affected,
but the other, also called Port Ruysdael, is among the most
perfect sea pictures he has produced, and especially remarkable
as being painted without one marked opposition either of color
or of shade, all quiet and simple even to an extreme, so that the
picture was exceedingly unattractive at first sight. The shadow
of the pier-head on the - near waves is marked solely by touches
indicative of reflected light, and so mysteriously that when the
picture is seen near, it is quite untraceable, and comes into ex
istence as the spectator retires. It is thus of peculiar truth
and value ; and instructive as a contrast to the dark shadows of
his earlier time.
Few people, comparatively, have ever seen the effect on the
sea of a powerful gale continued without intermission for three
or four days and nights, and to those who have not, I believe it
must be unimaginable, not from the mere force or
after prolonged size of surge, but from the complete annihilation of
** t o r i n the limit between sea and air. The water from its
prolonged agitation is beaten, not into mere creaming foam, but
into masses of accumulated yeast,* which hang in ropes and
* The " yesty waves" of Shakspeare have made the likeness familiar,
and probably most readers take the expression as merely equivalent to
" foamy ;" but Shakspeare knew better. Sea-foam does not, under ordi
nary circumstances, last a moment after it is formed, but disappears, as
above described, in a mere white film. But the foam of a prolonged tem
pest is altogether different; it is "whipped" foam, — thick, permanent,
and, in a foul or discolored sea, very ugly, especially in the way it hangs
about the tops of the waves, and gathers into clotted concretions before the
driving wind. The sea looks truly working or fermenting. The following
passage from Fenimore Cooper is an interesting confirmation of the rest of
the above description, which may be depended upon as entirely free from
exaggeration: — "For the flrst time I now witnessed a tempest at sea.
, Gales, and pretty hard ones, I had often seen, but the force of the wind on
this occasion as much exceeded that in ordinary gales of wind, as the force
of these had exceeded that of a whole-sail breeze. The seas seemed
crushed ; the pressure of the swooping atmosphere, as the currents of the
air went howling over the surface of the ocean, fairly preventing them

BEC. V. CH. m.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY TURNER. -381
wreaths frorri wave to wave, and where, one curls over to break,
form a festoon like a drapery, from its edge ; these are taken up
by the wind, not in dissipating dust, but bodily, in writhing,
hanging, coiling masses, which make the air white and thick as
with snow, only the flakes are a foot ox two long each ; the surges
themselves are full of foam in their very bodies, underneath,
making them white all through, as the water is under a great
cataract ; and their masses, being thus half water and half air,
are torn to pieces by the wind whenever they rise, and carried
away in roaring smoke, which chokes and strangles like actual
water. Add to this, that when the air has been exhausted of its
moisture by long rain, the spray of the sea is caught by it as
described above, (Section III. Chapter VI. § 13,) and covers its
surface not merely with the smoke of finely divided water, but
with boiling mist ; imagine also the low rain-clouds brought
down to the very level of the sea, as I have often seen them,
whirling and flying in rags and fragments from wave to wave ;
and finally, conceive the surges themselves in their utmost pitch
of power, velocity, vastness, and madness, lifting themselves in
precipices and peaks, furrowed with their whirl of ascent,
through all this chaos ; and you will understand that there is
indeed no distinction left between the sea and air ; that no ob
ject, nor horizon, nor any landmark or natural evidence of posi
tion is left ; that the heaven is all spray, and the ocean all
cloud, and that you can see no farther in any direction than you
could see through a cataract. Suppose the effect of the first
sunbeam sent from above to show this annihilation to itself, and
you have the sea picture of the Academy, 1842— the Snow
storm, one of the very grandest statements of sea-motion, mist,
and light that has ever been put on canvas, even by Turner.
Of course it was not understood ; his finest works never are ; but
from rising ; or where a mound of water did appear, it was scooped up and
borne off in spray, as the axe dubs inequalities from the log. When the
day returned, a species of lurid, sombre light was diffused over the watery
waste, though nothing was visible but the ocean and the ship. Even the
sea-birds seemed to have taken refuge in the caverns of the adjacent coast,
none reappearing with the dawn. The air was full of spray, and it was
with difficulty that the eye could penetrate as far into the humid atmos
phere as half a mile.'J— Miles WaMngford. Half a mile is an over-estimuta
in coast.

382 OF TRUTH OF WATER. [PAST IL
there was some apology for the public's not comprehending this,
for few people have had the opportunity of seeing the sea at such
a time, and when they have, cannot face it. To hold by a mast
or a rock, and watch it, is a prolonged endurance of drowriing
which few people have courage to go through. To those who
have, it is one of the noblest lessons of nature.
But, I think, the noblest sea that Turner has. ever painted,
and, if so, the noblest certainly ever painted by man, is that of
the Slave Ship, the chief Academy picture of the Exhibition of
1840. It is a sunset on the Atlantic after pro-
nobiest work, the longed storm ; but the storm is partially lulled,
Sainting of the -, ,. , -. , . , ,
eep open sea in and the torn and streaming ram-clouds are mov-
ip" , ing in scarlet lines to lose themselves in the hol
low of the night. The whole surface of sea included in
the picture. is divided into two ridges of enormous swell, not
high, nor local, but a low, broad heaving of the whole ocean,
like the lifting of its bosom by deep-drawn breath after the tor
ture of the storm. Between these two ridges, the fire of the
sunset falls along the trough of the sea, dyeing it with an awful :
but glorious light, the intense and lurid splendor which- burns
like gold and bathes like blood. Along this fiery path and val
ley, the tossing waves by which the swell of the sea is restlessly,
divided, lift themselves in dark, indefinite, fantastic forms, each
casting a faint and ghastly shadow behind it along the illu
mined foam. They do not rise everywhere, but three or four
together in wild groups, fitfully and furiously, as the under
strength of the swell compels or permits them ; leaving between
them treacherous spaces of level and whirling water, now lighted
with green and lamp-like fire, now flashing back the gold of
the declining sun, now fearfully dyed from above with the in
distinguishable images of the burning clouds, which fall upon
them in flakes of crimson and scarlet, and give to the reckless
waves the added motion of their own fiery flying. Purple and
blue, the lurid shadows of the hollow breakers are cast upon the
mist-of the night, which gathers cold and low, advancing like
the shadow of death upon the guilty * ship as it labors amidst
* She is a slaver, throwing her slaves overboard. The near sea is en
cumbered with corpses.

SEC. V. CH. m.] OF WATER, AS PAINTED BY TURNER. 383
the lightning of the sea, its thin masts written upon the sky in
lines of blood, girded with condemnation in that fearful hue
which signs the sky with horror, and mixes its flaming flood
with the sunlight, — and cast far along the desolate heave of the
sepulchral waves, incarnadines the multitudinous sea.
I believe, if I were reduced to rest Turner's immortality
upon any single work, I should choose this. Its daring concep
tion — ideal in the highest sense of the word — is based on the
§ 40. its united pnrest truth, and wrought out with the concentrated
pHfectufn^Ta knowledge of a life ; its color is absolutely perfect,
whole. -not one jjaise or morbid hue in any part or line, and
so modulated that every square inch of canvas is a perfect com
position ; its drawing as accurate as fearless ; the ship buoyant,
bending, and full of motion ; its tones as true as they are won
derful ; * and the whole picture dedicated to the most sublime
of subjects and impressions — (completing thus the perfect sys
tem of all truth, which we have shown to be formed by Turner's
works) — the power, majesty, and deathfulness of the open, deep,
illimitable Sea.
* There is a piece of tone of the same kind, equal in one part, but not
so united with the rest of the picture, in the storm scene illustrative of the
Antiquary, — a sunset light on polished sea. I ought to have particularly
mentioned the sea in the Lowestoffe, as a piece of the cutting motion of
shallow water, under storm, altogether in gray, which should be especially
contrasted, as a piece of color, with the grays of Vandevelde. And the sea
in the Great Yarmouth should have been noticed for its expression of
water in violent agitation, seen in enormous extent from a great elevation.
There is almost every form of sea in it, — rolling waves dashing on the pier-
successive breakers rolling to the shore— a vast horizon of multitudinous
waves— and winding canals of calm water along the sands, bringing frag
ments of bright sky down into their yellow waste. There is hardly one of
the views of the Southern Coast which does not give some new condition or
circumstance of sea.

S-BOTIOIT YX
OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION.— CONCLUSION.

CHAPTER I.

» OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION.

We have now arrived at the consideration of what was, with
the old masters, the subject of most serious and perpetual study.
If they do not give us truth here, they cannot have the faculty
§ 1. Frequent oc- of truth in them ; for foliage is the chief compo-
aUerfnCthe°wOTks" nent Par* °* a^ *heir pictures, and is finished by
ot the old masters, them with a care and labor which, if bestowed
without attaining truth, must prove either their total blunt-
ness of perception, or total powerlessness of hand. With the
Italian school I can scarcely recollect a single instance in
which foliage does not form the greater part of the picture ;
in fact, they are rather painters of tree-portrait than landscape
painters ; for rocks, and sky, and architecture are usually mere
accessories and backgrounds to the dark masses of laborious
foliage, of which the composition principally consists. Yet we
shall be less detained by the examination of foliage than by our
former subjects ; since where specific form is organized and com
plete, and the occurrence of the object universal, it is easy,
without requiring any laborious attention in the reader, to
demonstrate to him quite as much of the truth or falsehood of
various representations of it, as may serve to determine the char
acter and rank of the painter.
It will be best to begin as nature does, with the stems and
branches, and then to put the leaves on. And in speaking of
trees generally, be it observed, when I say all trees, I mean only
those ordinary forest or copse trees of Europe, which are the

BEC. VI. CH. I.] OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. 385
chief subjects qf the landscape painter. I do not mean to in
clude every kind of foliage which by any accident can find its
way into a picture, but the ordinary trees of Europe,— oak, elm,
ash, hazel, willow, birch, beech, poplar, chestnut, pine, mul
berry, olive, ilex, carubbe, and such others. I do not purpose
to examine the characteristics of each tree ; it will be enough
to observe, the laws common to all. First, then,
§•8. Laws common ' '
to aii forest trees, neither the stems nor the boughs of anv of the
Their branches do _ , , ¦,,•,„, -„,
not taper, but only above trees taper, except where they fork. Wher
ever a stem sends off a branch, or a branch a lesser
bough, or a lesser bough a bud, the stem or the branch is, on the
instant, less in diameter by the exact quantity of the branch or
" the bough they have sent off, and they remain of the same
diameter ; or if there be any change,' rather- increase than
diminish until they send off another branch or bough. This
law is imperative and without exception ; no bough, nor stem,
•nor twig, ever tapering or becoming narrower towards its ex
tremity by a hairbreadth, save where it parts with some portion
of its substance at a fork or bud, so that if all the twigs arid
sprays at the top and sides of the tree, which are, and have been,
could be united without loss of space, they would form a round
log of the diameter of the trunk from which they spring.
But as the trunks of most trees send off twigs and sprays of
light under foliage, of which every individual fibre takes pre
cisely its own thickness of wood from the parent stem, and as
1 3. Appearance many of these drop off, leaving nothing but a small
ed tbyetlfrlquent excrescence to record their existence, there is f re-
buds. • quently a slight and delicate appearance of tapering
best-dwed on the trunk itself ; while the same operation takes
place much more extensively in the branches, it being natural to
almost all trees to send out from tlieir young limbs more wood
than they can support, which, as the stem increases, gets con
tracted at the point of insertion, so as to check the flow of the
sap, and then dies and drops off, leaving all along the bough,
first on one side, then on another, a series of small excrescences,
sufficient to account for a degree of tapering, which is yet so
very slight, that if we select a portion of a branch with no real
fork or living bough to divide it or diminish it, the tapering is
scarcely to be detected by the eye ; and if we select a portion

