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Title: Modern Painters, Volume 1 (of 5)

Author: John Ruskin

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Language: English

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Library Edition

THE COMPLETE WORKS

OF

JOHN RUSKIN

POETRY OF ARCHITECTURE

SEVEN LAMPS

MODERN PAINTERS

Volume I

NATIONAL LIBRARY
ASSOCIATION

NEW
CHICAGO
YORK

THE COMPLETE WORKS

OF

JOHN RUSKIN

VOLUME II

MODERN PAINTERS

VOLUME I

MODERN PAINTERS.

BY

A GRADUATE OF OXFORD.

VOL. I.

PART I—II.

TO

THE LANDSCAPE ARTISTS OF ENGLAND

This Work

IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED

BY THEIR SINCERE ADMIRER,

THE AUTHOR

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

The work now laid before the public originated in indignation at the
shallow and false criticism of the periodicals of the day on the works of the
great living artist to whom it principally refers. It was intended to be a short
pamphlet, reprobating 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 completeness, 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 reputation of the great artist to
whose works I have chiefly referred, is established on too legitimate
grounds among all whose admiration 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 becomes the imperative duty of all who have any perception or
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 demonstrate, 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 criticism of all the painters of the present
day; but I have illustrated 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 cautious 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 interfere 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 Turner, 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 with
reference to particular excellencies, 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 conclusions 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 conclusion, not mine.
Whatever I have asserted throughout the work, I have endeavored 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 Euclid. 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 galleries.
Whatever particular references have been made for illustration, 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 necessity of such revisal, that only a portion of
the work is now presented 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 present 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 absolutely requires in the
attacking party such an inherent superiority in quality of force, and such
consciousness of that superiority, as may enable his front columns, or his
leading ships, to support themselves for a considerable period against
overwhelming 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 broadsides 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
themselves in defenceless disorder to the attack of the following columns.
If, however, I have had no reason to regret my hasty advance, as far as
regards the ultimate issue of the struggle, I have yet found it to occasion
much misconception of the character, and some diminution of the influence,
of the present essay. For though the work has been received as only in
sanguine moments 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 demonstration of their truth, and that,
even where it has had no other influence, 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
supposed, 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 surprises me that the book
should have received the slightest attention. For what respect could be due
to a writer who pretended to criticise and classify the works of the great
painters of landscape, without developing, or even alluding to, one single
principle of the beautiful or sublime? So far from being a completed 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 nothing 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 pictures, 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 frequent references throughout to the essays by which it is
intended to be succeeded, in which I shall endeavor to point out the
signification and the value of those phenomena of external nature which I
have been hitherto compelled to describe without reference 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 statement 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 diminish the honor of
those to whom the assent of many generations has assigned a throne; for the
truly great of later times have, almost without exception, fostered in others
the veneration of departed power 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 occasionally 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 Perrault. Be it remembered, that the spirit of
detraction is detected only when unsuccessful, and receives least
punishment where it effects the greatest injury; and it cannot but be felt 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, that 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 generosity 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 standard of imaginary excellence, which may enable
them, by insisting on the inferiority of a contemporary work to the things
that have been, to withdraw the attention from its superiority to the 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 innocuous, and are more tolerant of the severity
which breaks hearts and ruins fortunes, than of that which falls impotently
on the grave.
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
deserveth admiration would hardly be able to find favor, if they which
propose it were not content to profess themselves therein scholars and
followers of the ancient. For the world will not endure to hear that we are
wiser than any have been which went before."—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 centuries 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 communicable. 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 protection 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 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 its accumulation, beyond all rivalry from the works of any
given generation; but it should always be remembered that it is improbable
that many, and impossible that all, of such works, though the greatest yet
produced, should approach abstract perfection; 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 experience 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 light 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
backward 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 imaginative, 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, arrangement, and treatment of his own.
Three points, therefore, I would especially insist upon as 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 lost, 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 the following Essay have construed its first sentence into a
denial of this principle,—a denial such as their own conventional and
shallow criticism of modern works invariably implies. I have said that
"nothing has been for centuries consecrated by public admiration without
possessing in a high degree some species of sterling excellence." Does it

thence follow that it possesses in the highest degree every species of
sterling excellence? "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 possession of an abstract excellence of
some kind necessarily implied 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,[A]—there are thousands which
have been for centuries, and will be for centuries more, consecrated by
public admiration, which are yet imperfect in many respects, and have been
excelled, and may be excelled again. 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
sterling excellence, but Perugino was excelled by Raffaelle; and so Claude
possesses some species of sterling excellence, but it follows 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 excelling 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 because 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 there is in
its very dissimilarity an increased chance of its being itself a new, and
perhaps, 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.[B]
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 precedent, 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 of right,—thus wounding their
vanity by impugning their judgment; 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 record
and illustration of facts before unseized, who would justly and candidly
estimate the value of the truths so rendered, and would increase in fervor of
admiration as the master strode farther and 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
impatient in his step—more impetuous in his success—more exalted in his
research, by so much must the number capable of following him become
narrower, until at last, supposing him never to pause in his advance, he
might be left in the very culminating moment of his consummate
achievement, with but a faithful few by his side, his former disciples fallen
away, his former enemies doubled in numbers and virulence, and the
evidence of his supremacy only to be wrought out by the devotion of men's
lives to the earnest study of the new truths he had discovered 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 criticism as was beforehand to be expected,
and it is now at the zenith of its power, and, consequently, in the last phase
of declining popularity.
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 it. In asserting and demonstrating the
supremacy of this great master, 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.
For anything like immediate effect on the public mind, I do not hope.
"We mistake men's diseases," says Richard Baxter, "when we think there
needeth nothing to cure them of their errors but the evidence of truth. Alas!

there are many distempers 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. 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 guide, but the expression, of public opinion. 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 readers. He mocks the picture which the public pass, and
bespatters with praise the canvas which a crowd concealed from him.

Writers like the present critic of Blackwood's Magazine[C] deserve more
respect—the respect due to honest, hopeless, helpless 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 previous acquaintance with their subject. I do not know that
even in this age of charlatanry, I could point to a more barefaced instance of
imposture on the simplicity of the public, than the insertion 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 unacquainted with the alphabet; but here is page after page of
criticism, which one may read from end to end, looking for something
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[D] 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
"learned;"[E] not the most simple canons of art, for he prefers Lee to
Gainsborough;[F] not the most ordinary facts of nature, for we find him
puzzled by the epithet "silver," as applied to the orange blossom,—
evidently never having seen anything silvery about an orange in his life,
except a spoon. Nay, he leaves us not to conjecture his calibre from internal
evidence; he candidly 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 endurance. What is Christopher North about? Does he
receive his critiques from Eaton or Harrow—based on the experience of a
week's birds'-nesting and its consequences? How low must art and its
interests 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 precludes 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 those 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 development 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 investigation 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 called the
Sister of Poetry, appears to me to admit of considerable doubt, whether art
has ever, except in its earliest and rudest stages, possessed anything like
efficient moral influence on mankind. 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, "nec 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 revelling 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
creatures.
If we stand for a little time before any of the more celebrated 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 nature. 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 as if it
were no 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, behold with him; but we think of him as little as
of ourselves. Do we think of Æschylus while we wait on the silence of
Cassandra,[G] 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 guiding 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 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 spiculæ of haystacks
and the hairs of donkeys—it is also of works of real mind that I speak,—
works in which there are evidences 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.
Filling 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 dignity of religion by
supposing that its cause could be advanced by such means? His surprise
proves my position. It does 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 gorgeousness of the visible hue, the glory of the

realized form, instruments in the artist's hand so ineffective, 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 forever
brooding over his incommunicable thoughts?
The cause of the evil lies, I believe, deep-seated in the system of ancient
landscape art; it consists, in a word, in the painter's taking upon him to
modify God's works at his pleasure, 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 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
evidence 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
treatment 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 abandonment 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 mythological abstractions into ancient
landscape requires an imaginary 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
reasoning. If there be any truth or beauty in the original conception of the
spiritual being so introduced, there must be a true and real connection
between that abstract idea[H] and the features of nature as she was and is.
The woods and waters which 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 imagination 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 master of this character, Nicolo
Poussin, present to his thoughts, 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 will be perfectly
expressed, broadly or delicately, slightly or completely, 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 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 J. 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 knowledge 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 away? The latter are indeed less
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
knowledge 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 to draw) have been studied with the most exquisite accuracy. The
foregrounds of Raffaelle's two cartoons,—"The Miraculous Draught of
Fishes" and "The Charge to Peter,"—are covered with plants of the
common sea colewort, (crambe maritima,) 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 Family," in the National Gallery, with that of Nicolo
Poussin's "Nursing of Jupiter," in the Dulwich Gallery. The first, owing to
the utter neglect of all botanical detail, has lost every atom of ideal
character, 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 consummate 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
rendering of specific character be necessary to the historical painter, in
cases where these lower details are entirely subordinate 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 consummation—have many features in
common; while the intermediate 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 necessity a broken,
imperfect, inadequate line, which, as he advances, becomes gradually firm,
severe, and decided. Yet before he becomes 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 matters 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. Infants 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 his inspired St. Catherine.[I]

Of those who take interest in art, nay, even of artists themselves, there are
an hundred in the middle stage of judgment, for one who is in the last; and
this not because they are destitute 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 powerful artist
necessarily looks with such contempt on those who seek minutiæ 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 imperfection of minutiæ,
that he necessarily looks upon complete parts as the very sign of error,
weakness, and ignorance. Thus, frequently 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 inestimable 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,[J] while he utterly rejects
the meaner beauties which are accidentally peculiar to the object, and yet
not specifically characteristic of it. I cannot give 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 being 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 attention. Every herb and flower of the
field has its specific, distinct, and perfect beauty; it has its peculiar
habitation, expression, 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 flowers 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 "generalized,"—a dogma whose inherent and broad absurdity
would long ago have been detected, if it had not contained in its convenient
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 Athenæum
for February 10th: "He (the author) would have geological landscape
painters, dendrologic, meteorologic, and doubtless entomologic,
ichthyologic, every kind of physiologic painter united in the same person;
yet, alas, for true poetic art among all these learned Thebans! No; landscape
painting must not be reduced to mere portraiture of inanimate substances,
Denner-like portraiture of the earth's face. * * * * *

Ancient landscapists took a broader, deeper, higher view of their art; they
neglected particular traits, and gave only general features. Thus they
attained mass and force, harmonious union and simple effect, the elements
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 granite and slate, as it is to generalize a man and
a cow. An animal must be 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 picture, of which he could not decide
whether it were a pony or a pig, the Athenæum critic would perhaps affirm
it to be a generalization 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
monstrosity. There is no grandeur, no beauty of any sort or kind; nothing
but destruction, disorganization, and ruin, to be obtained 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
together 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 cannot give us rocks which shall be either granite or slate,
nor which shall be both granite and slate. Every attempt to produce 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 observing 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. For 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
proposition is self-evident to every thinking mind; and every principle
which appears to contradict it is either misstated or misunderstood. For
instance, the Athenæum critic calls the right statement 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 knowledge is
necessary to the painter that it should constitute the painter, nor that such
knowledge is valuable in itself, and without 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 difference 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
emotion. 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 repose; notes the feebleness or the vigor, the
serenity or tremulousness of its hues; observes its local habits, its love or
fear of peculiar places, its nourishment or destruction by particular
influences; 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 understood, 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 repetition of the other,—
they are parts of a system, and each implies and is connected with the
existence of the rest. That generalization 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
contemptible, which is based on ignorance of the one, and disturbance of
the other. It is indeed no generalization, but confusion and chaos; it is the
generalization of a defeated army into indistinguishable impotence—the
generalization of the elements 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.[K] 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 variations of climate and elevation.
From such modifying circumstances arise the infinite varieties of the orders
of landscape, of which each one shows perfect harmony among its several
features, 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 incommunicable. 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 treatment, and to
the incalculable varieties of climate, aspect, and human interference:—by
each order of landscape, I say, peculiar 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
amalgamating 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 features 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
diminishes its power. On this subject I shall have much to say hereafter; 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 more ambitious student who is always "within five
minutes' walk of everywhere," making the ends of the earth contribute to
his pictorial guazzetto;[L] and the certainty, that unless the 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 roadside weeds.
Let me, at the risk of tediously repeating what is universally known, refer
to the common principles of historical composition, in order that I may
show their application to that of landscape. 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,
interrupts 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 propriety 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 contradictory facts, and the
accumulation, which is not harmonious, is discordant. He who endeavors to
unite simplicity with magnificence, 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" landscape
compositions of Claude, that known to the Italians as "Il 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 piece 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. 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 circular 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 association to insure their producing a general sensation of the
impossible. 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.[M] The long knotted grass waves and tosses feebly in the evening
wind, and the shadows of its motion shake feverishly 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 purple, 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. From the plain to the mountains, 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.
First, we will reduce the multitudinous precipices of the Apennines to four
sugar-loaves. Secondly, we will remove 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. For 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 species 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 contemplation 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 attached, beyond the
difficulty of conjecturing what they could have been built for. The ruins of
the temple are rendered unimpressive by the juxtaposition of the water-mill,
and inexplicable 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 be so, when we disturb their
stillness of motion by a weir, adorn 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 arrangement, as erring and imperfect in detail. So long as such
works are held up for imitation, landscape painting must be a manufacture,
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,[N] and endeavored in humility to render to
the world that purity 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 frequently visible in our modern school.[O] Their lightness
and desultoriness of intention, their meaningless multiplication of unstudied
composition, and their want of definiteness and loftiness of aim, bring
discredit on their whole system of study, and encourage in the 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 copsewood coolness, is to be given to
the world as it came, unconsidered, incomplete, 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 long-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 concentrates 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 subjects 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 pebbles, 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
another, 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 nature to the
human heart.
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 nature 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 second 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, inconceivable, 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 reference 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 consideration 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 reference 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
therefore 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 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 pettiness 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 variance 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 landscape, 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 periodicals, which consist of nothing else; but I
believe in general that my words will be found to have sufficient truth in
them to excuse 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 reason. My answer is that given
long ago to a similar complaint, uttered under the same circumstances by
the foiled sophist:— (" Ωσ δ᾽ ἔστιν ὂ ἂνθρπος; ὡς ἀπαίδευτός τις, ος
ουιω φαῦλα ὀνόματα ονομἀζειν τολμᾆ ἐν σεμνῷ πράγματι.) Τοιοῦτός
τις, ὦ Ιππἱα ὀυδεν ἂλλο φρονίζων ἢ τὸ αληθές."
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 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 dependent 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 unfavorable
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 accusations 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 proposition (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 Athenæum) 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,
(Blackwood,) still more utterly discomfited, is reduced to a still more
remarkable line of defence. "It is not," he says, "what things in all respects
really are, but how they are convertible by the mind into what they are not,
that we have to consider." (October, 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.

