and
elucidate it; and, if further proof be wanting, I would desire the
reader to compare the background of Sir Joshua's "Holy Family," in the
National Gallery, with that of Nicolo Poussin's "Nursing of Jupiter," in
the Dulwich Gallery. The first, owing to the utter neglect of all
botanical detail, has lost every atom of ideal character, and reminds us
of nothing but an English fashionable flower garden;--the formal
pedestal adding considerably to the effect. Poussin's, in which every
vine leaf is drawn with consummate skill and untiring diligence,
produces not only a tree group of the most perfect grace and beauty, but
one which, in its pure and simple truth, belongs to every age of nature,
and adapts itself to the history of all time. If, then, such entire
rendering of specific character be necessary to the historical painter,
in cases where these lower details are entirely subordinate to his human
subject, how much more must it be necessary in landscape, where they
themselves constitute the subject, and where the undivided attention is
to be drawn to them.

There is a singular sense in which the child may peculiarly be said to
be father of the man. In many arts and attainments, the first and last
stages of progress--the infancy and the consummation--have many features
in common; while the intermediate stages are wholly unlike either, and
are farthest from the right. Thus it is in the progress of a painter's
handling. We see the perfect child,--the absolute beginner, using of
necessity a broken, imperfect, inadequate line, which, as he advances,
becomes gradually firm, severe, and decided. Yet before he becomes a
perfect artist, this severity and decision will again be exchanged for a
light and careless stroke, which in many points will far more resemble
that of his childhood than of his middle age--differing from it only by
the consummate effect wrought out by the apparently inadequate means. So
it is in many matters of opinion. Our first and last coincide, though on
different grounds; it is the middle stage which is farthest from the
truth. Childhood often holds a truth with its feeble fingers, which the
grasp of manhood cannot retain,--which it is the pride of utmost age to
recover.

Perhaps this is in no instance more remarkable than in the opinion we
form upon the subject of detail in works of art. Infants in judgment, we
look for specific character, and complete finish--we delight in the
faithful plumage of th