386 OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. fPART IL
without such evidences of past ramification, there will be found
none whatsoever.
But nature takes great care arid pains to conceal this uni
formity in her boughs. They are perpetually parting with little
sprays here and there, which steal away their substance cau
tiously, and where the eye does not perceive the
nature"to conceal theft, until, a little way above, it feels the loss;
the parallelism. -,-x-i xj»xix xi -n x*
and m the upper parts of the tree, the ramifications
take place so constantly and delicately, that the effect upon the
eye is precisely the same as if the boughs actually tapered, except
here and there, where some avaricious one, greedy of substance,
runs on for two or three yards without parting with anything,
and becomes ungraceful in so doing.
Hence we see that although boughs may, and must be repre
sented as actually tapering, they must only be so when they are
sending off foliage and sprays, and when they are at such a dis-
§ 6. The degree of tance that the particular forks and divisions can-
may teSreprcsen£ not he evident to the eye ; and farther, even in
ed as continuous, gy^ circumstances the tapering never can be sud
den or rapid. No bough ever, with appearance of smooth taper
ing, loses more than one tenth of its diameter in a length of ten
diameters. Any greater diminution than this must be accounted
for by visible ramification, and must take place by steps, at
each fork.
And therefore we see at once that the stem of Caspar Pous
sin's tall tree, on the right of the La Riccia, in the National Gal
lery, is a painting of a carrot or a parsnip, not of the trunk of
s 6. The trees of a *ree< ^0rj being so near that every individual
Gaspar poussin; jeaf is visible, we should not have seen, in nature,
one branch or stem actually tapering. We should have received
an impression of graceful diminution ; but we should have been
• able, on examination, to trace it joint' by joint, fork by fork,"
into the thousand minor supports of the leaves. Gaspar Pous
sin's stem, on the contrary, only sends off four or five minor
branches altogether, and both it and they taper violently, and -
without showing why or wherefore — without parting with a
single twig — without showing One vestige of roughness' or ex
crescence — and leaving, therefore, their unfortunate leaves to
hold on as best they may. The latter, however, are clever

SEC VI. CH. I.] OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. 38?
leaves, and support themselves as swarming bees do, hanging on
by each other.
But even this piece of work is a jest to the perpetration of
the bough at the left-hand upper corner of the picture opposite
to it, — the View near Albano. This latter is a representation of
§7. And of the an ornamental group of elephants' tusks, with
Inemuyfdefy feathers tied to the ends of them. Npt the wildest
this law. imagination could ever conjure up in it the remotest
resemblance to the bough of a tree. It might be the claws of a
witch — the talons of an eagle — the horns of a fiend ; but it is a
full assemblage of every conceivable falsehood which can be told
respecting foliage — a piece of work so barbarous in every way,
that one glance at it ought to prove the complete charlatanism
and trickery of the whole system of the old landscape painters.
For I will depart for once from my usual plan, of abstaining
from all assertion of a thing's being beautiful or otherwise ; I
will say here, at once, that such drawing as this is as ugly as it
• is childish, and as painful as it is false ; and that the man who
could tolerate, much more, who could deliberately set down such
a thing on his canvas, had neither eye nor feeling for one single
attribute or excellence of God's works. He might have drawn
the other stem in excusable ignorance, or under some false
impression of being able to improve upon nature ; but this is
conclusive and unpardonable. Again, take the stem of the chief
tree in Claude's Narcissus. It is a very faithful portrait of a
t. large boa-constrictor, with a handsome tail ; the kind of trunk
i which young ladies at fashionable boarding-schools represent
with nosegays at the top of them, by way of forest scenery.
Let us refresh ourselves for a moment, by looking at the
truth. We need not go to Turner, we will go to the man who,
next to him, is unquestionably the greatest master of foliage in
Europe — J. D. Harding. Take the trunk of the
it is given by j. largest stone-pine, Plate 25, in the Park and the
D.Harding. Forest# For the first nine or ten feet from the
ground it does not lose one hairbreadth of its diameter. But
the shoot, broken off just under the crossing part of the distant
tree, is followed by an instant diminution of the trunk, perfectly
appreciable both by the eye and the compasses. Again, the stem
maintains undiminished thickness, up to the two shoots on the

388 OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. [PARTH.
left, from the loss of which it suffers agairi perceptibly. On the
right, immediately above, is the stump of a very large bough,
whose loss reduces the trunk suddenly to about two-thirds of
what it was at the root. Diminished again, less considerably,
by the minor branch close to this stump, it now retains its
diameter up to the three branches, broken off just under the
head, where it once more loses in diameter, and finally branches
into the multitude of head-boughs, of which not one will be
found tapering in any part, but losing themselves gradually by
division among their offshoots and spray. This is nature, and
beauty too.
But the old masters are not satisfied with drawing carrots for
boughs. Nature can be violated iri more ways than one, and
the industry with which they seek out and adopt every conceiv
able mode of contradicting her is matter of no
consequence8' of small interest. It is evident, from what we have
diminish'' where above stated of the structure of all trees, that as no
ofTheTidemasters boughs diminish where they do not fork, so they
often do not. cannot fork without diminishing. It is impossible
that the smallest shoot can be sent out of a bough without a •
diminution of the diameter above it ; and wherever a branch
goes off it must not only be less in diameter than the bough from
which it springs, but the bough beyond the fork must be less by
precisely the quantity of the branch it has sent off.* Now
observe the bough underneath the first bend of the great stem in
Claude's Narcissus ; it sends off four branches like the ribs of a
leaf. The two lowest of these are both quite as thick as the
parent stem, and the stein itself is much thicker after it has sent
off the first one than it was before. The top boughs of the cen
tral tree, in the Marriage of Isaac and Rebecca, ramify in the
same scientific way.
* It sometimes happens that a morbid direction of growth will cause an
exception here and there to this rule, the bough swelling beyond its legiti
mate size ; knots and excrescences, of course, sometimes interfere with the
effect of diminution. I believe that in the laurel, when it grows large and
old, singular instances may be found Of thick upper boughs and over quan:
tity of wood at the extremities. All these accidents or exceptions are felt
as such by the eye. They may occasionally be used by the painter in sav
age or grotesque scenery, or as points of contrast, but are no excuse for hia
ever losing sight of the general law.

SEC. VT. CH. I. J OF TRUTn OP VEGETATION. 389
But there are further conclusions to be drawn from this great
principle in trees. As they only diminish where they divide,
their increase of number is in precise proportion to their diminu
tion of size, so that whenever we come to the ex-
mui'tiuiy as they tremities of boughs, we must have a multitude of
diminish. Those .m-xx i •„,¦, ¦¦¦,
6f the old masters sprays sumcient to make up, if they were united,
sthe bulk of that from which they spring. Where
a bough divides into two equal ramifications, the diameter of
each of _ the two is about two-thirds that of the single one, and
the sum of their diameters, therefore, one-fourth greater than
the diameter of the single one. Hence, if no boughs died or
were lost, the quantity of wood in the sprays would appear one-
fourth greater than would be necessary to make up the thickness
of the trunk. But the lost boughs remove the excess, and there
fore, speaking broadly, the diameters of the^outer boughs put
'together would generally just make up the diameter of the trunk.
Precision in representing this is neither desirable nor possible.
All that is required is just so much observance of the general
principle as may make the eye feel satisfied that there is some
thing like the same quantity of wood in the sprays which there
is in the stem. But to do this, there must be, what there
always is in nature, an exceeding complexity of the outer sprays.
This complexity gradually increases towards their extremities,
of course exactly in proportion to the slenderness of the twigs.
The slenderer they become, the more there are of them, until at
last, at the extremities of the tree, they form a mass of intricacy,
which in winter, when'it can be seen, is scarcely distinguishable
from fine herbage, and is beyond all power of definite represen
tation ; it can only be expressed by a mass of involved strokes.
Also, as they shoot out in every direction, some are nearer, some
more distant ; some distinct, some faint ; and their intersec
tions and relations of distance are marked with the most exquisite
gradations of aerial perspective. Now it will be found universally
in the works of Claude, Gaspar, and Salvator, that the boughs
do not get in the least complex or multiplied towards the extremi
ties—that each large limb forks only into two or three smaller
ones, each of which vanishes into the air without any cause
or reason for such unaccountable conduct — unless that the
mass of leaves transfixed upon it or tied to it; entirely dependent

390 OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. [PART H.
on its single strength, have been too much, as well they may be,
for its powers of solitary endurance. This total ignorance of
tree structure is shown throughout their works. The Sinon
before Priam is an instance of it in a really fine work of Claude's,
but the most gross examples are in the works of Salvator. It
s n. Bough-draw- appears that this latter artist was hardly in the
mg of salvator. habit; of studying from nature at all after his boy
ish ramble among the Calabrian hills ; and I do not recollect
any instance of a piece of his bough-drawing which is not pal
pably and demonstrably a made-up phantasm of the studio, the
proof derivable from this illegitimate tapering being one of the
most convincing. The painter is always visibly embarrassed to
reduce the- thick boughs to spray, and feeling (for Salvator
naturally had acute feeling for truth) that the bough was wrong
when it tapered suddenly, he accomplishes its diminution by an
impossible 'protraction ; throwing out shoot after shoot until
his branches straggle all across the picture, and at last disap
pear unwillingly where there is no room for them to stretch any
farther. The consequence is, that whatever leaves are put upon
such boughs have evidently no adequate support, their power of
leverage is enough to uproot the tree ; or if the boughs are left
bare, they have the look of the long tentacula of some compli
cated marine monster, or of the waving endless threads of bunchy
sea-weed, instead of the firm, upholding, braced, and bending
grace of natural boughs. I grant that this is in a measure done
by Salvator from a love of ghastliness, and that in certain scenes
it is in a sort allowable ; but it is in a far greater degree done
from pure ignorance of tree structure, as is sufficiently proved
by the landscape of the Pitti palace, Peace burning the arms of
War ; where the spirit of the scene is intended to be quite other
than ghastly, and yet the tree branches show the usual errors in
an extraordinary degree ; every one of their arrangements is
impossible, and the trunk of the tree could not for a moment
support the foliage it is loaded with. So also in the pictures of
the Guadagni palace. And even where the skeleton look of
branches is justifiable or desirable, there is no occasion for any
violation of natural laws. I have seen more spectral character
in the real limbs of a blasted oak, than ever in Salvator's best
monstrosities ; more horror is to be obtained by right combina-

BBC VI. CH. I.] OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. 391
tion of inventive line, than by drawing tree branches as if they
were wing-bones of a pterodactyle. All departure from natural
forms to give fearfulness is mere Germanism ; it is the work of
fancy, not of imagination,* and instantly degrades whatever it
affects to third-rate level. There is nothing more marked in
truly great men, than their power of being dreadful without
being false or licentious. In Tintoret's Murder of Abel, the
head of the sacrificed firstling lies in the corner of the fore
ground, obscurely sketched in, and with the light gleaming upon
its glazed eyes. There is nothing exaggerated about the head,
but tiiere is more horror got out of it, and more of death sug
gested by its treatment, than if he had turned all the trees of his
picture into skeletons, and raised a host of demons to drive the
club. It is curious that in Salvator's sketches or etchings there is
less that is wrong than in his paintings, — there seems a fresher
remembrance of nature about them. Not so with Claude. It is
only by looking over his sketches, in the British
§12. All these er- ,„. J J - , -, , 6 ., -,.,•-, ¦ , 7
rors especially Museum, that a complete and just idea is to be
shown in Claude's „ , „ . . ... „ * . ,. „ ..
^ketches, and con- formed of his capacities of error; for the feeling
centrated in . a , , » „ ,, ,. „
work of g. Pous-i and arrangement ot many ot them are those of an
advanced age, so that we can scarcely set them down
for what they resemble — the work of a boy ten years old ; and
the drawing being seen without any aids of tone or color to set
it off, -shows in its naked falsehood. The windy landscape of
Poussin, opposite the Dido and tineas, in the National Gallery,
presents us, in the foreground tree, with a piece of atrocity which
I think, to any person who candidly considers it, may save me
all farther trouble of demonstrating the errors of ancient art. I
do not in the least suspect the picture : the tones of it, and
much of the handling, are masterly ; yet that foreground tree
coinprises every conceivable violation of truth which the human
hand can commit, or head invent, in drawing a tree — except
only, that it is not drawn root uppermost. It has no bark, no
roughness nor character of stem ; its boughs do not grow out of
each other, but are stuck into each other ; they ramify without
diminishing, diminish without ramifying, are terminated by no
* Compare Part IIT. Sect. II. Chap. IV. § 6, 7.

