proceed from the
hand of a man who has both thorough knowledge of his subject, and
thorough acquaintance with all the means and principles of art. We never
criticise them, because we feel, the moment we look carefully at the
drawing of any single wave, that the knowledge possessed by the master
is much greater than our own, and therefore believe that if anything
offends us in any part of the work, it is nearly certain to be our
fault, and not the painter's. The local color of Stanfield's sea is
singularly true and powerful, and entirely independent of any tricks of
chiaroscuro. He will carry a mighty wave up against the sky, and make
its whole body dark and substantial against the distant light, using all
the while nothing more than chaste and unexaggerated local color to gain
the relief. His surface is at once lustrous, transparent, and accurate
to a hairbreadth in every curve; and he is entirely independent of dark
skies, deep blues, driving spray, or any other means of concealing want
of form, or atoning for it. He fears no difficulty, desires no
assistance, takes his sea in open daylight, under general sunshine, and
paints the _element_ in its pure color and complete forms. But we wish
that he were less powerful, and more interesting; or that he were a
little less Diogenes-like, and did not scorn all that he does not want.
Now that he has shown us what he can do without such aids, we wish he
would show us what he can do with them. He is, as we have already said,
wanting in what we have just been praising in Fielding--impressiveness.
We should like him to be less clever, and more affecting--less
wonderful, and more terrible; and as the very first step towards such an
end, to learn how to conceal. We are, however, trenching upon matters
with which we have at present nothing to do; our concern is now only
with truth, and one work of Stanfield alone presents us with as much
concentrated knowledge of sea and sky, as, diluted, would have lasted
any one of the old masters his life. And let it be especially observed,
how extensive and how varied is the truth of our modern masters--how it
comprises a complete history of that nature of which, from the ancients,
you only here and there can catch a stammering descriptive syllable--how
Fielding has given us every character of the quiet lake, Robson[65] of
the mountain tarn, De Wint of the lowland river, Nesfield of the radiant
cataract, Harding of the roaring torrent, Fielding of