character of your clouds too affected, that is, too much of some of our modern painters, who mistake some of our great masters because they sometimes put in some of those round characters of clouds, they must do the same; but if you look at any of their skies, they either assist in the composition or make some figure in the picture, nay, sometimes play the first fiddle. I have seen this in Wouverman’s and many others I could mention.
“Breath must be attended to, if you paint but a muscle give it breath. Your doing the same by the sky, making parts broad and of a good shape, that they may come in with your composition, forming one grand plan of light and shade, this must always please a good eye and keep the attention of the spectator and give delight to every one. Trifles in Nature must be overlooked that we may have our feelings raised by seeing the whole picture at a glance, not knowing how or why we are so charmed. I have written you a long rigmarole story about giving dignity to whatever you paint—I fear so long that I should be scarcely able to understand what I mean myself; you will I hope, take the word for the deed, and at the same time forgive all faults in diction, grammar, spelling, &c., &c., &c.
“We have heard from John; I believe he is not petrified from having seen the French School. He says in his letter something about Tea-Tray painters. I believe most of those who visit them whistle the same note. So much for the French Artists.
“I hope they will arrive safe. Our happiness would be made complete if your tongue could be heard amongst us. ‘Parley vous,’ my boy, will be echoed from garret to cellar in my house. I think I hear Vincent say to John: ‘Why, John, what d——d French rascal was that passed us just now? Why look at his whiskers; why he must be a Don Cossack.’ They had a charming voyage over, Vincent belshing as loud as the steam packet, much to the discomfiture of some of the other passengers. John did not say how Steel was in the passage, but I believe they were all bad alike.
“Sunday night.—I put this last in my smooth paper epistle— that the boys are by my fireside going to take a glass of wine, quite well and happy. I wish you were with us. I have nothing more to say, only wishing you health and comfort.
“John will write in a day or two. We have just heard of the death of Mrs. Sharp.
“James Stark, Esq.,
“85, Newman Street, London.”