392 OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. [PAKT H.
complicated sprays, have their leaves tied to their ends, like the
heads of Dutch brooms ; and finally, and chiefly, they are
evidently not made of wood, but of some soft elastic substance,
which the wind can stretch out as it pleases, for there is not a
vestige of an angle in any one of them. Now, the fiercest wind
that ever blew upon the earth, could not take the
of the1 MLgies 'of angles out of the bough of a tree an inch thick.
ennoSutSofethJmby The whole bough bends together, retaining its
elbows, and angles, and natural form, but affected
throughout with curvature in each of its parts and joints. That
part of it which was before perpendicular being bent aside, and
that which was before sloping, being bent into still greater incli
nation, the angle at which the two parts meet remains the same ;
or if the strain be put in the opposite direction, the bough will
break long llfefore it loses its angle. You will find it difficult to
bend the angles out of the youngest sapling, if they be marked ;
and absolutely impossible, with a strong bough. You may
break it, but you will not destroy its angles. And if you watch
a tree in the wildest storm, you will find that though all its
boughs are bending, none lose their character but the utmost
shoots and sapling spray. Hence Gaspar Poussin, by his bad
drawing, does not make his storm strong, but his tree weak ; he
does not make his gust violent, but his boughs of India-rubber.
These laws respecting vegetation are so far more imperative
than those which were stated respecting water, that the greatest
artist cannot violate them without danger, because they are laws
1 14. Bou^h-draw- resulting from organic structure, which it is always
mg of Titian. painful to see interrupted ; on the other handf
they have this in common with all laws, that they may be
observed with mathematical precision, yet with no grateful
result ; the disciplined eye and the -life in the woods are
worth more than all botanical knowledge. For there is that
about the growing of the tree trunk, and that grace in its upper
ramification which cannot be taught, and which cannot even be
seen but by eager watchfulness. There is not an Exhibition
passes, but there appear in it hundreds of elaborate paintings of
trees, many of them executed from nature. For three hundred
years back, trees have been drawn -with affection by all the civi
lized nations of Europe, and yet I repeat boldly, what I before

SBC. VI. CH. I.] OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. 3U3
asserted, that no men but Titian and Turner ever drew the stem
of a tree. /
Generally, I think, the perception of the muscular qualities
of the tree trunk incomplete, except in men who have studied
the human figure, and in loose expression of those characters,
the painter who can draw the living muscle seldom fails ; but
the thoroughly peculiar lines belonging to woody fibre, can only
be learned by patient forest study ; and hence in all the trees of
the merely historical painters, there is fault of some kind or
another, commonly exaggeration of the muscular swellings, or
insipidity and want of spring in curvature, or fantasticism and
unnaturalness of arrangement, and especially a want of the
peculiar characters of bark which express the growth and age of
the tree ; for bark is no mere excrescence, lifeless and external
¦^-it is a skin of especial significance in its indications of the
organic form beneath ; in places under the arms of the tree it
wrinkles up and forms fine lines round the trunk, inestimable
in their indication of the direction of its surface ; in others, it
bursts or peels longitudinally, and the rending and bursting of
it are -influenced in direction and degree by the under-growth
and swelling of the woody fibre, and are not a mere roughness
and granulated pattern of the hide. Where there are so many
points to be observed, some are almost always exaggerated, and
others missed, according to the predilections of the painter.
Rembrandt and Albert Durer have given some splendid examples
of woody texture, but both miss the grace of the great lines.
Titian took a larger view and reached a higher truth, yet (as
before noticed) from the habit of drawing the figure, he admits
too much flaccidity and bend, and sometimes makes his tree
trunks look flexible like sea-weed. There is a peculiar stiffness
and spring about the curves of the wood, which, separates them
completely from animal curves, and which especially defies recol
lection or invention ; it is so subtile that it escapes but too
often, even in the most patient study from nature ; it lies within
the thickness of a pencil line. Farther, the modes of ramifica
tion ofthe upper branches are so varied, inventive, and graceful,
that the least alteration of them, even in the measure of a hair
breadth, spoils them ; and though it is sometimes possible to
get rid of a troublesome bough, accidentally awkward, or in

394 OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. [PABTtt.
some minor respects to assist the arrangement, yet so far as the
real branches are copied, the hand libels their lovely curvatures
even in its best attempts to follow them.
These two characters, the woody stiffness hinted through
muscular line, and the inventive grace of the upper boughs,
have never been rendered except by Turner ; he does not merely
sis. Bough-draw- draw them better than others, but he is the only
Ing of Turner. man ^q jiag eTer drawn them at all. Of the
woody character, the tree subjects of 'the Liber Studiorum
afford marked examples ; the Cephalus and Procris, scenes
near the Grand Chartreuse and Blair Athol, Juvenile Tricks,
and Hedging and Ditching, may be particularized ; in the
England series, the Bolton Abbey is perhaps a more character
istic and thoroughly Turneresque example than any.
Of the arrangement of the upper boughs, the .xEsacus and
Hesperie is perhaps the most consummate example, the absolute
truth and simplicity and freedom from anything like f antasticism
or animal form being as marked on the one hand, as the
exquisite imaginativeness of the lines on the other : among the
Yorkshire subjects the Aske Hall, Kirby Lonsdale Churchyard,
and Brignall Church are most characteristic : among the Eng
land subjects the Warwick, Dartmouth Cove, Durham, and
Chain Bridge over the Tees, where the piece of thicket on the
right has been well rendered by the engraver, and is peculiarly
expressive of the aerial relations and play of light among com
plex boughs. The vignette at the opening of Rogers's Pleasures
of Memory, that of Chiefswood Cottage in the Illustrations to
Scott's Works, and the Chateau de la belle Gabrielle, engraved
for the Keepsake, are among the most graceful examples acces
sible to every one ; the Crossing the Brook will occur at once to
those acquainted with the artist's gallery. The drawing of the
stems in all these instances, and indeed in all the various and
frequent minor occurrences of such subject throughout the
painter's works is entirely unique, there is nothing of the same
kind in art.
Let us, however, pass to the leafage of the elder landscape
. -,„ T ., t. painters, and see if it atones for the deficiencies of
S 18. Leafage. Its * /->„•,
variety and sym- the stems. One of the most remarkable characters
of natural leafage is the constancy with which,

SEC. VI. CH. 1.] OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. 395
while the leaves are arranged on the spray with exquisite regu
larity, that regularity is modified in their actual effect. For as
in every group of leaves some are seen sideways, forming merely
long lines, some foreshortened, some crossing each other, every
one differently turned and placed from all the others, the forms
of the leaves, though in themselves similar, give rise to a thou
sand strange and differing forms in the group ; and the shadows
of some, passing over the others, still, farther disguise and confuse
the mass, until the eye can distinguish nothing but a graceful
and flexible disorder of innumerable forms, with here and there
a perfect leaf on the extremity, or a symmetrical association of
one or two, just enough to mark the specific character and to
give unity and grace, but never enough to repeat in one group
what was done in another — never enough to prevent the eye
from feeling that, however regular and mathematical may be the
structure of parts, what is composed out of them is as various and
infinite as any other part of nature. Nor does this take place
in general effect only. Break off an elm bough, three feet long,
in full leaf, and lay it on the table before you, and try to draw
it, leaf for leaf. It is ten to one if in the whole bough, (provided
you do not twist it about as you work,) you find one form of a
leaf exactly like another ; perhaps you will not even have one
complete. Every leaf will be oblique, or foreshortened, or
curled, or crossed, by another, or shaded by another, or have
something or other the matter with it ; and though the whole
bough will look graceful and symmetrical, you will scarcely be
able to tell how or why it does so, since there is not one line of
it like another. Now go to Gaspar Poussin, and
uiirity^ESufl take one of his sprays where they come against the
sky ; you may count it all round, one, two, three,
four, one bunch ; five, six, seven, eight, two bunches ; nine, ten,
eleven, twelve, three bunches ; with four leaves each, — and such
leaves ! every one precisely the same as its neighbor, blunt and
round at the end, (where every forest leaf is sharp, except that^of
the fig-tree,) tied together by the roots, and so fastened on to
the demoniacal claws above described, one bunch to each claw.
But if nature is so various when you have a bough on the
table before you, what must she be when she retires from you,
and gives you her whole mass and multitude ? The leaves then

396 OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. [PART II.
at .the extremities become as fine as dust, a mere confusion of
points and lines between you and the sky, a confu-
intricacylff n&- sion which you might as well hope to draw sea-sand
ture-s foliage. particle by particle, as to imitate leaf for leaf.
This, as it comes down into the body of the tree, gets closer,
but never opaque ; it is always transparent, with crumbling
lights in it letting you through to the sky ; then, out of this,
come, heavier and heavier, the masses of illumined foliage, all
dazzling and inextricable, save here and there a single leaf on
the extremities ; then, under these, you get deep passages of
broken, irregular gloom, passing into transparent, green-lighted,
misty hollows ; the twisted stems .glancing through them in
their pale and entangled infinity, and the shafted sunbeams,
rained from above, running along the lustrous leaves for an in
stant ; then lost, then caught again on some emerald bank or
knotted root, to be sent up again with a faint reflex on the white
under-sides of dim groups of drooping foliage, the shadows of
the upper boughs running in gray network down the glossy
stems, and resting in quiet checkers upon the glittering earth ;
but all penetrable and transparent, and, in proportion, inex
tricable and incomprehensible, except where across the labyrinth
and the mystery of the dazzling light and dream-like shadow,
falls, close to us, some solitary spray, some wreath of two or
three motionless large leaves, the type and embodying of all that
in the rest we feel and imagine, but can never see.
Now, with thus much of nature in your mind, go to Gaspar
Poussin's View near Albano, in the National Gallery. It is the
very subject to unite all these effects, — a sloping bank shaded
§ 19. How con- with. intertwined forest ; — and what has Gaspar
tfee^patferns'of giVen us ? A mass of smooth, opaque, varnished
g. Poussin. brown, without one interstice, one change of hue,
or any vestige of leafy structure in its interior, or in those parts
of it, I should say, which are intended to represent interior ; but
out of it, over it rather, at regular intervals, we have circular
groups of greenish touches, always the same in size, shape, and
distance from each other, containing so exactly the same num
ber of touches each, that you cannot tell one from another.
There are eight or nine and thirty of them, laid over each other
like fish-scales ; the shade being most carefully made darker and

SEC. VI. CH. I.] OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. 397
darker as it recedes from each until it comes to the edge of the
next, against which it cuts in the same sharp circular line, and
then begins to decline again, until the canvas is covered, with
about as much intelligence or feelirig of art as a house-painter
has in marbling' a wainscot, or a weaver in repeating an orna
mental pattern. What is there in this, which the most deter
mined prejudice in favor of the old masters can for a moment
.suppose to resemble trees ? It is exactly what the most igno
rant beginner, trying to make a complete drawing, would lay
down, — exactly the conception- of trees which we have in the
Works of our worst drawing-masters, where the shade is laid on
with the black-lead and stump, and every human power exerted
to make it look like a kitchen-grate well polished.
Oppose to this the drawing even of our somewhat inferior tree-
painters. I will not insult Harding by mentioning his work after
it, but take Creswick, for instance, and match one of his spark
ling bits of green leafage with this tree-pattern of
Wed by^cres- Poussin's. I do not say there is not a dignity and
impressiveness about the old landscape, owing to its
simplicity ; and I am very far from calling Creswick's good tree-
painting ; it is false in color and deficient in mass and freedom,
and has many other defects, but it is the work of a man who has
sought earnestly for truth ; and who, with one thought or mem
ory of nature in his heart, could look at the two landscapes, and
receive Poussin's with ordinary patience? Take Creswick iri
black and white, where he is unembarrassed by his fondness for
pea-green, the illustrations, for instance, to the Nut-brown
Maid,' in the Book of English Ballads. Look at the intricacy
and fulness of the dark oak foliage where it bends over the
: brook, see how you can go through it, and into it, and come out
behind it to the quiet bit of sky. Observe the gray, aerial trans
parency of the stunted copse on the left, and the entangling
of the boughs where the light near foliage detaches itself. Above
' all, note the forms of the masses of light. Not things like
.scales or shells, sharp at the edge and flat in the middle, but
irregular and rounded, stealing in and out accidentally from the
shadow, and presenting, as the masses of all trees do, in general
outline, a resemblance to the specific forms of the leaves of
which they are composed. Turn over the page, and look into

