By the contemplation of what is good in others, 'a sense of the higher excellencies of art will by degrees dawn on the imagination; at every review that sense will become more and more assured, and the artist will then find no difficulty in fixing in his own mind the principles by which the impression is produced; which he will feel and practice, though they are perhaps too delicate and refined to be conveyed to the mind by any other means.'

Sir Joshua, speaking of the great examples of Art, says, 'These are the materials on which Genius is to work, and without which the strongest intellect may be fruitlessly or deviously employed. By studying these authentic models, that idea of excellence which is the result of the accumulated experience of past ages, may be at once acquired; and the tardy and obstructed progress of our predecessors may teach us a shorter and easier way. The student perceives at one glance the principles which many artists have spent their whole lives in ascertaining; and, satisfied with their effect, is spared the painful investigation by which they came to be known and fixed.'

The greatest painters are continually making such memoranda as may be called copying, either from the works of antiquity, or those of their cotemporaries.

Beginning with nothing, we must borrow until we can pay the debt.

'The sagacious imitator does not content himself with merely remarking what distinguishes the different manner or genius of each master; he enters into the contrivance in the composition, how the masses of lights are disposed, the means by which the effect is produced, how artfully some parts are lost in the ground, others boldly relieved, and how all these are mutually altered and interchanged, according to the reason and scheme of the work. He admires not the harmony of colouring alone, but examines by what artifice one colour is a foil to its neighbour; he looks close into the tints, examines of what colours they are composed, till he has formed clear and distinct ideas, and has learnt to see in what harmony and good colouring consists. What is learned in this manner from the works of others becomes really our own, sinks deep, and is never forgotten.

'If the excellence of a picture consists in its general effect, it would be proper to make slight sketches of the machinery and general management of the work. Those sketches should be kept always by you for the regulation of your style. Instead of copying the touches of those great masters, copy only their conceptions. Instead of treading in their footsteps, endeavour only to keep the same road. Labour to invent on their general principles and way of thinking. Possess yourself with their spirit: and work yourself into a belief that your picture is to be seen and criticised by them, when completed. Even an attempt of this kind will rouse your powers.' Again—'But as mere enthusiasm will carry you but a little way, what I propose is, that you should enter into a kind of competition, by painting a similar subject, and making a companion to any picture that you consider as a model; place them together and compare them carefully, and you will detect the deficiencies in your own more sensibly than by any other means of instruction. The true principles of painting will mingle with your thoughts, which will be certain and definitive, and sink deep into the mind. This method of comparing your own efforts with those of some great master, is indeed a severe and mortifying task; to go voluntarily to a tribunal where he knows his vanity must be humbled, and all self-approbation must vanish, requires not only great resolution, but great humility! but it is attended with this alleviating circumstance, which abundantly compensates for the mortification of present disappointment, every discovery he makes, every acquisition to knowledge he attains, seems to proceed from his own sagacity, and thus he acquires confidence in himself, sufficient to keep up the resolution of perseverance. And we prefer those instructions which we have given to ourselves, from our affection to the instructor.'

The perception of errors shortens the road to truth. 'Cease to follow any master when he ceases to excel.' Avoid that narrowness and poverty of conception which attends a bigoted admiration of a single master! We will suppose 'those perfections which lie scattered among various masters, are now united in one general idea, which is henceforth to regulate his taste and enlarge his imagination, extending his capacity to more general instructions, he must now consider the art itself as his master. At all times, and in all places, he should be employed in laying up materials for the exercise of his art, to be combined and varied as occasion may require; seeking only to know and combine excellence, wherever it is to be found, into one idea of perfection; and employing the most subtle disquisition to discriminate perfections that are incompatible with each other. The habitual dignity which long converse with the greatest minds has imparted to him, will display itself in all his attempts, and he will stand among his instructors, not as an imitator, but a rival. The more extensive your acquaintance is with the works of those who have excelled, the more extensive will be your powers of invention; and, what will appear still more like a paradox, the more original will be your conceptions.'

Again:—'By the devotion with which many study a particular master, they acquire a habit of thinking the same way; therefore, let his faults always be your best instructors.'

