as some seem to do. It is not his way to chop logic with Nature, being modest enough to attend to what she says, in preference to lecturing himself. Our geniuses now-a-days appear to be proud to have, as they call it, "made a picture." Bewick probably would have been proud to have made you forget that his was a picture. If you took it for plain reality, he would not have been offended. Such humble ideas some people have.
All this, however, to own the truth, would have been no objection to us. Far from it. We are quite serious, Messieurs Academicians. Let us not, however, be misunderstood. We do not say that highly- wrought pictures are not to be painted; we only say we are apt to distrust those who paint them. When we hear the jargon of "contrast," "warmth," "keeping," and "repose," and all the other technical slang of what is called virtu, we confess we have an instinctive dread of mischief.—We cannot help it. Dr Johnson used to insist, that "he who would make a pun, would pick a pocket."Now, we don't go so far. But when we see a man perpetually insist upon displaying Nature in such lights as never were before, and never will be again—who must always have her in full-dress—and that a new suit—"always at the top of her bent," one way or other—ever in extremes—we say we shrewdly suspect such a man can have no very violent objection to—what shall we call it—colour a little—or, as the editor of the Wonderful Magazine hath it, "indulge a falsity." "Magnas est verity," we exclaim with thee, wonderful soul. Thy Latin may be bad, but thy sentiment is sound, in painting as well as morals.
The overstrained taste for what may be called the extreme of the picturesque, whether in design or colouring, has always appeared to us a most dangerous one. It is a sort of dram-drinking at the eye. How often are we told, "True, sir, the place is very beautiful; but it won't make a picture!" Won't it? and why? Why should that which is confessedly beautiful in itself, become not so if faithfully transferred to canvass? "Your most exquisite reason," Monsieur. This is unintelligible refinement; and is not the exclusive cultivation of this taste the readiest way to open a way for all manner of exaggeration? We repeat, we have seen pictures, and heard them praised too, that imitated humanity as abominably as Hamlet's ranting actor ever did. A picture may strut as well as a player, whatever some people may think to the contrary. There is no doubt that Nature sometimes produces combinations the most singularly beautiful, and mingles her tints with a gorgeous profusion that seems akin to the preternatural; but are we to stick exclusively to this? Are we to make the exception the rule? and deduce canons of art, not from the common law of appearances, but from occasional deviations? Probably a natural rock that is perfectly square may be found: are we, therefore, to paint nothing but square rocks? The grand evil of this system is, that it teaches us to think that nature, in her everyday and common guise, is not beautiful. This is a sad mistake. The flattest landscape that Salisbury Plain ever produced, if painted by a master-hand, would be worth looking at. We admire Dutch and Flemish pictures of pots of beer, tobacco-pipes, cabbages, Frows, and Boors. Is not this inconsistent? Is not the most common life-piece of scenery always better than a Dutch cheese? We recollect—we shall not easily forget it—a water-colour drawing—we have forgotten by whom, perhaps it might be by Fielding, no matter—it represented the encampment of a gang of gipsies about nightfall, or, as Burns would say, "the gloaming." The fire was just lighted, and the tent up. The place was a plain, flat, unpretending, dark, grass-green field. The hedge ran in a straight line along the top of it, parallel with the horizon, a few ill-grown, scrubby-looking trees growing out of it at intervals. The sky was in the dull gray of twilight, merely gloomy, with a few dingy, mean-looking clouds, the advanced guard of night, passing over it. Nothing could be more common; and yet so true to nature was the whole, that nothing could be more admirable. That picture of all the rest won our heart; being common, it was rare—in "the Exhibition." And what would any man have gained by improving this sketch, as he would call it? by planting trees where trees were not, or raising hills where all was level? He would only please at last;—and is there no risk in thus tampering with reality? Nature is the best of gardeners. When we find
