mystery and death, and memory and beauty - what is there to be learned or lamented, to be loved or wept - we look for to Canaletti in vain."*

"Let us pass to Prout; the imitation is lost at once. The buildings have nothing resembling their real relief against the sky. There are multitudes of false distances; the shadows in many places have a great deal more Vandyke brown than darkness in them; and the lights very often more yellow-ochre than sunshine. But yet the effect on our eye is that very brilliancy and cheerfulness which delighted us in Venice itself, and there is none of that oppressive and lurid gloom which was cast upon our feelings by Canaletti. And now we feel that there is something in the subject worth drawing, and different from other subjects and architecture: that house is rich and strange and full of grotesque carving and character, - that one next to it is shattered, and varied with picturesque rents and hues of decay, - that further off is beautiful in proportion, and strong in purity of marble. Now we begin to feel that we are in Venice. This is what we could not get elsewhere: it is worth seeing, and drawing, and talking, and thinking of - not an exhibition of common daylight or brick walls. But let us look a little closer; we know those capitals very well; their design was most original and perfect, and so delicate that it seemed to have been cut in ivory."

"For expression of effects of yellow sunlight, parts might be chosen out of the good pictures of Cuyp, which have never been equalled in art; but I much doubt if there has been a single bright Cuyp in the world, which, taken as a whole, does not present many glaring solecisms in tone. I have not seen many fine pictures of his which were not utterly spoiled by the vermillion dress of some principal figure, a vermillion totally unaffected and unwarmed by the golden hue of the rest of the picture, and, what is worse, with little distinction between its own illumined and shaded parts, so that it appears altogether out of sunshine; the colour of a bright vermillion in dead, cold daylight. It is possible that the original colour may have gone down in all cases, or that these parts may have been villanously repainted, but I am the rather disposed to believe them genuine, because, even throughout the best of his pictures, there are evident recurrences of the same kind of solecism in other colours - greens for instance - as in the steep bank on the right of the largest picture in the Dulwich gallery; and browns, as in the lying cow in the same picture, which is in most visible and painful contrast with the one standing beside it, the flank of the standing one being bathed in breathing sunshine, and the reposing one laid in with as dead, opaque, and lifeless brown as ever came raw from a novice's pallet. And again in that marked 83, while the figures on the right are walking in the most precious light, and those just beyond them in the distance leave a furlong or two of visible sunbeams between us and them, the cows are deprived entirely, poor things! of both light and air, and have nothing but brown paint to depend upon: and these failing parts, though they often escape the eye when we are near the picture, and able to dwell upon what is beautiful in it, yet so injure its whole effect, that I question if there be many Cuyps, in which vivid colours occur, which will not lose their effect, and become cold and flat, at a distance of ten or twelve paces, retaining their influence only when the eye is close enough to rest on the right parts without including the whole. Take for instance, the large one in our National Gallery, , seen from the opposite door, where the black cow appears a great deal nearer than the dogs, and the golden tones of the distance look like a sepia drawing rather than like sunshine, owing chiefly to the utter want of aerial greys indicated through them. Now there is no instance in the works of Turner of anything so faithful and imitative of sunshine as the