[A] 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.

[B] 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.
Nevertheless, 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 multitudinous. "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."

[C] It is with regret that, in a work of this nature, I take notice of criticisms, 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 those 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.

[D] Chrysoprase, (Vide No. for October, 1843, p. 502.)

[E] Every school-boy knows that this epithet was given to Poussin in allusion to the
profound classical knowledge of the painter. The reviewer, however, (September, 1841,)
informs us that the expression refers to his skill in "Composition."

[F] Critique on Royal Academy, 1842. "He" (Mr. Lee) "often reminds us of
Gainsborough's best manner; but he is superior to him always in subject, composition, and
variety."—Shade of Gainsborough!—deep-thoughted, solemn Gainsborough,—forgive us
for re-writing this sentence; we do so to gibbet 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 be many unsophisticated and honest minds always
ready to follow his guidance, 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 taking rank beside that of Rubens; he is the purest
colorist—Sir Joshua himself 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 to
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 loses 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 right 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 not only 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, 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 ignorant of the commonest and most acknowledged principia of the art, blind to
the most palpable and comprehensible of its beauties, incapable of distinguishing, 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.

[G] There is a fine touch in the Frogs in Aristophanes, alluding probably to this part of
the Agamemnon. "Εγὼ δ᾽ έχαιρον τῆ σιωπῆ καὶ με τοῦτ᾽ ἔτερπεν οὺκ ἠττον ὀι
λαλοῦντες." 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 Æschylus and that of our great painter. They
share at least one thing in common—unpopularity. ῾Ο δημος ἁνεβόα κρίσιν ποιεἰν. ΞΑ.
ὀ τῶν πανοὺργων; ΑΙ. νη Δἰ, οὐράνιον γ᾽ ὁσον. ΞΑ. μετ᾽ Αἰσχύλου ὂ οὐκ ἠσαν
ἑτεροι σύμμαχοι; ΑΙ. ὀλἱγον τὸ χρηρτὁν ἐρτιν.

[H] I do not know any passage in ancient literature in which this connection 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—the 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 "διὰ τῶν κοίλων καὶ τῶν δασέων, πλἁγιαι," could have been
written by none but an ardent lover of hill scenery—one who had watched, hour after hour,
the peculiar oblique, sidelong action of descending clouds, as they form along the hollows
and ravines of the hills. There are no lumpish solidities—no pillowy protuberances here.
All is melting, drifting, evanescent,—full of air, and light, and dew.

[I] 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.

[J] 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.

[K] Is not this—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 desirable, 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 seashore, 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.

[L]

"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.

[M] 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.

[N] 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 other 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 indolence
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 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 degradation of a slave.

[O] 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 executed 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 purchaser 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 discriminate, the various
powers of a great artist, than they would to estimate the excellence of a cook or develop the
dexterity of a dancer.

PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION.

It is with much regret, and partly against my own judgment, 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 serious 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, trusting to the kindness of the reader to look to its
intention rather than its temper, and forgive its inconsideration in its
earnestness.
Thinking it of too little substance to bear mending, wherever I have
found a passage which I thought required modification or explanation, I
have cut it out; what I have left, however 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 bearing 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 recent works
as his finest, are good and right; and if the prevalence 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 greatest 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 contemplative faculties are
concerned) from the works of those elder men. On the continent all
landscape art has been utterly annihilated 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
withdrawn, 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 indignation from appearing virulence on the
one side, and enthusiasm partisanship on the other.

PREFACE TO NEW EDITION (1873).

I have been lately so often asked by friends on whose judgment 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 religious
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 elaborate 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.

page

Public opinion no criterion of excellence, except
§ 1. 1
after long periods of time.
§ 2. And therefore obstinate when once formed. 4
The author's reasons for opposing it in particular
§ 3. 5
instances.
§ 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.

Distinction between the painter's intellectual power
§ 1. 8
and technical knowledge.
§ 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
Difficulty of fixing an exact limit between language
§ 5. 9
and thought.
Distinction between decorative and expressive
§ 6. 10
language.
§ 7. Instance in the Dutch and early Italian schools. 10
Yet there are certain ideas belonging to language
§ 8. 11
itself.
§ 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
But are received from whatever has been the subject
§ 3. 14
of power. The meaning of the word "excellence."
What is necessary to the distinguishing of
§ 4. 15
excellence.
The pleasure attendant on conquering difficulties is
§ 5. 16
right.

Chapter IV.—Of Ideas of Imitation.

False use of the term "imitation" by many writers on
§ 1. 17
art.
§ 2. Real meaning of the term. 18
§ 3. What is requisite to the sense of imitation. 18
The pleasure resulting from imitation the most
§ 4. 19
contemptible that can be derived from art.
§ 5. Imitation is only of contemptible subjects. 19
§ 6. Imitation is contemptible because it is easy. 20
§ 7. Recapitulation. 20

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
Ideas of truth are inconsistent with ideas of
§ 6. 24
imitation.

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. ideas are to be comprehended under it. 29
§ 3. The exceeding nobility of these ideas. 30
Why no subdivision of so extensive a class is
§ 4. 31
necessary.

SECTION II.

OF POWER.

Chapter I.—General Principles respecting Ideas of Power.

§ 1. No necessity for detailed study of ideas of imitation. 32
§ 2. Nor for separate study of ideas of power. 32
§ 3. Except under one particular form. 33
There are two modes of receiving ideas of power,
§ 4. 33
commonly inconsistent.
§ 5. First reason of the inconsistency. 33
§ 6. Second reason for the inconsistency. 34
The sensation of power ought not to be sought in
§ 7. 34
imperfect art.
§ 8. Instances in pictures of modern artists. 35
Connection between ideas of power and modes of
§ 9. 35
execution.

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
Strangeness an illegitimate source of pleasure in
§ 7. 37
execution.
Yet even the legitimate sources of pleasure in
§ 8. 38
execution are inconsistent with each other.
And fondness for ideas of power leads to the
§ 9. 39
adoption of the lowest.
§ 10. Therefore perilous. 40
§ 11. Recapitulation. 40

Chapter III.—Of the Sublime.

Sublimity is the effect upon the mind of anything
§ 1. 41
above it.
Burke's theory of the nature of the sublime incorrect,
§ 2. 41
and why.
§ 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
The former division of the subject is therefore
§ 6. 42
sufficient.

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.

The two great ends of landscape painting are the
§ 1. 44
representation of facts and thoughts.
§ 2. They induce a different choice of material subjects. 45
The first mode of selection apt to produce sameness
§ 3. 45
and repetition.
§ 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
How truth may be considered a just criterion of all
§ 10. 48
art.

Chapter II.—That the Truth of Nature is not to be discerned by the
Uneducated Senses.

The common self-deception of men with respect to
§ 1. 50
their power of discerning truth.
§ 2. Men usually see little of what is before their eyes. 51
But more or less in proportion to their natural
§ 3. 52
sensibility to what is beautiful.
§ 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
The difficulty increased by the variety of truths in
§ 7. 55
nature.
We recognize objects by their least important
§ 8. 55
attributes. Compare Part I. Sect. I. Chap. 4.

Chapter III.—Of the Relative Importance of Truths:—First, that Particular
Truths are more important than General Ones.

Necessity of determining the relative importance of
§ 1. 58
truths.
Misapplication of the aphorism: "General truths are
§ 2. 58
more important than particular ones."
§ 3. Falseness of this maxim, taken without explanation. 59
Generality important in the subject, particularity in
§ 4. 59
the predicate.
The importance of truths of species is not owing to
§ 5. 60
their generality.
§ 6. All truths valuable as they are characteristic. 61
Otherwise truths of species are valuable, because
§ 7. 61
beautiful.
And many truths, valuable if separate, may be
§ 8. 62
objectionable in connection with others.
§ 9. Recapitulation. 63

Chapter IV.—Of the Relative Importance of Truths:—Secondly, that Rare
Truths are more important than Frequent Ones.

No accidental violation of nature's principles should
§ 1. 64
be represented.
But the cases in which those principles have been
§ 2. 65
strikingly exemplified.
§ 3. Which are comparatively rare. 65
§ 4. All repetition is blamable. 65
The duty of the painter is the same as that of a
§ 5. 66
preacher.

Chapter V.—Of the Relative Importance of Truths:—Thirdly, that Truths of
Color are the least important of all Truths.

Difference between primary and secondary qualities
§ 1. 67
in bodies.
The first are fully characteristic, the second
§ 2. 67
imperfectly so.
Color is a secondary quality, therefore less important
§ 3. 68
than form.
Color no distinction between objects of the same
§ 4. 68
species.
§ 5. And different in association from what it is alone. 69
It is not certain whether any two people see the same
§ 6. 69
colors in things.
Form, considered as an element of landscape,
§ 7. 69
includes light and shade.
Importance of light and shade in expressing the
§ 8. 70
character of bodies, and unimportance of color.
§ 9. Recapitulation. 71

Chapter VI.—Recapitulation.

§ 1. The importance of historical truths. 72
Form, as explained by light and shade, the first of all
§ 2. 72
truths. Tone, light, and color, are secondary.
§ 3. And deceptive chiaroscuro the lowest of all. 73

Chapter VII.—General Application of the Foregoing Principles.

The different selection of facts consequent on the
§ 1. 74
several aims at imitation or at truth.
§ 2. The old masters, as a body, aim only at imitation. 74
§ 3. What truths they gave. 75
The principles of selection adopted by modern
§ 4. 76
artists.
General feeling of Claude, Salvator, and G.
§ 5. Poussin, contrasted with the freedom and vastness 77
of nature.
§ 6. Inadequacy of the landscape of Titian and Tintoret. 78
Causes of its want of influence on subsequent
§ 7. 79
schools.
The value of inferior works of art, how to be
§ 8. 80
estimated.
Religious landscape of Italy. The admirableness of
§ 9. 81
its completion.
Finish, and the want of it, how right—and how
§ 10. 82
wrong.
The open skies of the religious schools, how
§ 11. valuable. Mountain drawing of Masaccio. 84
Landscape of the Bellinis and Giorgione.
§ 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. 93
§ 18. Constable, Callcott. 94
§ 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
Samuel Prout. Early painting of architecture, how
§ 25. 103
deficient.
§ 26. Effects of age upon buildings, how far desirable. 104
Effects of light, how necessary to the
§ 27. 106
understanding of detail.
Architectural painting of Gentile Bellini and Vittor
§ 28. 107
Carpaccio.
§ 29. And of the Venetians generally. 109
Fresco painting of the Venetian exteriors.
§ 30. 110
Canaletto.
Expression of the effects of age on Architecture by
§ 31. 112
S. Prout.
§ 32. His excellent composition and color. 114
Modern architectural painting generally. G.
§ 33. 115
Cattermole.
The evil in an archæological point of view of
§ 34. 117
misapplied invention, in architectural subject.
§ 35. Works of David Roberts: their fidelity and grace. 118
§ 36. Clarkson Stanfield. 121
J. M. W. Turner. Force of national feeling in all
§ 37. 123
great painters.
Influence of this feeling on the choice of
§ 38. 125
Landscape subject.
§ 39. Its peculiar manifestation in Turner. 125
§ 40. The domestic subjects of the Liber Studiorum. 127
Turner's painting of French and Swiss landscape.
§ 41. 129
The latter deficient.

His rendering of Italian character still less
§ 42. 130
successful. His large compositions how failing.
His views of Italy destroyed by brilliancy and
§ 43. 133
redundant quantity.
Changes introduced by him in the received system
§ 44. 133
of art.
Difficulties of his later manner. Resultant
§ 45. 134
deficiencies.
§ 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.

Meanings of the word "tone:"—First, the right
§ 1. 140
relation of objects in shadow to the principal light.
Secondly, the quality of color by which it is felt to
§ 2. owe part of its brightness to the hue of light upon 140
it.
Difference between tone in its first sense and aerial
§ 3. 141
perspective.
The pictures of the old masters perfect in relation
§ 4. 141
of middle tints to light.
And consequently totally false in relation of
§ 5. 141
middle tints to darkness.
§ 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
Remarkable difference in this respect between the
§ 12. 146
paintings and drawings of Turner.
§ 13. Not owing to want of power over the material. 146
§ 14. The two distinct qualities of light to be considered. 147
Falsehoods by which Titian attains the appearance
§ 15. 148
of quality in light.
§ 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
The perfection of Cuyp in this respect interfered
§ 19. 150
with by numerous solecisms.
Turner is not so perfect in parts—far more so in
§ 20. 151
the whole.

§ 21. The power in Turner of uniting a number of tones. 152
§ 22. Recapitulation. 153

Chapter II.—Of Truth of Color.

Observations on the color of G. Poussin's La
§ 1. 155
Riccia.
§ 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
Notice of effects in which no brilliancy of art can
§ 7. 161
even approach that of reality.
Reasons for the usual incredulity of the observer
§ 8. 162
with respect to their representation.
§ 9. Color of the Napoleon. 163
Necessary discrepancy between the attainable
§ 10. 164
brilliancy of color and light.
This discrepancy less in Turner than in other
§ 11. 165
colorists.
§ 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
The variety and fulness even of his most simple
§ 15. 168
tones.
Following the infinite and unapproachable variety
§ 16. 168
of nature.
His dislike of purple, and fondness for the
§ 17. opposition of yellow and black. The principles of 169
nature in this respect.
§ 18. His early works are false in color. 170
§ 19. His drawings invariably perfect. 171
The subjection of his system of color to that of
§ 20. 171
chiaroscuro.

Chapter III.—Of Truth of Chiaroscuro.

We are not at present to examine particular effects
§ 1. 174
of light.
And therefore the distinctness of shadows is the
§ 2. 175
chief means of expressing vividness of light.
Total absence of such distinctness in the works of
§ 3. 175
the Italian school.
§ 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
The distinction holds good between almost all the
§ 7. 179
works of the ancient and modern schools.
Second great principle of chiaroscuro. Both high
§ 8. light and deep shadow are used in equal quantity, 180
and only in points.
Neglect or contradiction of this principle by
§ 9. 180
writers on art.
§ 10. And consequent misguiding of the student. 181
§ 11. The great value of a simple chiaroscuro. 182
The sharp separation of nature's lights from her
§ 12. 182
middle tint.
§ 13. The truth of Turner. 183

Chapter IV.—Of Truth of Space:—First, as Dependent on the Focus of the
Eye.

Space is more clearly indicated by the drawing of
§ 1. 185
objects than by their hue.
It is impossible to see objects at unequal distances
§ 2. 186
distinctly at one moment.
§ 3. Especially such as are both comparatively near. 186
In painting, therefore, either the foreground or
§ 4. 187
distance must be partially sacrificed.
Which not being done by the old masters, they
§ 5. 187
could not express space.
But modern artists have succeeded in fully carrying
§ 6. 188
out this principle.
§ 7. Especially of Turner. 189
Justification of the want of drawing in Turner's
§ 8. 189
figures.

