he minds of most
readers, especially of those who are _partially_ artistical, respecting
"generalization," "breadth," "effect," etc. It were to be wished that
our writers on art would not dwell so frequently on the necessity of
breadth, without explaining what it means; and that we had more constant
reference made to the principle which I can only remember having seen
once clearly explained and insisted on,--that breadth is not vacancy.
Generalization is unity, not destruction of parts; and composition is
not annihilation, but arrangement of materials. The breadth which unites
the truths of nature with her harmonies, is meritorious and beautiful;
but the breadth which annihilates those truths by the million, is not
painting nature, but painting over her. And so the masses which result
from right concords and relations of details, are sublime and
impressive; but the masses which result from the eclipse of details are
contemptible and painful.[27] And we shall show, in following parts of
the work, that distances like those of Poussin are mere meaningless
tricks of clever execution, which, when once discovered, the artist may
repeat over and over again, with mechanical contentment and perfect
satisfaction, both to himself and to his superficial admirers, with no
more exertion of intellect nor awakening of feeling than any tradesman
has in multiplying some ornamental pattern of furniture. Be this as it
may, however, (for we cannot enter upon the discussion of the question
here,) the falsity and imperfection of such distances admit of no
dispute. Beautiful and ideal they may be; true they are not: and in the
same way we might go through every part and portion of the works of the
old masters, showing throughout, either that you have every leaf and
blade of grass staring defiance to the mystery of nature, or that you
have dead spaces of absolute vacuity, equally determined in their
denial of her fulness. And even if we ever find (as here and there, in
their better pictures, we do) changeful passages of agreeable playing
color, or mellow and transparent modulations of mysterious atmosphere,
even here the touches, though satisfactory to the eye, are suggestive of
nothing,--they are characterless,--they have none of the peculiar
expressiveness and meaning by which nature maintains the variety and
interest even of what she most conceals. She always tells a story,
however hintedly and vaguely; each of her touches is different from al