, before Giotto had broken
on one barbarism of the Byzantine schools, than when the painter of the
Last Judgment, and the sculptor of the Perseus, sat revelling side by
side. It appears to me that a rude symbol is oftener more efficient than
a refined one in touching the heart, and that as pictures rise in rank
as works of art, they are regarded with less devotion and more
curiosity.

But, however this may be, and whatever influence we may be disposed to
admit in the great works of sacred art, no doubt can, I think, be
reasonably entertained as to the utter inutility of all that has been
hitherto accomplished by the painters of landscape. No moral end has
been answered, no permanent good effected, by any of their works. They
may have amused the intellect, or exercised the ingenuity, but they
never have spoken to the heart. Landscape art has never taught us one
deep or holy lesson; it has not recorded that which is fleeting, nor
penetrated that which was hidden, nor interpreted that which was
obscure; it has never made us feel the wonder, nor the power, nor the
glory, of the universe; it has not prompted to devotion, nor touched
with awe; its power to move and exalt the heart has been fatally abused,
and perished in the abusing. That which ought to have been a witness to
the omnipotence of God, has become an exhibition of the dexterity of
man, and that which should have lifted our thoughts to the throne of the
Deity, has encumbered them with the inventions of his creatures.

If we stand for a little time before any of the more celebrated works of
landscape, listening to the comments of the passers-by, we shall hear
numberless expressions relating to the skill of the artist, but very few
relating to the perfection of nature. Hundreds will be voluble in
admiration, for one who will be silent in delight. Multitudes will laud
the composition, and depart with the praise of Claude on their
lips,--not one will feel as if it were _no_ composition, and depart
with the praise of God in his heart.

These are the signs of a debased, mistaken, and false school of
painting. The skill of the artist, and the perfection of his art, are
never proved until both are forgotten. The artist has done nothing till
he has concealed himself,--the art is imperfect which is visible,--the
feelings are but feebly touched, if they permit us to reason on the
methods of their excitement. In the reading of a great poem, in the
hearing of a noble oratio