t is done by a stupid one, because it is done with
such power that there is less hope for you.

There were a number of pictures of Cuyp there, which satisfied my thirst
for coloring, and appeared to me as I expected the Claudes would have
done. Generally speaking, his objects are few in number and commonplace
in their character--a bit of land and water, a few cattle and figures,
in no way remarkable; but then he floods the whole with that dreamy,
misty sunlight, such as fills the arches of our forests in the days of
autumn. As I looked at them I fancied I could hear nuts dropping from
the trees among the dry leaves, and see the goldenrods and purple
asters, and hear the click of the squirrel as he whips up the tree to
his nest. For this one attribute of golden, dreamy haziness, I like
Cuyp. His power in shedding it over very simple objects reminds me of
some of the short poems of Longfellow, when things in themselves most
prosaic are flooded with a kind of poetic light from the inner soul.
These are merely first ideas and impressions. Of course I do not make up
my mind about any artist from what I have seen here. We must not expect
a painter to put his talent into every picture, more than a poet into
every verse that he writes. Like other men, he is sometimes brilliant
and inspired, and at others dull and heavy. In general, however, I have
this to say, that there is some kind of fascination about these old
masters which I feel very sensibly. But yet, I am sorry to add that
there is very little of what I consider the highest mission of art in
the specimens I have thus far seen; nothing which speaks to the deepest
and the highest; which would inspire a generous ardor, or a solemn
religious trust. Vainly I seek for something divine, and ask of art to
bring me nearer to the source of all beauty and perfection. I find
wealth of coloring, freedom of design, and capability of expression
wasting themselves merely in portraying trivial sensualities and
commonplace ideas. So much for the first essay.

In the evening we went to dine with our old friends of the Dingle, Mr.
and Mrs. Edward Cropper, who are now spending a little time in London.
We were delighted to meet them once more, and to hear from our Liverpool
friends. Mrs. Cropper's father, Lord Denman, has returned to England,
though with no sensible improvement in his health.

At dinner we were introduced to Lord and Lady Hatherton. Lord Hatherton
is a member of the whig p