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A

PRACTICAL TREATISE

ON

COMPOSITION, LIGHT AND SHADE,

AND COLOUR.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM WILCOCKSON, ROLLS BUILDINGS, FETTER LANE.

Pl XII

THE USE

OF A

BOX OF COLOURS,

IN A
Practical Demonstration on

COMPOSITION, LIGHT AND SHADE,
AND COLOUR.

Illustrated by Plain and Coloured Examples.

BY

HARRY WILLSON,

AUTHOR OF FUGITIVE SKETCHES IN ROME, VENICE, ETC.

LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY TILT AND BOGUE, FLEET STREET,
FOR THE PROPRIETOR,
CHARLES SMITH, 34, MARYLEBONE STREET, PICCADILLY.
M.DCCC.XLII.

Entered at Stationers' Hall.

PREFACE.

Between those works on Art which are too costly, or too old to be useful now,—those, which are too comprehensive or prolix—and those, which teach nothing,—it was suggested to the Author, that an investigation and simple arrangement of the Principles on which he has hitherto successfully taught, with useful results, would form a Practical Treatise, calculated to abridge the labours and shorten the road of the Student, by its available suggestions.

CONTENTS.

COMPOSITION.

'Genius is the power of making efforts.'

Erroneous opinions, once formed, seldom fail to affect the taste of a man's character through his whole life. It is, therefore, of the utmost necessity that his conduct be rightly directed.

'Art will not descend to us, we must be made to reach and aspire to it.'

'The great art to learn much,' says Locke, 'is to undertake a little at a time.' And Dr. Johnson has very forcibly observed—'That all the performances of human art, at which we look with praise or wonder, are instances of the resistless force of perseverance: it is by this that the quarry becomes a pyramid, and that distant countries are united by canals. If a man were to compare the effect of a single stroke with a pickaxe, or of one impression of a spade, with the general design and last result, he would be overwhelmed with the sense of their disproportion; yet those petty operations, incessantly continued, in time surmount the greatest difficulties; and mountains are levelled, and oceans bounded, by the slender force of human beings.

'It is, therefore, of the utmost importance, that those who have any intention of deviating from the beaten roads of life, and of acquiring a reputation superior to names hourly swept away by time, among the refuse of fame, should add to their reason and spirit the power of persisting in their purposes; acquire the art of sapping what they cannot batter; and the habit of vanquishing obstinate resistance by obstinate attacks.'

To the many, of different ages, of different pursuits, of different degrees of advancement, who may take up this work, it will be difficult to address myself, as the mind requires instruction adapted to its growth; but I trust to being enabled to protect industry from being misapplied.

To such as desire to shorten the path to excellence, and to whom rules appear as the 'fetters of genius,' from mere impatience of labour, if their studies be not well directed, they will, just in proportion to their industry, deviate from that right way, to which, after all their exertions, they will have to return at last. It will be time enough to destroy the bridge when we have attained the shore. To render our efforts effectual, they must be well directed; and the student will ultimately triumph over those rules which before restrained him.

Begin wrong, and you are no sooner under sail, than under water!

When a difficulty presents itself, attack it as though you meant to overcome it, and the chances are you succeed.

Do not fancy that you have, or that you want, that illusion, inspiration; but remember Art is to be acquired by human means; that the mind is to be expanded by study; and that examples of industry abound to show the way to eminence and distinction. 'He must of necessity,' says Sir Joshua Reynolds, 'be an imitator of the works of other painters. This appears humiliating, but is equally true; and no man can be an artist, whatever he may suppose, on any other terms. For, if we did not make use of the advantages our predecessors afford us, the art would be always to begin, and consequently remain always in an infant state.' And we shall no longer require to use the thoughts of others when we have become able to think for ourselves: 'Genius is the child of Imitation.'

There are no excellencies out of the reach of the rules of art—nothing that close observation of the leading merits of others, nothing that indefatigable industry cannot acquire. Refinement in the practice of rules brings all under its dominion; and, 'as the art advances, its powers will be still more and more fixed by rules;' and, 'unsubstantial as these rules may seem, and difficult as it may be to convey them in writing, they are still seen and felt in the mind of the artist, and he works from them with as much certainty as if they were embodied upon paper. And that it is by being conversant with the inventions of others that we learn to invent. The mind becomes as powerfully affected as if it had itself produced what it admires.' An habitual intercourse, to the end of our lives, with good and great examples, will invest our own inventions with their splendid qualities; and if we do not imitate others, we shall soon be found imitating ourselves, 'and repeating what we have before often repeated; while he who has treasured the most materials, has the greatest means of invention.'

It by no means appears to me impossible to overtake what we admire and imitate—or even to pass it. He 'has only had the advantage of starting before you,' while pointing the way has shortened our own labour. Life must henceforth become longer; because we now, more than ever, gain time by the experience of others: we pass on from that to our own, until every thing in nature, judiciously directed, becomes subservient to the principles and purposes of Art.

Again, 'I very much doubt,' says Sir Joshua, 'whether a habit of drawing correctly what we see will not give a proportionable power of drawing correctly what we imagine.' But practice must always be founded on good Theory; for mere correctness of drawing is, perhaps, nearly allied to mechanical; blending it with the imaginative alone, in composition, constitutes its pretensions to genius; but confidence in the one produces boldness in the other.

'All rules arise from the passions and affections of the mind, and to which they are all referrible. Art effects its purposes by their means.'

'Years,' says a modern author, 'are often spent in acquiring wealth, which eventually cannot be enjoyed for want of those stores of the mind, that should have been laid up in youth, as the best solace of declining age. The most moderate power of making a sketch from nature would have been a valuable attainment, when leisure and opportunity threw them among scenes they could but half enjoy in consequence.' Besides, true Taste does every thing in the best way at the least expense, while the want of it often appears in unmeaning decoration at a vast outlay.

'A man of polite imagination,' says Addison, 'feels greater satisfaction in the prospect of fields and meadows than another does in the possession of them: it gives him a kind of property in every thing he sees; so that he looks on the world, as it were, in another light.'

When a Painter walks out, he receives at every glance impressions that would entirely escape others, upon sensibilities refined by habits of observation The art of seeing things as they appear is the art of acquiring a knowledge of drawing them. Indefinite observation and defective memory are improved in the utmost degree by this faculty of seeing things well defined. Besides, most Sciences are capable of receiving great assistance from drawing.

The road is familiar to the practised painter, whose many stages he has passed through so often, and he seldom thinks of revisiting the earlier tracks of it when he has set up his study at the farther end; therefore, it behoves us to come back, and lead the pupil through those early stages of it, until we welcome him at the end, and he becomes as familiar with the way as ourselves. The lowest steps of a ladder are as useful as the highest.

Composition, in drawing, is the art of disposing ideas, either from hints taken from nature, or from our own minds; of arranging them, with a view to subsequently dividing them into light and shade; and arraying them with judicious colour. It is the art of graphically telling a story, and should be so contrived, that the principal objects we would impress the minds of others with, should hold that just place in a picture, in relation to the minor or auxiliary parts, that may at once impress the mind, and convey our object to the view of the spectator.

To compose well, it will be necessary for the student to diligently consult the compositions of others; zealously enquiring where the best are to be found, among the numerous instances that exist both in pictures and prints, that he may carefully avoid those that would mislead him in his research, and attain his object by consulting only those that have merited the approval of the best judges, and have come down to posterity as the best examples for his imitation. By adhering to this plan, it will readily become such matter of habit with him, that a comparatively short interval of time will force upon him the conviction that he is in the right path to future success. It were useless to add how many have began, and how many have failed, for want of this precaution at setting out. A splendid and fascinating effect, or a beautiful display of colour, or something or other that the artist has dexterously contrived to invest his work with, is generally the cause to which this failure is ascribable; while in the end, our own sympathies with a composition, correct in its management, appeal to the feelings and judgment at once.