Chapter V.—Of Truth of Space:—Secondly, as its Appearance is dependent
on the Power of the Eye.

The peculiar indistinctness dependent on the
§ 1. 191
retirement of objects from the eye.
§ 2. Causes confusion, but not annihilation of details. 191
§ 3. Instances in various objects. 192
Two great resultant truths; that nature is never
§ 4. 193
distinct, and never vacant.
Complete violation of both these principles by the
§ 5. 193
old masters. They are either distinct or vacant.
§ 6. Instances from Nicholas Poussin. 194
§ 7. From Claude. 194
§ 8. And G. Poussin. 195
The imperative necessity, in landscape painting, of
§ 9. 196
fulness and finish.
§ 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
Still greater fulness and finish in landscape
§ 15. 200
foregrounds.
Space and size are destroyed alike by distinctness
§ 16. 202
and by vacancy.
§ 17. Swift execution best secures perfection of details. 202
Finish is far more necessary in landscape than in
§ 18. 202
historical subjects.
§ 19. Recapitulation of the section. 203

SECTION III.

OF TRUTH OF SKIES.

Chapter I.—Of the Open Sky.

The peculiar adaptation of the sky to the pleasing
§ 1. 204
and teaching of man.
The carelessness with which its lessons are
§ 2. 205
received.
§ 3. The most essential of these lessons are the gentlest. 205
§ 4. Many of our ideas of sky altogether conventional. 205
§ 5. Nature, and essential qualities of the open blue. 206
§ 6. Its connection with clouds. 207
§ 7. Its exceeding depth. 207
These qualities are especially given by modern
§ 8. 207
masters.
§ 9. And by Claude. 208
Total absence of them in Poussin. Physical errors
§ 10. 208
in his general treatment of open sky.
§ 11. Errors of Cuyp in graduation of color. 209
The exceeding value of the skies of the early
§ 12. Italian and Dutch schools. Their qualities are 210
unattainable in modern times.
Phenomena of visible sunbeams. Their nature and
§ 13. 211
cause.
They are only illuminated mist, and cannot appear
§ 14. when the sky is free from vapor, nor when it is 211
without clouds.
Erroneous tendency in the representation of such
§ 15. 212
phenomena by the old masters.
The ray which appears in the dazzled eye should
§ 16. 213
not be represented.
The practice of Turner. His keen perception of the
§ 17. 213
more delicate phenomena of rays.

The total absence of any evidence of such
§ 18. 213
perception in the works of the old masters.
§ 19. Truth of the skies of modern drawings. 214
Recapitulation. The best skies of the ancients are,
§ 20. in quality, inimitable, but in rendering of various 215
truth, childish.

Chapter II.—Of Truth of Clouds:—First, of the Region of the Cirrus.

Difficulty of ascertaining wherein the truth of
§ 1. 216
clouds consists.
Variation of their character at different elevations.
§ 2. The three regions to which they may conveniently 216
be considered as belonging.
§ 3. Extent of the upper region. 217
§ 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
Total absence of even the slightest effort at their
§ 9. 220
representation, in ancient landscape.
§ 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 Central Cloud
Region.

Extent and typical character of the central cloud
§ 1. 226
region.
Its characteristic clouds, requiring no attention nor
§ 2. thought for their representation, are therefore 226
favorite subjects with the old masters.
§ 3. The clouds of Salvator and Poussin. 227
§ 4. Their essential characters. 227
Their angular forms and general decision of
§ 5. 228
outline.
§ 6. The composition of their minor curves. 229
§ 7. Their characters, as given by S. Rosa. 230
Monotony and falsehood of the clouds of the
§ 8. 230
Italian school generally.
§ 9. Vast size of congregated masses of cloud. 231
Demonstrable by comparison with mountain
§ 10. 231
ranges.
§ 11. And consequent divisions and varieties of feature. 232
§ 12. Not lightly to be omitted. 232
Imperfect conceptions of this size and extent in
§ 13. 233
ancient landscape.
Total want of transparency and evanescence in the
§ 14. 234
clouds of ancient landscape.
§ 15. Farther proof of their deficiency in space. 235
Instance of perfect truth in the sky of Turner's
§ 16. 236
Babylon.
§ 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

The deep-based knowledge of the Alps in Turner's
§ 20. 238
Lake of Geneva.
Farther principles of cloud form exemplified in his
§ 21. 239
Amalfi.
Reasons for insisting on the infinity of Turner's
§ 22. works. Infinity is almost an unerring test of all 239
truth
Instances of the total want of it in the works of
§ 23. 240
Salvator.
And of the universal presence of it in those of
§ 24. Turner. The conclusions which may be arrived at 240
from it.
The multiplication of objects, or increase of their
§ 25. size, will not give the impression of infinity, but is 241
the resource of novices.
Farther instances of infinity in the gray skies of
§ 26. 242
Turner.
§ 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.

The apparent difference in character between the
§ 1. lower and central clouds is dependent chiefly on 244
proximity.
§ 2. Their marked differences in color. 244
§ 3. And in definiteness of form. 245
§ 4. They are subject to precisely the same great laws. 245
§ 5. Value, to the painter, of the rain-cloud. 246
The old masters have not left a single instance of
§ 6. the painting of the rain-cloud, and very few efforts 247
at it. Gaspar Poussin's storms.
§ 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
Impossibility of reasoning on the rain-clouds of
§ 11. 250
Turner from engravings.
His rendering of Fielding's particular moment in
§ 12. 250
the Jumieges.
Illustration of the nature of clouds in the opposed
§ 13. 250
forms of smoke and steam.
§ 14. Moment of retiring rain in the Llanthony. 251
And of commencing, chosen with peculiar
§ 15. 252
meaning for Loch Coriskin.
The drawing of transparent vapor in the Land's
§ 16. 253
End.
§ 17. The individual character of its parts. 253
Deep-studied form of swift rain-cloud in the
§ 18. 254
Coventry.
§ 19. Compared with forms given by Salvator. 254

Entire expression of tempest by minute touches
§ 20. 255
and circumstances in the Coventry.
Especially by contrast with a passage of extreme
§ 21. 255
repose.
The truth of this particular passage. Perfectly pure
§ 22. 256
blue sky only seen after rain, and how seen.
Absence of this effect in the works of the old
§ 23. 256
masters.
Success of our water-color artists in its rendering.
§ 24. 257
Use of it by Turner.
Expression of near rain-cloud in the Gosport, and
§ 25. 257
other works.
Contrasted with Gaspar Poussin's rain-cloud in the
§ 26. 258
Dido and Æneas.
§ 27. Turner's power of rendering mist. 258
His effects of mist so perfect, that if not at once
§ 28. understood, they can no more be explained or 259
reasoned on than nature herself.
§ 29. Various instances. 259
Turner's more violent effects of tempest are never
§ 30. 260
rendered by engravers.
§ 31. General system of landscape engraving. 260
§ 32. The storm in the Stonehenge. 260
General character of such effects as given by
§ 33. 261
Turner. His expression of falling rain.
§ 34. Recapitulation of the section. 261
Sketch of a few of the skies of nature, taken as a
§ 35. whole, compared with the works of Turner and of 262
the old masters. Morning on the plains.
§ 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.

Reasons for merely, at present, naming, without
§ 1. examining the particular effects of light rendered 266
by Turner.
Hopes of the author for assistance in the future
§ 2. 266
investigation of them.

SECTION IV.

OF TRUTH OF EARTH.

Chapter I.—Of General Structure.

First laws of the organization of the earth, and their
§ 1. 270
importance in art.
The slight attention ordinarily paid to them. Their
§ 2. 271
careful study by modern artists.
General structure of the earth. The hills are its
§ 3. 271
action, the plains its rest.
Mountains come out from underneath the plains,
§ 4. 272
and are their support.
Structure of the plains themselves. Their perfect
§ 5. 273
level, when deposited by quiet water.
§ 6. Illustrated by Turner's Marengo. 273
General divisions of formation resulting from this
§ 7. 274
arrangement. Plan of investigation.

Chapter II.—Of the Central Mountains.

Similar character of the central peaks in all parts of
§ 1. 275
the world.
Their arrangements in pyramids or wedges,
§ 2. 275
divided by vertical fissures.
Causing groups of rock resembling an artichoke or
§ 3. 276
rose.
The faithful statement of these facts by Turner in
§ 4. 276
his Alps at Daybreak.
§ 5. Vignette of the Andes and others. 277
Necessary distance, and consequent aerial effect
§ 6. 277
on all such mountains.
Total want of any rendering of their phenomena in
§ 7. 278
ancient art.
Character of the representations of Alps in the
§ 8. 278
distances of Claude.
§ 9. Their total want of magnitude and aerial distance. 279
§ 10. And violation of specific form. 280
§ 11. Even in his best works. 280
Farther illustration of the distant character of
§ 12. 281
mountain chains.
§ 13. Their excessive appearance of transparency. 281
Illustrated from the works of Turner and Stanfield.
§ 14. 282
The Borromean Islands of the latter.
§ 15. Turner's Arona. 283
Extreme distance of large objects always
§ 16. 283
characterized by very sharp outline.
§ 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

Average paintings of Switzerland. Its real spirit has
§ 21. 289
scarcely yet been caught.

Chapter III.—Of the Inferior Mountains.

The inferior mountains are distinguished from the
§ 1. 290
central, by being divided into beds.
§ 2. Farther division of these beds by joints. 290
§ 3. And by lines of lamination. 291
Variety and seeming uncertainty under which these
§ 4. 291
laws are manifested.
The perfect expression of them in Turner's Loch
§ 5. 292
Coriskin.
§ 6. Glencoe and other works. 293
§ 7. Especially the Mount Lebanon. 293
§ 8. Compared with the work of Salvator. 294
§ 9. And of Poussin. 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
The exceeding simplicity of contour caused by
§ 13. 298
these influences.
§ 14. And multiplicity of feature. 299
§ 15. Both utterly neglected in ancient art. 299
The fidelity of treatment in Turner's Daphne and
§ 16. 300
Leucippus.
§ 17. And in the Avalanche and Inundation. 300
The rarity among secondary hills of steep slopes or
§ 18. 301
high precipices.
And consequent expression of horizontal distance
§ 19. 302
in their ascent.
Full statement of all these facts in various works of
§ 20. 302
Turner.—Caudebec, etc.
§ 21. The use of considering geological truths. 303

Expression of retiring surface by Turner contrasted
§ 22. 304
with the work of Claude.
The same moderation of slope in the contours of
§ 23. 304
his higher hills.
The peculiar difficulty of investigating the more
§ 24. 305
essential truths of hill outline.
Works of other modern artists.—Clarkson
§ 25. 305
Stanfield.
Importance of particular and individual truth in hill
§ 26. 306
drawing.
§ 27. Works of Copley Fielding. His high feeling. 307
§ 28. Works of J. D. Harding and others. 308

Chapter IV.—Of the Foreground.

What rocks were the chief components of ancient
§ 1. 309
landscape foreground.
Salvator's limestones. The real characters of the
§ 2. 309
rock. Its fractures, and obtuseness of angles.
Salvator's acute angles caused by the meeting of
§ 3. 310
concave curves.
Peculiar distinctness of light and shade in the rocks
§ 4. 311
of nature.
§ 5. Peculiar confusion of both in the rocks of Salvator. 311
And total want of any expression of hardness or
§ 6. 311
brittleness.
§ 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
The observance of them is the real distinction
§ 15. 316
between the master and the novice.
§ 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
Geological structure of his rocks in the Fall of the
§ 21. 319
Tees.
§ 22. Their convex surfaces and fractured edges. 319

§ 23. And perfect unity. 320
Various parts whose history is told us by the details
§ 24. 321
of the drawing.
Beautiful instance of an exception to general rules
§ 25. 321
in the Llanthony.
Turner's drawing of detached blocks of weathered
§ 26. 322
stone.
§ 27. And of complicated foreground. 323
§ 28. And of loose soil. 323
The unison of all in the ideal foregrounds of the
§ 29. 324
Academy pictures.
§ 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.

Sketch of the functions and infinite agency of
§ 1. 325
water.
The ease with which a common representation of it
§ 2. 325
may be given. The impossibility of a faithful one.
§ 3. Difficulty of properly dividing the subject. 326
Inaccuracy of study of water-effect among all
§ 4. 326
painters.
§ 5. Difficulty of treating this part of the subject. 328
General laws which regulate the phenomena of
§ 6. water. First, The imperfection of its reflective 329
surface.
The inherent hue of water modifies dark
§ 7. 330
reflections, and does not affect right ones.
§ 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
Effect of rippled water on horizontal and inclined
§ 13. 336
images.
§ 14. To what extent reflection is visible from above. 336
§ 15. Deflection of images on agitated water. 337
Necessity of watchfulness as well as of science.
§ 16. 337
Licenses, how taken by great men.
Various licenses or errors in water painting of
§ 17. 339
Claude, Cuyp, Vandevelde.
§ 18. And Canaletto. 341
§ 19. Why unpardonable. 342
§ 20. The Dutch painters of sea. 343
§ 21. Ruysdael, Claude, and Salvator. 344

§ 22. Nicolo Poussin. 345
§ 23. Venetians and Florentines. Conclusion. 346

chapter II.—Of Water, as Painted by the Moderns.

General power of the moderns in painting quiet
§ 1. 348
water. The lakes of Fielding.
§ 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
The sea of Copley Fielding. Its exceeding grace
§ 7. 351
and rapidity.
§ 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
Works of Stanfield. His perfect knowledge and
§ 11. 353
power.
But want of feeling. General sum of truth
§ 12. 353
presented by modern art.

Chapter III.—Of Water, as Painted by Turner.

§ 1. The difficulty of giving surface to smooth water. 355
Is dependent on the structure of the eye, and the
§ 2. 355
focus by which the reflected rays are perceived.
Morbid clearness occasioned in painting of water
§ 3. 356
by distinctness of reflections.
§ 4. How avoided by Turner. 357
§ 5. All reflections on distant water are distinct. 357
§ 6. The error of Vandevelde. 358
Difference in arrangement of parts between the
§ 7. 359
reflected object and its image.
§ 8. Illustrated from the works of Turner. 359
The boldness and judgment shown in the
§ 9. 360
observance of it.
The texture of surface in Turner's painting of calm
§ 10. 361
water.
§ 11. Its united qualities. 361
Relation of various circumstances of past agitation,
§ 12. &c., by the most trifling incidents, as in the 363
Cowes.
§ 13. In scenes on the Loire and Seine. 363
Expression of contrary waves caused by recoil
§ 14. 364
from shore.
§ 15. Various other instances. 364
Turner's painting of distant expanses of water.—
§ 16. 365
Calm, interrupted by ripple.
§ 17. And rippled, crossed by sunshine. 365
§ 18. His drawing of distant rivers. 366
§ 19. And of surface associated with mist. 367
His drawing of falling water, with peculiar
§ 20. 367
expression of weight.