398 OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. [PAST n,
the weaving of the foliage and sprays against the dark night-
sky, how near they are, yet how untraceable ; see how the moon
light creeps up underneath them, trembling and shivering on
the silver boughs above ; note also, the descending bit of ivy on
the left, of which only two leaves are made out, and the rest is
confusion, or tells only in the moonlight like faint fiakes of
snow. But nature observes another principle in her foliage more
important even than its intricacy. She always secures an ex
ceeding harmony and repose. She is so intricate that her
minuteness of parts becomes to the eye, at a little
ty .'in6 natur™s distance, one united veil or cloud of leaves, to
0 mge' destroy the evenness of which, is perhaps a greater
fault than to destroy its transparency.. Look at Creswick's
oak again, in its dark parts. Intricate as it is, all is
blended into a cloud-like harmony of shade, which becomes
fainter and fainter, as it retires, with the most delicate flatness
and unity of tone. And it is by this kind of vaporescence, so
to speak, by this flat, misty, unison of parts, that nature, and
her faithful followers, are enabled to keep the eye in perfect
repose in the midst of profusion, and to display beauty of form,
wherever they choose, to the greatest- possible advantage, by
throwing it across some quiet, visionary passage of dimness and
rest. It is here that Hobbima and Both fail. They can paint oak
leafage faithfully, but do not know where to stop, and by doing
too much, lose the truth of all, — lose the very truth of detail at
which they aim, for all their minute work only gives
§ 28. Total want ,-,,,, „, .,° ,
of itinBothand two leaves to nature s twenty. Thev are evidently
Hobbima. . , . . .,•,¦. , »
incapable ot even thinking of a tree, much more of
drawing it, except leaf by leaf ; they have no notion nor sense
of simplicity, mass, or obscurity, and when they come to dis
tance, where it is totally impossible that leaves should be sepa
rately seen, yet, being incapable of conceiving or rendering the
grand and quiet forms of truth, they are reduced to paint their t
bushes with dots and touches expressive of leaves three feet
broad each. Nevertheless there is a genuine aim in their works,
and their failure is rather to be attributed to ignorance of art,

SEC. VI. CH. I.] OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. 399
than to such want of sense for nature as we find in Claude or
Poussin ; and when they come close home, we sometimes receive
from them fine passages of mechanical truth.
But let us oppose to their works the group of trees on the left
in Turner's Marly.* We have there perfect and ceaseless intri
cacy to oppose to Poussin, — perfect and unbroken repose to op-
§ 23. how ren- Pose *° Hobbima ; and in the unity of these the
Sered by Turner, perfection of truth. This group may be taken as
a fair standard of Turner's tree-painting. We have in it the
admirably drawn stems, instead of the claws or the serpents ;
full, transparent, boundless intricacy, instead of the shell pat
tern ; and misty depth of intermingled light and leafage, in
stead of perpetual repetition of one mechanical touch.
I have already spoken (Section II. Chapter IV. § 15,) of the
way in which mystery and intricacy are carried even into the
nearest leaves of the foreground, and noticed the want of such
intricacy even in the best works of the old .masters.
L?agepfhciaude. Claude's are particularly deficient, for by represent-
tancefiregood!9" ing evei7 particular leaf of them, or trying to do
so, he makes nature finite, and even his nearest bits
of leaiage are utterly false, for they have neither shadows modi
fying their form, (compare Section II. Chapter III. § 7,) nor
sparkling lights, nor confused intersections of their own forms
and lines ; and the perpetual repetition of the same shape of
leaves and the same arrangement, relieved from a black ground,
is more like an ornamental pattern for dress than the painting
of a foreground. Nevertheless, the foliage of Claude, in his
middle distances, is the finest and truest part of his pictures,
and, on the whole, affords the best example of good drawing to
be found in ancient art. It is always false in color, and has not
boughs enough amongst it, and the stems commonly look a
great deal nearer than any part of it, but it is still graceful, flex
ible, abundant, intricate ; and, in all but color and connection
with stems, very nearly right. Of the perfect painting of thick,
* This group I have before noticed as singularly (but, I doubt not, acci
dentally, and in consequence of the love of the two great painters for the
same grand forms) resembling that introduced by Tintoret in the background
of his Cain and Abel.

400 OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. [PAKT n,'
leafy foreground, Turner's Mercury and Argus, and Oakhamp.
ton, are the standards.*
The last and most important truth to be observed respecting
trees, is that their boughs always, in finely grown individuals,
bear among themselves such a ratio of length as to describe with
§ 25 universal their extremities a symmetrical curve, constant for
tree^infnionsyn^ ea°h species ;• and within this curve all the ir<
metrical curves, regularities, segments, and divisions of the tree
are included, each bough reaching the limit with its extrem
ity, but not passing it. When a tree is perfectly grown, each
bough starts from the trunk with just so much wood as, -allow
ing for constant ramification, will enable it to reach the termi
nal line ; or if by mistake, it start with too little, it will proceed
without ramifying till within a distance where it may safely
divide ; if on the contrary it start with too much, it will ramify
quickly and constantly ; or, to express the real operation more
accurately, each bough, growing on so as to keep even with its
neighbors, takes so much wood from the trunk as is sufficient to
enable it to do sO, more or less in proportion as it ramifies fast
* The above paragraphs I have left as originally written, because they
are quite true as far as they reach; but like many other portions of this
essay, they take in a very small portion of the truth. I shall not add to
them at present, because I can. explain my meaning better in our consid
eration of the laws of beauty ; but the reader must bear in mind that what
is above stated refers, thoughout, to large masses of foliage seen under
broad sunshine, — and it has especial reference to Turner's enormous scale
of scene, and intense desire of light. In twilight, when tree-forms are
seen against sky, other laws come into operation, as well as in subject of
narrow limits and near foreground. It is, I think, to be regretted that Tur
ner does not in his Academy pictures sometimes take more confined and
gloomy subjects, like that grand one, near the Chartreuse, of the Liber Stu
diorum, wherein his magnificent power of elaborating close foliage might
be developed ; but, for the present, let the reader, with respect to what
has been here said of close foliage, note the drawing of the leaves in that
plate, in the iEsacus and Hesperie, and the Cephalus, and the elaboration of
the foregrounds in the Yorkshire drawings ; let him compare what is said
of Turner's foliage painting above in Part II. Sect. I. Chap. VII. § 40, § 41.
and of Titian's previously, as well as Part III. Sect. I. Chap. VIII., and
Sect. II. Chap. IV. § 21. I shall hereafter endeavor to arrange the sub
ject in a more systematic manner ; but what additional observations I may
have to make will none of them be in any wise more favorable to Gaspar,
Salvator, or Hobbima, tlian the above paragraphs.

SBC. VI. CH. I.] OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. 401
or slowly. In badly grown trees, the boughs are apt to fall
short of the curve, or at least, there are so many jags and open
ings that its symmetry is interrupted ; and in young trees, the
impatience of the upper shoots frequently breaks the line ; but
in perfect and mature trees, every bough does its duty com
pletely, and the line of curve is quite filled up, and the mass
within it unbroken, so that the tree assumes the shape of a
dome, as in the oak, or, in tall trees, of a pear, with the stalk
downmost. The old masters paid no attention whatsoever to
o„„x .,. .,. *his great principle. They swing their boughs
|«6. Altogether ° r * J ° °
unobserved by about, anywhere and everywhere ; each stops or
Always given by goes on just as it likes, nor will it.be possible, in
any of their works, to find a single example in
which any symmetrical curve is indicated by the extremities.*
But I need scarcely tell any one in the slightest degree ac
quainted with the works of Turner, how rigidly and constantly
he adheres to this principle of nature ; taking in his highest
compositions the perfect ideal form, every spray being graceful
and varied in itself, but inevitably terminating at the assigned
limit, and filling up the curve without break or gap ; in his
lower works, taking less perfect form, but invariably hinting
the constant tendency in all, and thus, in spite of his abundant
complexity, he arranges his trees under simpler and grander
forms than any other artist, even among the moderns.
It was above asserted that J. D: Harding is, after Turner, the
greatest master of foliage in Europe ; I ought, however, to state
that my knowledge of the modern landscape of Germany is very
limited, and that, even with respect to France and
panning on tie Italy, I judge rather from the general tendency of
study and character of mind visible in the annual
* Perhaps in some instances, this may be the case with the trees of Nich
olas Poussin ; but even with him the boughs only touch the line of limit
With their central points of extremity, and are not sectors of the great curve
— forming a part of it with expanded extremities, as in nature. Draw a few
, straight lines, from the centre to the circumference of a circle. The forms
included between them are the forms of the individual boughs of a fine tree,
with all their ramifications (only the external curve is not a circle, but more
frequently two parabolas — which, I believe, it is in the oak — or an ellipse.)
But each bough of the old masters is club-shaped, and broadest, not at the
outside of the tree, but a little way towards its centre.

402 OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. [PAKT n.
Exhibition of the Louvre, and in some galleries of modern paint
ings at Milan, Venice, and Florence, than from any detailed ac
quaintance with the works of their celebrated painters. Yet I
think I can hardly be mistaken. I have seen nothing to induce
me to take a closer survey ; no life knowledge or emotion in any
quarter ; nothing but the meanest and most ignorant copyism of
vulgar details, coupled with a style of conception resembling
that of the various lithographic ideals on the first leaves of the
music of pastoral ballads. An exception ought, however, to be
made in favor of French etching ; some studies in black and
white may be seen in the narrow passages of the Louvre of very
high merit, showing great skill and delicacy of execution, and
most determined industry ; (in fact, I think when the French
artist fails,, it is never through fear of labor ;) nay, more than
this, some of them exhibit acute perception of landscape char
acter and great power of reaching simple impressions of gloom,
wildness, sound, and motion. Some of their illustrated works
also exhibit these powers in a high degree ; there is a spirit, fire,
and sense of reality about some of the wood-cuts to the large
edition of Paul and Virginia, and a determined rendering of
separate feeling in each, such as we look for in vain in our own
ornamental works.* But the French appear to have no teaching
such as might carry them beyond this ; their entire ignorance
of color renders the assumption of the brush instantly fatal, and
the false, forced, and impious sentiment of the nation renders
anything like grand composition altogether impossible.
It is therefore only among good artists of our own school
that I think any fair comparison can be instituted, and I wish
to assert Harding's knowledge of foliage more distinctly, be
cause he neither does justice to himself, nor is,
J. b. Harding. I think, rightly estimated by his fellow-artists.
I shall not make any invidious remarks respecting
individuals, but I think it necessary to state generally, that the
style of foliage painting chiefly characteristic of the pictures on
the lirle of the Royal Academy is of the most degraded kind ; f
* On the other hand, nothing can be more exquisitely ridiculous than
the French illustrations of a second or third-rate order, as those to the Har
monies of Lamartine.
t Of Stanfield's foliage I remember too little to enable me to form any

BEC. VI. CH. I.] OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. 403
and that, except Turner and Mulready, we have, as far as 1
know, no Royal Academician capable of painting even the small
est portion of foliage in a dignified or correct manner ; all is lost
in green shadows with glittering yellow lights, white trunks
with black patches on them, and leaves of no species in particular.
Much laborious and clever foliage drawing is to be found in the
rooms of the New Water-Color Society ; but we have no one in
any wise comparable to Harding for thorough knowledge of the
subject, for power of expression in a sketch from nature, or for
natural and unaffected conception in the study.
Maintaining for him this high position, it is necessary that
I should also state those deficiencies which appear to me to
conceal his real power, and in no small degree to prevent his
progress. His over-fondness for brilliant execution I have already no
ticed. He is fonder of seeing something tolerably like a tree
produced with few touches, than something very like a tree pro
duced with many. Now, it is quite allowable that
Lncy or' execu- occasionally, and in portions of his picture, a great
tion too manifest. ... -, -i-i-i-i -i- -us- xi-i £
artist should indulge himself m this luxury of
sketching, yet it is a perilous luxury ; it blunts the feeling and
weakens the hand. - I have said enough in various places re
specting the virtues of negligence and of finish, (compare above
the chapter on Ideas of Power in Part I. Sect. II. , and Part III.
Sect. I. Ch. X. § 4,) and I need only say here, therefore, that
Harding's foliage is never sufficiently finished, and has at its
best the look' of a rapid sketch from nature touched upon at
home. In 1843, (I think,) there was a pretty drawing in the
rooms of the Water-Color Society, — the clear green water of a tor
rent resting among stones, with copse-like wood on each side, a
bridge in the distance, a white flower ^water-lily ?) catching the
eye in front ; the tops of the trees on the left of this picture
were mere broad blots of color dashed upon the sky and con
nected by stems. I allow the power necessary to attain any look
of foliage by such means, but it is power abused : by no such
means can any of the higher virtue and impressiveness of foliage
be rendered. In the use of body color for near leaves, his exe-
definite judgment ; it is a pity that he so much neglects this noble element
of landscape.