In the first place, much knowledge of perspective is not necessary to the student: the leading principles are all that are required, at setting out. As he goes on, it will be time enough to extend his enquiries.

Secondly, a good manner of drawing the parts, or objects represented in a picture, with accuracy.

Thirdly, reference to the best compositions of others will enable him to compare and combine them.

Fourthly, to render some subservient to others, by a skilful distribution of Light and Shade.

Exercise the memory on various parts of objects, till you draw them well: the means of connecting them will gradually occur, until the whole is united. The constant practice of this method will lessen the difficulty at every step, until it becomes a habit of the mind, and is rendered as easy to grasp a whole scene, as before it was the parts. The fleeting nature of effects of cloud or sunshine passing before us, leave no time to meditate them; therefore, to impress the memory with them is the only resource left.

The single glance of an eye has been found sufficient to catch the passing expression of character, and fix it on the memory, when that memory has been strengthened and matured by repeated efforts: so evanescent are the features of things and forms that pass us by, that observation—discriminative observation—assisted by habits of memory, alone can fix them in our ideas: no single expression of the human countenance remains long enough to paint it by any other means. When the memory has been thus exercised, the slightest hint will be sufficient to fire it. This may account for the expression, 'that artists see things where nobody else can find them!' It is an improved perception that catches resemblances from almost ideal forms.

The most general forms of nature are the most beautiful. An enlarged comprehension sees the whole object at once, without minute attention to details, by which it obtains the ruling characteristics, and imitates it by short and dexterous methods. 'Science soon discovers the shortest and surest way to effect its own purpose;'—by an exact adequate expression, and no more, adjusts the whole. The laziness of highly finishing the parts, has been justly called the 'laborious effects of idleness:' excessive labour in the detail, is always pernicious to the general effect, frittering it away; and, while you deceive yourself that you are acquiring art, your pursuit will end in mechanics, in default of more extended views—the Art of seeing Nature!

To copy well, or even tolerably, is all that most amateurs ever arrive at: to draw from nature, originally, seems placed out of the reach of all, but those who devote a great part of their existence to it; and yet, to copy nature, is a goal that all would reach if they could! Try it, and behold the miserable production that is the result! without a previous devotion to its laws.

Instead of for ever copying, it will be found of more importance to be continually exercising the memory. 'A mere imitator or copyist,' says Dagley, 'dare not lose sight of his model, lest he should lose himself!'

In sketching from nature, always survey the object at every point the nature of the ground will permit, as it prevents the disappointment arising from having completed your work, and afterwards seeing it from a point that would have given you greater advantages.

Whenever a pencil or pen is at hand, practice continually the perpendicular, horizontal, and diagonal lines; then strike circles out, or any other flowing lines, which practice will eventually give that flow to the hand which is understood by freedom. When power is acquired over these, their combinations form Drawing, in all its picturesque varieties. It is in the power of all to attain these forms and essential parts of drawing, with the same, or more facility, than the forms of writing are acquired.

'No object you can place in your picture, can possess its proper value, unless it is in its proper place;—out of that place, it can only create disorder.'

The size of a figure, or any other object, should denote the distance at which it is situated: so should the colour of it retire in the same proportion.

The eye should be distant from the picture twice the length of it.

The most natural point of sight, is the level of a man's eye, standing up; which should be the line of the horizon, or where the sky meets it. All mountains should rise above that line.

If a figure be placed on the bottom line of the picture, it should be the natural size, and all others diminish as they recede, in an exact proportion to their distance, care being taken that they never have the appearance of going up steps; all buildings, trees, &c., being governed by the same rule. Thus the second figure or object, being the same distance from the first as the first is from the eye, presuming them both to be of the same size in nature, the second will appear half the size of the first; and, if the third be removed the same distance from the second, it will appear two-thirds less; and so on they will diminish in equal proportion. At twice the distance, it will diminish three-fourths; and at one-third more, it will lose five-sixths; and so retire progressively, never varying the point of sight. One eye only should be open, in order to reduce all objects to one point of sight; the objects immediately in front, receiving alone the highest finish, that all may appear to have ground to stand on. If you look at nature with both eyes, you will never obtain the same relief upon a flat superfice.

The horizontal line should never be placed at half the height of the picture, but always above or below it.

In drawing a room, or the nave of a church, place the centre of it on one side, and never in the middle; and nearer the bottom than the top. Observe the same rule with the figures. One side should be in light, while the other is in shadow. The heads or parts of figures on the shadowed side should catch the light; while, to balance the mass, the dark groups should be placed on the light side. (See [plate 1, fig. 1.])

So, in drawing any single object, always place it sufficiently on one side, to procure a greater space above it, than beneath; and more repose on one side than the other. This principle should never be lost sight of, for even in portraits it has a bad effect.

To produce pictorial effect, in composing landscape, the lines should be of unequal length, forming acute and obtuse angles. Neither should they be vertical or horizontal with the sides or bottom of the square, but always diagonal, the distant horizon and lower streaks of the bases of the clouds excepted, which should be contrasted, by the upper parts of the clouds being round. Broken banks and spreading roots of trees will effect this. An exception, in buildings and architecture, something reverses this rule, from the lines being perpendicular and horizontal, in which case, the shadows must be diagonal. When a wall, for instance, is straight, a wheel, or circular object is generally placed against it, to reverse the lines by apposition.'

'Objects, whether they consist of lights, shadows, or figures, must be disposed in large masses and groups, properly varied and contrasted, that, to a certain quantity of action, a proportioned space of plain ground is required; that light is to be supported by sufficient shadow, and that a certain quantity of cold colours is necessary to give value and lustre to the warm.' Observation of the best pictures will convey those proportions to the mind, much better than the most profound demonstration, 'that the eye may not be distracted by a multiplicity of objects of equal magnitude.'

Grouping, in composition, involves in its arrangement, a combination of the parts, so that they form an agreeable and well-defined whole, in which it is essential sometimes to employ the strongest contrasts; on the other hand, if the forms be too much scattered, they will distort the harmonious combination that is the greatest beauty of art. All accessories may be included in the principal group, so that they contribute to the general breadth. Opposition to regular forms is essential; this opposition is called Relief. (See art. [Light and Shade].)

We may derive hints in composition from almost every sort of combination.

Variety and intricacy have many excellencies, when managed with skill, as they exert the imagination of the beholder.

'Simplicity,' says Sir Joshua Reynolds, 'when so very inartificial as to seem to evade the difficulties of art, is a very suspicious virtue.' Simplicity might often better deserve the name of penury. 'I do not, however, wish to degrade simplicity from the high estimation in which it has been ever justly held. It is our barrier against that great enemy to truth and nature, affectation! which is ever clinging to the pencil, and ready to drop in and poison every thing it touches.'

Perseverance, in laborious application to acquire correctness, should always be preferred to a splendid negligence of manner.

The frequent practice of covering down, veiling, or concealing an object or figure, because they cannot draw it, and doing that so inexpertly as not to escape detection, is frequently observable in the works of modern artists; such as clothes, baskets, &c., thrown across a horse, to conceal its deformity; unnecessary or affected drapery over a figure; a cow, half buried in weeds and dock-leaves, that its shapeless legs may not be seen, &c., with many other artifices to evade difficulties: to such he says, 'If difficulties overcome make a great part of the merit of art, difficulties evaded can deserve but little commendation.'

It is by no means an object with me, neither has this work pretension to the form of a regular treatise (too often prolix and abstruse in their investigations), but I would endeavour to bring together such useful hints as occur to me in its progress, as practically useful, without confining myself to the regularity or connexion of a lengthened dissertation, and seeking only to accomplish the end by explaining the means of contending with difficulties where they are likely to occur.

OF ANGULAR COMPOSITION.