The abandonment and plunge of great cataracts.
§ 21. 368
How given by him.
Difference in the action of water, when continuous
§ 22. and when interrupted. The interrupted stream fills 369
the hollows of its bed.
But the continuous stream takes the shape of its
§ 23. 370
bed.
§ 24. Its exquisite curved lines. 370
§ 25. Turner's careful choice of the historical truth. 370
His exquisite drawing of the continuous torrent in
§ 26. 371
the Llanthony Abbey.
And of the interrupted torrent in the Mercury and
§ 27. 372
Argus.
§ 28. Various cases. 372
Sea painting. Impossibility of truly representing
§ 29. 373
foam.
§ 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
General character of sea on a rocky coast given by
§ 36. 378
Turner in the Land's End.
§ 37. Open seas of Turner's earlier time. 379
§ 38. Effect of sea after prolonged storm. 380
Turner's noblest work, the painting of the deep
§ 39. 382
open sea in the Slave Ship.
§ 40. Its united excellences and perfection as a whole. 383

SECTION VI.

OF TRUTH OF VEGETATION.—CONCLUSION.

Chapter I.—Of Truth of Vegetation.

Frequent occurrence of foliage in the works of the
§ 1. 384
old masters.
Laws common to all forest trees. Their branches
§ 2. 385
do not taper, but only divide.
§ 3. Appearance of tapering caused by frequent buds. 385
§ 4. And care of nature to conceal the parallelism. 386
The degree of tapering which may be represented
§ 5. 386
as continuous.
§ 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
Boughs, in consequence of this law, must diminish
§ 9. where they divide. Those of the old masters often 388
do not.
Boughs must multiply as they diminish. Those of
§ 10. 389
the old masters do not.
§ 11. Bough-drawing of Salvator. 390
All these errors especially shown in Claude's
§ 12. sketches, and concentrated in a work of G. 391
Poussin's.
Impossibility of the angles of boughs being taken
§ 13. 392
out of them by wind.
§ 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
How contradicted by the tree-patterns of G.
§ 19. 396
Poussin.
§ 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
The near leafage of Claude. His middle distances
§ 24. 399
are good.
Universal termination of trees in symmetrical
§ 25. 400
curves.
Altogether unobserved by the old masters. Always
§ 26. 401
given by Turner.
§ 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
Local color, how far expressible in black and
§ 31. 404
white, and with what advantage.
Opposition between great manner and great
§ 32. 406
knowledge.
§ 33. Foliage of Cox, Fielding, and Cattermole. 406
Hunt and Creswick. Green, how to be rendered
§ 34. 407
expressive of light, and offensive if otherwise.
§ 35. Conclusion. Works of J. Linnel and S. Palmer. 407

Chapter II.—General remarks respecting the Truth of Turner.

No necessity of entering into discussion of
§ 1. 409
architectural truth.
Extreme difficulty of illustrating or explaining the
§ 2. 410
highest truth.
The positive rank of Turner is in no degree shown
§ 3. 410
in the foregoing pages, but only his relative rank.
§ 4. The exceeding refinement of his truth. 411
There is nothing in his works which can be enjoyed
§ 5. 411
without knowledge.
And nothing which knowledge will not enable us to
§ 6. 412
enjoy.
§ 7. His former rank and progress. 412
Standing of his present works. Their mystery is the
§ 8. 413
consequence of their fulness.

Chapter III.—Conclusion.—Modern Art and Modern Criticism.

The entire prominence hitherto given to the works
§ 1. of one artist caused only by our not being able to 414
take cognizance of character.
The feelings of different artists are incapable of
§ 2. 415
full comparison.
But the fidelity and truth of each are capable of
§ 3. 415
real comparison.
Especially because they are equally manifested in
§ 4. 415
the treatment of all subjects.
No man draws one thing well, if he can draw
§ 5. 416
nothing else.
General conclusions to be derived from our past
§ 6. 417
investigation.
§ 7. Truth, a standard of all excellence. 417
§ 8. Modern criticism. Changefulness of public taste. 418
§ 9. Yet associated with a certain degree of judgment. 418
§ 10. Duty of the press. 418
§ 11. Qualifications necessary for discharging it. 418
§ 12. General incapability of modern critics. 419
§ 13. And inconsistency with themselves. 419
§ 14. How the press may really advance the cause of art. 420
Morbid fondness at the present day for unfinished
§ 15. 420
works.
§ 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
Brilliancy of execution or efforts at invention not
§ 20. 422
to be tolerated in young artists.
§ 21. The duty and after privileges of all students. 423

Necessity among our greater artists of more
§ 22. 423
singleness of aim.
§ 23. What should be their general aim. 425
Duty of the press with respect to the works of
§ 24. 427
Turner.

LIST OF PLATES TO VOLUME I.
Page.
Casa Contarini Fasan, Venice 111
From a drawing by Ruskin.
The Dogana, and Santa Maria della Salute,
136
Venice
From a painting by Turner.
Okehampton Castle 258
From a painting by Turner.
Port Ruysdael 377
From a painting by Turner.

MODERN PAINTERS.

PART I
OF GENERAL PRINCIPLES.

SECTION I.

OF 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
§ 1. Public opinion
possessing in a high degree some kind of sterling
no criterion of
excellence, except
excellence, it is not because the average intellect and
after long periods
feeling of the majority of the public are competent in any
of time.
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 undue have neither root nor strength
sufficient to maintain consistent 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 gradually 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
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.[1]
If I stand by a picture in the Academy, and hear twenty persons 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 admire 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 question 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 cognizant of the superiority of that
above it, as to receive its decision with respect; until, in process of time, the
right and consistent opinion is communicated to all, and held by all as a
matter of faith, the more positively in proportion as the grounds of it are
less perceived.[2]
But when this process has taken place, and the work has become
sanctified by time in the minds of men, it is impossible that any new work
of equal merit can be impartially compared with it, except
§ 2. And therefore
by minds not only educated and generally capable of
obstinate when
appreciating merit, but strong enough to shake off the
once formed.
weight of prejudice and association, which 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 tyrannical—
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 hopeless, 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 superiority in modern art, and who is
in a position in which his doing so will not be ungraceful, to encounter
without hesitation whatever opprobrium may fall upon
§ 3. The author's
him from the necessary prejudice even of the most candid
reasons for
minds, and from the far more virulent opposition of those
opposing it in
who have no hope of maintaining their own reputation for
particular
instances.
discernment but in the support of that kind of consecrated
merit which may be applauded without an inconvenient
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 conviction,
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 accustomed 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 nothing in
the following pages but with accompanying demonstration, which may

indeed be true or false—complete or conditional, but
§ 4. But only on
which can only be met on its own grounds, and can in no
points capable of
way be borne down or affected by mere authority of great
demonstration.
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, centuries, together, under the general title of "old masters," as
if they possessed anything like corresponding rank in their respective 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
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 painters, 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 include
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, Gaspar Poussin,
Salvator Rosa, Cuyp, Berghem, Both, Ruysdael, Hobbima, Teniers, (in his
landscapes,) 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 introductory 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
connoisseurs 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.
And if, in the application of these principles, in spite of
§5. The author's
partiality to
my endeavor to render it impartial, the feeling and
fondness which I have for some works of modern art
modern works
excusable.
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 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 descend 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 tumult 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.

[1] 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 individual, that he should be wrong than right, the
opinion of the minority is the true one. Thus it is in art.

[2] There are, however, a thousand modifying circumstances which render 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 cognizant).
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 associates 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 universal
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 passions 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
popular preacher by the majority of his congregation for the worst part of his sermon.

The process is rapid and certain, when, though there may be 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 Shakspeare. No ordinary mind can comprehend wherein his
undisputed superiority 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 written, 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 understanding them, and admit
the superiority of Shakspeare without further demur. Nothing, perhaps, can more
completely demonstrate the total ignorance of the public of all that is great or valuable in
Shakspeare than their universal 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 excellence, 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 a
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.

CHAPTER II.

DEFINITION OF GREATNESS IN ART.

In the 15th Lecture of Sir Joshua Reynolds, incidental notice is taken of
§ 1. Distinction
the distinction between those excellences in the painter
which belong to him as such, and those which belong to
between the
him in common with all men of intellect, the general and
painter's
intellectual power
exalted powers of which art is the evidence and
expression, not the subject. But the distinction is not there
and technical
knowledge.
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 appreciation of the dignity of art.

§ 2. Painting, as
Painting, or art generally, as such, with all its
technicalities, difficulties, and particular ends, is nothing
such, is nothing
more than
but a noble and expressive language, invaluable as the
vehicle of thought, but by itself nothing. He who has
language.
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 himself
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 excellences 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 the tests of their greatness. It is
not by the mode of representing and saying, but by what is represented and
said, that the respective greatness either of the painter or the writer is to be
finally determined.
Speaking with strict propriety, therefore, we should call
§ 3. "Painter," a
term
a man a great painter only as he excelled in precision and
force in the language of lines, and a great versifier, as he
corresponding to
"versifier."
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 poems or
§ 4. Example in a
pictures (I use the words as synonymous) which modern
painting of E.
times have seen:—the "Old Shepherd's Chief-mourner."
Landseer's.
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 hopelessness, 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 unwatched 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, and
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 painting or
§5. Difficulty of
literature, to determine where the influence of language
fixing an exact
limit between
stops, and where that of thought begins. Many thoughts
are so dependent upon the language in which they are
language and
thought.
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 dignity 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 intrinsic 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
they would bestow, than by their presence how much they can destroy.
There is therefore a distinction to be made between
§ 6. Distinction
between
what is ornamental in language and what is expressive.
That part of it which is necessary to the embodying and
decorative and
expressive
conveying the thought is worthy of respect and attention as
necessary to excellence, though not the test of it. But that
language.
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 distinguishing between the ornamental and the expressive is
peculiarly necessary in painting; for in the language of words it is nearly
impossible for that which is not expressive to be beautiful, except by mere
rhythm or melody, any sacrifice to which is immediately stigmatized as
error. But the beauty of mere language in painting is not only very attractive
and entertaining to the spectator, but requires for its attainment no small

exertion of mind and devotion of time by the artist. Hence, in art, men have
frequently fancied that they were becoming rhetoricians and poets when
they were only learning to speak melodiously, and the judge has over and
over again advanced to the honor of authors those who were never more
than ornamental writing-masters.
Most pictures of the Dutch school, for instance, and
§ 7. Instance in the
excepting always those of Rubens, Vandyke, and
Dutch and early
Italian schools.
Rembrandt, are ostentatious exhibitions of the artist's
power of speech, the clear and vigorous elocution of
useless and senseless words: while the early efforts of Cimabue and 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 carefully 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 cannot 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. No weight, nor mass, nor
beauty of execution can outweigh one grain or fragment of thought. Three
penstrokes of Raffaelle 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 impressiveness 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.

Yet although in all our speculations on art, language is
§ 8. Yet there are
certain ideas
thus to be distinguished from, and held subordinate to, that
which it conveys, we must still remember that there are
belonging to
certain ideas inherent in language itself, and that strictly
language itself.
speaking, every pleasure connected with art has in it some
reference to the intellect. The mere sensual pleasure of the eye, received
from the most brilliant 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 Locke's definition of it,
will extend even to the sensual impressions themselves as far as they are
"things which the mind occupies itself about in thinking," that is, not as
they are felt by the eye only, but as they are received by the mind through
§ 9. The definition.
the eye. So that, if I say that the greatest picture is 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 contrary, 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 perhaps 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 greatest number of the
greatest ideas, and I call an idea great in proportion 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 embodied, 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.
I think that all the sources of pleasure, or any other
§ 1. What classes
of ideas are
good, to be derived from works of art, may be referred to
five distinct heads.
conveyable by art.

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 produced
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 relations, 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 perception of
§ 2. Ideas of power
vary much in
the mental or bodily powers exerted in the production of

relative dignity. 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 intellect, 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 correspondent
with every order of power,—from that of the fingers to that of the most
exalted intellect. Thus, when we see an 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 exertion.
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 precisely 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 cannot
§ 3. But are
received from
but be admitted by all. But the circumstance which I wish
especially to insist upon, with respect to them, is one
whatever has been
the subject of
which may not, perhaps, be so readily allowed, namely,
that they are independent of the nature or worthiness of the
power. The
object from which they are received, and that whatever has
meaning of the
been the subject of a great power, whether there be
word "excellence."
intrinsic and apparent worthiness 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. For observe, that a
thing is not properly said to have been the result of a great power, on which

only some part of that power has been expended. 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 dangerous or useless,
but, as far as the phrase has reference to difficulty of performance, it cannot
be unworthy of the power 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
evidence of it are stamped upon its results: it is impossible that it should be
lost or wasted, or without record, even in the "estimation 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
distinguished 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.[3]
The faculty of perceiving what powers are required for
§ 4. What is
necessary to the
the production of a thing, is the faculty of perceiving
excellence. It is this faculty in which men, even of the
distinguishing of
excellence.
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 beautiful, 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, there is
§ 5. The pleasure
excellence: and therefore, in order to prove excellent, we
attendant on
conquering
have only to prove the difficulty of its production: whether
it be useful or beautiful is another question; its excellence
difficulties is right.
depends on its difficulty alone. For 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 difficulties, 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
technical difficulties than to reach a great end. Whenever the visible victory
over difficulties is found painful or in false taste, it is owing to the
preference of an inferior to a great difficulty, or 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 remembered then—Power is never wasted. Whatever
power has been employed, produces excellence in proportion to its own
dignity and exertion; and the faculty of perceiving this exertion, and
appreciating this dignity, is the faculty of perceiving excellence.

[3] 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 distinguish 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 frequently 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.

CHAPTER IV.

OF IDEAS OF IMITATION.