404 OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. [PART n.
cution is also too hasty ; often the touches are mere square or
round dots, which can be understood only for foliage by their
arrangement. This fault was especially marked in the trees of
his picture painted for the Academy two years ago ; they were
very nearly shapeless, and could not stand even in courtesy for
Walnut leaves, for which, judging by the make of the tree, they
must have been intended.
His drawing of boughs is, in all points of demonstrable law,
right, and very frequently easy and graceful also ; yet it has two
eminent faults, the first, that the flow of the bough is sacri
ficed to its texture, the pencil checking itself and
arawing3 ""ind hesitating at dots, and stripes, and knots, instead
orm. ^ following the grand and unbroken tendency of
growth : the second, that however good the arrangement may be
as far as regards merely flexibility, intricacy, and freedom, there
are none of those composed groups of line which are unfailing
in nature. Harding's work is not grand enough to be natural.
The drawings in the park and the forest, are, I believe, almost
facsimiles of sketches made from nature ; yet it is evident at
once that in all of them nothing but the general lie and disposi
tion of the boughs has been taken from the tree, and that no
single branch or spray has been faithfully copied or patiently
studied. This want of close study necessarily causes several deficien.
cies of feeling respecting general form. Harding's choice is al
ways of tree forms comparatively imperfect, leaning this way
and that, and unequal in the lateral arrangements of foliage.
Such forms are often graceful, always picturesque, but rarely
grand ; and when systematically adopted, untrue. It ' requires
more patient study to attain just feeling of the dignity and char
acter of a purely formed tree with all its symmetries perfect.
One more cause of incorrectness I may note, though it is not
peculiar to the artist's tree-drawing, but attaches to his general
system of sketching. In Harding's valuable work on the use of
the Lead Pencil, there is one principle advanced
how far expressl which I believe to be false and dangerous, that
ible in black and ,. , -¦_ „¦,., . ,,-,, , i
white, and with the local color of objects is not thereby to bo
ge. ren(jere(j_ j think the instance given is that of
some baskets, whose darkness is occasioned solely by tho

SBC. VI. CH. I.] OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. 405
touches indicating the wicker-work. Now, I believe, that
an essential difference between the sketch of a great and of a
comparatively inferior master is, that the former is conceived
entirely in shade and color, and its masses are blocked out with
reference to both, while the inferior draughtsman checks at tex
tures and petty characters of object. If Rembrandt had had to
sketch such baskets, he would have troubled himself very little
about the wicker-work ; but he would have looked to see where
they came dark or light on the sand, and where there were
any sparkling points of light on the wet osiers. These darks and
lights he would have scratched in with the fastest lines he
could, leaving no white paper but at the wet points of lustre ; if
he had had time, the wicker-work would have come afterwards.*
And I think, that the first thing to be taught to any pupil, is
neither how to manage the pencil, nor how to attain character
of outline, but rather to see where things are light and where
they are dark, and to draw them as he sees them, never caring
whether his lines be dexterous or slovenly. The result of such
study is the immediate substitution of downright drawing for
symbolism, and afterwards a judicious moderation in the use of
extreme lights and darks ; for where local colors are really
drawn, so much of what seems violently dark is found to come
light against something else, and so much of what seems high
light to come dark against the sky, that the draughtsman trem
bles at finding himself plunged either into blackness or white
ness, and seeks, as he should, for means of obtaining force with
out either.
It is in consequence of his evident habit of sketching more
with a view to detail and character than to the great masses,
that Harding's chiaroscuro is frequently crude, scattered, and
petty. Black shadows occur under his distant trees, white high
lights on his foreground rocks, the foliage and trunks are divided
by violent oppositions into separate masses, and the branches
* It is true that many of Rembrandt's etchings are merely in line, but it
may be observed that the subject is universally conceived in light and shade,
and that the lines are either merely guides in the arrangement, or an exqui*
site indication of the key-notes of shade, on which the after-system of it is to
be based— portions of fragmentary finish, showing the completeness of the
conception.

406 OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. [PART H.
lose in spots of moss and furrowings of bark their soft round-
ings of delicate form, and their grand relations to each other
and the sky.
It is owing to my respect for the artist, and my belief in his
power and conscientious desire to do what is best, that I have
thus extended these somewhat unkind remarks. On the other
osition hand, it is to be remembered, that his knowledge o^
between great natnre is most extended, and his dexterity of draw.
manner andgreat , ' ¦ -, ¦
knowledge. mg most instructive, especially considering his
range of subject ; for whether in water, rock, or foliage, he
is equally skilful in attaining whatever he desires, (though he
does not always desire all that he ought;) and artists should
keep in mind, that neither grandeur of manner nor truth
of system can atone for the want of this knowledge and this
skill. Constable's manner is good and great, but being unable
to draw even a log of wood, much more a trunk of a tree or a
stone, he left his works destitute of substance, mere studies of
effect without any expression of specific knowledge ; and thus
even what is great in them has been productive, I believe, of
very great injury in its encouragement of the most superficial
qualities of the English school.
The foliage of David Cox has been already noticed (preface
to second edition. ) It is altogether exquisite in color, and in its
impressions of coolness, shade, and mass ; of its drawing I can
not say anything, but that I should be sorry to
Cox,' Fieraing, see it better. Copley Fielding's is remarkable for
and Cattermole. ..... ,, .... • , p
its intricacy and elegance ; it is, however, not free
from affectation, and, as has been before remarked, is always
evidently composed in the study. The execution is too rough
and woolly ; it is wanting in simplicity, sharpness, and fresh
ness, — above all in specific character : not, however, in his mid
dle distances, where the rounded masses of forest and detached
blasted trunks of fir are usually very admirable. Cattermole has
very grand conceptions of general form, but wild and without
substance, and therefore incapable of long maintaining their
attractiveness, especially lately, the execution having become in
the last degree coarse and affected. This is bitterly to be
regretted, for few of our artists would paint foliage better, if he
would paint it from nature, and with reverence.

SECL VI. CH. I.] OF TRUTH OF. VEGETATION. 407
Hunt, I think, fails, and fails only, in foliage ; fails, as the
Daguerreotype does, from over-fidelity ; for foliage will not be
imitated, it must be reasoned out and suggested ; yet Hunt is
S 34. Hunt and the only man we have who can paint the real leaf
howTo^reS Sreen nnder sunlight, and, in this respect, his
%htrPand6olen- trees are delicious,— summer itself. Creswick has
sive it otherwise. sweet feeling, and tries for the real green too,
but, from want of science in his shadows, ends in green
paint instead of green light ; in mere local color, instead of
color raised by sunshine. One example is enough to show where
the fault lies. In his picture of the Weald of Kent, in the Brit
ish Institution this year, there was a cottage in the middle dis
tance with white walls, and a red roof. The dark sides of the
white walls and of the roof were of the same color, a dark nur-
ple — wrong for both. Repeated inaccuracies of this Kind neces
sarily deprive even the most brilliant color of all appearance of
sunshine, and they are much to be deprecated in Creswiqk, as
he is one of the very few artists who do draw from nature and
try for nature. Some of his thickets and torrent-beds are most
painfully studied, and yet he cannot draw a bough nor a stone.
I suspect he is too much in the habit of studying only large
views on the ¦ spot, and not of drawing small portions thor
oughly. -I trust it will be seen that these, as all other remarks
that I have made throughout this volume on particular works,
are not in depreciation of, or unthankfulness for, what the ar
tist has done, but in the desire that he should do himself more
justice and more honor. I have much pleasure in Creswick's
works, and I am glad always to see them admired by others.
I shall conclude this sketch of the foliage art of England,
by mention of two artists, whom I believe to be representative
of a considerable class, admirable in their reverence and patience
tffi. conclusion. °^ study, yet unappreciated by the public, because
neurand°sfpaim- what they do is unrecommended by dexterities of
er- handling. The forest studies of J. Linnell are
peculiarly elaborate, and, in many points, most skilful ; they
fail perhaps of interest, owing to over-fulness of detail and a
want of generalization in the effect ; but even a little more of
the Harding sharpness of touch would set off their sterling qual
ities, and make them felt. A less known artist, S. Palmer, lately

408 OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION. [PART n,
admitted a member of the Old Water-Color Society, is deserving
of the very highest place among faithfiil followers of nature.
His studies of foreign foliage especially are beyond all praise for
care and fulness. I have never seen a stone pine or a cypress
drawn except by him ; and his feeling is as pure and grand as his
fidelity is exemplary. He has not, however, yet, I think, dis
covered what is necessary and unnecessary in a great picture ;
and his works, sent to the Society's rooms, have been most un
favorable examples of his power, and have been generally, as
yet, in places where all that is best in them is out of sight. I
look to him, nevertheless, unless he lose himself in over-rever
ence for certain conventionalisms of the elder schools, as one of
the probable renovators and correctors of whatever is failing or
erroneous in the practice of English art.

CHAPTER II.
GENERAL REMARKS RESPECTING THE TRUTH OF TURNER.
We have now arrived at some general conception of the ex
tent of Turner's knowledge, and the truth of his practice, by the
deliberate examination of the characteristics of the four great
elements of landscape— sky, earth, water, and vesre-
51. No necessity ... T, f ,, J',., ' s,
of entering into tation. I have not thought lt necessary to devote
discussion of -i x x i -x x -i , -1 ,
architectural a chapter to architecture, because enough has been
said on this subject in Part II. Sect. I. Chap. VII. ;
and its general truths, which are those with which .the landscape
painter, as such, is chiefly concerned, require only a simple and
straightforward application of those rules of which every other
material object of a landscape has required a most difficult and
complicated application. Turner's knowledge of perspective
probably adds to his power in the arrangement of every order of
Bubject ; but ignorance on this head is rather disgraceful than
knowledge meritorious. It is disgraceful, for instance, that any
man should commit such palpable and atrocious errors in ordi
nary perspective as are seen in the quay in Claude's sea-piece,
No. 14, National Gallery, or in the curved portico of No. 30 ;
but still these are not points to be takeri into consideration as
having anything to do with artistical rank, just as, though we
should say it was disgraceful if a great poet could not spell, we
should not consider such a defect as in any way taking from his
poetical rank. Neither is there anything particularly belonging
to architecture, as such, which it is any credit to an artist to
observe or represent ; it is only a simple and clear field for the
manifestation of his knowledge of general laws. Any surveyor
or engineer could have drawn the steps and balustrade in the
Hero and Leander, as well as Turner has ; but there is no man
living but himself who could have thrown the accidental
Bhadows upon them. I may, however, refer for general illus-

410 GENERAL REMARKS RESPECTING [PART D,
tration of Turner's power as an architectural draughtsman, ta
the front of Rouen Cathedral, engraved in the Rivers of France,
and to the Ely in the England. I know nothing in art which
can be set beside the former of these for overwhelming grandeur
and simplicity of effect, and inexhaustible intricacy of parts. I
have then only a few remarks farther to offer respecting the
general character of all those truths which we have been hitherto
endeavoring to explain and illustrate.
The difference in the accuracy of the lines of the Torso of
the Vatican, (the Maestro of M. Angelo,) from those in one of
M.^Angelo's finest works, could perhaps scarcely be appreciated
X by any eye or feeling undisciplined by the most
difficulty of iiius- perfect and practical anatomical knowledge. It
V ing the highest rests on points of such traceless and refined deli
cacy, that though we feel them in the result, we
cannot follow them in the details. Yet they are such and so
great as to place the Torso alone in art, solitary and supreme ;
while the finest of M. Angelo's works, considered with respect to
truth alone, are said to be only on a level with antiques of the
second class, under the Apollo and Venus, that is, two classes
or grades below the Torso. But suppose the best sculptor in the
world, possessing the most entire appreciation of the excellence
of the Torso, were to sit down, pen in hand, to try and tell us
wherein the peculiar truth of each line consisted?' Could any
words that he could use make us feel the hairbreadth of depth
and distance on which all depends ? or end in anything more
than bare assertions of the inferiority of this line to that, which,
if we did not perceive for ourselves, no explanation could ever
illustrate to us ? He might as well endeavor to explain to us by
words some taste or other subject of sense, of which we had no
experience. And so it is with all truths of the highest order ;
they are separated from those of average precision by points of
extreme delicacy, which none but the cultivated eye can in the
least feel, and to express which, all words are abso-
§3. The positive . r ' .
rank of Tamer is lutely meaningless and useless. Consequently, in
shown in °the all that I have been saying of the truth of artists, I
but bniyliis rehv have been able to point out only coarse, broad, and
explicable matters ; I have been perfectly unable
to express (and indeed I have made no endeavor to express) the