That the angular form is one of the best adapted to composition, at least in landscape, is indisputable; the diagonal line dividing the whole into two halves, gives the largest space for the distribution of light and shade, as well as extent for the design.

When the whole composition is placed on one side, a single object—but stronger in colour than the rest—placed at the opposite side, will generally be found sufficient to balance all on the other, however complicated or extensive in its details it may be. ([Plate 1, fig. 1.])

More repose and softness is obtained by uniting the composition with the darker shadows of the clouds, than by opposition.

On the other hand, an harmonious and agreeable whole is often achieved by bringing the line of the clouds in an opposing angle to the line of the landscape, the principal figures being then mostly placed at the opposite side of the mass of the composition.

The first plan embraces an advantageous union of the parts with the greatest breadth that can perhaps be obtained, while the other frequently produces a dexterous effect by the opposition of colour.

A long stretching swamp, a bog, or line of sandy waste, marshes, a broken heath, the distant sea or sand-bank, with nothing but its straight horizon, are the sweetest morsels to good painters; for when nature has done nothing, they must do all; and, with these difficulties to contend with, it is something surprising to see the most broad and beautiful productions result from so barren materials by investing them with the all-controlling powers of chiaroscuro, by a careful inspection of their natural colours, the forms of their lights and shadows, and above all, the shapes and masses of the passing clouds; but variety and simplicity should ever be their leading principle, and grandeur is sure to be the result. Matter, seemingly incapable of form; wide extents of pathless and unbroken sterility, of nakedness and desolation, will become beautiful and masterly arrangements on these conditions: the torn, and ragged, and scattered fragments of the clouds in their wild and rushing fury over the sea, with its inexhaustible changes and endless variety of colour, are the objects painters often choose, from their very seeming nothingness, to invest with the beau ideal of art.

The extremes of simplicity in composition, should not be attempted by Tyros; the long-practiced and master hand alone can accomplish that, which in others, would appear affectation.

The most powerful impressions are produced by the simplest construction. The chief interest confined to a very small portion of the work, and the larger space left in so much repose as will give value to, and dignify the subject, that should at once meet the eye and engage our energies; investing their accessories with their due portion of interest; taking care that the expression of the principal action of the picture is agreeably supported by their subordinate quality; that the object desired is obtained, to the exclusion of all others, and that its episodes be in character.

In the arrangement of figures, Mr. Burnet, in his Hints on Composition, says, 'the heads and hands, the seats of action and expression, are often referred to each other for the completion of form or extension of light, beyond which a strong point is required, as a link of communication between the figures and the background. By making this point the strongest of a secondary group of objects, either from its size, lights, or darks, the eye is carried into the most remote circumstances, which become a part of the whole, from the principal group being made to depend upon such point for the completion of its form, the extension of the light, or the repetition of colour.' Thus, in Vandyke we often see the luminous points of his picture referring to each other in the form of a losenge, composed of the heads and hands, the collar, ruffs, the hilt of a sword, &c., while all the other parts are absorbed in dark or half shade, and making the form of his composition complete, but differing something in their force and attraction: strong light and dark coming in cutting contrast at a single point, places the subordinate lights and darks in their proper situations; at the same time, these points should always be characteristic of meaning to the composition. ([Plate 1, figs. 5], [6].)

Nothing will teach you to compose a picture like sketching, however slightly, the different groups you encounter in walking about; never be without a little book for this purpose, as the merest draught will, when you are composing, apply itself to your picture better than any thing that may be suggested. I have invariably found this the best resource. Take first the exact outline, shape, and position of the figure, and afterwards the expression of what he is doing, carefully noticing the shadowed parts, and dividing them boldly from the light; the half-tints may be blended with comparative ease; therefore make as few lines as possible, never encumbering them. That part of the figure which is foreshortened will have the greater number of folds, while that which is not, will come out plain and bold. Such memoranda will always have a look of reality over every other means of obtaining it.

It is not unfrequently the case that, in the progress of a work, a number of circumstances, partly the result of thought, partly of accident, may occur; therefore, entire reliance on the first sketch is not always to be depended on; at the same time, the various improvements that suggest themselves, do not always interfere with the carrying out our first conceptions, and still securing the same treatment with which we commenced.

A repetition of forms can only be diverted by opposing lines being brought in somewhat strong contrast against them; and, if possible, between their recurrence. ([Plate 2, fig. 1.])

In copying, draw various lines across the original, and the same on the paper the copy is to be made on. Begin with the centre, and draw towards the sides; the objects represented will be neither too large nor too small by this means.

I have said, that variety and intricacy have many charms. In passing over our embellished lands, with all the advantages our country affords in landscape objects, we cannot but observe this infinite variety in the English oak, the birch, the ash, the abele; the magnificent white poplar, with its large and beautiful leaves; the beech, the elm, the stately horse-chestnut, &c.; their great diversity of foliage and bark; their distinct peculiarities of colour and form; the oriental plane, the hazel, sycamore, the maple; especially where the landscape-gardener was never heard of, when the universal and monotonous green of summer gives place to the glowing hues of October and November, the best months of all, from the large portion of pearly grey that pervades all nature at that time, and from which are brought out, as from a background of the softest neutrals, the umbrageous, rich, bitumen-looking browns, deep crimsons, reds, and golden colours of the leaves, &c.

OF THE CIRCULAR FORM IN COMPOSITION.

Circular composition is another of the best forms, and most easily adapted for the arrangement of light and shade; as it generally possesses receding hollows for the reception of the shadows, and graduated projections for the lights to rest on. ([Plate 1, fig. 4.])

Taste is the discriminating power of selecting good from bad; and this is attainable by enquiry: there is neither instability nor uncertainty in its rules; so long as you have the good sense to place all 'inspiration' out of the question! Nothing is so pernicious as that illusion of the mind.

Grace, in my opinion, consists of lines flowing, more or less, into the ellipsis—free of constraint and affectation. Raphael, for instance, was all grace; Parmegiano degenerated into affectation.

In pictorial economy, the repetition of the same lines, and often of the same forms, assist and support each other; as necessarily as repetition of colours in painting. This extension of the same thing is frequently indispensable, both in preventing the individuality of form, and, when well broken up by opposing lines, adding materially to the seeming negligence and irregularity that carries with it so great a charm. ([Plate 1, fig. 4.])

The luminous spots or lights in a picture, frequently explain the form of its composition.

In this repetition of lines and forms, the ground may be made to run one way, the line of buildings another, the figures another, the horizon another, the forms of the trees a different one, and the shapes of the clouds may describe another: all these may have their repeats; yet will they all seem to form and tend, though apparently all irregularity, to an agreeable arrangement we sometimes see in nature, and an harmonious whole, however intricate, without confusion. The investigation of the means pursued by Salvator Rosa will explain this fascinating system. ([Plate 1, figs. 2] and [7.])

In contemplating the best regulated works of art, either in pictures or prints, by always being careful to ascertain the forms by which their effects are produced, is one of the best means of arriving at this object ourselves. Even a few memoranda of the ground plans, as an architect would say, or the form of the line on which the bases stand, will be found useful in enabling us to do this. ([Plate 1, fig. 3.])

The eye must be all observation, and the mind all reflection; and it can scarcely fail to become influenced by the advantages to be derived from this practice.

It is to the almost thinking sensibility, subtleness, and feeling of the beautifully and wonderfully constructed human hand, that every thing done with it, so far outstrips all mechanical means of imitating it! It is with this solely and alone, that fine Art is, ever was, and ever will be, identified.