Fuseli, in his lectures, and many other persons of equally just and
accurate habits of thought, (among others, S. T. Coleridge,) make a
§ 1. False use of
distinction between imitation and copying, representing
the first as the legitimate function of art—the latter as its
the term
corruption; but as such a distinction is by no means
"imitation" by
many writers of
warranted, or explained by the common meaning of the
words themselves, it is not easy to comprehend exactly in
art.
what sense they are used by those writers. And though,
reasoning from the context, I can understand 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 people would
understand by the term. And by men of less accurate 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 have 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 of, 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 intimated 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 accurately expressed by the
word "imitation:" one which, though constantly confused in reasoning,
because it is always associated in fact, with other means of pleasure, is
totally separated from them in its nature, and is the real basis of whatever
complicated 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
of the term.
Whenever anything looks like what it is not, the
resemblance being so great as nearly to deceive, we feel a
kind of pleasurable surprise, an agreeable excitement 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
§ 3. What is
evidence that a thing is not what it appears to be.[4] Now
requisite to the
two things are requisite to our complete and more
sense of imitation.
pleasurable perception 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 imitation are, therefore, when one
sense is contradicted by another, 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 projection, 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 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 resemblance, not on the nature of the thing resembled.
The simple pleasure in the imitation would be precisely of the same degree,
(if the 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.
Ideas of imitation, then, act by producing the simple
§ 4. The pleasure
resulting from
pleasure of surprise, and that not of surprise in its higher
sense and function, but of the mean and paltry surprise
imitation the most
contemptible that
which is felt in jugglery. These ideas and pleasures are the
most contemptible which can be received from art; first,
can be derived
because it is necessary to their enjoyment that the mind
from art.
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
surprised 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 second place,
§ 5. Imitation is
only of
because not only do they preclude the spectator from
enjoying inherent beauty in the subject, but they can only
contemptible
subjects.
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, or 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.

§ 6. Imitation is
Thirdly, these ideas are contemptible, because no ideas
of power are associated with them; to the ignorant,
contemptible
because it is easy.
imitation, 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 receive
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.
Whenever then in future, I speak of ideas of imitation, I
§ 7.
Recapitulation.
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, for
instance, when we thought it was round.

[4] συλλογισμός ἐττιγ, ὀτι τὀυτο ἐκεῖνο.—Arist. Rhet. 1, 11, 23.

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 perceive the
§ 1. Meaning of
faithfulness of such a statement.
the word "truth"
as applied to art. The difference between ideas of truth and of imitation
lies chiefly in the following points.
First,—Imitation can only be of something material, but
§ 2. First
truth has reference to statements both of the qualities of
difference between
material things, and of emotions, impressions, and
truth and
thoughts. There is a moral as well as material truth,—a
imitation.
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 takes cognizance
only of material things.
Secondly,—Truth may be stated by any signs or
§ 3. Second
symbols which have a definite signification in the minds
difference.
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 resemblance of those facts. If there be—we do
not say there is—but if there be in painting anything which operates, as
words do, not by resembling anything, but by being taken as a symbol 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, require the likeness of the object. They speak to the
perceptive faculties only: truth to the conceptive.
Thirdly,—And in consequence of what is above stated, an idea of truth
exists in the statement of one attribute of anything, but an
§ 4. Third
idea of imitation requires the resemblance of as many
difference.
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, recognizable for another idea of truth;
but we have still no imitation, 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.

§ 5. No accurate
Hence it might at first sight appear, that an idea of
imitation, inasmuch as several ideas of truth were united in
truths necessary to
it, was nobler than a simple idea of truth. And if it were
imitation.
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 certain 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 cognizance of the apparent form even

of a simple parallelopiped. How much less of the complicated forms of
boughs, leaves, or 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 degrees 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 distinguishing 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 discernment 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 purposes 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 complete. 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 resemblances of true outline, which, with careful shading,
would induce deception, and draw down the praise and delight of the
discerning public. The other day at Bruges, while I was endeavoring to set
down in my note-book something of the ineffable 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?" repeated I, wishing to know what particular
excellences of Michael Angelo were to be intimated by this expression.
"Monsieur, on ne pent plus—c'est un tableau admirable—inconcevable:
Monsieur," said the Frenchman, lifting up his hands to heaven, as he
concentrated in one conclusive and overwhelming proposition the qualities

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 deception. He was not therefore
cognizant of many ideas of truth, though perfectly cognizant of ideas of
imitation.

§ 6. Ideas of truth
We shall see, in the course of our investigation of ideas
are inconsistent
of truth, that ideas of imitation not only do not imply their
with ideas of
presence, but even are inconsistent with it; and that
imitation.
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 distinction 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 delivered. 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 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.

Any material object which can give us pleasure in the simple
contemplation of its outward qualities without any direct and definite
§ 1. Definition of
exertion of the intellect, I call in some way, or in some
the term
degree, beautiful. Why we receive pleasure from some
"beautiful."
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 investigation will only lead us to
ultimate instincts and principles of human nature, for 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 we do not receive pleasure from them because
they are illustrative of it, nor from 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 cultivated or checked,
directed or diverted, gifted by right guidance with the most acute and
faultless sense, or subjected by neglect to every phase of error and disease.
He who has followed 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 God 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 word. Perfect taste is the
faculty of receiving the greatest possible pleasure from those material

§ 2. Definition of
sources which are attractive to our moral nature in its
the term "taste."
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 distinguished
§ 3. Distinction
between taste and
from that of "judgment," with which it is constantly
judgment.
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 perfection so to do.

§ 4. How far
Observe, however, I do not mean by excluding direct
exertion of the intellect from ideas of beauty, to assert that
beauty may
become
beauty has no effect upon nor connection with the
intellectual.
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 according to their degree;

and it would appear that we are intended by the Deity to be
§ 5. The high rank
constantly under their influence, because there is not one
and function of
ideas of beauty.
single object in nature which is not capable of conveying
them, and which, to the rightly perceiving mind, does not
present an incalculably greater number of beautiful than of deformed parts;
there being in fact scarcely anything, in pure, undiseased nature, 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.

§ 6. Meaning of
But although everything in nature is more or less
beautiful, every species of object has its own kind and
the term "ideal
degree of beauty; some being in their own nature more
beauty."
beautiful than others, and few, if any, individuals
possessing the utmost degree of beauty of which the species is capable. This
utmost degree of specific beauty, necessarily 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 adequately expressive
of the vast class of ideas which I wish to be comprehended
§ 1. General
under it, namely, all those conveyable by art, which are the
meaning of the
subjects of distinct intellectual perception and action, and
term.
which are therefore worthy of the name of thoughts. But as
every thought, or definite exertion 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.

§ 2. What ideas
Under this head must be arranged everything productive
are to be
of expression, sentiment, and character, whether in figures
or landscapes, (for there may be as much definite
comprehended
expression and marked carrying out of particular thoughts
under it.
in the treatment of inanimate as of animate nature,)
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 composition, 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 appalling light, to
illustrate an incident in itself terrible, or of a particular tone of pure color to
prepare the mind for the expression 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 independent 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
greatness, in preference to the tumult of busy stone-masons or arming
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 lustre 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 relation.
§ 3. The exceeding
nobility of these
They are what I have asserted in the second chapter of this
section to be the noblest subjects of art. Dependent upon it
ideas.
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 decoration; 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 interfered 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 degraded. The utmost
glory of the human body is a mean subject of contemplation, compared to
the emotion, exertion and character 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 incarnation and
expression of divine mind, is degraded beside the passion and the prophecy
of the vaults of the Sistine.
Ideas of relation are of course, with respect to art generally, the most
§ 4. Why no
extensive as the most important source of pleasure; and if
subdivision of so
we proposed entering upon the criticism of historical
works, it would be absurd to attempt to do so without
extensive a class is
further subdivision and arrangement. But the old landscape
necessary.
painters got over so much canvas 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 intellectual powers.

SECTION 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 applied to the purposes
§ 1. No necessity
of legitimate criticism, we may at once throw out the ideas
for detailed study
of imitation; first, because, as we have shown, they are
of ideas of
imitation.
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 completely
§ 2. Nor for
viewed as a separate class; not because they are mean or
separate study of
ideas of power.
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 accuracy and certainty of the knowledge, rendered evident by its rapid
and fearless expression, which is the real source of pleasure; and so upon
each difficulty of art, whether it be to know, 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.

§ 3. Except under
But it will be necessary at present to notice a particular
form of the ideas of power, which is partially independent
one particular
of knowledge of truth, or difficulty, and which is apt to
form.
corrupt the judgment of the critic, and debase the work of
the artist. It is evident that the conception 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 the
§ 4. There are two
modes of receiving
conception of power; one, the most just, when by a perfect
ideas of power,
knowledge of the difficulty to be overcome, and the means
employed, we form a right estimate of the faculties
commonly
exerted; the other, when without possessing such intimate
inconsistent.
and accurate knowledge, we are impressed 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 possible 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.

§ 5. First reason of
The first reason of this inconsistency is, that in order to
receive a sensation of power, we must see it in operation.
the inconsistency.
Its victory, therefore, must not be achieved, but achieving,
and therefore imperfect. Thus we receive a greater sensation of power from
the half-hewn limbs 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 Parthenon, than from the
polished limbs of the Apollo,—greater from the ink sketch of the head of
Raffaelle's St. Catherine, than from the perfection of its realization.

§ 6. Second reason
Another reason of the inconsistency is, that the
for the
sensation of power is in proportion to the apparent
inadequacy of the means to the end; so that the impression
inconsistency.
is much greater from a partial success attained with slight
effort, than from perfect success attained with greater proportional effort.
Now, in all art, every touch or effort does individually less in proportion as
the work approaches perfection. 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 decreasing, and therefore the least sensation of
power is received from the most perfect work.
It is thus evident that there are sensations of power
§ 7. The sensation
about imperfect art, so that it be right art as far as it goes,
of power ought not
to be sought in
which must always be wanting in its perfection; and that
there are sources of pleasure in the hasty sketch and rough
imperfect art.
hewn block, which are partially 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 pictures 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 yet the picture
involves the greater power, if out of all the additional labor bestowed on it,
not a touch has been lost.

§ 8. Instances in
For instance, there are few drawings of the present day
that involve greater sensations of power than those of
pictures of modern
Frederick Tayler. Every dash tells, and the quantity of
artists.
effect obtained is enormous, in proportion to the apparent
means. But the effect obtained is not complete. 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 exertion; 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 without 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.
But there is still farther ground for caution in pursuing
§ 9. Connection
between ideas of
the sensation of power, connected with the particular
characters and modes of execution. This we shall be better
power and modes
able to understand by briefly reviewing the various
of execution.
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.

CHAPTER II.

OF IDEAS OF POWER, AS THEY ARE DEPENDENT UPON EXECUTION.

By the term "execution," I understand the right mechanical use of the
means of art to produce a given end.

§ 1. Meaning of
All qualities of execution, properly so called, are
the term
influenced by, and in a great degree dependent on, a far
higher power than that of mere execution,—knowledge of
"execution."
truth. For exactly in proportion as an artist is certain of his
§ 2. The first
end, will he be swift and simple in his means; and, as he is
quality of
accurate and deep in his knowledge, will he be refined and
execution is truth.
precise in his touch. The first merit of manipulation, then,
is that delicate and ceaseless expression of refined 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 speaking, 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 ignorance and
inaccuracy by a species of execution which is a perpetual proclamation,
"qu'ils n'ont demeuré 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. The more
simplicity.
unpretending, quiet, and retiring the means, the more
impressive their effect. Any ostentation, brilliancy, or
pretension of touch,—any exhibition of power or quickness, merely as such,
above all, any attempt to render lines attractive at the expense of their
meaning, is vice.

§ 4. The third
The third is mystery. Nature is always mysterious and
mystery.
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.
The fourth is inadequacy. The less sufficient the means appear to the end,
the greater (as has been already noticed) will be the sensation of power.

§ 5. The fourth,
The fifth is decision: the appearance, that is, that
whatever is done, has been done fearlessly and at once;
inadequacy; and
because this gives us the impression that both the fact to
the fifth, decision.
be represented, and the means necessary to its
representation, were perfectly known.

§ 6. The sixth,
The sixth is velocity. Not only is velocity, or the
velocity.
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.

§ 7. Strangeness
These six qualities are the only perfectly legitimate
an illegitimate
sources of pleasure in execution; but I might have added a
seventh—strangeness, which in many cases is productive
source of pleasure
of a pleasure not altogether mean or degrading, though
in execution.
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
Berghem's landscape, No. 132 in the Dulwich Gallery. Rubens first
scratches horizontally over his canvas a thin grayish brown, 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 outline 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 realization
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 pleasure we had in it, vanishes, when on retiring
from the picture, we find the head shining like a distant lantern, instead of
substantial or near. Yet strangeness is not to be considered as a legitimate
source of pleasure. That means which is most conducive to the end, should
always be the most pleasurable; 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 execution are
legitimate sources
therefore truth, simplicity, mystery, inadequacy, decision,
and velocity. But of these, be it observed, some are so far
of pleasure in
inconsistent with others, that they cannot be united in high
execution are
inconsistent with
degrees. Mystery with inadequacy, for instance; since to
each other.
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 of

power which are associated with the three last qualities of
§ 9. And fondness
execution; for although it is most desirable that these
for ideas of power
leads to the
should be present as far as they are consistent with the
adoption of the
others, and though their visible absence is always painful
lowest.
and wrong, yet the moment the higher qualities 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,[5] 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 the majority of spectators,
so difficult of attainment to the artist, that it is no wonder that efforts so
§ 10. Therefore
arduous and unrewarded should be abandoned. But if the
perilous.
temptation be 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.
Such are the principal modes in which the ideas of
§ 11.
power may become a dangerous attraction to the artist—a
Recapitulation.
false test to the critic. But in all cases where they lead us
astray it will be 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 distinction constantly in view, (whether with reference
to execution 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.

[5] 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 throughout, 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
boldness, 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.

CHAPTER III.

OF THE SUBLIME.

It may perhaps be wondered that in the division we have made of our
subject, we have taken no notice of the sublime in art, and that in our
explanation of that division we have not once used the word.
The fact is, that sublimity is not a specific term,—not a
§ 1. Sublimity is
term descriptive of the effect of a particular class of ideas.
the effect upon the
mind of anything
Anything which elevates the mind is sublime, and
above it.
elevation of mind is produced by the contemplation of
greatness of any kind; but chiefly, of course, by the
greatness of the noblest things. Sublimity is, therefore, only another 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.

§ 2. Burke's theory
I am fully prepared to allow of much ingenuity in
of the nature of
Burke's theory of the sublime, as connected with self-
preservation. There are few things so great as death; and

the sublime there is perhaps nothing which banishes all littleness of
incorrect, and thought and feeling in an equal degree with its
why. 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 prophecy—"And though after my skin worms
destroy this body, yet in my flesh I shall see God?" A little
§ 3. Danger is
reflection will easily convince any one, that so far from the
sublime, but not
the fear of it.
feelings of self-preservation being necessary to 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 sublime, 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
§ 4. The highest
nature, but because their contemplation, exciting
beauty is sublime.
compassion or fortitude, elevates the mind, and renders
meanness of thought impossible. Beauty 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
§ 5. And generally
such beauty is a source of the sublime, is yet ignorant of
whatever elevates
the meaning of the ideal in art. I do not mean, in tracing
the mind.
the source of the sublime to greatness, to hamper myself
with any fine-spun theory. I take the widest possible
ground of investigation, that sublimity 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 argument, 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.