SEC. VI. CH. n.] . THE TRUTH OF TURNER. 411
finely drawn and distinguished truth in which all the real excel
lence of art consists'. All those truths which I have been able to
explain and demonstrate in Turner, are such as any artist of
ordinary powers of observation ought to be capable of rendering.
It is disgraceful to omit them ; but it is no very great credit to
observe them. I have indeed proved that they have been neg
lected, and disgracefully so, by those men who are commonly con
sidered the Fathers of Art ; but in showing that they have been
observed by Turner> I have only proved him to be above other
men in knowledge of truth, I have nofrgiven any conception of
his own positive rank as a Painter of Nature. But it stands to
reason, that the men, who in broad, simple, and demonstrable
matters are perpetually violating truth, will not be particularly
accurate or careful in carrying out delicate and refined, and un-
demonstrable matters ; and it stands equally to reason, that the
man who, as far as argument or demonstration can go, is found
invariably truthful, will, in all probability, be truthful to the last
line, and shadow of a line. And such is, indeed, the case with
every touch of this consummate artist ; the essen-
mgreflnenM;neteof tial excellence — all that constitutes the real and
exceeding value of his works— is beyond and above
expression ; it is a truth inherent in every line, and breathing
in every hue, too delicate and exquisite to admit of any kind of
proof, nor to be ascertained except by the highest of tests— the
keen feeling attained by extended knowledge and long study.
Two lines are laid on canvas ; one is right and another wrong.
There is no difference between them appreciable by the com
passes — none appreciable by the ordinary eye — none which can
be pointed out, if it is not seen. One person feels it, — another
does not ; but the feeling or sight of the one can by no words be
communicated to the other : it would be unjust if it could, for
that feeling and sight have been the reward of years
thing^nehiswo°ks- of labor. And there is, indeed, nothing in Tur-
]oyed ca wUhoSt ner— not one dot nor line— whose meaning can be
knowledge. understood without knowledge ; because he never.
aims at sensual impressions, but at the deep final truth, which
only meditation can discover, and only experience recognize.
There is nothing done or omitted by him, which does not imply
such a comparison of ends, such rejection of the least worthy, (as

412 GENERAL REMARKS RESPECTING [PAKTn.
far as they are incompatible with the rest,) such careful selection
and arrangement of all that can be united, as can only be en
joyed by minds capable of going through the same process, and
§6. And nothing discovering the reasons for the choice. And, as
wM^ounabteus there is nothing in his works which can be enjoyed
to enjoy. without knowledge, so- there is nothing in them
which knowledge will not enable us to enjoy. There is no
test of our acquaintance with nature so absolute and unfail
ing as the degree of admiration we feel for Turner's- painting.
Precisely as we are shallow in our knowledge, vulgar in our
feeling, and contracted in our views of principles, will the
works of this artist be stumbling-blocks or foolishness to us : —
precisely in the degree in which we are familiar with naturej
constant in our observation of her, and enlarged in our under
standing of her, will they expand before our eyes into glory and
beauty. In every new insight which we obtain into the works
of God, in every new idea which we receive from His creation,
we shall find ourselves possessed of an interpretation and a guide
to something in Turner's works which we had not before under
stood. We may range over Europe, from shore to shore ; and
from every rock that we tread upon, every sky that passes over
our heads, every local form of vegetation or of soil, we shall
receive fresh illustration of his principles — fresh confirmation
of his facts. We shall feel, wherever we go, that he has been
there before us— whatever we see, that he has seen and seized
before us : and we shall at last cease the investigation, with a
well-grounded trust, that whatever we have been unable to
account for, and what we still dislike in his works, has reason
for it, and foundation like the rest ; and that even where he has
failed or erred, there is a beauty in the failure which none are
able to equal, and a dignity in the error which none are worthy,
to reprove. There has been marked and constant progress in his mind ;
he has not, like some few artists, been without childhood ; his
course of study has been as evidently as it has been swiftly pro-
§ 7. His former gressive, and in different stages of the struggle,
rank and progress, sometimes one order of truth, sometimes another,
has been aimed at or omitted. But from the beginning to
the present height of his career, he has never sacrificed a

SEC. VI. CH. n.] THE TRUTH OF TURNER. 413
/
greater truth to a less. As he advanced, the previous knowl-
s8. standing of edge or attainmenfc was absorbed in what suc-
hispresent works, ceeded, or abandoned onlv if incompatible, and
Their mystery is . . J r ' """*¦
the consequence never abandoned without a gam ; and his nresent
of their fulness. . . ,, , „
works present the sum and perfection of his accu
mulated knowledge, delivered with the impatience and passion
of one who feels too much, and knows too much, and has too
little time to say it in, to pause for expression, or ponder over
his syllables. There is in them the obscurity, but the truth, of
prophecy ; the instinctive and, burning language, which would
express less if it uttered more, which is indistinct only by its ful
ness, and dark with its abundant meaning. He feels now, with
long-trained vividness and. keenness of sense, too bitterly the
impotence of the hand, and the vainness of the color to catch
one shadow or one image of the glory which God has revealed to
him. He has dwelt and communed with nature all the days of
his life ; he knows her now too well, he cannot palter over the
material littleness of her outward form ; he must give her soul,
or he- has done nothing, and he cannot do this with the flax, and
the earth, and the oil.//' " I cannot gather the sunbeams out of
the east, or I would make them tell you what I have seen ; but
read this, and interpret this, and let us remember together. I
cannot gather the gloom out of the night-sky, or I would make
that teach you what I have seen ; but read this, and interpret
this, and let us feel together. . And if you have not that within
you which I can summon to my aid, if you have not the sun in
your spirit, and the passion in your heart, which my words may
awaken, though they be indistinct and swift, leave me; fori
will give you no patient mockery, no laborious insult of that glo
rious nature, whose I am and whom I serve. Let other servants
imitate the voice and the gesture of their master, while they for
get his message. Hear that message from me ; but remember,
that the teaching of Divine truth must still be a mystery." '

CHAPTER III.
CONCLUSION. — MODERN ART AND MODERN CRITICISM.
We have only, in conclusion, to offer a few general remarks
respecting modern art and modern criticism.
We wish, in the first place, to remove the appearance of
invidiousness and partiality which the constant prominence
given in the present portion of the work to the
proininenceehith- productions of one artist, can scarcely fail of bear-
erto given to the .... ¦ -i j» x -i -im
work! of one mg m the minds ot most readers. When we pass
by our^ot3 being to the examination of what is beautiful and ex-
Snce0tofeCcS-" pressive in art, we shall frequently find distinctive
acier' qualities in the minds even of inferior artists, which
have led them to the. pursuit and embodying of particular trains
of thought, altogether different from those which direct the
compositions of other men, and incapable of comparison with
them. Now, when this is the case, we should consider it in the,
highest degree both invidious and illogical, to say of such differ
ent modes of exertion of the intellect, that one is in all points
greater or nobler than another. We shall probably find some
thing in the working of all minds which has an end and a power
peculiar to itself, and which is deserving of free and full admira
tion, without any reference whatsoever to what has, in other
fields, been accomplished by other modes of thought, and direc
tions of aim. We shall, indeed, find a wider range and grasp
in one man than in another ; but yet it will be our own fault if
we do not discover something in the most limited range of mind
which is different from, and in its way better than, anything
presented to us by the more grasping intellect. We all know that
the nightingale sings more nobly than the lark ; but who, there
fore, would wish the lark not to sing, or would deny that it had
a character of its own, which bore a part among the .melodies of
creation no less essential than that of the more richly-gifted

BEC. VI. CH. in.] MODERN ART AND MODERN CRITICISM. 415
bird ? And thus we shall find and feel that whatever differ-
§ 2. The feelings ence may exigt between the- intellectual powers of
are Spabie^of one artist and another, yet wherever there is any
fun comparison. xrue genjug^ there will be some peculiar lesson which
even the humblest will teach us more sweetly and perfectly than
those far above them in prouder attributes of mind ; and we
should be as mistaken as we, should be unjust and invidious, if
• we refused to receive this their peculiar message with gratitude
and veneration, merely because it was a sentence
sty' and truth of and not a volume. But the case is different when
each are capable . ,. . ... „ , ... , . „ ,
of real compari- we examine their relative fidelity to given tacts.
That fidelity depends on no peculiar modes of
thought or habits of character ; it is the result of keen sensi
bility, combined with high powers of memory and association.
These qualities, as such, are the same in all men ; character or
feeling may direct their choice to this or that object, but the
fidelity with which they treat either the one or the other, is
dependent on those simple powers of sense and intellect which
are like arid comparable in all, and of which we can always say
that they are greater in this man, or less in that without
reference to the character of the individual. Those feelings
which direct Cox to the painting of wild, weedy banks, and cool,
melting skies, and those which, directed Barret to the painting
of glowing foliage and melancholy twilight,- are both just and
beautiful in their way, and are both worthy of high praise and
gratitude, without necessity, nay, without proper possibility of
comparing one with the other. But the degree of fidelity with
which the leaves of the one and the light of the other are ren
dered, depends upon faculties of sight, sense, and memory com
mon to both, and perfectly comparable ; and we may say fear
lessly, and without injustice, that one or the other, as the case
may be, is more faithful in that which they have chosen to rep-
| 4. Especially resent. It is also to be remembered that these fac-
eS^manife*™ ulties of sense and memory are not partial in tlieir
ed in the treat- effect ; thev will not induce fidelity in the render-
ment of all, sub- ' J - • ,
jects. jng 0f one class of object, and fail of doing so in.
another. They act equally, and with equal results, whatever
may be the matter subjected to them; the same delicate sense
which perceives the utmost grace of the fibres of- a tree, will be

416 CONCLUSION. [PART il
equally unerring in tracing the character of cloud ; and the
quick memory which seizes and retains the circumstances of a
flying effect of shadow or color, wiltbe equally effectual in fixing
the impression of the instantaneous, form of a moving figure or
a breaking wave. There are indeed one or two broad distinc
tions in the nature of the senses, — a sensibility to color, for
instance, being very different from a sensibility to form ; so that
a man may possess one without the other, and an artist may sue- •
ceed in mere imitation of what is before him, of air, sunlight,
etc., without possessing sensibility at all. But wherever we
have, in the drawing of any one object, sufficient evidence of real
intellectual power, of the sense which perceives the essential
qualities of a thing, and the judgment which arranges them so
as to illustrate each other, we may be quite certain that the same
sense and judgment will operate equally on whatever is subjected
to them, and that the artist will be equally great and. masterly
„ 5. No man in his drawing of all that he attempts. Hence we
wen" ifPhetbcaf may he qnite sure that wherever an artist appears
draw nothing else. ^0 ^e truthful in one branch of art, and not in
another, the apparent truth is either owing to some trickery
of imitation, or is not so great as we suppose it to be. In
nine cases odt of ten, people who are celebrated for drawing
only one thing, and can only draw one thing, draw that
one thing, worse than anybody else. An artist may indeed con
fine himself to a limited range of subject, but if he be really true
in his rendering of this, his power of doing more will be perpet
ually showing itself in accessories and minor points. There are
few men, for instance, more limited in subject than Hunt, and
yet I do not think there is another man in the old Water-Color
Society, with so keen an eye for truth, or with power so uni
versal; And this is the reason for the exceeding prominence
which in the foregoing investigation one or two artists have
always assumed over the rest, for the habits of accurate observa
tion and delicate powers of hand which they possess, have equal
effect, and maintain the same superiority in their works, to
whatever class of subject they may be directed. And thus we
have been compelled, however unwillingly, to pass hastily by the
works of many gifted men, because, however pure their feeling,
or original their conceptions, they were wanting in those facul-

SBC VI. CH. m.] MODERN ART AND MODERN CRITICISM. * 417
ties of the hand arid mind which insure perfect fidelity to
nature : it will be only hereafter, when we are at liberty to take
full cognizance of the thought, however feebly it may be clothed
in language, that we shall be able to do real justice to the dis
ciples .either of modern or of ancient art.
But as far as we have gone at present, and with respect only
to the material truth, which is all that we have been able to
investigate, the conclusion to which we must be led is as clear
§6. General con- as it is inevitable ; that modern artists, as a body,
ri™d0nfro0mbeodur are far more Just an(i * nil in their views of material
past investigation, things than any landscape painters whose works
are extant— but that J. M. W. Turner is the only man who has
ever given an entire transcript of the whole system of nature,
and is, in this point of view, the only perfect landscape painter
whom the world has ever seen.
Nor are we disposed to recede from our assertion made in
Sec. I. Ch. I. § 10, that this material truth is indeed a perfect
test of the relative rank of painters, though it does not in itself
.» m «. constitute that rank. We shall be able to prove
5 7. Truth, a etan- _ ¦ r
dardof ail excel- that truth and beauty, knowledge and imagination,
invariably are associated in art ; and we shall be
able to show that not only in truth to nature, but in all other
points, Turner is the greatest landscape painter who has ever
lived. But his superiority is, in matters of feeling, one of kind,
not of degree. Superiority of degree implies a superseding of
others, superiority of kind only sustaining a more important,
but not more necessary part, than others. If truth were all that
we required from art, all other painters might cast aside their
brushes in despair, for all that they have done he has done more
fully and accurately ; but when we pass to the higher require
ments of arti- beauty and character, their contributions are all
equally necessary and desirable, because different, and however
inferior in position or rank, are still perfect of their kind ; their
inferiority is only that of the lark to the nightingale, or of the
violet to the rose.
Such then is the rank and standing of our modern artists.
We have, living with us, and painting for us, the greatest
painter of all time ; a man with whose supremacy of power no
intellect of past ages can be put in comparison for a moment.