'The cleverness and sensibility of the hand,' says a beautiful and masterly writer in the Quarterly Review, 'is quite as essential as inventive genius.' Speaking of our showy and elaborate park-gates at Hyde Park Corner, 'what men call the police station—in the language of the gods, the triumphal arch!' and, comparing it with the bronze net-work and foliage of Verrochio, 'which seems to grow and spring like living vegetation,' he says, 'these are capital Brummagem, and nothing more.' 'Grasped by the man, the tool becomes a part of himself; the hammer is pervaded by the vitality of the hand. But in the work produced by the machinery of the founder there can be nothing of all this life! What does it give you? Correct, stiff patterns, all on the surface. Whatever is reproduced in form or colour by mechanical means, is moulded—in short, is perpetually branded by mediocrity—Brummagem art! And, like the music ground by the barrel-organ, you never hear the soul of the performer—the expression and feeling, qualities, without which, harmony palls upon the ear.'

'Even in engraving, the best judges all declare that, so far from benefiting art, the harm it has done has been incalculable, substituting a general system of plagiarism in place of invention.'

'What will not be the result of the means of multiplying the metallic basis, and fixing the fleeting sunbeam, which are now opening upon us by means of chemical science? Steam-engine and furnace, the steel plate, the roller, the press, the Daguerreotype, the voltaic battery and the lens, are the antagonist principles of art; and so long as they are permitted to rule, so long must art be prevented from ever taking root again in the affections of mankind. It may continue to afford enjoyment to those who are severed in spirit from the multitude; but the masses will be quite easy without it.' 'Whilst we triumph in the "results of machinery," we must not repine if one of those results be the paralysis of the imaginative faculties of the human mind.'

Of all the application of mechanical means to effect the purposes of art, their contrast, with the operations of the hand, is as the stiffness and weight of death, compared with life, freedom, and vitality.

LIGHT AND SHADE.

————Shadows, to-night,
Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard
Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers
Armed in proof.

The inexhaustible and unceasingly varying beauties of art begin to develope themselves most when the study of Light and Shade commences; and the student is amply recompensed for the time he has devoted to obtaining a knowledge of correctness in outline. It is now that he sees Nature with other and improved vision—with clearer conceptions of her character—in her sunny and joyous revellings, as in her vast and awful sublimity.

Drawing gives form; Colour, its visible quality; and Light and Shade, its solidity.

If the necessary form of a figure, or any other object, be not agreeable to the eye, its whole appearance may be so altered by a skilful management of its light and shade, as to become at once the contrary by judicious arrangement.

In arranging the light and shade of a sketch I intend to paint, I usually take a piece of grey, or neutral paper, place the highest light at some point of sufficient interest (for the high light in a picture always seems to say, 'Come and look at me, to see what I am about!') and gradually lead it away, diffusing its rays, as it were, into the half light, or the half shade, and so on, until it is wholly lost in the darkest point; then, with white paint, or chalk, proceed to mark all the immaterial lights, on parts of the figures, or other objects, as they occur in the design, as conductors of the more luminous one, into the shade, as repeats, to prevent its singleness of appearance, gradating until they are carried out of the work; like light 'collected to a focus by a lens, and emitting rays,' as in [plate 2]. The judgment being principally exerted in judiciously placing the repeats, one, or more, of these lesser lights must, of necessity, be of the same colour as the principal.

Sudden transitions, by producing too much effect, the lights being too light, and the darks too dark, produce a hard, dry, a staring, and a vulgar appearance, for want of neutralizing their qualities, and bringing the parts more in union with each other. This overwrought manner is principally the cause of that common look so identified with the modern French school, the effect of too much relief.

On the other hand, nothing but flatness and insipidity is the result of too softly blending and uniting the light with the shadow, and the parts with one another, without that distinction and solidity constituting the arrangement that should bring the near and the remote together, in the treatment of the intermediate relations.

Light should be so skilfully woven into the shadow, as not to prejudice, but assist its depth by its intrusion; this is of most essential consequence.

It is not necessary that the light should come in at one side of the picture, nor pass out at the other, as has been asserted. It is, perhaps, better to attach ourselves to no particular theory: few theorists are good painters; their works, in general, bear a contradictory proportion to the opinions set forth in their speculations.

Sketching light and shade from nature (with a single colour, or a stump), teaches us to profit by every circumstance, natural or accidental. And these sketches, studied at home, teach us, in turn, at once to compose, and to extend the sphere of our observation;—it carries us to the doctrine of probable possibilities; and invests the meanest subject with attraction; the most infinite variety becomes simplicity upon these terms.

The light and shade of a picture should never bear the same proportions; it should, in all instances, differ materially in quantity; a repetition of forms should always bear a different proportion in size, the one having a decided superiority over the other, or, the inevitable consequences will be, confusion.

Unconnected lights and shadows, that are too much defined, will have a bald, a chequered, or draught-board appearance.

In sketching from nature, I usually commence by rubbing in the effect first, and adding the details, or features of the scene, afterwards; mostly beginning with the centre, or else the point of sight, and working outwards, and upwards, and downwards, to the sides of the picture. But this can only come of extensive practice, or, at least, a power of grasping the whole at once.

I have said that the first and principal part of art is Composition, or placing things together appropriately; the situation, motion, and expression of the figures; their shapes, and lights, and shadows, according. A perfect outline is of most consequence, and can only be acquired by study. Next to this, the situation, colour, and quantity of shadows; these being infinite, may be variously managed. At the same time, it requires much more observation and study to shade a picture, than to merely draw the lines of it. No fixed rule can be given for this; but, after having got the outline free and flowing, endeavour, by various trials, on other bits of paper, to leave the masses of shadow and light broad, so as to convey an appearance of space and extent. In the infinite gradations of shade, and the blending of them, nature has no determined law.

Objects out of doors, which receive the general light of the sky, and where the surrounding air gives light on all sides, will look altogether different from the same objects drawn and shaded in a room, which would give dark shadows where in nature there are none. ([Plate 3, fig. 2.])

Without shadows, the forms of things would be unrevealed.

At different times of the day, objects will give shadows quite different in size and form, corresponding with the course of the sun. The difference of your own shadow exemplifies this, as well as the variation of the shadows in your room.

Direct your attention to the difference of the shadows thrown by candle-light; this luminary being smaller than the object placed against it, would make a figure, cut from a card, two or three inches high, give a shadow on the wall the size of life.

Place any object in the sun, and turn it round to the north, south, east, and west, at different periods; and, observing the difference of shapes in the shadows, will be found excellent practice.

Placed in certain directions, the form of every thing may be inferred from its shadow.

The shadow of a person arriving, on an open door, will, if the sun is behind him, distinguish to the inmate the comer's identity.

Shadow is most articulate and defined when the light is brightest, by reason of the contrast formed by the light; and will always, under these circumstances, appear much stronger than it is; though it is not so strong, in reality, as shadow in cloudy weather, from its being more equalized with the light. Shadow is only, more or less, by comparison with the brightness of the light. This is best explained by making a room dark by degrees, and holding up some object against the light as it diminishes, until it is quite dark.

The light of the sun always reflects a shadow equal to the object which it projects on a parallel plane. The sun being larger than the body illumined, throws a shadow less than that body. On the contrary, the light of a candle, being less than the object reflected, produces the contrary effect, the shadow increasing as it retires, not in parallels, but in rays, thrown by the light.

The figure and shape of a shadow is strictly defined by the form of the object producing it; as light occasions the existence of shadow. An excellent and well-turned remark is made by some writer on the subject, who says, 'It must be observed, that there are two points to be made use of: one of them, the foot of the light, which is always taken on the plane the object is placed upon; the other, the luminous body, the rule being common to the sun, torch, &c. with this difference, that the sun's shadow is projected in parallels, and that of the torch in rays, from the centre, as before mentioned. But as all objects on earth are so small in comparison of the sun, the diminution of their shadows is imperceptible to the eye, which sees them all equal, neither broader nor narrower than the object that forms them. On this account, all the shadows made by the sun are made in parallels.'