§ 6. The former
As, therefore, the sublime is not distinct from what is
beautiful, nor from other sources of pleasure in art, but is
division of the
only a particular mode and manifestation of them, my
subject is therefore
subject will divide itself into the investigation of ideas of
sufficient.
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 determine 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.

SECTION I.

GENERAL PRINCIPLES RESPECTING IDEAS OF 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
§ 1. The two great
by art, that the landscape painter must always have two
ends of landscape
great and distinct ends; the first, to induce in the
painting are the
spectator's mind the faithful conception of any natural
objects whatsoever; the second, to guide the spectator's
representation of
mind to those objects most worthy of its contemplation,
facts and thoughts.
and to inform him of the thoughts and feelings with which
these were regarded by the artist himself.
In attaining the first end, the painter only places the spectator 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 disposition may incline him. But he has nothing of thought given to
him, no new ideas, no unknown feelings, forced on his attention or his
heart. The artist is his conveyance, not his companion,—his horse, not his

friend. But in attaining the second 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 instructed, under 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 intelligence.

§ 2. They induce a
Each of these different aims of art will necessitate a
different choice of
different system of choice of objects to be represented. The
first does not indeed imply choice at all, but it is usually
material subjects.
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 second 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.
Now, although the first mode of selection, when guided
§ 3. The first mode
of selection apt to
by deep reflection, may rise to the production of works
produce sameness
possessing a noble and ceaseless influence on the human
and repetition.
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 instance, 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 reference
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 an appeal to constant animal
feelings, but an expression and awakening of individual thought: it is

§ 4. The second
therefore as various and as extended in its efforts as the
necessitating
compass and grasp of the directing mind; and we feel, in
each of its results, that we are looking, not at a specimen
variety.
of a tradesman'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.

§ 5. Yet the first is
Hence, although there can be no doubt which of these
delightful to all.
branches of art is the highest, it is equally evident that the
first will be the most generally felt and appreciated. For
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 delightful 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 by all, and in the same way by
§ 6. The second
all. But the highest art, being based on sensations of
only to a few.
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
extended 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 solitary 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 thousands, 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 in high art, be it especially observed,
proceeds from no want of truth in the art itself, but from a want of
sympathy in the spectator with those feelings in the artist which prompt him
§ 7. The first
to the utterance of one truth rather than of another. For
necessary to the
(and this is what I wish at present especially to insist upon)
second.
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 previously 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 admire the
solidity of its brickwork; thinking they understand all that is to 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 contemplation
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 fancy, the most pure feeling,
(supposing that feeling could be pure and false at the same time;) not the

most exalted conception, nor the most comprehensive
§ 8. The exceeding
grasp of intellect, can make amends for the want of truth,
importance of
truth.
and that for two reasons; first, because falsehood is in
itself revolting and degrading; and secondly, because
nature is so immeasurably superior to all that the human mind can conceive,
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 can be
§ 9. Coldness or
graceful, imaginative, or original, unless he be truthful;
want of beauty no
sign of truth.
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 exceeding that possessed by those who pride themselves on
its accumulation 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 audacity, but of knowledge.

§ 10. How truth
Hence it follows that it is in the power of all, with care
may be considered
and time, to form something like a just judgment of the
a just criterion of
relative merits of artists; for although with respect to the
all art.
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 possible for all, by attention, to form a right
judgment of the respective 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 invariably 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 knowledge 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 whatsoever to what may be thought beautiful, or
sublime, or imaginative. I shall look only for truth; bare, clear, downright
statement of facts; showing in each particular, as far as I am able, what the
truth of nature is, and then seeking for the plain expression 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 BY
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
§ 1. The common
showing of what is truthful in art. "Cannot we," say the
public, "see what nature is with our own eyes, and find out
self-deception of
for ourselves what is like her?" It will be as well to
men with respect
determine this question before we go farther, because if
to their power of
this were possible, there would be little need of criticism
discerning truth.
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 instrument

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 are 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.
The first great mistake that people make in the matter, is the supposition
§ 2. Men usually
that they must see a thing if it be before their eyes. They
forget the great truth told them by Locke, Book ii. chap. 9,
see little of what is
before their eyes.v
§ 3:—"This is certain, 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. Fire 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 observe 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 attention that uses to be for the producing the ideas of sound! A
sufficient impulse there may be on the organ, but it not reaching 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 accustomed 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 same 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 of some description, totally unconnected with the
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 moments, no more whatsoever.

§ 3. But more or
The degree of ignorance of external nature in which
men may thus remain, depends, therefore, partly on the
less in proportion
number and character of the subjects with which their
to their natural
minds may be otherwise occupied, and partly on a natural
sensibility to what
want of sensibility to the power of beauty of form, and the
is beautiful.
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 naturally 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 faculties
§ 4. Connected
of perception, weak originally, die of disuse. With this
with a perfect state
of moral feeling.
kind of bodily sensibility to color and form is intimately
connected that higher sensibility 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 intellectual, and dependent merely on our powers of physical
perception and abstract intellect, wholly independent of our moral nature,
yet these instruments (perception and judgment) are so sharpened and
brightened, and so far more swiftly and effectively used, when they have
the energy and passion of our moral nature 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 perception of truth, and thousands of the highest and most divine
truths of nature are wholly concealed from him, however constant and
indefatigable may be his intellectual search. Thus, then, the farther we look,
the more we are limited in the number of those to whom we should choose
to appeal as judges of truth, and the more we perceive how great a number
of mankind may be partially incapacitated from either discovering or
feeling it.
Next to sensibility, which is necessary for the perception
§ 5. And of the
intellectual
of facts, come reflection and memory, which are necessary
for the retention of them, and recognition of their
powers.
resemblances. For 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 be 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 day they may have been impressed by the tone and warmth
of 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
§ 6. How sight
depends upon
the imagination over the senses, is peculiarly observable in
the perpetual disposition of mankind to suppose that they
previous
knowledge.
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 detects 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 trodden leaf, is yet so blunt to the
impressions of shade, that Mr. Catlin 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 previously known and sought for; and numberless observable
differences 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 returns of our natural optics." And the

deception which takes place so broadly in cases like these, has infinitely
greater influence over our judgment of the more intricate and less tangible
truths of nature. We are constantly supposing that we see 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
painting what exists, rather than what they can see. I shall prove the extent
of this error more completely hereafter.

§ 7. The difficulty
Be it also observed, that all these difficulties would lie
in the way, even if the truths of nature were always the
increased by the
variety of truths in
same, constantly repeated and brought before us. But the
truths of nature are one eternal change—one infinite
nature.
variety. There is no bush on the face of the globe exactly
like another bush;—there are no two trees 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 attention 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 appreciating the truth of nature, when
fully set before them; but it is both 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 will be voluble
of criticism on every painted landscape from Dresden 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!
A few such interrogations as these might indeed convict,
§ 8. We recognize
objects by their
if not convince the mass of spectators of incapability, were
it not for the universal reply, that they can recognize what
least important
they cannot describe, and feel what is truthful, though they

attributes. do not know what is truth. And this is, to a certain degree,
Compare Part I., true: a man may recognize the portrait of his friend,
Sect. I., Chap. 4. though he cannot, if you ask him apart, tell you the shape
of his nose or the height of his forehead; and every one
could tell nature herself 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 imperfectly 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 wanting, 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 intelligence. 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, and 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 portrait 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 excitement. 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,
perhaps 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
visible 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 according 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 GENERAL
ONES.

I have in the last chapter affirmed that we usually recognize objects by
their least essential characteristics. This very naturally excites the inquiry
§ 1. Necessity of
what I consider their important characteristics, and why I
call one truth more important than another. And this
determining the
relative
question must be immediately determined, because it is
evident, that in judging of the truth of painters, we shall
importance of
have to consider not only the accuracy with which
truths.
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 truthful
who has preserved the most important at the expense of the most trifling.
Now if we are to begin our investigation in Aristotle's
§ 2. Misapplication
way, and look at the φαινόμενα of the subject, we shall
of the aphorism:
immediately stumble over a maxim which is in
"General truths
everybody's mouth, and which, as it is understood in
are more
important than
practice, is true and useful, as it is usually applied in
argument, false and misleading. "General truths are more
particular ones."
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 nothing 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 inexhaustible
knowledge or imagination, whichever it may be, to the 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 is
painting particular truths." Now there must be something
§ 3. Falseness of
this maxim taken
wrong in that application of a principle which would make
the variety and abundance which we look for as the
without
explanation.
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. For instance, Mrs. Jameson somewhere
mentions the exclamation 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 common 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 particular
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
§ 4. Generality
information. The fact is, and the above instances may
important in the
serve at once to prove it if it be not self-evident, that
subject,
particularity in the
generality gives importance to the subject, and limitation
or particularity to the predicate. If I say that such and such
predicate.
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 subject) 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 contradicted by
one of the most universally received aphorisms respecting art? A little
reflection will show us under what limitations this maxim may be true in
practice.

§ 5. The
It is self-evident that when we are painting or describing
anything, those truths must be the most important which
importance of
are most characteristic of what is to be told or represented.
truths of species is
Now that which is first and most broadly characteristic of
not owing to their
a thing, is that which distinguishes its genus, or which
generality.
makes it what it is. For instance, 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 individuals of the species it belongs to, it is a general idea
with respect to that species; while other ideas, which are not characteristic
of the species, and 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
particular 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 universality of the truth, which renders it important.
And the so-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
§ 6. All truths
which renders it unimportant. So, then, truths are
valuable as they
are characteristic.
important just in proportion as 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 unimportant 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-elasticity, etc.,) but of individuality and
definite character in the case immediately observed, and are consequently
most important and necessary ideas. So in a man, to be short-legged or
long-nosed or anything else of accidental quality, does not distinguish 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.
Such are the real sources of importance in truths as far
§ 7. Otherwise
as they are considered with reference merely to their being
truths of species
are valuable
general, or particular; but there are other sources of
importance which give farther weight to the ordinary
because beautiful.
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 not 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
properties which characterize man or any other animal as a species, are the
perfection of his or its form of mind, almost all individual 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.
Again, a truth which may be of great interest, when an
§ 8. And many
object is viewed by itself, may be objectionable when it is
truths, valuable if
separate, may be
viewed in relation to other objects. Thus if we were
painting a piece of drapery as our whole subject, it would
objectionable in
connection with
be proper to give in it every source of entertainment,
which particular truths could supply, to give it varied color
others.
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 contemptible, 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 reprobation; 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
feelings; 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 general truths are
more important than particular ones) is altogether 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 spoiled 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 particular 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.
as their being particular or general affects their value at all,
Recapitulation.
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, THAT
RARE TRUTHS ARE MORE IMPORTANT THAN FREQUENT ONES.

It will be necessary next for us to determine how far frequency or rarity
can affect the importance of truths, and whether the artist
§ 1. No accidental
is to be considered the most truthful who paints what is
violation of
nature's principles
common or what is unusual in nature.
should be Now the whole determination of this question depends
represented. upon whether the unusual fact be a violation of nature's

general principles, or the application of some of those principles in a
peculiar and striking way. Nature sometimes, though very rarely, violates
her own principles; it is her principle to make everything 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 nothing else, though he might be able to point to
something in nature as the original of every one of his uglinesses, would yet
be, in the strict sense of the word, false,—false to nature, and disobedient 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 watching, 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 inexcusably false.
But the case is widely different, when instead of a principle violated, we
have one extraordinarily carried out or manifested under
§ 2. But the cases
in which those
unusual circumstances. Though nature is constantly
beautiful, she does not exhibit her highest powers of
principles have
been strikingly
beauty constantly, for then they would satiate us and pall
upon our senses. It is necessary to their appreciation that
exemplified.
they should be rarely shown. Her finest touches are things
§ 3. Which are
which must be watched for; her most perfect passages of
beauty are the most evanescent. She is constantly doing
comparatively
rare.
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 perpetually 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 characteristic 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 exclusively is

imperfect truth, and to repeat the same effect or thought in
§ 4. All repetition
is blamable.
two pictures is wasted life. What 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 manifested 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 in one sermon to express
and explain every divine truth which can be gathered out of God's
§ 5. The duty of
revelation, as a painter expect in one composition to
express and illustrate every lesson which can be received
the painter is the
same as that of a
from God's creation. Both are commentators on infinity,
and the duty of both is to take for each discourse one
preacher.
essential truth, seeking particularly and insisting especially
on those which are less palpable to ordinary observation, and more likely to
escape an indolent 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 proportion 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 instructiveness
in proportion to their rarity. All really great pictures, 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 to
§ 1. Difference
distinguish certain classes of properties in bodies, as more
between primary
necessary to be told than others, because more
and secondary
characteristic, either of the particular thing to be
qualities in bodies.
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, situation, and motion or rest of their
solid parts: those that are in them, whether we perceive them or not." These
he calls primary qualities. Secondly, "the power that is in any body to
operate after a peculiar manner on any of our senses," (sensible 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 characteristic 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 and sensations. Now a power of influence is
§ 2. The first are
fully
always equally characteristic of two objects—the active
and passive; for it is as much necessary that there should
characteristic, the
second imperfectly
be a power in the object suffering to receive the
impression, as in the object acting to give the impression.
so.
(Compare Locke, Book ii. chap. 21, sect. 2.) For
supposing two people, as is frequently the case, perceive different scents 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 impress. Every power, therefore, being characteristic of the nature

of two bodies, is imperfectly and incompletely characteristic of either
separately; but the primary qualities, being characteristic 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 bulk,
§ 3. Color is a
secondary quality,
figure, situation, and motion or rest of solid parts, are
primary qualities. Hence all truths of color sink at once
therefore less
important than
into the second rank. He, therefore, who has neglected a
truth of form for a truth of color, has neglected a greater
form.
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 flower 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 oak
§ 4. Color no
distinction
still. Again, color is hardly ever even a possible distinction
between two objects of the same species. Two trees, of the
between objects of
same kind, at the same season, and of the same age, are of
the same species.
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 the same form. So that form is not only the chief characteristic of
species, but the only characteristic of individuals of a species.
Again, a color, in association with other colors, is different from the same
color seen by itself. It has a distinct and peculiar power upon the retina

§ 5. And different
dependent on its association. Consequently, the color of
any object is not more dependent upon the nature of the
in association from
what it is alone.
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.