418 • CONCLUSION. [pakt n.
Let us next inquire what is the rank of our critics. Public taste,
s 8 Modern cri- I believe, as far as it is the encourager and sup-
fhincss ofCpub?ic porter of art has been the same in all ages, — a
taste- fitful and vacillating current of vague impression,
perpetually liable to change, subject to epidemic desires, and
agitated by infectious passion, the slave of fashion, and the fool
of fancy, but yet always distinguishing with singular clearsighted
ness, between that which is best and that which is worst of the
particular class of food which its morbid appetite may call for ;
never failing to distinguish that whicli is produced by intellect,
from that which is not, though it may be intellect degraded by
S 9. Yet associat- ministering to its misguided will. Public taste
degree*1 ofCejudv- may thus degrade a race of men capable of the
ment- highest efforts in art into the portrait painters of
ephemeral fashions, but it will yet not fail of discovering who,
among these portrait painters, is the man of most mind. It will
separate the man who would have become Buonaroti from the
man who would have become Bandinelli, though it will employ
both in painting curls, and feathers, and bracelets. Hence,
generally speaking, there is no comparative injustice done, no
false elevation of the fool above the man of mind, provided
only that the man of mind will condescend to supply the partic
ular article which the public chooses to want. Of course a
thousand modifying circumstances interfere with the action of
the general rule ; but, taking one case with another, we shall
very constantly find the price which the picture commands in
the market a pretty fair standard of the artist's rank of intellect.
s 10 Duty 0f the ^he press, therefore, and all who pretend to lead
press. the public taste, have not so much to direct the
multitude whom to go to, as what to ask for. Their business is
not to tell us which is our best painter, but to tell us whether
we are making our best painter do his best.
Now none are capable of doing this, but those whose princi
ples of judgment are based both on thorough practical knowl
edge of art, and on broad general views of what is true and right,
without reference to what has been done at one
eons' necessary time or another, or m one school or another.
ftir discharging it. ,T ... , .. . .. . ,
Nothing can be more perilous to the cause of art,
Shan the constant ringing in our painters' ears of the names of.

SEC. VI. CH. nx] MODERN ART AND MODERN CRITICISM. 419
great predecessors, as their examples or masters. I had rather
hear a great poet, entirely original in his feeling and aim,
rebuked or maligned for not being like Wordsworth or Coleridge,
than a great painter criticised for not putting us in mind of
Claude or Poussin. But such references to former excellence
are the only refuge and resource of persons endeavoring to be
" critics without being artists. They cannot tell you whether a
thing is right or not ; but they can tell you whether it is like
^ , . something else or not. And the whole tone of
$12. General in- n .,. ¦ „ ., . „ , .
capability of mod- modern criticism — as far as it is worthy of being
called criticism — sufficiently shows it to proceed
entirely from persons altogether unversed in practice, and igno
rant of truth, but possessing just enough of feeling to enjoy the
solemnity of ancient art, who, not distinguishing that which is
really exalted and valuable in the modem school, nor having"
any just idea of the real ends or capabilities of landscape art,
consider nothing right which is not based on the conventional
principles of the ancients, and nothing true which has more of
nature in it than of Claude. But it is strange that"
sistency with while the noble and unequalled works of modern
landscape painters are thus maligned and misunder
stood, our historical painters — such as we have — are permitted
to pander more fatally every year to the vicious English taste,
which can enjoy nothing but what is theatrical, entirely
unchastised, nay, encouraged and lauded by the very men who
endeavor to hamper our great landscape painters with rules
derived from consecrated blunders. The very critic who has just
passed one of the noblest works of Turner — that is to say, a mas
terpiece of art, to which Time can show no parallel — with a
ribald jest, will yet stand gaping in admiration before the next
piece of dramatic glitter and grimace, suggested by the society,
and adorned with the appurtenances of the greenroom, which
he finds hung low upon, the wall as a brilliant example of the
ideal of English art. It is natural enough indeed, that the per
sons who are disgusted by what is pure and noble, should be
delighted with what is vicious and degraded ; but it is singular
that those who are constantly talking of Claude and Poussin,
should never even pretend to a thought of Raffaelle. We could
excuse them for not comprehending Turner, if they only would

420 conclusion. [past ii.
apply the same cut-and-dried criticisms where they might be
applied with truth, and productive of benefit ; but we endure
not the paltry compound of ignorance, false taste, and preten
sion, which assumes the dignity of classical feeling, that it may
be able to abuse whatever is above the level of its understanding,
but bursts into genuine rapture with all that is meretricious, if
sufficiently adapted to the calibre of its comprehension.
To notice such criticisms, however, is giving them far more
importance than they deserve. They can lead none astray but
those whose opinions are absolutely valueless, and we did not
. u How the begin this chapter with any intent of wasting our
adraicetLrcau6e ^me orL these small critics, but in the hope of
of art. pointing out to the periodical press what kind of
criticism is now most required by our school of landscape art,
and how it may be in their power, if they will, to regulate its
impulses, without checking its energies, and really to advance
both the cause of the artist, and the taste of the public.
One of the most morbid symptoms of the general taste of the
present day, is a too great fondness for unfinished works. Bril
liancy and rapidity of execution are everywhere sought as the
§15. Morbid fond- highest good, and so that a picture be cleverly
enrd^V'fo/un- handled as far as it is carried, little regard is
nnishcdworks. paj(i to its imperfection as a whole. Hence some
artists are permitted, and others compelled, to confine them
selves to a manner of working altogether destructive of their
powers, and' to tax their energies, not to concentrate the
greatest quantity of thought on the least possible space of can
vas, but to produce the greatest quantity of glitter and claptrap
in the shortest possible time. To the idler and the trickster in
art, no system can be more advantageous ; but to the man who
is really desirous of doing something worth having lived for— to
a man of industry, energy, or feeling, we believe it to be the
cause of the most bitter discouragement. If ever, working upon
a favorite subject or a beloved idea, he is' induced to tax his
powers to the utmost, and to spend as much time upon his pic
ture as he feels necessary for its perfection, he will not be able
to get so high a price for the result, perhaps, of a twelvemonth's
thought, as he might have obtained for half-a-dozen sketches
wit> a forenoon's work in each, and he is compelled either to

SEC. VI. CH. m.] MODERN ART AND MODERN CRITICISM. 421
fall back upon mechanism, or to starve. Now the press should
o ,„ -o v ^ especially endeavor to convince the public, that bv
§ 16. uy wnich ... . _ . J
the public defraud this purchase of imperfect pictures thev not onlv
themselves. ., * J J
prevent all progress and development of high
talent, and set tricksters and mechanics on a level with men of
mind, but defraud and injure themselves. For there is no
doubt whatever, that, estimated merely by the quantity of pleas
ure it is capable of conveying, a well-finished picture is worth to
its possessor half-a-dozen incomplete ones ; and that a perfect
drawing is? simply as a source of delight, better worth a hundred
s 17. And in pan- guineas than a drawing half as finished is worth
arttasVuhTtK thirty. On the other hand, the body of our artists
selves. should be kept in mind, that by indulging the
public with rapid and unconsidered work, they are not only
- depriving themselves of the benefit which each picture ought
to render to them, as a piece of practice and study, but
they are destroying the refinement of general taste, and render
ing it impossible for themselves ever to find a market for more
careful works, supposing that they were inclined to execute
them. Nor need any single artist be afraid of setting the ex
ample, and producing labored works, at advanced prices, among
the cheap, quick drawings of the day. The public will soon find
the value of the complete work, and will be more ready to give a
large sum for that which is inexhaustible, than a quota of it for
that which they are wearied of in a month. The artist who never
lets the price command the .picture, will soon find the picture com
mand the price. And it ought to be a rule with
ofnnishinlworks every painter never to let a picture leave his easel
of art perfectly. ^.^ -t .g ^ capaWe 0f improvement, or of hav
ing more thought put into it. The general effect is Often perfect
and pleasing, and not to be improved upon, when the details
and facts are altogether imperfect and unsatisfactory. It may
be difficult — perhaps the most difficult task of art— to complete
these details, and not to hurt the general effect ; but until the
artist can do this, his art is imperfect and his picture unfinished.
That only is a complete picture which has both the general
wholeness and effect of nature, and the inexhaustible perfection
of nature's details. And it is only in the effort to unite these
that a painter really improves. By aiming only at details, he

422 conclusion. - [past ii,
becomes a mechanic ; by aiming only at generals, he becomes a
trickster : his fall in both cases is sure. Two questions the
artist has, therefore, always to ask himself, — first, " Is my whole
right ?" Secondly, " Can my details be added to ? Is there a
single space in the picture where I can crowd in another
thought ? Is there a curve in it which I can modulate — a line
which I can graduate — a vacancy I can fill ? Is there a single
spot which the eye, by any peering or prying, can fathom or ex
haust ? If so, my picture is imperfect ; and if, in modulating
the line or filling the vacancy, I hurt the general effect, my art
is imperfect." But, on the other hand, though incomplete pictures ought
neither to be produced nor purchased, careful and real sketches
ought to be valued much more highly than they are. Studies
in chalk, of landscape, should form a part of every
sufficiently ** en- Exhibition, and a room should be allotted to draw-
" l"t<i ings and desigris of figures in the Academy. We
should be heartily glad to see the room which is now devoted to
bad drawings of incorporeal and imagiriary architecture — of
things, which never were, and which, thank_ Heaven ! never
will be — occupied instead, by careful studies for historical pic
tures ; not blots of chiaroscuro, but delicate outlines with the
pen or crayon.
From young artists, in landscape, nothing ought to be
tolerated but simple bona fide imitation of nature. They have
no business to ape the execution of masters, — to utter weak and
8 so. Brilliancy of disjointed repetitions of other men's words, and
fortsat tavenUon mmiic the gestures of the preacher, without under
let to_ bo totoat- standing his meaning or sharing in his emotions.1
artists. We do not want their crude ideas of composition,
their unformed conceptions of the Beautiful, their unsystema
tized experiments upon the Sublime. We scorn their velocity ;
for it is without direction : we reject their decision ; for it is
without grounds : we contemn their composition ; for it is with
out materials : we reprobate their choice ; for it is without
comparison. Their duty is neither to choose, nor* compose,
nor imagine, nor experimentalize ; but to be humble and earnest
in following the steps of nature, and tracing the finger of God.
Nothing is so bad a symptom, in the work of young artists, as