The firm, correct and determined pencil of many of the Dutch masters, cannot be too strongly recommended for imitation. I speak of the mechanism of painting: the expression, force and energy they gave to their works, from the decision of touch and handling, which enabled them to give that look of nature and freshness of reality to their studies, that forms so great an excellence in their performances. The study of Ostade, Teniers, and many others of that school, cannot fail to enrich our own works with variety of invention, and 'those who have not looked out for themselves in this manner from time to time, have not only ceased to advance and improve, but have invariably gone backward, from being left without resources;' and having gathered nothing, have nothing to work upon—from an inability to infuse into their own works what they have neglected to learn from the contemplation of the works of others. It places you under the guidance of your own judgment and discretion by comparison with the best efforts of others; it enables you 'to criticise, compare, and rank their works in your own estimation, as they approach to, or recede from, the standard of perfection which you have formed in your own mind—but which those masters themselves have taught you to make, and which you will cease to make with correctness when you cease to study them. It is their excellencies which have taught you their defects, and you will, henceforth, be your own teacher.' Be cautious against the 'imaginary powers of native genius, and sufficiency in yourself, which seldom fails to produce either a vain confidence or a sluggish despair, both equally fatal to all proficiency.

'Study, therefore, the great masters for ever: study nature attentively, but always with those masters in your company; consider them as models which you are to imitate, and, at the same time, as rivals with whom you are to contend;' and you will insensibly come to feel and reason like them, and find taste imperceptibly formed in your own mind.

By the industry of the hand you will acquire good manner, but it is to the industry of the mind you will be indebted for any solid reputation.

'He who does not know others, knows himself very imperfectly.'

Wrongly directed industry is a dangerous delusion. Too much copying will, on the other hand, greatly tend to impair our mental exertions, render them servile and mechanical, and confine, at the most, our aspirings to a very limited sphere, while it is utterly at variance in establishing any claim of our own to originality or distinction. Studying the genius of a fine work of art, its general forms, its combinations, its chiaroscuro, its colour and effect; and with all these on our minds, going home and making a companion to it, is a noble and lofty aim, frequently attended with entire success. This excellent practice, diligently persevered in, at length brings our sympathies into a corresponding train of ideas with those we would emulate; and if we cannot reach them in their various excellencies, so we succeed in lighting our torch at those glorious beams of old, our advances are at least entitled to that respect they universally meet with. An abject imitation is of all things that I should avoid. But that reading of, and conversing with a picture, that almost places us under a delusion, during the time we are under its influence; that associating our feelings and ideas—that blending of our aspirations with the master mind that thought and wrought so well, is the surest hemisphere in which we can hope to think and paint like them. The student's perceptions become annealed by the influence of the charm that invests him: he aspires to a higher latitude of excellence: he beholds before him the ripest fruit on the topmost palm, and he knows the principles and the laws by which he can reach it, and does reach it, by the agency of, and the gradual developement of the simple rules he commenced with.

It often happens, and it is my opinion, that a careless scribbler, who dashes at everything, stands quite as good a chance of becoming original, as the most careful copyist ever will; after the very first attempts, too much precision stands sadly in the way of boldness, freedom and dexterity. After being enabled to draw with some degree of accuracy, mannerism will invariably be the result of the extreme care so universally recommended by most writers on the subject; and hence that excess of it we daily observe; for it requires but a very common-place observer, on entering an exhibition, to point to a picture and name the painter at the same moment: presuming he had ever seen a work by the same artist before.

Reynolds says of copying, 'I consider general copying as a delusive kind of industry; the student falls into the dangerous habit of imitating, without selecting, and of labouring without any determinate object; as it requires no effort of the mind, he sleeps over his work, and those powers of invention and composition which ought particularly to be called out, and put in action, lie torpid and lose their energy for want of exercise. How incapable those are of producing anything of their own who have spent much of their time in making finished copies, is well known to all who are conversant with our art.'

ON THE LIGHT AND SHADE OF COLOUR: AND REFLEXES.

