old. But, if it be blue, it
will bring the iciness of the distance up into the foreground; will fill
the whole visible space with comfortless cold; will take away every
relief from the desolation; will increase the _duration_ of the
influence, and, consequently, will extend its operation into the mind
and feelings of the spectator, who will shiver as he looks.

Now, if we are making a _picture_, we shall not hesitate a moment: in
goes the red; for the artist, while he wishes to render the actual
impression of the presence of cold in the landscape as strong as
possible, does not wish that chilliness to pass over into, or affect,
the spectator, but endeavors to make the combination of color as
delightful to his eye and feelings as possible.[52] But, if we are
painting a _scene_ for theatrical representation, where deception is
aimed at, we shall be as decided in our proceeding on the opposite
principle: in goes the blue; for we wish the idea of cold to pass over
into the spectator, and make him so uncomfortable as to permit his fancy
to place him distinctly in the place we desire, in the actual scene.

[Footnote 52: This difference of principle is one leading distinction
between the artist, properly so called, and the scene, diorama, or
panorama painter.]

233. Again, Shakspeare has been blamed by some few critical asses for
the raillery of Mercutio, and the humor of the nurse, in "Romeo and
Juliet;" for the fool in "Lear;" for the porter in "Macbeth;" the
grave-diggers in "Hamlet," etc.; because, it is said, these bits
interrupt the tragic feeling. No such thing; they enhance it to an
incalculable extent; they deepen its _degree_, though they diminish its
duration. And what is the result? that the impression of the agony of
the individuals brought before us is far stronger than it could
otherwise have been, and our sympathies are more forcibly awakened;
while, had the contrast been wanting, the impression of pain would have
come over into ourselves, our selfish feeling, instead of our sympathy,
would have been awakened; the conception of the grief of others
diminished; and the tragedy would have made us very uncomfortable, but
never have melted us to tears or excited us to indignation. When he,
whose merry and satirical laugh rung in our ears the moment before,
faints before us, with "a plague o' both your houses, they have made
worms' meat of me," the acuteness of our feeling is excessive: but, had
we not heard the l