nolet, Caravaggio, which have a greater affinity to grandeur, are ill suited to beauty, from qualities notoriously adverse to that character; for who would wish to have the dark shadows of Caravaggio or Rembrandt, or the bold touches of Salvator or Spagnolet, employed on Nymphs and sleeping Cupids? or, on the other hand, the fresh and tender hues of Albano, or the sweetness of Correggio's pencilling and colouring, on executioners, sea-monsters, and banditti? CHAPTER VII. THE various effects in painting which have been discussed in the last chapter, naturally lead me to that great principle of the art, breadth of light and shadow. What is called breadth, seems to bear nearly the same relation to light and shadow, as smoothness does to material objects; for as a greater degree of irritation arises from uneven surfaces, and from those most of all which are broken into little inequalities, so all lights and shadows which are interrupted and scattered, are infinitely more irritating than those which are broad and continued. Every person of the least observation, must have remarked how broad the lights and shadows. are on a fine evening in nature, or (what is almost the same thing) in a picture of Claude. He must equally have remarked the extreme difference between such lights and shadows, and those which sometimes disgrace the works of painters, in other respects of great excellence; and which prevail in nature, when the sun-beams, refracted and dispersed in every direction by a number of white flickering clouds, create a perpetually shifting glare, and keep the eye in a state of constant irritation. All such accidental effects arising from clouds, though they strongly shew the general principle, and are highly proper to be studied by all lovers of painting or of nature, yet not being subject to our controul, are of less use to improvers; a great deal however is subject to our controul, and I believe we may lay it down as a very general maxim, that in proportion as the objects are scattered, unconnected; and in patches, the lights and shadows will be so too; and vice versa. If, for instance, we suppose a continued sweep of hills, either entirely wooded, or entirely bare, to be under the influence of a low cloudless sun---whatever parts are exposed to that sun, will have one broad. light upon them; whatever are hid from it, one broad shade. If again we suppose the wood to have been thinned in such a manner, as to have left masses, groups, and single trees, so disposed as to present a pleasing and connected whole, though with detached parts; or the bare hills to have been planted in the same style---the variety of light and shadow will be greatly increased, and the general breadth still be preserved nor would that breadth be injured if an old ruin, a cottage, or any building of a quiet tint were discovered among the trees. But if the wood were so thinned, as to have a poor, scattered, unconnected appearance; or the hills planted with clumps and detached trees-- the lights and shadows would have the same broken and disjointed effect as the objects themselves: and if to this were added any harsh contrast, such as clumps of firs, and white buildings, the irritation would be greatly increased. In all these cases, the eye, instead of reposing on one broad, connected whole, is stopt and harassed by little disunited, discordant parts. I of course suppose the sun to act on these different objects with equal splendour; for there are some days, when the whole sky is so full of jarring lights, that the shadiest groves and avenues hardly preserve their solemnity; and there are others, when the atmosphere, like the last glazing of a picture, softens into mellowness, whatever is crude throughout the landscape. This is peculiarly the effect of twilight*; Milton, whose eyes seem to have been most sensibly affected by every accident and gradation of light, (and that possibly in a great degree from the weakness, and consequently the irritability of those organs) speaks always of twilight with peculiar pleasure. He has even reversed |