'To find the shadow of any object whatever opposed to the sun, a line must be drawn from the top of the luminary, perpendicular to the plane where the foot of the luminary is to be taken; and from this, an occult line, to be drawn through one of the angles of the plane of the object; and another, from the sun to the same angle. The intersection of the two lines will express how far the shadow is to go. All the other lines must be drawn parallel hereto.'

The next thing to be considered is, an appropriate effect of light or shadow, to be given to the scene, or object, treated.

Calmness and serenity are the result of horizontal lights, or shadows; while the contrary is the effect of oblique, or abrupt and irregular; such as are seen in the stormy effects of Salvator Rosa, &c.

The sky and clouds are often resorted to for effect, when the landscape does not admit of sufficient. Again, less imposition thrown into the sky, will repose the landscape, when it happens to be invested with sufficient interest of itself.

Extending the repose of a work,—by throwing into the general mass of shadow a number of objects that may appear of the least consequence to the development of its story, and bringing those which should be most prominent boldly forth into the light, by projecting their forms from the hollows of the shadows, that may appear to teem with a multitude of mysterious forms, while the cutting edges and sharp lights of those projections come out in sunshine, depending solely on their vigorous division,—is one of the greatest difficulties in composition, and is principally rendered so by the necessity of adapting its sympathies to the subject we would place before the beholder—by its agreeable disposition and management; at the same time preserving the utmost singleness of intention and simplicity, by avoiding confusion, and supporting its breadth by the shapes of the masses of one and of the other. A very small portion of the light, striking some object placed in the shadow, will carry the light into it; while some point or figure, enveloped in shade or dark local colour, will be sufficient to convey the obscure parts into the luminous, and preserve the balance of the whole. ([Plate 3, fig. 2.])

The most complicated outline may by this means be reduced to the broadest effect of light and shade. And simple and palpable as this principle may seem, it may be pursued until the artist is enabled to conceal entirely the art by which it is effected; until he feels that which he could not perhaps explain, but may paint in a language that all may read.

Sir Joshua Reynolds speaks of 'That breadth of light and shadow,—that art and management of uniting light to light, and shadow to shadow, so as to make the object rise out of the ground in the plenitude of effect.'

Outline is cold and determined in its appearance, and would seem so though drawn with vermilion; and, from its being defined, carries away all idea of space and extent with it. The greater the absence of outline, the greater will be the breadth. Where there is a necessity for much outline, large masses of it must be collected into broad portions of the shadows and lights, which should be well diversified in their forms. ([Plate 5.])

Where light joins darkness, the light and dark are most intense at their junction, arising from affinity of contrast. It is not necessary to enter into the phenomena of vision to prove the existence of any thing that will be found in this work, its details being drawn from every-day observation.

Light and Shade should always, I think, partake of the character of the subject: a fête champetre should not be enveloped in the gloom of shadowy obscurity, any more than a storm piece should be clothed in the glories of sunshine.

When the composition consists of a number of objects, the best way is to single out those that should most attract, by giving them the highest quality of the light; while whole portions may be disposed of by connecting them in broad masses of the secondary light, and further uniting them with the trees, buildings, or any other objects that occur, to extend its quantity; while the masses of shadow are formed by the union of other several parts, the light mingling with and intersecting the shade, until the whole present an harmonious breadth. But to achieve this, so that the parts take agreeable forms—sustaining and supporting, and giving value to each other—is perhaps the chef-d'œuvre of the arduous arrangement of light and shade. ([Plate 2, fig. 5.])

If we require a large space for repose, by getting the light at one or other side of the picture, the light should of necessity possess some striking quality, to compensate so great a sacrifice of space; while a multitude of less important objects may find a mysterious locality in the reposing mass. ([Plate 2, figs. 1], [2].)

In some of Rembrandt's etchings, a very small but brilliant point of light is carried through the composition, by the softest gradations, into the intense depth of shadow, by striking the tops only of the figures, parts of architecture, &c., until completely lost. The principal light must never be placed in the centre, but either on one side or other.

A single mass of light will have the greatest force when brought in immediate contact with a dark background: so will a dark object tell with equal power when opposed to the strongest light. So a figure, clothed in black and white, and placed on one side of the foreground, will focus all the other lights and shadows, which will immediately keep their places in the picture—so they be less in strength. In proportion to the number of forms in the composition, this rule may be equally applied to a group, if it agree in its outline, and does not disturb the masses on which it depends for repose.

If the picture be generally light, or the greater part in half tint, a single object or point of dark will be often found sufficient to key the whole,—placed at the opposing angle on the side opposite the darkest part.

The outline of an object we would bring most forward should come out cutting and strong from its surrounding shadow, while the other masses will retire in proportion to the absence of the opposition of density employed in preventing their approach. It may not be impossible that these few words convey the impression of what we mostly intend.

The small and immaterial lights, catching the edges of objects carried into the shadow, are of the greatest usefulness in giving depth and intensity to it, while they assist the work by carrying the communicating medium through it.

Carrying the shadow across the middle of the subject is attended with many advantages; among which are, bringing the foreground into extreme vigour; furnishing ourselves with greater facilities in getting away the background; and more readily obtaining distance and repose by blending the horizon with the clouds; while the figures are brought up in cutting relief against it. ([Plate 3.])

A mass of landscape in middle tint—such as a broken common, fields, clumps of foliage, &c.—sweeping across the picture at a third, or little more, its height from the bottom, with a bold tree or group printing its dark form on the lightest part of the sky, and lifting itself from a bright sunny bank laid on the bottom edge of the design, carried on by a dark object or two, with cutting lights and intense shadows in the weeds, stones, &c., of the foreground to support it, the clouds graduating upwards from the horizon and mingling with the middle space at the opposite side of the principal group, seems to have been a favourite arrangement with Gaspar Poussan, Cuyp, and many of the Dutch, as at present it is with Turner, and many of the modern,—offering great advantages from the numerous scenes in nature for ever opening to our view through the broad masses of shadow, flung from the passing clouds across the country, and possessing every variety of tint, sobered and covered down by the extent and transparency of the shadows, while the brilliant lights come out with all the vigorous warmth the sun invests them with.

A walk into the fields, or across a heath, can scarcely be taken, when the clouds are floating along, without an effect corresponding with this being seen. A part of the principal group will sometimes be in light while the rest is in deep shadow, or may appear so from the different colours of the trees; in which case, it will blend more gently with the sky, and more intensely focus the depth of shadow, if the lighter colour be interposed between it and the sky, losing a little of its force, but gaining harmony and union, together with the advantage of carrying the warm colour of the foreground up into the foliage, and extending it more gradually through the clouds.

Three lights, differing in strength—the centre one the strongest—and placed at different angles, has universally been found an agreeable arrangement. This mode may be always pursued with a certain degree of success. The etchings and drawings after this manner are very numerous,—perhaps from its easy management.

As our senses are carried through the varieties of a tale, so the eye must be diverted from any particular object in a picture, by judiciously absorbing or bringing into notice the accessories necessary to complete the composition, without disturbing it, or prejudicing the principal. An harmonious intimacy with all the parts, and the means of that intimacy rendered as imperceptible as possible, will absorb hardness in the masses, and give distinctness and articulation to that which should predominate in acute solidity, all disjointed and unconnected appearances being carefully guarded against. Different arrangements of the same subject will be found the best means of exemplifying this.

The shadow of a cloud may accidentally be thrown over the greatest distance, while a sunbeam may suddenly illumine the middle space or foreground: the distance then would be the darkest part of the picture. Or a gleam of light may rest upon the distant mountains, while the middle space and foreground may be in shadow; then the case would be reversed, the greatest spread of light occupying the farthest distance. Even this arrangement has succeeded with some.

The highest defined light will be that which comes boldest off the darkest part of the ground. All others will decrease in proportion, as they mingle with the ground. And, as the aforesaid light is pure, so the darks will appear darker than they are. ([Plates 5], [6].)