Extending either the light or shadow by means of colour, is perhaps one of the best ways of combining both.

Breadth of light and shade may involve many colours in its arrangement, so they are divided into imposing masses; variety of colour is often necessary to explain the localities of a work; and, that they may not appear confused, light colours should be sociable with light colours; and dark ones with others of equal density: their repetitions invading each other throughout the chain.

Great intimacy of union, in the colour of the lights, will likewise produce breadth; so as to make a large and connected mass appear, at a little distance, as one graduated light.

Colours may stand either for colours or shadows; so that they be of sufficient density, and sufficiently opposed to light ones.

But, if you do not depend on the colour of the picture for effect of light and shade, much less intensity of colours will be sufficient.

The strongest colours are sometimes most successfully employed in uniting the light with the shade.

In the conduct of light, I conceive the objects which receive its influence, should, of all things, as much as possible, partake of the colour of that light, as seeming more like an extension of it, and looking more natural:—thus, in a church, all the parts receiving the light from a painted glass window, would partake of its varieties of colour. The rising and setting of the sun turns all to gold, by the same alchymy, while it acts as an uniting link in carrying the colour through the picture: these, in their turn, throw their radiating reflects in a thousand other directions, keeping up and sustaining the communicative principle of the whole—imparted by the primitive cause and its agency.

The colouring of a picture should always be in harmony with its light and shade.

The lights will require to be overcharged with colour, if the shadows are too heavy and loaded; on their transparency depends the beauty of both.

The shadows must be darker than the shadowed sides of the objects which project them; for the reason explained in the article on Light and Shade.

The masses of light should be of warm colours, yellow or red, supported by blue or grey in the shadows; a very small proportion of which will generally be found sufficient.

The real colour of an object is only seen in the light. All shadows should partake, more or less, of the colour of the light. That shadow will appear the darkest that is surrounded by the brightest light.

The nearer a colour is to the eye, the purer it will appear; arraying itself as it retires, with the colour of the air interposed between it; consequently, the purest colours should only occur in foregrounds,—where the shadows, for the same reason, would likewise be darkest.

The colour of a light will be stopped at the part where any reflex reaches it. We see mountains covered with snow, at sunset, from the effulgence of its rays, make the horizon appear all on fire.

Distant mountains appear more deeply blue, according to the extent of the azure of the air interposed between them and the eye. All masses in the distance partake, more or less, of this quality.

'The vapours mixing with the air, in the lower region near the earth, render it thick, and apt to reflect the sun's rays on all sides, while the air above remains dark; and because light (white) and darkness (black) mixed together, compose the azure that becomes the colour of the sky—which is lighter or darker, in proportion as the air is more or less mixed with damp vapours.'

Shadows produced by the redness of the setting sun, will be blue; from the reflexes of that part of the air not illumined by its rays.

If the sun is overcast, the lights will be general; so will the shadows. If the sunbeams burst out, and strike the objects in a landscape, the shadows will then be dark in proportion to the lights. The brilliant edges of the clouds all assist the general illumination; and all objects in the light, will participate of their colour from reflexion. On the contrary, those parts not included in the range of rays, remain the colour of the air.

The air partakes less of the azure of the sky as it approaches the horizon, being more remote from the sun than that part of it above our heads, which receives a larger portion of its rays. The horizon will be light, while, in ascending to the meridian, it becomes, from this cause, deeper and bluer. So the nature of all colours diminish in proportion as density of air is interposed between them and the eye.

Reflected colours, thrown from, and upon, equal angles, will be the strongest: the most distinct, being produced by the shortest ray.

No reflected colour will have the brilliance of a direct one. For, if a reflected light from a blue object be thrown on a yellow one, the result would be green:—green being composed of blue and yellow. This circumstance refers to most mixtures.

It only happens to those colours which are on a level with the eye, that their gradation is in proportion to their distance. As to those of elevation, they are influenced by the quality of the air they are seen through.

