have the two tendencies developed into antagonistic schools, the extreme advocates of the one, though they are not all called Pre-Raphaelites, showing an inclination to claim, as the modern painters who founded this school were accused of doing (see Fig. 6, page 71), that in a painting every leaf on a tree, every spear in a grass-plot, every hair on a head, should be distinctly and separately outlined; and the advocates of the other school showing an inclination to claim that in no case should any of these be so outlined, partly because they are not so perceived in nature and partly because, even if so perceived, they should not be strictly imitated in art, the object of which is to represent, and to represent not specific, but general effects (see Fig. 7, page 91; also 5, page 61). It seems as if, in this case, as usual, the extremists on both sides somewhat exaggerate the partial truth that they are trying to emphasise. Objects in very bright light and near at hand can be, and, if one be representing nature faithfully, should be delineated with well defined outlines. On the contrary, objects that are in dim light, as in the twilight landscapes of Corot, or objects that are remote from the observer, can be and should be delineated with indistinct outlines. Notice these conditions as indicated in Fig. 2, page 3. Among painters, Jules Breton is worthy of notice as particularly successful in regarding this principle. In many of his pictures the figures in the foreground are as clearly defined as in a painting by Meissonier, while those in the rear, in strict accordance with the conditions in nature, are outlined with great vagueness. One cannot avoid feeling that an artist who has thus reproduced the exact effects of nature must eventually rank higher than those who have allowed a mere theory to cause them to use either the

"classic" or "romantic" line indiscriminately and universally.

There are other effects of colour that have only been discovered as a result of study. Take those of what is termed aerial perspective. The atmosphere is filled with particles that cause it to act like a veil obscuring the colours in the distance by depriving them of a part of their light. It therefore causes them, as distances increase, to become dimmer, and, in the remote distance, to become changed in hue. In an atmosphere pervaded throughout by the same general degree of light, yellow, which contains the most light of any of the colours, passes, in the distance, into darker yellow and orangeyellow; orange into red-orange; red into darker red; yellow-green, as often in the near foliage at sunset, into green, then into dark green, and in great distance, into blue and bluish purple, or, in the absence of sunshine, into grey. The local shadows cast by a hill, tree, or leaves in the greater brightness near at hand are darker than the shadows at a distance (see Fig. 2, page 3). The general shadows cast by the clouds do not necessarily have this effect. Often, in fact, by obscuring the sunlight near at hand and leaving it clear in the distance, in other words by changing the degrees of light in different parts of a landscape, they change the distribution of colours that have been mentioned. In an ocean view, for instance, light green is sometimes seen in the distance and deep blue near at hand. But as a rule the colours in aerial perspective will appear as has been stated. In regiments of soldiers marching toward us, all clad in scarlet, that colour seems brightest in the front rank, and gradually decreases in brightness till in the remote distance it may seem more like reddish brown. This fact

will be found represented in several of the military pictures of Detaille. Even in the same room books of the same colour seem to differ, if one be a foot farther from us than another, provided always, of course, that they are illumined by the same degree of light. All these statements can be seen illustrated, by inspecting the works of artists like Rousseau, Daubigny, Millet, or Troyon, of the Fontainebleau-Barbizon school, the oriental pictures of Decamps or Fromentin, or the landscapes or interiors of more modern painters like Inness or Chase of our own country, Israels of Holland, or Lerolle of France. Those who have an opportunity to do so will be interested in noticing the effects of distance and space as produced by the latter, in the "Organ Recital," which is in the Metropolitan Art Museum in New York.

Distance has also another influence. This appears in what is termed linear perspective. If we look down a long street, the roadway or sidewalks of which are of uniform width, and the buildings along which are of uniform height, we find all the lines of sidewalks, curbstones, and roofs gradually converging in the extreme distance. In case two parallel lines are as near together as the two tracks of a railway, they may seem actually to meet in the distance. Notice the upper illustration at the left of Fig. 2, page 3. As the appearance indicated is universal in nature, of course art, in representing nature, must represent it also. Yet for centuries the proper method of doing this was not understood. Now it is known that if, from an imaginary vanishing point on which the eye, in gazing toward the back of a picture, is supposed to be fixed, radiating lines be drawn to the top and bottom and sides of a form represented in the foreground, these lines between the form and the vanishing

point will determine the top and bottom and sides of other figures, which, in the degree in which every dimension in them is made smaller than the form in the foreground, will appear to be, not less in actual size, but at a greater distance from the spectator. Notice the left upper illustration in Fig. 2, page 3. These laws of perspective are now so well known that their more simple effects are easy to produce. But some of them are exceedingly difficult. Take cases of foreshortening, for instance, like the representations painted by Michael Angelo on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel of figures in all possible positions, standing, sitting, lying, and ascending in clouds, could any one, unless very skilful as a draughtsman, produce with success such effects? Could he produce them at all, when working merely by way of imitation? Did anybody ever actually perceive figures in such positions?

There is another important effect in painting that is, perhaps, still less allied to mere imitation than any that we have yet considered. It is the effect of life or movement. The spokes of a wheel in a waggon, when standing still, have one appearance. What is their appearance when the waggon is under way? What is the appearance of a torch when waved through the air, or of the legs of a man or a horse when racing? What is the appearance of the leaves of trees or the waves of lakes when swayed by a tempest? Such effects are seldom seen with a distinct outline (see Fig. 7, page 91). To have this, an object should remain a certain length of time in one place. How can they be imitated? They cannot be. They can be merely represented. A rolling wheel is pictured, not as a compound of spokes, but as a sparkling disk, a waving torch not as a point of light, but as a