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but they are scarcely ideal. They are an extreme and unique conception of a certain thing, but not of what the mind delights in, or broods fondly over. The image created by the artist's hand is not moulded and fashioned by the love of good and yearning after grace and beauty, but rather the contrary: that is, they are ideal deformity, not ideal beauty. Rubens was perhaps the most picturesque of painters; but he was almost the least ideal. So Rembrandt was (out of sight) the most picturesque of colourists; as Correggio was the most ideal. In other words, his composition of light and shade is more a whole, more in unison, more blended into the same harmonious feeling than Rembrandt's, who staggers by contrast, but does not soothe by gradation. Correggio's forms, indeed, had a picturesque air; for they often incline (even when most beautiful) to the quaintness of caricature. Vandyke, I think, was at once the least picturesque and least ideal of all the great painters. He was purely natural, and neither selected from outward forms nor added any thing from his own mind. He owes every thing toʻperfect truth, clearness, and transparency; and though his productions certainly arrest the eye, and strike in a room full of pictures, it is from the contrast they present to other pictures,

and from being stripped quite naked of all artificial advantages. They strike almost as a piece of white paper would, hung up in the same situation. I began with saying that whatever stands out from a given line, and as it were projects upon

the

eye, is picturesque; and this holds true (comparatively) in form and colour. A rough terrier-dog, with the hair bristled and matted together, is picturesque. As we say, there is a decided character in it, a marked determination to an extreme point. A shock-dog is odd and disagreeable, but there is nothing picturesque in its appearance: it is a mere mass of flimsy confusion. A goat with projecting horns and pendent beard is a picturesque animal: a sheep is not. A horse is only picturesque from opposition of colour; as in Mr. Northcote's study of Gadshill, where the white horse's head coming against the dark scowling face of the man makes as fine a contrast as can be imagined. An old stump of a tree with rugged bark, and one or two straggling branches, a little stunted hedge-row line, marking the boundary of the horizon, a stubble-field, a winding path, a rock seen against the sky, are picturesque, because they have all of them prominence and a distinctive character of their own. They are not objects (to borrow Shakespear's phrase)

“ of no mark or likelihood.” A country may be beautiful, romantic, or sublime, without being picturesque. The Lakes in the North of England are not picturesque, though certainly the most interesting sight in this country. To be a subject for painting, a prospect must present sharp striking points of view or singular forms, or one object must relieve and set off another. There must be distinct stages and salient points for the eye to rest upon or start from, in its progress over the expanse before it. The distance of a landscape will oftentimes look flat or heavy, that the trunk of a tree or a ruin in the foreground would immediately throw into perspective and turn to air. Rembrandt's landscapes are the least picturesque in the world, except from the strait lines and sharp angles, the deep incision and dragging of his pencil, like a harrow over the ground, and the broad contrast of earth and sky. Earth, in his copies, is rough and hairy; and Pan has struck his hoof against it!-A camel is a picturesque ornament in a landscape or history-piece. This is not merely from its romantic and oriental character; for an elephant has not the same effect, and if introduced as a necessary appendage, is also an unwieldy incumbrance. A negro's head in a group turesque from contrast: so are the spots on a

is pic

panther's hide. This was the principle that Paul Veronese went upon, who said the rule for composition was black upon white, and white upon black. He was a pretty good judge. His celebrated picture of the Marriage of Cana is in all likelihood the completest piece of work. manship extant in the art. When I saw it, it nearly covered one side of a large room in the Louvre (being itself forty feet by twenty)—and it seemed as if that side of the apartment was thrown

open,

and
you

looked out at the open sky, at buildings, marble pillars, galleries with people in them, emperors, female slaves, Turks, negroes, musicians, all the famous painters of the time, the tables loaded with viands, goblets, and dogs under them-a sparkling, overwhelming confusion, a bright, unexpected reality—the only fault you could find was that no miracle was going on in the faces of the spectators: the only miracle there was the picture itself! A French gentleman, who showed me this “ triumph of painting" (as it has been called), perceiving I was struck with it, observed, “ My wife admires it exceedingly for the facility of the execution.” I took this proof of sympathy for a compliment. It is said that when Humboldt, the celebrated traveller and naturalist, was introduced to Buonaparte, the Emperor

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addressed him in these words—“ Vous aimez la
botanique, Monsieur”—and on the other's re-
plying in the affirmative, added—Et ma femme
aussi!This has been found fault with as a
piece of brutality and insolence in the great
man by bigoted critics, who do not know what
a thing it is to get a Frenchwoman to agree with
them in any point. For my part, I took the
observation as it was meant, and it did not put
me out of conceit with 'myself or the picture
that Madame M-liked it as well as Mon-
sieur l'Anglois. Certainly, there could be no
harm in that. By the side of it happened to be
hung two allegorical pictures of Rubens (and in
such matters he too was “no baby* ")—I don't
remember what the figures were, but the texture
seemed of wool or cotton. The texture of the
Paul Veronese was not wool or cotton, but stuff,
jewels, flesh, marble, air, whatever composed
the essence of the varied subjects, in endless re-
lief and truth of handling. If the Fleming had
seen his two allegories hanging where they did,
he would, without a question, have wished them
far enough.

I imagine that Rubens's landscapes are pic-
turesque: Claude’s are ideal. Rubens is always
* « And surely Mandricardo was no baby.”

HARRINGTON'S Ariosto.

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