Colours, whose nearest approach is to black, as they retire into distance, partake most of the azure of the air:—and those colours most dissimilar to black, preserve their proper colour as they recede. The golden lights on distant mountains or fields will best explain this. 'The green, therefore, of the fields will change sooner into blue, than yellow or white, which will preserve their natural colour at a greater distance than that, or even red.'

'It may happen that a colour does not alter, though placed at different distances, when the thickness of the air and the distance are in the same inverse proportion.'

Masses of shadow carry the strongest part of their colour to the greatest distance; as when trees appear thick together, accumulating the shadow on each other, they become darker by multiplying those shadows.

'The darker a mountain is in itself,' says Leonardo, 'the bluer it will appear at a great distance. The highest part will be the darkest, being more woody; because woods cover a great many shrubs and other plants, which never receive the light. Near the tops of those mountains, where the air is thinner and purer, the darkness of the woods will make it appear of a deeper azure than at the bottom, where the air is thicker.'

'In general, all objects that are darker or lighter than the air are discoloured by distance, which changes their quality, so that the lighter appears darker, and the darker lighter.'

Colours are more or less entirely lost at a great distance from the eye, according to the purity or density of the air through which they are revealed, or as they are more or less elevated from the earth, merging as they retire into a general grey, occasioned by the quantity of the intervening air. In countries where the air is thin, colours are discernible at great distances, but still tinged with the colour of that air.

The darkest colours, in distance, will be most of all impregnated with the colour of the air. So will the strongest real or accidental shadows.

Colours and outline are best defined on objects placed out of the strong light of the sun, and its reflexes. In sunshine, both are operated on by refraction, which occasions that chaotic indistinctness so painful for the eye to dwell on long together.

Every body, on which light falls, reflects a part of it back again. Any thing red, held before a looking-glass, gives back a portion of its own colour with great vividness; as a glass would throw the sun's ray on a wall.

The real colour of polished surfaces are lost in the colour of the light that falls on them. This likewise applies to all metals.

All smooth or shining surfaces repel the light they receive, throwing their reflexes on any thing opposed to them.

Polished surfaces, as in plate or armour, do not show their real colours. The reflected colours of the sun or air that shines on them confuse their own. Rough surfaces, on the contrary, retain their natural colours most.

Suppose the sun to equally illumine two sides of a street, as it passes its centre, and on one side is a red house, and opposite to it a white one, the white one would be impinged with the reflection from the action of the light on the red one: thus, all proximity of colours affect each other, in the light, in the manner of reflexes, declining as they recede. The reflected lights in folds of silk draperies illustrate this phenomenon best.

Compare the shadows thrown on different colours with each other, by placing a number of coloured materials in a dark place, the colours of shadows being regulated by the objects giving and receiving them.

Examine well the colours in the shadows of flowers; they present the most excellent combinations.

All colours, as at night, may be lost in that of the general shadow, presuming it dark enough to destroy all reflexes.

Colours reflected on by their opposites will become neutralized; as green against red, purple against yellow, &c.

The shadows on all objects partake of the colour of the light, or are qualified by other lights throwing their reflects into them.

The lightness or darkness of shadows are entirely regulated by the colour of the objects on which they fall.

An object painted in a light colour will be more or less light, according to the strength of its shadow, from the consequences attending opposition.

So a light figure, laid upon a light background, but differing in colour—as a warm object on a grey sky—assists, in the greatest degree, the preservation of the breadth. Opposition of colour is, perhaps, of most use under these circumstances.

Colours on the figures or parts brought into notice by opposition may be sometimes applied with sufficient depth and intensity as to advantageously take the place of shadows or darks.

Light and shade may be produced by the influence of colours alone, judiciously applied; the reds and yellows supporting the lights, while the blues, greys, and cold colours form the retiring portions, or such as would otherwise be in shadow.

Suppose a picture, composed of one part shade and the other light—the light being warm, and the shadow composed of cold colours—a red or warm-coloured figure laid against the shadowed side, and a blue one brought out from the light, would, in addition to possessing the greatest force of colour, have a spirited and imposing effect. But the contrary treatment would possess the greatest breadth and repose;—a dark figure laid on the mass of shadow (a point of which, being darker than the rest, would gather it together), and a light one on the light, having a point still higher in colour than the ground.