SEC VI, CH. m.] MODERN ART AND MODERN CRITICISM. 423
too much dexterity of handling ; for it is a sign that they are
„ ¦ satisfied with their work, and have tried to do
5 f,l. The duty and ' ,
after privileges of nothing more than they were able to do. Their
work should be full of failures ; for these are the
signs of efforts. They should keep to quiet colors — grays and
browns ; and, making the early works of Turner their example,
as his latest are to be their object of emulation, should go to
nature in all singleness of heart, and walk with her laboriously
and trustingly, having no other thoughts but how best to pene-
-tfate her meaning, and remember her instruction, rejecting
nothing, selecting nothing, and scorning nothing ; believing all
things to be right and good, and rejoicing always in the truth.
Then, when their memories are stored, and their imaginations fed,
and their hands firm, let them take up the scarlet and the gold,
give the reins to their fancy, and show us what their heads are
made of. We will follow them wherever they choose to lead ;
we will check at nothing ; they are then our masters, and are fit
to be so. They have placed themselves above our criticism,
and we will listen to their words in all faith and humility ; but
not unless they themselves have before bowed, in the same sub
mission, to a higher Authority and Master.
Among our greater, artists, the chief want, at the present
day, is that of solemnity and definite purpose. We have too
much picture-manufacturing, too much making up of lay figures
i 22. Necessity ™tb- a certain quantity of foliage, and a certain
efarifstTof more quantity of sky, and a certain quantity of water, — a
singleness of aim. little bit of all that is. pretty, a little sun, and a
little shade,— a touch of* pink, and a touch of blue,— a little
sentiment, and a little sublimity, and a little humor, and a
little antiquarianism,— all very neatly associate^ in a very
charming picture, but not working together for a definite end.
Or if the aim be higher, as was the case with Barrett and Var-
ley, we are generally put off with stale repetitions of eternal
composition ; a great tree, and some goats, and a bridge and a
lake, and the Temple at Tivoli, etc. Now we should like to see
our artists working out, with all exertion of their concentrated
powers, such marked pieces of landscape character as might bear
upon them the impression of solemn, earnest, and pervading
thought, definitely directed, and aided by every accessory of

424 conclusion. [part n.
detail, color, and idealized form, which the disciplined- feeling,
accumulated knowledge, and unspared labor of the painter could
supply. I have alluded, in the second preface, to the deficiency
of our modern artists in these great points of earnestness and
completeness ; and I revert to it, in conclusion^ as their para
mount failing, and' one fatal in many ways ,to the interests of
art. Our landscapes are all descriptive, not reflective) agreeable
and conversational, but not impressive nor didactic. They have
no other foundation than
" That vivacious versatility, ;
Which many people take for want of heart.
They err ; 'tis merely what is called " mobility ;'"
A thing of temperament, and not ofa/rt,
Ihough seeming so from its supposed facEity:
This makes your actors, artists, and romancers ;
Little that's great — but much of what is clever."
Only it is to be observed that — in painters- — this vivacity is not
always versatile. It is to be washed that it were, but it is no
such easy matter to be versatile in painting., Shallowness of
thought insures not its variety, nor rapidity of production ita
originality. Whatever may be the case in literature, facility is
in art inconsistent with invention. The artist who covers most
canvas always shows, even in the sum of his works, the least
expenditure of thought.* I have never seen more than four-
works of John Lewis on the walls, of the Water-Color Exhi
bition ; "I have counted forty from other hands ; but have found
in the end that the forty were a multiplication of one, and the.
four a concentration of forty. And therefore I would earnestly
plead with all our artists, that they should make it a law never
to repeat themselves ; for he who never repeats himself will not
produce an inordinate number of pictures, and he who limits
himself in number gives himself at least the opportunity of com
pletion. Besides, all repetition is degradation of the art ; it
reduces it from headwork to handwork ; and indicates some-
* Of course this assertion does not refer to the differences in mode of
execution, which enable one painter to work faster or slower than another,
but only to the exertion of mind, commonly manifested by the artist, ac
cording as he is sparing or prodigal of production.

SEC VI. CH. Tn.] MODERN ART AND MODERN CRITICISM. 425
thing like a persuasion on the part of the artist that nature is
exhaustible or art perfectible ; perhaps, even, by him ex
hausted and perfected. All copyists are conteinptible, but the
copyist of himself the most so, for he has the worst original.
"Let then every picture be painted with earnest intention of
impressing on the spectator some elevated emotion, and exhibit
ing to him some one particular, but exalted, beauty. Let a real
,™ ™. . u ,* subject be carefully selected, in itself suggestive
§23. What should . " ¦ ^ . ' 86
be their general of, and replete with, this feeling and beauty ; let
an effect of light and color be taken which may
harmonize with both ; and a sky, not invented, but recollected,
(in fact, all so-called invention is in landscape nothing more
than appropriate, recollection — good in proportion as it is dis
tinct.) Then let the details of the foreground be separately
studied, especially those plants which appear peculiar to the
place : if any one, however unimportant, occurs there, which
occurs not elsewhere, it should occupy a prominent position ;
for the other details, the highest examples of the ideal forms *
* "Talk of improving nature when it is nature — Nonsense." — E. V.
BippingiUe. I have not yet spoken of the difference — even in what we com
monly call Nature — between imperfect and ideal form : the study of this
difficult question must, of course, be deferred until we have examined the
nature of our impressions of beauty ; but it may not be out of place here to
hint at the want of care in many of our artists to distinguish between the
real work of nature and the diseased results of man's interference with her.
Many of the works of our greatest artists have for their subjects nothing
but hacked and hewn remnants of farm-yard vegetation, branded root and
branch, from their birth, by the prong and the pruning-hook ; and the
feelings once accustomed to take pleasure in such abortions, can scarcely
become perceptive of forms truly ideal. I have just said (433) that young
painters should go to nature trustingly,— rejecting nothing, and selecting
nothing : so they should ; but they must be careful that it is nature to whom
they go — nature , in her liberty — not as servant-of -all-work in the hands of
the agriculturist, nor stiffened into court-dress by the landscape gardener.
It must be the pure, wild. volition and energy of the creation which they >
follow — not subdued to the furrow, and cicatrized to the pollard— not
persuaded into proprieties, nor pampered into diseases. Let them work
by the torrent-side, and in the forest shadows ; not by purling brooks and
under "tonsile shades." It is impossible to enter here into discussion of _
what man can or cannot do, by assisting natural operations : it is an intri
cate question : nor can I, without anticipating what I shall have hereafter
to advance, show how or why it happens that the racehorse is not the ar

426 CONCLUSION. [PAKT It:
or characters which he requires are to be selected by the artist
from his former studies, or fresh studies made expressly for the
purpose, leaving as little as possible — nothing, in fact, beyond
their connection and arrangement — to mere imagination.
Finally, when his picture is thus perfectly realized in all its
parts, let him dash as much of it out as he likes ; throw, if he
will, mist around it^-darkness — or dazzling and confused light — ;
whatever, in fact, impetuous feeling or vigorous imagination
may dictate or desire ; the forms, once so laboriously realized,
will come out whenever they do occur with a startling and
impressive truth, which the uncertainty in which they are. veiled
will enhance rather than diminish ; and the imagination,
strengthened by discipline and fed with truth, will achieve the
utmost of creation that is possible to finite mind.
The artist who thus works will soon find that he cannot
repeat himself if he would ; that new fields of exertion, new
tist's ideal of a horse, nor a prize tulip his ideal of a flowec ; but so it is.
As far as the painter is concerned, man never touches nature but to spoil ;
—he operates on her as a barber would on the Apollo ; and if he some
times increases some particular power or excellence, — strength or agility in
the animal — tallness, or fruitfulness, or solidity in the tree, — he invariably
loses that balance of good qualities which is the chief sign of perfect specific
form ; above all, he destroys the appearance of free volition and felicity,
which, as I shall show hereafter, is one of the essential characters of or
ganic beauty. Until, however, I can enter into the discussion of the
nature of beauty, the only advice I can safely give the young painter, is to
keep clear of clover-fields and parks, and to hold to the unpenetrated forest
and the unfurrowed hill. There he will find that every influence is noble,
even when destructive— that decay itself is beautiful,— and that, in the elab
orate and lovely composition of all things, if at first sight it seems less
studied than the works of men, the appearance of Art is only prevented by
the presence of Power.
/" " Nature never did betray
/ The heart that loved her : 'tis her privilege,
/ Through all the years of this our life, to lead
/ From joy to joy ; for she can so inform
/ The mind that is within us, so impress
J With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
I Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men
\ Shall ever prevail against ns, or disturb
\ Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
X^Isfull of blessings." bKDSTVORTH.

BEC. VI. CH. m.] MODERN ART AND MODERN CRITICISM. 427
subjects of contemplation open to him in nature day by day,
and that, while others lament the weakness of their invention,
he has nothing to lament but the shortness of life.
And now but one word more, respecting the great artist
whose works have formed the chief subject of this treatise. All
the greatest qualities of those works — all that is mental in
§24. Duty of the them, has not yet been so much as touched upon.
tre!neWwhorTsPoef ' ^one but their lightest and least essential excel-
Tumer. lences have been proved, and, therefore, the en
thusiasm with which I speak of them must necessarily appear
overcharged and absurd. It might, perhaps, have been more
prudent to have withheld the full expression of it till I had
shown the full grounds for it ; but once written, such ex
pression must remain till I have justified it. And, indeed, I
think there is enough, even in the foregoing pages, to show that
these works are, as far as concerns the ordinary critics of the
press, above all animadversion, and above all praise ; and that,
by the public*, they are not to be received as in any way subjects
or matters of opinion, but of Faith. We are not to approach
them to be pleased, but to be taught ; not to form a judgment,
but to receive a lesson. Our periodical writers, therefore, may
save themselves the trouble either of blaming or praising : their
" duty is not to pronounce opinions upon the work of a man who
has walked with nature threescore years ; but to impress upon
the public the respect with which they are to be received, and
to make request to him, on the part of the people of England,
that he would now touch no unimportant work — that he would
not spend time on slight or small pictures,' but give to the nation
a series of grand, consistent, systematic, and completed poems.
We desire that he should follow out his own thoughts and
intents of heart, without reference to any human authority.
But we request, in all humility, that those thoughts may be
seriously and loftily given ; and that the whole power of his
unequalled intellect may be exerted in the production of such
works as may remain forever for the teaching of the nations.
In all that he says, we believe ; in all that he does we trust.* It
* It has been hinted, in some of the reviews of the Second Volume of
this work, that the writer's respect for Turner has diminished since the
above passage was written. He would, indeed, have been deserving of-

428 CONCLUSION. [PART n.
is therefore that we pray him to utter nothing lightly — to do
nothing regardlessly. He stands upon an eminence, from which
he looks back over the universe of God, and forward over the
generations of men. Let every work of his hand be a history of
the one, and a lesson to the other. Let each exertion of his
mighty mind be both hymn and prophecy, — adoration to the
Deity, — revelation to mankind. ' >-

POSTSCRIPT.
The above passage was written in the year 1843 ; too late.
It is true that soon after the publication of this work, the abuse
of the press, which had been directed against Turner with un
ceasing virulence during the production of his noblest works,
sank into timid animadversion, or changed into unintelligent
praise ; but not before illness, and, in some degree, mortifica
tion, had enfeebled the hand and chilled the heart of the painter.
This year (1851) he has no. picture on the ' walls of the
Academy; and the Times of May 3d says, "We miss those
works of INSPIRATION !"
We miss ! Who misses ? — The populace of England rolls by
to weary itself in the great bazaar of Kensington, little thinking
little attention if, with the boldness manifested on the preceding pages, he
had advanced opinions based on so shallow foundation as that the course of
three years could effect modification of them. He was justified by the sud
den accession of power which the great artist exhibited at the period
when this volume was first published, as well as by the low standard of
the criticism to which he was subjected, in claiming, with respect to his then
works, a submission of judgment, greater indeed than may generally be
accorded to even the highest human intellect, yet not greater than such a
master might legitimately claim from such critics ; and the cause of the
peculiar form of advocacy into which the preceding chapters necessarily
fell, has been already stated more than once. In the following sections it
became necessary, as they treated a subject of intricate relations, and
peculiar difficulty, to obtain a more general view of the scope and operation
of art, and to avoid all conclusions in any wise referable to the study of
particular painters. The reader will therefore find, not that lower rank is
attributed to Turner, but that he is now compared with the greatest *ien,
and occupies his true position among the most noble of all time.

SEC. VI. CH. m.] MODERN ART AND MODERN CRITICISM. 429
that a day will come when those veiled vestals and prancing
amazons, and goodly merchandise of precious stones and gold,
will all be forgotten as though they had not been, hv'i that the
light which has faded from the walls of the. Academy is one
which a million of Koh-i-Noors pould not rekindle, and that the
year 1851 will in the far future be remembered less for what it
has displayed than for what it has withdrawn.
Denmark Hill, June, 1851.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

3 9002

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