imes, are equally incapable of perceiving the
real excellence of established canons, are ignorant of the commonest
and most acknowledged principia of the art, blind to the most
palpable and comprehensible of its beauties, incapable of
distinguishing, if left to themselves, a master's work from the
vilest school copy, and founding their applause of those great works
which they praise, either in pure hypocrisy, or in admiration of
their defects.

[G] There is a fine touch in the Frogs in Aristophanes, alluding
probably to this part of the Agamemnon. "[Greek: Ego d' hechairon te
siope kai me tout' heterpeu ouk hettou e nun hoi lalountes]." The
same remark might be well applied to the seemingly vacant or
incomprehensible portions of Turner's canvas. In their mysterious,
and intense fire, there is much correspondence between the mind of
Aeschylus and that of our great painter. They share at least one
thing in common--unpopularity. [Greek: 'Ho demos aneboa krisin
poiein, XA. o ton panourgon; Ai. ne Di, ouranion g' hoson. XA. met'
Aischylou ho ouk esan heteroi symmachoi; AI. oligon to chreston
estin].

[H] I do not know any passage in ancient literature in which this
connection is more exquisitely illustrated than in the lines,
burlesque though they be, descriptive of the approach of the chorus
in the Clouds of Aristophanes,--a writer, by the way, who, I
believe, knew and felt more of the noble landscape character of his
country than any whose works have come down to us except Homer. The
individuality and distinctness of conception--the visible cloud
character which every word of this particular passage brings out
into more dewy and bright existence, are to me as refreshing as the
real breathing of mountain winds. The line "[Greek: dia ton koilon
kai ton daseon, plagiai]," could have been written by none but an
ardent lover of hill scenery--one who had watched, hour after hour,
the peculiar oblique, sidelong action of descending clouds, as they
form along the hollows and ravines of the hills. There are no
lumpish solidities--no pillowy protuberances here. All is melting,
drifting, evanescent,--full of air, and light, and dew.

[I] Let not this principle be confused with Fuseli's, "love for what
is called deception in painting marks either the infancy or
decrepitude of a nation's taste