Rich, deep, and warm shadows are required to support strong coloured lights. So, strong colours are equally useful in focussing the shadows, or in giving them variety.

That beautiful diffusion of æriel and fluctuating pearly reflections, that play equally over the surfaces of the strongest colours, shadows, and lights, in the tenderest hues and forms, and with which all nature appears invested, should engage our deepest attention and enquiry, as their properties so softly blend and break down the harshness and influence of positive colour, and the asperity of opposing tints, by tempering them with their airy and luminous sweetness.

If the general harmony or hue of a picture is warm, the deepest shadows should be warm also; while the strongest colour, being brought into the middle space, will serve to connect both the light and the shadow. Indian red, in most instances, should be the mixing medium, using cold colours sparingly, and only where they are wanted as a foil; as the greens of trees are set off from the rich brown shadows, producing a splendid effect, and bringing the hot and cold colours into harmony.

Colours, forming the middle tint and shadows, should always be warm; though the light may be cold, the effect will be beautiful.

Warm shadows will support the strongest colours.

I generally observe that Titian, Rubens, and the best colourists, use their reds in the shadows, at once to support and give them brilliance;—for when it happens that the shadows of a picture are wholly made up of warm colours, the effect is sure to be splendid, though the lights are cold;—considering red, perhaps, too strong a colour to interfere with the light, at the risk of destroying its breadth. Their manner was often that of deepening the colour as it lost or absorbed itself in the background.

Every object receiving the light of the sun, receives likewise the general light, producing two shadows, the darkest one being occasioned by the sun.

When the horizon is tinged with red by the rays of the setting sun, the distant shadows, being blue or azure, mingling with the red, produces purple.

The air between the earth and the sun, when it rises or sets, invests all objects with a degree of obscurity, which is whiter on the earth than towards the zenith.

When the vapours descend to the earth at sunset, all objects that the sun's rays do not reach become confused and dark; but those that are tinged with its light will appear of the colour of that light, and distinctly marked in their outlines, though surrounded by obscurity.

The magnificence of the setting sun, gilding with its rays the slopes of mountains and tops of forests, towns, villages, and waters, while all below is lost in deep brown, grey, and purple masses, has ever been a favourite subject with painters of all schools.

The inferior or lower parts of all objects, when the air is thickest on the earth, will appear farther from the eye than the tops.

In looking down from an eminence on a street or town when the air is thick, the tops of the buildings will be darker, more distinct and articulate than the objects placed at the bottom, which, being filled with air, the tops come off it (as a ground) with more decision.

When the sun is veiled by clouds, in a landscape, the trees receiving a general light, the darkest parts will be the lowest.

Although the trees and fields may be of the same colour, the trees will always seem darker than the fields, from their quantity of shadow, notwithstanding every blade of grass has its shadow.

The tops of all mountains will be more clearly defined than their bases, becoming more and more so as they rise into the thinner and purer regions of the air; and, as they still rise to their highest summits, the more they develope their form and colours.

All buildings will appear darker at the top than the bottom, from the lower parts being surrounded with thicker air of a lighter colour.

Buildings, or other objects, seen through a fog, only develope those sides which are reflected on by the sun; the other parts remain the colour of the fog. Beautiful combinations of silvery grey and golden reflections, on foliage, windows, boats, water, &c. may be made under these circumstances. As the outline becomes confused or lost, so the objects seen through it acquire magnitude. The fog and the object being both near the eye, its density will occasion the object to appear at a great distance.

Objects of all sorts, seen through rain, have an indistinct and undetermined outline, sometimes becoming greatly confused.

If the observer is placed between the sun and a cloud of dust or smoke, they will appear dark. If they are seen between the sun and the eye, they will be light and transparent. This equally applies to the effects produced by fog.

Some artists represent water very dark or very light. It can neither be darker nor lighter than the surrounding objects which occasion its shadows.

If water is muddy or thick, the shadows of a bridge or boat would be projected on it, as it would be on the ground. But if, on the contrary, the water is clear and transparent, all reflections are formed in it, as they would be in a looking-glass, and no lateral shadows occur.