That part of a body in light will be the brightest that is nearest to the luminary. In the theory of light, it often happens there are double and treble reflexes, which must be stronger than single ones, and the shadows of course proportionally faint. ([Plate 4.])

In proportion as reflected lights are thrown upon a darker or lighter ground, will their appearance be more or less brilliant. We deduce from this, that all those reflexes, that brighten up and play so harmoniously among the obscurity of shadows, must be in proportion to the strength of the light that occasions them. ([Plate 4.])

The light made to graduate too softly, by means of the half-tint, into the shadow, unless some part be boldly and cuttingly opposed to the other, will have a tame and insipid appearance, however sharp and forcible other portions of the work may be. ([Plates 3], [4].)

'Fulness of effect is produced by melting and losing the shadows in a ground still darker than those shadows: whereas relief is produced by opposing and separating the ground from the figure; either by light, or shadow, or colour.' ([Plate 3, fig. 2.])

Any thing intercepting the line of light upon an object, will render its shadows soft, and its lights beautifully blended.

Accidental shadows are those occasioned by objects interposed between the light and the surface reflected on. Natural shadows, those which the light connects with every opaque body. ([Plate 4], consists of natural and accidental shadows.)

The outline of the shadow should partake of the forms, at its edges, of the character of the surface receiving, as well as the one giving it.

In many, otherwise, excellent pictures of Claude's, the sun is placed at, or near the point of sight: so that all the shadows, running from that point, almost mechanically carry the eye into the picture. Whatever of good may proceed from this arrangement, its purpose is too easily detected; and it has an artificial effect.

Da Vinci says, 'The appearance of motion is lessened, according to the distance, in the same proportion as objects diminish in size.'

Open the side of a book against the light, and observe the gradations of shadow on the leaf.

If you turn half a sheet of paper up against the light (in the manner of the book), it will explain, by its shadows on the parallel part, the phenomena of half or demi-tint.

In any body that has many indentures, there will be many shadows and their grades: that body will have a greenish hue over its superfice, where the light falls on it. To keep the colour of that light pure, in this instance, requires great management; as the markings of the masses of foliage, &c., receiving the light. And yet, without these markings, or as it were carrying the shadow into the light, it would look bald. As this is done cleverly, so it will have the effect of subduing the harshness of the lights; which not being in compact masses, lose their force.

I often rumple a piece of paper, to observe the infinite variety of its shadows. And place a ball against the light, on a white surface, and observe its gradations. So, if you roll up a sheet of white paper, and lay it on a white surface, against the light, or make it stand up, it will describe the gradations of a column.

It is a very excellent method to keep a solid square, a solid sphere, a cylinder or tube, a cone (make a paper one), a cup, &c., by you, and place them in various directions in the light, making various memoranda of their lights, shadows, and reflexes, in one colour. By this means, light and shade will soon become familiar, and the task get easier at every trial.

A piece of white paper folded several ways, and laid on a table against the light, will reveal all the different degrees of shade. Then, observe the highest light and the deepest shade, with their gradations.

Observe, in a room with one window, having chairs, tables, sofas, &c. in it, where and how their shadows fall. This will assuredly lead the mind into the mysteries of light and shade, which must end in knowledge. At the very least, the power to see things as they are!

To render bodies in sunshine, the shadows must be dark, and marked strongly and distinctly, and the lights extended and broad. So, in-door objects have equally strong shadows, with the lights and shades distinctly divided and precise. All should, as a peremptory rule, receive the light from above. The light should come in from a sufficient height to give a shadow on the ground the same length as the object is high.

If any projection occurs on a plain on which a shadow is thrown, the shadow takes the form of the projection, as it passes it; but, if it ends upon it, the shadow will be shaped by the object that flung it, still qualified by the section of the projection. The rough surfaces of many things would describe the same in a lesser degree.

Light objects, as they retire, become darker; and dark ones, lighter; but light ones are seen at a greater distance than dark.

The darkest opposing object brought up against the most retiring, should not extend itself to the edges of the picture, but let the half tints creep in, to bring the light down with more effect—diffusing it more extensively.

The shadow on the ground on which it is thrown, should be darker than the object projecting it; and, if the object be round, a reflected light will be found on the edge where it joins the shadow, as in a column.

I placed a chair in the shade, and the sun's reflection threw a shadow from it!

The light of every body is qualified by the ground that surrounds it.

Breadth is acquired by blending the light parts of the figures with the light of the ground; and the same rule will apply to the shadows.

When the ground of the picture is mostly dark, the lights, in my opinion, should take some one or other good decided form in composition, in their developement, as their meaning is only to be explained by themselves. ([Plate 4.])

If a single light or luminous mass be surrounded on all sides by a dark ground, one or more of its edges should be strong and cutting; and if a dark centre be placed on a light ground, if the same management be not observed, it will look like a hole.

Leonardo says 'The ground which surrounds the figures in any painting, ought to be darker than the light part of those figures, and lighter than the shadowed part.'

Great beauty is obtained by laying the shadowed part of an object against a darker ground; the light receiving increased brightness from this arrangement, and the softness of the shadow on the light side being nearly imperceptible, gives great relief and beauty. This mode is much resorted to in the management of portraits, while it equally applies to landscape.

Most repose is obtained by placing a light group or object on the light side of the picture, and dark objects on the dark side, as no interference of the one or the other then occurs to disturb the masses; but the effect will be less than when carried the one into the other, and the difficulty of uniting the two parts become greater.

In some of the best works of Ostade, and many of the Dutch school, a dark figure or group is brought out from a darker background, with great brilliance, and even force, when the colour of the one is cold, and the other warm.

Corregio's management of light and shade placed him in the highest sphere of this department of the art.

An object or figure, having a dark and a light side, the dark side being opposed to the light part of the ground, and the light side coming off the darker part, will have great effect.

When a dark body terminates on a light ground, it will detach itself. If a round object, it will not carry its light to the extremity of its outline, but finish in a half shade, darker than the ground.

A large mass of light in the middle of the picture, surrounded by shadow, is a rule; and, when reversed, has an equally imposing effect. ([Plate 2, fig. 5.])

The largest division of the light and the dark parts of a picture, so they differ in quantity, will of necessity produce the greatest breadth; but the extent and magnitude of that breadth will be entirely qualified by the judicious management employed in producing a union between them.

One greatly approved method of producing this effect is, by bringing the light up to a brilliant focus, and absorbing the shadows into the darkest obscurity; while the larger portion of the work is pervaded by the half light and the half dark, as well as their shadows by strong local colour; while those in the shadow should come out sharp and distinct. The vigour of the light will dissolve all chance of influence in the half tints; while the extreme depth of the shadow, carried perhaps to a little excess, will gather up and absorb all the subordinate shadows. ([Plate 1, figs. 5] and [6.])

Marking, with a stump and bit of black lead, when we are abroad, the principal points, in sketching from nature; and noticing in what manner those points refer to, and assist each other; tracing their effects, and ascertaining the laws that bring them harmoniously, or by contrast, together, is the best method to be pursued for the arrangement of our own ideas in composing. Sketches so obtained, should be preserved as models to exercise the invention by.

A more distinct idea of light and shade is best obtained by the use of one colour only, as many only tend to perplex the eye, and divert the attention from the great object that should be distinctly kept in view.

In laying on the tints (of one colour only), the method to be pursued is as follows:—Mix the separate shades in separate saucers, three, four, or five, as may be required; keep the board you have previously strained the paper on inclined at moderate elevation, that the colour may flow freely; lay in the sky first; the farthest distance next; then all those masses of shadow which principally influence the division and interest of the picture; working downwards to the foreground from the middle distance, using a large brush, filled with colour, to produce clearness and transparency. Then proceed to delicately touch upon the lights, in order to blend them with the shadows, that they may not appear too abrupt, as well as to break down their asperity, and prevent the work looking bald. Now a darker shade than any should be mixed up, to put in the markings of the foliage and foreground, rocks, or whatever the composition may consist of. Lay the whole on with freedom and boldness; and, if any parts require strength, they may be lightly floated over again, when quite dry.

