ated with the sentiment, as well as are
records of the phenomena, of nature, and one may say of Rousseau,
paraphrasing Mr. Arnold's remark about Wordsworth, that nature seems
herself to take the brush out of his hand and to paint for him "with her
own bare, sheer, penetrating power." Rousseau, however, is French, and
in virtue of his nativity exhibits always what Wordsworth's treatment of
nature exhibits only occasionally, namely, the Gallic gift of style. It
is rarely as felicitous as in Corot, in every detail of whose every
work, one may almost say, its informing, co-ordinating, elevating
influence is distinctly to be perceived; but it is always present as a
factor, as a force dignifying and relieving from all touch, all taint of
the commonness that is so often inseparably associated with art whose
absorption in nature is listlessly unthinking instead of enthusiastic
and alert. In Rousseau, too, in a word, we have the classic strain, as
at least a psychological element, and note as one source of his power
his reserve and restraint, his perfect self-possession.

In Daubigny a similar attitude toward nature is obvious, but with a
sensible difference. Affection for, rather than absorption in her, is
his inspiration. Daubigny stands somewhat apart from the Fontainebleau
group, with whom nevertheless he is popularly and properly associated,
for though he painted Normandy mainly, he was spiritually of the
Barbizon kindred. He stands, however, somewhat apart from French
painting in general, I think. There is less style, more sentiment, more
poetry in his landscapes than in those of his countrymen who are to be
compared with him. Beyond what is admirable in them there is something
attaching as well. He drew and engraved a good deal, as well as painted.
He did not concentrate his powers enough, perhaps, to make as signal and
definite a mark as otherwise he might have done. He is a shade
desultory, and too spontaneous to be systematic. One must be systematic
to reach the highest point, even in the least material spheres. But
never have the grave and solemn aspects of landscape found a sweeter and
serener spirit to interpret them. In some of his pictures there is a
truly religious feeling. His frankness recalls Constable's, but it is
more distinguished in being more spiritual. He has not Diaz's elegance,
nor Corot's witchery, nor Rousseau's power, but nature is more
mysteriously, more mystically significant to him, and sets a dee