How much bluer the sea appears from on board ship than it does from the shore; because, at sea, the blue of the waves is reflected on the eye.

All objects in the distance, which are near a river or water, will appear less distinct than those that are remote from it.

All distances should have their outlines confused and unfinished, while foreground objects should be bold and determined.

Objects appear most remote that are divested of their outline, as in Turner's pictures—giving the idea of space and largeness.

Of the beauty of reflexes, Da Vinci says: 'If you mean the proximity of one colour should give beauty to another that terminates near it, observe the rays of the sun in the composition of the rainbow, the colours of which are generated by the falling rain, when each drop in its descent takes every colour of the bow.'

Displaying the various colours that compose either the light or the shade, or lights and darks, that are to stand as such, into large and subtly interwoven portions,—the blending and the opposition of hot and cold colours, and of light with dark, together with strict attention to their strength and relations (for the most discordant and opposite properties will produce harmony, under certain circumstances and arrangement), so that the masses of light and shade, and the breadth of the whole, are not disturbed,—are the leading circumstances that should engage the anxious attention.

HARMONY AND CONTRAST.

The exact degree of strength, or of tone, greatly tend to reconcile the harmony of a picture.

Harmony consists more in the power of bringing colours together, than in the mere arrangement of the colours themselves.

Burnet, in his excellent Treatise, says—'When a picture is composed of the two extremes of hot and cold, we are certain of having employed the whole strength of the palette; and, if judiciously used to assist the chiaroscuro, an harmonious union will be kept up between these opposite qualities, more forcible and splendid than by the intervention of middle tint;' but immediately after he adds—'In producing variety and contrast, we ought never to lose sight of that imperceptible harmony arising from the union of two colours in producing a third, composed of both. Whether this be founded on any law existing in optics, or is merely the result of that sympathy which one colour has to another in producing harmony, we know not.'

Any colour too often repeated, will destroy its value in proportion to its repetition; but a continuation of the same colour carried with tact through the picture, from the highest light to the deepest shade, and strongly relieved by some colour of a different nature, produces the beautiful effect so admired in the Dutch and Flemish sketches of Vandyke and others; arising from the rich brown gradations, brought up to a 'high pitch' of red or yellow, or yellowish white, and subdued by a little cool grey, merging into blue or green.

Strong colours are generally more usefully applied in supporting the general whole, than by being employed on the more prominent parts of it. They are equally useful in focussing the shadows, or in giving them variety.

If the mixture of many colours be unharmonious and disturbed, perplexity and confusion will be the result.

When the general character of a picture is of a cool grey, its influence upon the eye is of a very agreeable description, from its tender and soft transitions; but its spirit is roused into energy at once by the introduction of a warm colour; increasing, by its opposition of character, the harmony of the whole. A red cloak on a figure crossing a field will explain this.

In Du Fresney I find we 'are not to let two hostile colours meet without a medium to unite them.' Notwithstanding which, we see the contrary practised with the greatest success;—blue brought against red, for instance, the value of each increasing as they antipathize.

The hot and cold colours—the balancing power produced by their combinations—the arrangement that gives to every object its place and value, are the principal circumstances that should engage the attention, when contemplating the works of the best colourists, or on gazing at a scene in Nature.

If the colouring of a picture is too harmonious, it will want solidity.

EFFECT, ACCIDENT, RELIEF, AND KEEPING.

Every part of a picture should occasion pleasure in detail! If we are fascinated with the colour of the highest or prevailing light, the most anxious care should be exercised that its influence does not destroy our admiration of the others: to avoid this prejudice, the principal light, or colour of it, should not be so influential as to prevent the eye being gently led away from it, by the repetition of a softer grade of its own, to others of a less imposing quality: that must of necessity be there, to give value to, and influence the importance of the principal.

Effect consists in either lights and shadows, or colours, so massed and blended in their arrangement, as to produce breadth.