Do not disturb the surface of the paper more than can be avoided; and endeavour to keep all the tints even, or flat, in the first instance, without attention to the details. Always mind to take up enough of the colour at once to cover down the space intended, without sweeping it contrary ways. Thick rough paper is the best.

The power of making large masses of flat tints, commonly comes of great practice; it is, therefore, necessary that this difficulty is conquered, before attempting to blend them.

The use of that important thing, in the hands of an artist, the sponge, must be taught and seen to be understood.

The most forcible arrangement in the composition of light and shade is, where it is spread and diffused, until reaching the strongest point; which point, opposed immediately to the most retiring part, and clothed in strong colour, will have the effect of balancing and combining the most complicated forms, that, but for this method, had been all confusion.

If a sketch be too outliny, it will want solidity; if too much filled in, it will be heavy.

Do not let the lights be too scattered, or too equal, lest the struggle for precedence be observed.

When clouds are interposed between the sun and the object, the shadows will be soft, and their terminations almost imperceptible.

Plate 3

Plate 4

Plate 5

Plate 6

In conclusion, the concentration, the diffusion, or the contrast of light and shade, is best understood from a few blots made from the pictures of those great masters, who strike us as having excelled most in this department of the art, carefully preserving their arrangements, and applying them to our own compositions, until we feel and think like them. And a very little practice, in pursuing this method, will place the student in as quick a habit of effecting it, as of writing down his thoughts, together with the immeasurable advantage of snatching from Nature her faultless effects of chiaroscuro—let them be as fleeting as they may—and the lights and shades of our own minds will influence the effect they have on the minds of others.

Is there not practical wisdom in commencing every day with the steady effort to make as much of it as if it were to be our whole existence? If we have duties to perform, in themselves severe and laborious, we may enquire if there be not some way by which to invest them with pleasant associations? How many men find their pleasure in what would be the positive horror and torment of the indolent, whose inefficient and shrinking spirit recoils from these tasks as insupportable burdens?

In exact proportion as you have cultivated your taste and education in this, as in all other things, will be your happiness and enjoyment in your productions.

In a work of this nature, tautology is not altogether unavoidable, as that which occurs in one division of it, equally applies to another.

I shall revert to the subject of light and shade again, under the head of its application to Colour.

ON COLOUR.

Colour, perhaps, is one of the most expressive languages we possess—the easiest understood by all.

'Style in painting,' says Sir Joshua Reynolds, 'is, the same as in writing, a power over materials, whether words or colours, by which conceptions or sentiments are conveyed.

'When an opportunity offers, paint your studies, instead of drawing them. This will give you such a facility in using colours, that in time they will arrange themselves under the pencil.

'If painting comprises both drawing and colouring, and if, by a short struggle of resolute industry, the same expedition is attainable in painting as in drawing on paper, I cannot see what objection can justly be made to the practice, or why that should be done in parts which may be done altogether.

'Of all branches of the Art, Colouring is the least mechanical.' We cannot measure colour by lines as we can drawing.

Art is not a thing merely to be admired, and with which the spectator has nothing to do, however much he may suppose it: he has perhaps, unconsciously, as much to do with it as it may have to do with him. A man, wholly regardless of art, will remember having seen a picture twenty years ago, when shown him again: its influence on his memory, his taste, or his passions, could alone effect this.

'Colouring,' says Mr. Burnet, 'must either add to, or diminish the effect of any work upon the imagination; it must add to it by increasing, or diminish it by destroying the deception.' And he farther quotes this passage from Addison: 'We cannot, indeed, have a single image in the fancy that did not make its first entrance through the sight; but we have the power of retaining, altering, and compounding those images, which we have once received, into all the varieties of picture and vision that are most agreeable to the imagination.'

'We can form no idea of colouring beyond what has an existence in nature. From this source all our materials must be drawn.' And again:—'The artist must never forget that the mind is composed of ideas received from early impressions, from perceptions frequently occurring, and from reflections founded on such perceptions. Painting can reach the mind only through the medium of the eye, which must be gratified sufficiently to interest it in the communication.'

There should always exist a corresponding feeling between the subject and the manner of treating it.

The student should at least make himself acquainted with the leading principles of every variety of art; because, 'that which would be applicable to one style, would, in some measure, be destructive to another.' It matters nothing how low the branch or particular walk he has chosen; for it will acquire quite another accent from his acquaintance with the higher, whose powers of fascination will in time imperceptibly infuse something of their own dignity into his works.

Something of this infusion has come down from the greatness, the grandeur, and severity of the Roman and Florentine schools, through all varieties they have passed, to the modern. To reach this, however, the mind must habituate itself to become quite 'disdainful of vulgar criticism,' before it can well feel a congenial sympathy with these high latitudes, as well as having to unlearn much it has acquired.

There are many excellencies in painting not at all compatible with each other, and that should never occur together—not even to gratify that fastidious disposition that is dissatisfied with every thing short of perfection: lightness would seem to want solidity, while precision will have dryness and hardness. The excellencies of others frequently corrupt ourselves: just as one coat, however well made, will not adapt itself to two persons, any more than their talents will blend with and lessen our defects.

There is no particular style or branch of art, that the student may be in pursuit of, that does not possess some excellence or other—that is not alone, or at all, perhaps, to be found in the great manner of the Roman or Florentine schools of colour: in composition, breadth and arrangement (particularly of light and shade), and masterly treatment of colour, the Flemish and Dutch, as will our own school, furnish sufficient instances.

Light and shade, colour, novelty, variety, contrast, and even simplicity, all become defects in their excess!—the spirit of the rules by which they are regulated is to be more observed than their literal sense. It will generally be found sufficient to preserve this spirit of their laws alone, to which our ideas may be proportioned and accommodated.

Colour, in my opinion, is as useful in composition as lines: a few colours, scientifically woven together, will form agreeable composition of themselves.

Warm and cold colours, with their gradations and contrasts, lights and shadows with theirs, agreeing with and opposing each other, all struggling together (but that struggle unseen—the art concealed!) to the accomplishment of one object—the sweetness of harmony and union of the whole to one end.

OF THE THREE PRIMITIVE COLOURS.

The Three Primitive Colours are the basis of a perfect system, and may be reduced, in order of degradation, into perfect black. Their communion comprehends all other colours; and their effects, under the influence of light and shade, make pictures.

Yellow is the light; Red, the medium; and Blue, darkness;—colours of themselves, that cannot be produced by the mixture of any other.

Hayter says, in his Compendium: 'Secondly—Yellow, red, and blue contain the sole properties of producing all other colours whatsoever, as to colour, by mixtures arising entirely among themselves, without the aid of a fourth.

'Thirdly—Because, by mixing proper portions of the Three Primitives together, black is obtained, providing for every possible degree of shadow.

'Fourthly—And every practical degree of light is obtained by diluting any of the colours, as above producible; or, in oil painting, by the mixture of white paint.

'Fifthly—All transient or prismatic effects can be imitated with such coloured materials as are of the Three Primitive Colours, but only in the same degree of comparison as white bears to light.

'Sixthly—There are no other materials, in which colour is found, that are possessed of any of the foregoing perfections.

'These nine colours are all that are distinguished by integral names.

'Thus it will be seen, that Yellow, Red, and Blue produce—first, Orange, Green, and Purple; and these produce Olive, Brown, and Slate, making nine.

'Yellow, Red, and Blue, make Black.

'And this is the compendium and whole of the system of the degradation of colours into Black, or perfect darkness.

'Warm Effect is produced by
'White, Yellow, Orange, Red, Purple, Indigo, Black.
'Cold Effect is produced by
'Black, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Pale Yellow, White.'