§ 6. It is not
And so great is the uncertainty with respect to those
qualities or powers which depend as much on the nature of
certain whether
any two people see
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 in
things.
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 the sense
§ 7. Form
in which I have used the word "form," because painters
considered as an
element of
have a most inaccurate and careless habit of confining the
term to the outline of bodies, whereas it necessarily
landscape,
includes light and
implies light and shade. It is true that the outline and the
chiaroscuro must be separate subjects of investigation with
shade.
the student; but no form whatsoever can be known to the
eye in the slightest degree without its chiaroscuro; and, therefore, in

speaking of form generally as an element of landscape, I mean that perfect
and harmonious unity of outline with light and shade, by which all the parts
and projections 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
§ 8. Importance of
understood, the most convincing proof of the
unimportance of color lies in the accurate observation of
light and shade in
expressing the
the way in which any material object impresses itself on
the mind. If we look at nature carefully, we shall find that
character of
her colors are in a state of perpetual confusion and
bodies and
unimportance of
indistinctness, while her forms, as told by light and shade,
are invariably clear, distinct, and speaking. The stones and
color.
gravel of the bank catch green reflections from the boughs
above; the bushes receive grays and yellows from the ground; every
hairbreadth of polished 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, 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
and evident, 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 difference (in sunshine) between the illumined and dark
side of either separately.
We shall see hereafter, in considering ideas of beauty, that color, even as
a source of pleasure, is feeble compared to form; but this we cannot insist
upon at present; we have only to do with simple truth, and the observations

§ 9.
we have made are sufficient to prove that the artist who
sacrifices or forgets a truth of form in the pursuit of a truth
Recapitulation.
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
§ 1. The
always most valuable which are most historical, that is,
which tell us most about the past and future states of the
importance of
historical truths.
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 indicative 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 interesting 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 fissures
of frost or decomposition; not but that both of these are historical, but
historical in a less distinct manner, and for shorter periods.
Hence in general the truths of specific form are the first
§ 2. Form, as
and most important of all; and next to them, those truths of
explained by light
and shade, the
chiaroscuro which are necessary to make us understand
every quality and part of forms, and the relative distances

of objects among each other, and in consequence their
first of all truths.
Tone, light and relative bulks. Altogether lower than these, as truths,
color are though often most important as beauties, stand all effects
secondary. of chiaroscuro which are productive 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 come those particular
§ 3. And deceptive
accuraciesor tricks of chiaroscuro which cause objects to
chiaroscuro the
look projecting from the canvas, not worthy of the name of
lowest of all.
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. chap. V.) And thus he who throws one object out of his picture,
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 characterizes the general aim of a picture, it is the sign and the
evidence of the vilest and lowest mechanism which art can be insulted by
giving name to.

CHAPTER VII.

GENERAL APPLICATION OF THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES.

We have seen, in the preceding chapters, some proof of what was before
asserted, that the truths necessary for deceptive imitation
§ 1. The different
are not only few, but of the very lowest order. We thus find
selection of facts
consequent on the
painters ranging themselves into two great classes; one
aiming at the development of the exquisite truths of
several aims at
imitation or at
specific form, refined color, and ethereal space, and
content with the clear and impressive suggestion of any of
truth.
these, by whatsoever means obtained; 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 intersecting 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 old
landscape painters belonged, may be partly gathered from
masters, as a body,
aim only at
the kind of praise which is bestowed upon them by those
who admire them most, which either refers to technical
imitation.
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
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 and
indignantly from the trammels of this notion, and shaken the very dust of it
from their feet, the succeeding landscape painters should have wasted their
lives in jugglery: but so it is, and so it will be felt, the more we look into

their works, that the deception of the senses was the great
§ 3. What truths
and first end of all their art. To attain this they paid deep
they gave.
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, they 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 industry, covering
them with details so as to render them deceptive to the ordinary eye,
regardless of beauty or truth in the details themselves; they painted their
trees with careful attention to their pitch of shade against the sky, utterly
regardless of all that is beautiful or essential in the anatomy of their foliage
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 all ages be, to
those who have thorough love and knowledge of the creation which they
libel, instructive proofs of the limited 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 knowledge and 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 unhesitatingly where they interfere with the great effort at
deception. Claude had, if it had been cultivated, a fine feeling for beauty of
form, and is seldom ungraceful in his foliage; but his picture, 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 picture; 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 nature with
totally different eyes, seeking not for what is easiest to
of selection
adopted by
imitate, but for what is most important to tell. Rejecting at
once all idea of bona fide imitation, they think only of
modern artists.
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 painters, than in those of all the old masters put together, and of
truth too, nearly unmixed with definite or avoidable falsehood; while the
unimportant and feeble truths of the old masters are choked with a mass of
perpetual defiance of the most authoritative 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 deep-laid truths, it appears strange to
me, that any one familiar with nature, and fond of her, should not grow
weary and sick at heart among the melancholy and
§ 5. General
feeling of Claude,
monotonous transcripts of her which alone can be received
from the old school of art. A man accustomed to the broad,
Salvator, and G.
Poussin,
wild seashore, with its bright breakers, and free winds, and
sounding rocks, and eternal sensation of tameless power,
contrasted with
can scarcely but be angered when Claude bids him stand
the freedom and
vastness of nature.
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 splintery 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
simple 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 the motives of landscape in
the works of the earlier and mightier men, there is yet in them nothing
approaching to a general view nor complete rendering of
§ 6. Inadequacy of
the landscape of
natural phenomena; not that they are to be blamed for this;
for they took out of nature that which was fit for their
Titian and
Tintoret.
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 statement 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 towers 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 rendered conventionally; by
noble conventionalities indeed, but such nevertheless as would be
inexcusable if the landscape became 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 landscapes; 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 left, which, to connect the distant light with the
foreground, is thrown into light relief, unexplained by its materials, unlikely
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: there are
no works of very powerful color which are free from
want of influence
on subsequent
conventionality concentrated or diffused, daring or
schools.
disguised; but as the conventionality of this whole picture
is mainly thrown into the landscape, it is necessary, 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 inspiring the
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
value in its place, though of less concluding and sealing authority, 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
moment German and Italian landscapes, of which no words are scornful
enough to befit the utter degradation, hang in the Venetian Academy in the
next room to the Desert of Titian and the Paradise of Tintoret.[6]

§ 8. The value of
That then which I would have the reader inquire
respecting every work of art of undetermined merit
inferior works of
submitted to his judgment, is not whether it be a work of
art how to be
estimated.
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 before 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 discharge it honorably, if they quit
themselves like men and faithfully 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, and 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, and which worthily used will be
a gift also to his race forever—
"Fool 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 manufacture, 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 altogether 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.

§ 9. Religious
Keeping these principles in view, let us endeavor to
landscape of Italy.
obtain something like a general view of the assistance
The admirableness
which has been rendered to our study of nature by the
various occurrences of landscape in elder art, and by the
of its completion.
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 volume. It is absolutely
right and beautiful in its peculiar application; but its grasp of nature is
narrow and its treatment in most respects too severe and conventional to
form a profitable example when the landscape is to be alone the subject of
thought. The great virtue of it is its entire, exquisite, and humble realization
of those objects it selects; in this respect differing 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 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 therefore most divine. Fra Angelico's use of
the oxalis acetosella is as faithful in representation as touching in feeling.[7]
The ferns that grow on the walls of Fiesole may be seen in their simple
verity on the architecture of Ghirlandajo. The rose, the myrtle, 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 indeed 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
It is a misfortune for all honest critics, that hardly any
the want of it, how
quality of art is independently to be praised, and without
reference to the motive from which it resulted, and the

right and how place in which it appears; so that no principle can be
wrong. simply enforced but it shall seem to countenance a vice;
while the work of qualification and explanation both
weakens the force of what is said, and is not perhaps always likely to be
with patience received: so also those who desire 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 abstraction, 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 their 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
character; 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 not, except in one or two instances, anything
of that feeling which Wordsworth shows in the following lines:—

"So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive;—
Would that the little flowers were born to live
Conscious of half the pleasure which they give.
That to this mountain daisy's self were known
The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, 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; there is as much finish in the right concealment of things as in the
right exhibition 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, because
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.

§ 11. The open
Returning to the pictures of the religious schools, we
skies of the
find that their open skies are also of the highest value.
religious schools,
Their preciousness is such that no subsequent schools can
how valuable.
by comparison be said to have painted sky at all, but only
clouds, or mist, or blue canopies. The golden sky of Marco
Mountain drawing
of Masaccio.
Basaiti in the Academy of Venice altogether overpowers
Landscape of the
and renders valueless that of Titian beside it. Those of

Bellinis and Francia in the gallery of Bologna are even more
Giorgione. 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, mountains, and water of these distances are commonly
conventional; motives are to be found in them of the highest beauty, and
especially 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 whatever has been the result of strong
emotion is ill seen unless through the medium of such emotion, and will
lead to conclusions 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 drawing, 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 realization, I suppose, quite unrivalled, especially in passages requiring
pure gradation, as the hollows of vaultings. That of Veronese would look
ghostly beside it; that of Titian lightless. His landscape is occasionally
quaint and strange like Giorgione'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,
whose blue, clear as crystal, and though deep in tone bright as 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 III. Chap. 5,) as well as of the herbage
upon the rocks. Considering that with all this care and completeness in the
background, there is nothing that is not of meaning and necessity in
reference to the figures, and that in the figures themselves the dignity and
heavenliness of the highest religious painters are combined with a force and
purity of color, greater I think than Titian's, it is a work which may be set
before 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.

§ 12. Landscape of
Of Titian and Tintoret I have spoken already. The latter
Titian and
is every way the greater master, never indulging in the
Tintoret.
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 notices of his landscape will be found in
the chapter on Imagination 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 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

and care, and beside 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 characters of specific form, and as the painter of
Space he stands altogether alone among dead masters; being the first who
introduced 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 untoward 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 portions of Venetian scenery introduced by him are treated
conventionally 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 centuries, 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.

§ 13. Schools of
The Florentine and Ambrian schools supply us with no
examples of landscape, except that introduced by their
Florence, Milan,
and Bologna.
earliest masters, gradually overwhelmed 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 deficiencies 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 always 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 Leonardo which I would not
depreciate, but our admiration of it in this particular field must be qualified,
and our following cautious.
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 feeling being manifested in more
or less brilliant conventionalism. I once supposed there was some life in the
landscape of Domenichino, 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 anything good, great, or
right in any field, way, or kind, whatsoever.[8]
Though, however, at this period the general grasp of the
§ 14. Claude,
schools was perpetually contracting, a gift was given to the
Salvator, and the
Poussins.
world by Claude, for which we are perhaps hardly enough
grateful, owing to the very frequency 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 detriment to art than the gift he gave was of
advantage. The character of his own mind is singular; I know of no other

instance of a man's working from nature continually 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 unfaithful to his mission, and has left us, I
believe, no gift. Everything 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 imaginative power of
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 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; virtueless
otherwise, they are full of the most degraded mannerism, and I believe the
admiration of them to have been productive of extensive evil among recent
schools.

§ 15. German and
The development of landscape north of the Alps,
presents us with the same general phases under
Flemish landscape.
modifications dependent partly on less intensity of feeling,
partly on diminished availableness of landscape 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 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
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 instances 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, consummate 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 sunshine, 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 appearance 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 in mind that the painter's greatness consists not in his taking, but in his
atoning for them.
Among the professed landscapists of the Dutch school,
§ 16. The lower
Dutch schools.
we find much dexterous imitation of certain 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.

§ 17. English
Passing to the English school, we find a connecting link
school, Wilson and
between them and the Italians formed by Richard Wilson.
Had this artist studied under favorable circumstances,
Gainsborough.
there is evidence of his having 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
district especially unfavorable, as exhibiting no pure or healthy nature, but a
diseased and overgrown Flora among half-developed volcanic rocks, loose

calcareous concretions, and mouldering wrecks of buildings—and whose
spirit, I conceive, to be especially opposed to the natural tone of the English
mind, 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 belonging to Mr. Rogers, and sometimes
manifests some freshness of feeling, as in the Villa of Mæcenas 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 English 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 material; 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, because 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
altogether 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 (Llanberis,) in the same room. Nothing can be more attractively
luminous or aerial than the distance of the Gainsborough, nothing 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 violent 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 picture in its first impression, and altogether inferior
in the quality and value of its individual hues, will yet be found to the end

more forcible, because unexaggerated; its gloom is moderate and aerial, its
light deep in tone, its color entirely unconventional, 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 modern
landscape, I attempt not to decide. Such questions are rather invidious than
interesting; the particular tone or direction of any school seems to me
always to have resulted rather 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 commonly
original.

§ 18. Constable,
I have already alluded to the simplicity and earnestness
of the mind of Constable; to its vigorous rupture with
Calcott.
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 veneration 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 compliment 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 pleasure 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 regarded through media of
feeling derived from higher sources, is calculated to inspire.

On the works of Calcott, 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 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.

§ 19. Peculiar
Throughout the range of elder art it will be remembered
we have found no instance of the faithful painting of
tendency of recent
mountain scenery, except in a faded background of
landscape.
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
followed 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, comfort, 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.

§ 20. G. Robson,
I have been myself indebted for much teaching and
D. Cox. False use
more delight to those of the late G. Robson. Weaknesses
there are in them manifold, much bad drawing, much
of the term
forced color, much over finish, little of what artists call
"style."
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 drawings 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 particularly
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 particular 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, 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 common 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 looseness, coolness, and moisture of his
herbage; the rustling crumpled freshness of his broad-leaved weeds; the
play of pleasant 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 gracefully 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
necessarily 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.

§ 21. Copley
The deserved popularity of Copley Fielding has
rendered it less necessary for me to allude frequently to his
Fielding.
Phenomena of
works in the following pages than it would otherwise have
distant color.
been, more especially as my own sympathies and
enjoyments are so entirely directed in the channel which
his art has taken, that I am afraid of trusting them too far. Yet I may,
perhaps, be permitted to speak of myself so far as I suppose 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 pleasure from the works of this painter than of any other
whatsoever; 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 accomplished, 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 foregrounds, and that not as expressive of
lighted but of local 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 landscape 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 certain
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 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 overcharged local color instead of sunshine, and his
figures and cattle look transparent.

§ 22. Beauty of
Again, the finishing of Fielding's foregrounds, as
mountain
regards their drawing, is minute without accuracy,
foreground.
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 reworked, 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 foreground, 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 Studiorum are the most eminent examples I know, or
else we must have in some measure the botanical faithfulness and
realization 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 proportioned, 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 rest with thorough contentment in its realization.
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 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 entirely neglected by Fielding; there is evidence through all his
foregrounds of their being mere home inventions, and like all home
inventions they exhibit perpetual resemblances and repetitions; 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
regretted, because in the earlier works of the artist there was much
admirable drawing, and even yet his power is occasionally developed in his
larger works, as in a Bolton Abbey on canvas, which was,—I cannot say,
exhibited,—but was in the rooms of the Royal Academy in 1843.[9] I should
have made the preceding remarks 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 deserving of high
§ 23. De Wint.
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 exercise 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 the 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.