The greatest power of Effect is often produced from the most simple materials. All the force of the palette, and all the strength of the master, is not unfrequently called into action by no other materials than a straight horizon meeting the sky, supported by an undulating line or two; and exemplifying the most scientific manœuvres in the management of breadth, and in diversity of colour, on which the eye loves to dwell, and repose from the fatigue occasioned by a repetition of forms.

A dark object, placed against the most retiring or lightest part of the picture, while it acquires all the startling effect to be derived from great force, and is a resource so much adopted by the greatest landscape-painters, often, in my opinion, destroys the whole keeping of the work. Bringing such strong objects up against the sun, was the great vice of Claude; Cuyp and Both managed it better, but certainly not always with success.

Keeping is a term in art which implies that every object and colour should be in its place;—the object, its exact space to stand on, and the colours in strict harmony and accordance; each possessing the exact strength which belongs to its situation in the picture.

Relief, and occasionally Chiaro-Scuro, which, by its arrangement of light and shade, describes the necessary forms that are to be revealed: this may likewise be effected by light and dark colours alone, or by opposition of colours and sharp contrasts.

The highest point or mass of the light, from which the gradations radiate, should be kept very pure, allowing as little of the shade tint to insinuate itself as possible.

If the lights of a picture are few, it will mainly contribute to its breadth and repose:—if many, or scattered, the result will be confusion. I say, to keep the leading mass of light pure and clean, should employ our deepest attention.

When the attention is to be fixed to a particular object, the degree of power given to the accessories will alone establish its degree of consequence: but it must not be wholly insulated; those accessories, being the medium of its own importance, must contribute all to assist it to its place, without weakening its force or imparing its character; as the middle tints find their value and clearness only by the strength of the lights, and the depths of the darks.

Pictures, painted in a 'light key,' possess many advantages:—

Great breadth of Effect is produced by placing the principal mass of shadow on, or rather immediately under, the horizon; graduating upwards into the clouds, and downwards, in a long angle, to a broad light on the base line; on which a figure or any other object, however small, but darker than the rest, being placed, will produce an effect that has become extremely popular of late. This is equally applicable to landscape or sea pieces; and was a favourite arrangement of A. Vandervelde. When the picture is mostly made up of half tint, his manner was to throw all the power of the palette into his figures; bringing them out strong, dark, and cutting on the foreground; and, in the retiring groups, diminishing the force as little as possible; keeping the shadows flat, and a little weaker in colour. This management produces one of the most powerful daylight effects, though not so ærial; but the sacrifice of the last is as nothing to the want of the former. Atmospheric effect is scarcely missed when the whole is on so light a key, as the quantity of half tint employed renders it.

Most of the Dutch landscape painters seem universally agreed on this arrangement, as having that beautiful contrast of force and softness we so often see in coast scenes, and leaving so large a space as two-thirds of the picture for the luminous forms of the clouds.

Broken heaths, road scenes, corn-fields, boats on the water, with their forcible and deep shadows, fishermen on the sands, all readily adapt themselves to this manner; which, likewise, from the light tone that pervades the whole, requires the strongest opposition and contrast of colour—so that the colours be carried well through the picture; that is, if the ground be warm, a figure in blue placed in the foreground may be carried out by being repeated in the blue of the water, and so into parts of the sky, &c. And, on the other hand, if the ground be cool grey, as in a river scene, the boats may be yellow, and the figures red, carried up and diffused into the warm lights of the sky, or striking on the sandy shore and distant buildings, and even reaching the birds in the air—all will help to convey the colours through the work.

In working out this system, let the lights be bright, and their shadows strong and forcible, keeping the middle tints tender, airy, and delicate. A few trials on this plan will soon convince the student of the beauty and real look of daylight it has over many others.

In examining the works of Cuyp, when the picture is painted on a light key, he is sure to make use of very strong colour, to clear up and give vigour to the whole, in his figures; serving, at the same time, to invest the general mass with air, breadth, and extent.

Rembrandt thought it of more consequence to paint light, than the objects seen by it.