The Three Primitive Colours, by the endless varieties of their solvents, regulate, more or less, the whole economy of a picture; and the abundant stores of nature are faithfully imitated by their agency. Thus, the Primitives being red, blue, and yellow, the colours produced by their combination are purple, orange, and green; these, in their turn, may be extended to every tint that exists. The junction of the Three Primitives absorb all, and form neutral tint, which, by the addition of quantity, produces black.

All the contrasts are rendered from the same.

And here it may not be out of place to remark how men will devote themselves to many idle pursuits that return them nothing, while a little study of the noble theory of colour would enable them, without pushing the matter far, to bring to their firesides reminiscences of their travels, or, otherwise, spots endeared by circumstances, together with a thousand other agreeable associations. They would learn in time to look at nature through the medium of art, and find a delightful interest in it they never anticipated; while every hour so spent would more and more exercise and mature the judgment.

A knowledge of the natural chalks, or colours of black, white, and red, is indispensably necessary. So, a perfect acquaintance with the Three Primitives, blue, red, and yellow, is of equal consequence; that blue and yellow are brought together by red; and that all mixtures are the scientific result of the union of these three, no two of which will produce the third. The result of the mixture of any two gives the contrast to the absent one:—as red and blue, producing purple, is the opposite to yellow; blue and yellow make green, the contrast to red; red and yellow, producing orange, contrasts blue; the three, blended together, gives us black: neutral tint is the result of the same mixture. A perfect knowledge of mixing tints, from this scale, will produce all the compounds necessary to art, and their admixtures may be varied ad infinitum.

The neutral tint mentioned may be so varied, as to act in perfect union as the shadow to any one of the colours composing it.

The modes or systems of obtaining these results of colour, as practised by the greatest schools, are exceedingly different. Sir Joshua Reynolds says: 'They may be reduced to three. The first may be called the Roman manner, where the colours are of a full and strong body, such as are found in the Transfiguration. The next is that harmony which is produced by what the ancients called the corruption of colours, by mixing and breaking them till there is a general union in the whole: this may be called the Bolognian style. The last manner belongs properly to the ornamental style, which we call the Venetian, being first practised at Venice; but it is perhaps better learned from Rubens. Here the brightest colours possible are admitted with the two extremes of warm and cold, and those reconciled by being dispersed over the picture, till the whole appears like a bunch of flowers.

'As it is from the Dutch school the art of breaking colour may be learned, so we may recommend here an attention to the works of Watteau, for excellence in the florid style of painting.

'To all these manners there are some general rules, that never must be neglected. First, that the same colour which makes the largest mass be diffused, and appear to revive in different parts of the picture; for a single colour will make a spot or blot. Even the dispersed flesh-colour, which the faces and hands occasion, requires a principal mass, which is best produced by a naked figure. But where the subject will not allow of this, a drapery, approaching to flesh colour, will answer the purpose; as in the Transfiguration, where a woman is clothed in drapery of this colour, which makes a principal to all the heads and hands of the picture. And for the sake of harmony, the colours, however distinguished in their light, should be nearly of the same simple unity in their shadows; and to give the utmost force, strength, and solidity to the work, some part of the picture should be as light, and some as dark as possible. These two extremes are, then, to be harmonized and reconciled to each other. Pure black, in these instances, is opposed to the contrary extreme of brightness.

'If to these different manners we add one more, that in which a silvery grey, or pearly tint, is predominant, I believe every kind of harmony that can be produced by colours will be comprehended. To see this style in perfection we must again have recourse to the Dutch school, particularly to the works of the younger Vandervelde, and the younger Teniers, whose pictures are valued by connoisseurs in proportion as they possess this excellence of a silver tint.

'Which of these different styles ought to be preferred, so as to meet every man's ideas, would be difficult to determine, from the predilection which every man has to the mode which is practised by the school in which he has been educated; but, if any pre-eminence is to be given, it must be to that manner which stands in the highest estimation with mankind in general, and that is the Venetian style, or rather the manner of Titian, which simply considered as producing an effect of colours, will certainly eclipse, with its splendour, whatever is brought in competition with it.'

In landscape painting, the routine of placing one colour by the side of another according to any known or understood systems, is not so imperative as when applied to historical painting, and where the manner and effect of any particular school is to be produced.

To institute a comparison between all who have excelled in colouring, would be useless here, differing so entirely. But of Tone:—The rich, and the mellow, and the silvery grey, are cared most for, as regards this expression. It involves all colours in its meaning, as well as the depth and power of the light and shade, when divested of colour. It is frequently produced after the picture is painted, by glazing or toning over it until the required depth and expression of colour is obtained, and mostly adding richness, splendour and variety. In water colour it is highly and essentially prized.

A beautiful quality of tone is obtained from drawing on grey or coloured paper, with black, white, and red chalks, the colour of the paper supplying the middle tint, (which should always pervade the largest space). It is likewise an admirable principle to adopt in water colour, as it qualifies the whole appearance of the work, and the student will proceed with greater certainty.

Of the situations in which a colour appears most beautiful, Leonardo says, 'Black is the most so in the shade; white, in the strongest light; blue and green in the half tint; yellow and red in the principal light; gold in the reflexes, and lake in the half tint:' and 'the lighter a colour is in its nature, the more so it will appear when removed to some distance; but with dark colours it is quite the reverse.'

Some colours are rather unsociable, and, not mixing well with others, are best used by themselves, producing the required tint by glazing one over the other.

When any transparent colour is laid over an opaque one, or another of its own quality, it produces a mixture different to either of those that compose it; as lake over blue gives purple; yellow on blue produces green, and so on. In many cases this is a superior method to that of mixing them at once to the colour desired.

White is the receiver of all colours; black of none.

Any single colour appears most beautiful and brilliant when near the same colour, but not having so much density in it. Observe how colours are blended or contrasted in the plumage of birds, the wings of butterflies, &c.

The shifting, blending, and comparing a number of coloured cards, has always been found a useful and amusing way of instructing children in a knowledge of colours.

Different coloured pieces of glass held up against a landscape, will serve to show, through their medium, the varieties of hot and cold effects.

Certain colours impart value to others, principally by contrast; thus, the brilliant and rich glow of an autumnal evening is rendered most intense when the dark brown and neutral masses of foliage are brought up against it: it is only to their relative situations that they owe their power.

That part of a white object which is nearest to a dark one, will appear the whitest, and the less so as it is removed from it. The same occurs by a dark one.

All colours will appear most perfect in themselves when contrasted with their opposites—a green against red; blue against yellow; black against white, &c.

Where one colour terminates on another, that is its contrast, there will be greater strength exhibited at the junction than in the middle.

Great darkness is only obtained by the opposition of bright light, and bright light by contrasting it with density of shadow.

Colours should recede in proportion to the size of objects, as they retire from the eye.

Too frequent a repetition of the same colour will produce monotony; so will too much contrast.

Contrasts in colouring must be used with great caution, or the absence of all keeping will be the result. At the same time, the beauty of a colour is only fully developed by being placed by the side of its opposite, or the one from which it is farthest removed.

If the blacks in a picture are kept firm and decided, they clear up the general effect, and give lightness and buoyancy to the whole work.

A colour is often left single, and standing by itself, in some principal object; in which case, it is so contrived, by its density, or some other quality, to bring together and harmonize all the rest.

If colours are not placed in harmony with each other, they must be in contact with such as give them value; as red against a cold, or green against a warm colour. In short, the grand principle, in all its constituent parts, simply amounts to this.

The strongest darks, brought in contact with the strongest lights, increase their brilliance, by giving to the lights the utmost force and clearness they can receive.

Richness of colouring can only be adopted when the general tone of the picture is sufficiently dark to support it.

All colours retire in proportion to their negative or neutral character; and as they develope themselves, gradually approaching to their brightest point, so they reach the prominent parts of the foreground.