I remember an English artist,
who was in Paris when I was a young man, who had a wonderful power in
using masses of black and white, but he was never able to do anything in
painting, much to my surprise at that time; but later I came to know,
that, if a man wants to be a painter, he must learn to draw with the
brush."

I asked him for advice in my own studies; to which he replied, "You
ought to copy a great deal,--copy passages of all the great painters. I
have copied a great deal, and of the works of almost everybody"; and as
he spoke, he pointed to a line of studies of heads and parts of pictures
from various old masters which hung around the room.

I am inclined to think that he carried copying too far; for the
principal defect of his later pictures is a kind of hardness and want of
thought in the touch, a verging on the mechanical, as if his hand and
feeling did not keep perfectly together.

I regret much that I did not immediately after my interview take notes
of the conversation, as he said many things which I cannot now recall,
and which, as mainly critical of the works of other artists, would have
been of interest to the world. I only remember that he spoke in great
praise of Turner and Sir Joshua Reynolds. As his dinner-hour drew near,
I took my leave, asking for some directions to see pictures of his which
I had not seen; in reply to which, he offered to send me notes securing
me admission to all the places where were pictures of his not easily
accessible,--a promise he fulfilled a day or two after. I left him with
as pleasant a personal impression as I have ever received from any great
artist, and I have met many.

The works of Delacroix, like those of all geniuses, are very unequal;
but those who, not having studied them, attempt to estimate them by any
ordinary standard will be far from the truth in their estimate, and will
most certainly fail to be impressed by their true excellence. The
public has a mistaken habit of measuring greatness by the capacity to
give _it_ pleasure; but the public has no more ignorant habit than this.
That is no great work which the popular taste can fully appreciate, and
no thoroughly educated man can at once grasp the full calibre of a work
of great power differing from his own standard. It took Penelope's
nights to unweave the web of her days' weaving, and no sudden shears of
untaught comprehension will serve to analyze those finer fabrics of a
genius like Delacroix. Perh