§ 24. Influence of
The influence of the masters of whom we have hitherto
spoken is confined to those who have access to their actual
Engraving. J. D.
works, since the particular qualities in which they excel,
Harding.
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; reference
which is indeed beneficial in the care it induces respecting the arrangement
of the chiaroscuro and the explanation of the 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
diminution 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
careful, but earnest, and free from any kind of affectation. Partly from the
habit of making slight and small drawings for engravers, 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 following 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 destitute 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 capable
of doing far greater things. So in his foliage he is apt to sacrifice the dignity
of his trees to their wildness, and lose the forest in the copse, neither is he at
all accurate enough in his expression of species or realization of near
portions. These are deficiencies, be 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 circumstances belonging to his
treatment of architectural subject which it does not come
§ 25. Samuel
Prout. Early
within the sphere of the following chapters to examine, I
painting of
shall endeavor to note the more important of them here.
architecture, how Let us glance back for a moment to the architectural
deficient. 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^ta. Maria Novella; but not to be classed with
any genuine efforts at representation. It is much to be regretted that the
power and custom of introducing well-drawn architecture should have taken
place only when architectural 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 S^ta. 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 power 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 possible for him,
with far inferior powers, to attain a representation 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 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.

§ 26. Effects of age
It is evident, first, that if the design of the building be
upon buildings,
originally bad, the only virtue it can ever possess will be in
signs of antiquity. All that in this world enlarges the sphere
how far desirable.
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 architecture, unless they have been very

grand indeed, are well exchanged, so that there is hardly any building so
ugly but that it may be 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. If, 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 sculptures; and any lines of
extreme purity, or colors of original harmony and perfection are liable to
injury, and are ill exchanged for 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 restoration 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 painting, 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 restoration 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, leaving 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 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 front of it an escutcheon with "Libertas" upon it, which abomination of
desolation, the Lucchese have not yet had human-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 under those conditions, and with that amount of
age-mark upon it which may best exalt and harmonize the sources of its
beauty: this is no pursuit of mere picturesqueness, it is true following out of
the ideal character of the building; nay, far greater dilapidation than this
may in portions be exhibited, for there are beauties of other kinds, not
otherwise attainable, brought out by advanced dilapidation; but when 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 and determined color, he has lost the end of his own
art.

§ 27. Effects of
So far of aging; next of effects of light and color. It is, I
light, how
believe, hardly enough observed among architects that the
necessary to the
same decorations are of totally different effect according to
their position and the time of day. A moulding which is of

understanding of value on a building facing south, where it takes deep
detail. 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 grotesque, vulgar, or confused
when it takes black shadows on the south. Farther, there is a time of day in
which every architectural 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 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 distance, the system
and anatomy yet remain visible so long as anything 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 constitutes the real
architectural draughtsman; the habits of executing 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 place of it and are the most extensively esteemed.[10]
Let us now proceed with our review of those artists who
§ 28. Architectural
painting of Gentile
have devoted themselves more peculiarly to architectural
Bellini and Vittor
subject.
Carpaccio; 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, and who are the only
authorities to whom we can trust in conjecturing 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
yellow 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 whatever 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
representation 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 background to religious subject,) but wrongly so, if
we look to the architecture alone. Neither is there anything like aerial
perspective attempted; the employment of actual gold in the decoration of
all the distances, and the entire realization of their details, as far as is
possible on the scale compelled by perspective, 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 reconciliation 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 later
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, Tintoret, who has employed it with infinite grace
on the steps ascended by the young Madonna, in his large picture in the
church of the Madonna dell' Orto. Perugino uses it also with singular grace,
often employing it for golden light on distant trees, and continually on the
high light of hair, and that without losing relative distances.

§ 29. And of the
The great group of Venetian painters who brought
Venetians
landscape art, for that time, to its culminating point, have
generally.
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 portions 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 dead 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 ordinary
renaissance composition for St. Mark's, and in the background 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. Evidences 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 Raffaelle and the Roman
school.
If, however, these men laid architecture little under contribution to their
§ 30. Fresco
own art, they made their own art a glorious gift to
painting of the
architecture, and the walls of Venice, which before, I
Venetian exteriors.
believe, had received color only in arabesque patterns,
were lighted with human life by Giorgione, Titian,
Canaletto.
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.[11] 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 his imagination to some resemblance of
what she must have been before her fall. Let him, looking from Lido or
Fusina, replace in the forest of 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,[12] cleanse from their 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 energies of more
than half a century, and he will see Venice as it was seen by Canaletto;
whose miserable, virtueless, heartless 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.

CASA CONTARINI FASAN, VENICE.
From a drawing by Ruskin.

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 color,
let the single fact of his having omitted all record, whatsoever, of the
frescoes whose wrecks are still to be found at least on one half of the
unrestored palaces, and, with still less excusableness, 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 treatment, or of the various
other virtues which he does not so much as profess. He professes nothing
but colored Daguerreotypeism. Let us have it: most precious and to be
revered it would be: let us have fresco where fresco was, and that copied
faithfully; let us have carving where carving is, and that architecturally 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 perception of truth, or been of more
general detriment to all subsequent schools.

§ 31. Expression of
Neither, however, by the Flemings, nor by any other of
the elder schools, was the effect of age or of human life
the effects of age

on architecture by upon architecture ever adequately expressed. What ruins
S. Prout. 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 studiousness infected all accident; bricks fell out
methodically, windows opened and shut by rule; stones were chipped at
regular intervals; 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 wanting 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 deciphering 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
architecture 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 impression, 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 laborious, and had less of the life of the original sketches, being also
for the most part of subjects less adapted for the development 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 the other, exhibit substantial qualities of stone and wood
drawing, together with an ideal appreciation of the present active vital being
of the cities, such as nothing else has ever approached. Their value is much
increased by the circumstance of their being drawn by the artist's own hand
upon the stone, 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 be 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 Ghirlandajo's
or Leonardo's in relation to theirs, and the refreshing quality is the 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 occurs 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 is the most
§ 32. His excellent
dexterous of all our artists in a certain kind of
composition and
color.
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 conventional color
occurs in his inferior pictures (for he is very unequal) and 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 and Hunt, who invariably destroy everything else that comes within
range of them. His most beautiful tones occur in those drawings 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
reconciliation of the peculiar characters he has obtained with the accurate
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 somewhat 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 satisfactory, 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
§ 33. Modern
various degrees of merit, but of all of whom, it may be
architectural
generally said, that they draw hats, faces, cloaks, and caps
painting generally.
much better than Prout, but figures not so well; that they
draw walls and windows but not cities, mouldings and
G. Cattermole.
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 drawings he has, from time
to time, sent to the New Society of Painters in Water Colors, should publish
lithographs so conventional, forced, and lifeless.
It is not without hesitation, that I mention a name respecting 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-judging friends, and to the applause of a public satisfied with
shallow 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 support
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 architecture. 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 engraving; Glendearg
at twilight—the monk Eustace chased by Christie of the Clint hill—which 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
conventionally brown in the shadows, was generally well drawn, and
always powerfully conceived.

Since then, he has been tending gradually through exaggeration to
caricature, and vainly endeavoring to attain by inordinate bulk of decorated
parts, that dignity which is only to be reached 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
§ 34. The evil in an
serious and subdued work of legitimate imagination,
monstre machicolations and colossal cusps and crockets.
archæological
point of view of
While there is so much beautiful architecture daily in
process of destruction around us, I cannot but think it
misapplied
invention in
treason to imagine anything; at least, if we must have
architectural
composition, let the design of the artist be such as the
subject.
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 concentrated in 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 us 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 invented 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, introduction 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 architectural
studies have been views; and I would have the artist take shame to himself in
the exact degree in which he finds himself 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 great impression made by the reality. The difference between the
drawing of the architect and artist[13] 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 continent
§ 35. Works of
than that of any other of our artists, except Landseer. I am
David Roberts:
not certain, however, that I have any reason to congratulate
their fidelity and
grace.
either of my countrymen upon this their European
estimation; for I think it exceedingly 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 architecture is dependent on no
unintelligible lines, or blots, or substituted 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 himself 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 amazed to find how frequently it
has happened that there was something very white immediately in the
foreground, and something 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 executed 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, throughout, 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 Egyptian temples; an endurance which perhaps only
artists can estimate, 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 producing 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 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 perception, 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 unjustifiable. A picture of Roslin Chapel exhibited in 1844,
showed this defect in the recess to which the stairs descend, in an extravagant
degree; and another exhibited in the British Institution, instead of showing
the exquisite crumbling and lichenous texture of the Roslin stone, was
polished to as vapid smoothness as every 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 from models
or draperies in the dead light of a room instead of sunshine. On these
deficiencies I should not have remarked, but 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 Stanfield
throughout the subsequent pages render it less necessary for me to speak of
him here at any length. He is the leader of the English Realists, and perhaps
§ 36. Clarkson
among the more remarkable of his characteristics is the look
of common-sense and rationality which his compositions
Stanfield.
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 pictures
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,
but 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 absurdities 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, 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 of 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 predilection 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 I 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 and feel respecting Turner would appear in this place, unsupported by
§ 37. J. M. W.
any proof, mere rhapsody. I shall therefore here confine
Turner. Force of
myself to a rapid glance at the relations of his past and
national feeling in
present works, and to some notice of what he has failed of
all great painters.
accomplishing: the greater part of the subsequent chapters
will be exclusively devoted to the examination of the new
fields over which he has extended 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 Urbino 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 on a point so simple and so universally
demonstrable. 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, without 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 sufficient, 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, 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 Parliament 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 Spanish 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 attained 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, cannot 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.
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
§ 38. Influence of
in all, in principle, the same; so that feelings educated in
this feeling on the
Cumberland, may find their food in Switzerland, and
choice of
impressions first received among the rocks of Cornwall, be
recalled upon the precipices of Genoa. Add to this actual
Landscape subject.
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
remind 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 sets aside the whole school
of common composition, and exonerates us from the labor of minutely
examining any landscape which has nymphs or philosophers in it.
It is hardly necessary for us to illustrate this principle by any reference to
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
§ 39. Its peculiar
works, varied as they are, is that of Yorkshire. Of all his
manifestation in
drawings, I think, those of the Yorkshire series have the
most heart in them, the most affectionate, simple,
Turner.
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 smallest local
minutiæ. 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 feeling 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

used for 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, delicacy, and
completeness as have never in any wise been equalled, and as might serve
him for a secure foundation in all after experiments. 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
reeds in the foreground, 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 something 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 characteristic of it, are exceedingly
unequal,—some, as the Oakhampton, 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
§ 40. The domestic
magnificent Mont St. Gothard, and little Devil's Bridge.
subjects of the
Now it is remarkable that after his acquaintance with this
scenery, so congenial in almost all respects with the energy
Liber Studiorum.
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 proportion of English
to foreign subjects should in the rest of the work be more than two to one;
and that those English subjects 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. Catherine'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, 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. Reminiscences of
English willows by the brooks, and English forest glades mingle even with
the heroic foliage of the Æsacus and Hesperie, and the Cephalus; into the
pine, whether of Switzerland 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 arrangement, 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 incontrovertibly on his back.
I adduce these evidences of Turner's nationality (and innumerable others
might be given if need were) not as proofs of weakness but of power; not so
much as testifying want of perception 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 characteristic, and the ready seizure for future use of all valuable
material.
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
§ 41. Turner's
England, partly because an amount of thought which will
painting of French
miss of Italy or Switzerland, will fathom France; partly
and Swiss
because there is in the French foliage and forms of ground,
landscape. The
much that is especially congenial with his own peculiar
latter deficient.
choice of form. To what cause it is owing I cannot tell, nor
is it generally 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 perception 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 valleys of the
Loire and Seine, and even the district, so thoughtlessly and mindlessly
abused by English travellers, as uninteresting, 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 beautiful
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
impossibility 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 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 Snowstorm, avalanche, and inundation, is one of his mightiest
works, but the amount of mountain 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 manifested in the historical
§ 42. His rendering
compositions of the Liber Studiorum, more especially the
of Italian character
Rizpah, the Cephalus, the scene from the Fairy Queen, and
still less successful.
the Æsacus and Hesperie: on the other, he seems never to
His large
have entered thoroughly into the spirit of Italy, and the
compositions how
materials he obtained there were afterwards but awkwardly
failing.
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 particularly 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 sandstone. 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, 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 Carthages 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 everything 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, and 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 follows; 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,[14] and we are perfectly electrified at
anybody's being carried away in the corner except 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 crowning the hills, and to a multiplicity of minor causes which we
cannot 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
§ 43. His views of
nameless composition with stone pines, the several villa
Italy destroyed by
moonlights, and the convent compositions in the Voyage of
Columbus, are altogether exquisite; but this is owing chiefly
brilliancy and
to their simplicity and perhaps in some measure to their
smallness of size. None of his large pictures at all equal

redundant them; the Bay of Baiæ is encumbered with material, it
quantity. 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 fall 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
composed from Tivoli material enriched and arranged most dexterously, 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 fortunate, 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 country 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 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 distinguished by great solemnity and
§ 44. Changes
simplicity of subject, prevalent gloom in light and shade,
and brown in the hue, the drawing manly but careful, the
introduced by him
minutiæ sometimes exquisitely delicate. All the finest works
in the received
system of art.
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 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 feeble. 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 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 been 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 straightforward 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 diminution of oppositions
throughout the scale, and afterwards, in one or two instances, attempted the
reverse of the old principle, 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
§ 45. Difficulties of
human intellect could altogether surmount. In his time there
his later manner.
has been no one system of color generally approved; every
artist has his own method and his own vehicle; how to do
Resultant
what Gainsborough did, we know not; much less what
deficiencies.
Titian; to invent 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 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, however glazed afterwards, should have the virtue of a thin warm tint
of Titian's, showing the canvas throughout. So 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 chiaroscuro, 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 sacrifice;
and though it is perfectly possible that such may be the 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 Leonardo; that is to say, incapable in their way, of any
improvement conceivable by human mind.
Also, it is only by comparison with such that we are authorized 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 his 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, from 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 seeming 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 sometimes

I am sorry to say, criminally, from taking licenses which he must know to be
illegitimate, or indulging in conventionalities which he does not require.

THE DOGANA, AND SANTA MARIA DELLA SALUTE, VENICE.
From a painting by Turner.

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.[15] The
greater number of failures took place in the transition
§ 46. Reflection of
his very recent
period, when the artist was feeling for the new qualities, and
endeavoring to reconcile them with more careful
works.
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—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
perfect 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 Benedetto, 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 exhibition of 1845, I have only seen a small Venice, (still I
believe 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, 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. II., Part III. Ch. 3,)
are perhaps hardly 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 distant objects, or
who has rendered the abstract beauty of natural color. These assertions I