'Titian's great care was to express the general colour, to preserve the masses of light and shade, and to give, by opposition, the idea of that solidity which is inseparable from natural objects. When these are preserved, though the work should possess no other merit, it will have, in a proper place, its complete effect; but where any of these are wanting, however minutely laboured the picture may be in detail, the whole will have a false, and even an unfinished appearance, at whatever distance, or in whatever light it can be shown. It is in vain to attend to the variations of tints, if in that attention, the general hue is lost, or to finish ever so minutely the parts, if the masses are not observed, or the whole not well put together. And those who will examine into the artifice, will find it to consist in the power of generalizing, and the shortness and simplicity of the means employed;' and in fixed principles, our general ideas predominating over our individual.

Rubens, in his splendid manner, involved all the schools—Roman, Dutch, and Venetian! yet, with all this magnificence and variety, possessed repose.

Accident.—Accident often comes in aid of invention. In nature, all objects by daylight are equally illumined; the painter has, therefore, always found it necessary to avail himself of accident, whenever it may occur: shadows, in particular, reflected upon one object by another; large floating masses of light or shade thrown across a mountain, a flat country, or an open sea, by the passing clouds as they sail by; flashes and streaks of light, as they struggle from between them, &c., are all adapted to work out the general effect. Where the forms of a composition are insufficient, this is the usual resource, these accessories generally supplying grandeur and elevation to the scene. All catching lights should be laid hold of with equal tenacity. The clearing off of a shower is particularly favourable to this useful auxiliary.

DEXTERITY AND AFFECTATION.

It is 'natural to be more captivated with what is brilliant than with what is solid, and to prefer splendid negligence to painful and humiliating exactness.'

Mere novelty and peculiarity, having no other merits, when it ceases to be new, it ceases to have value.

That which is solely addressed to the eye, is certainly inferior to that which is addressed to the imagination.

If too much indulgence is given to peculiarity, mannerism will be sure to be the result!

'A facility in composing, a lively and masterly handling, are captivating qualities to young minds: they endeavour to imitate these dazzling excellencies, and, after much time spent in the frivolous pursuit, find, when too late, the difficulty of retreat; and there is scarce an instance of return to scrupulous labour, after the mind has been deceived by this fallacious mastery. By this useless industry, whilst boys, they have arrived at their utmost perfection; they have taken the shadow for the substance; and make the mechanical felicity the chief excellence of the art, whilst it is one of the most dangerous sources of corruption. They wish to find some shorter path to excellence, and hope to obtain the reward of eminence by other means than those, which the indispensable rules of art have prescribed. But whatever the force of genius may be, there is no easy method of becoming a good painter.'

There is no mechanism in painting; for those, who by a clever handling, possess this quality to the greatest perfection, are rarely found to excel in the higher realities of art.

It is to the whole—the absolute and entire impression—the disposition of pictorial matter and auxiliaries, that imply ability and power in their treatment.

Do not let the love of novelty induce you to leave the beaten path of excellence; for all endeavours to surprise and please by that which is uncommon or new, will be attended with defeat; a matter, oftener the result of idleness and caprice, than the striking effect of a mind well-regulated and devoted to study.

Style, manner, handling, are for the most part matters of tact, distinguishing one painter from another, quite as much as one man's manners are known from another's. Where the inferior and subordinate pursuit of skill in handling or execution is aimed at, it tends universally to form a mannerist; and this is the greatest evil of our time. Instead of elevating the mind to the quality of the whole, it degenerates into an abject and curious species of imitation of the parts, or of some one thing in particular the artist feels he can do cleverly; sacrificing to this 'industrious idleness,' correctness of drawing, character, expression, and elevation of style. In a word, it is mechanics, and not art! Grandeur, sublimity, simplicity, all fly from this one evil.

Style comprehends the whole of a picture, in all its mysterious or simple workings—its moral character—its elevation, or its degeneracy.

Decision, spirit, and freedom of execution and expertness of handling, opposed to feeble uncertainty, have great charms, in common with all excellencies; yet, so delusive is this species of fascination, that it becomes imperious to be guarded against it. The end must not be sacrificed to the means!

OF BACKGROUNDS.