largely to the exclusion of the more fundamental principles of design. And the third is the influence of photography, especially instantaneous photography. This last process, by arresting positions of the body that do not naturally impress the eye, has lately familiarized us with the most ungraceful attitudes, and has given a fresh impetus to the unselecting habit, which is a bane of our present schools of painting.

The greatest obstacle to progress in the art of figure painting as connected with landscape is, perhaps, the absence of appropriate costume. Farm laborers, both men and women, are, in New England, usually clad in the most negligent and unpicturesque manner. Neverthe less, figures of more or less interest are not altogether wanting; and the ordinary operations of husbandry give occasion to a great variety of actions and groupings which often present excellent materials for pictures, even though the costumes be not in themselves of interest.

To the discriminating eye even the most ungainly figure in action will frequently assume attitudes of more or less gracefulness. For these the artist should be ever watchful, though to arrest them his pencil will require much practice. He should feel that without grace no figure is, in general, worth drawing. To an eye exercised in discerning beauty the figure of a man swinging a scythe or pitching hay, for instance, will almost constantly exhibit movements as beautiful as any of those that have been embodied in the finest Greek sculpture. By catching these movements the artist may give to his design a character which will greatly raise its value. It is true that the grace which rustic figures show may sometimes be not so plainly marked, and in many instances a figure may be good for a picture, to which, standing by itself, we might hardly apply the term grace. But anything verging upon real ugliness of pose will distinctly lower the

value of the design in which it occurs as a conspicuous element. The grace whose importance I am here insisting upon is that simple, quiet grace that is entirely natural and unconscious. No undue emphasis of this quality is desirable, of course; but that beauty which is inherent in everything that is at all worth the artist's labor ought, above all things, to be brought out in the treatment of the human figure.

The figures of animals form a class of picturesque objects which are always available, and though the trappings of beasts of burden are not, in this country, any more than rustic costumes, of a highly picturesque aspect, the animals themselves are always worthy subjects of the artist's skill. The ox-team before the plough or the hay-cart, the draft-horse in his harness, and the varied groupings of cattle and sheep present an ever ready resource by which the landscape painter is often enabled to convert an otherwise indifferent scene into one of interest.

We have thus far considered only those materials for landscape which are offered by rural scenes; but the departments of what may be called industrial, urbane, and elegant life ought hardly less to supply subjects for the painter. In these departments, however, our country is deplorably deficient in picturesque interest, except in our inland water-ways and sea-coast scenes, both of which often exhibit a good deal that is admirably suited to the purposes of the painter. The slow-sailing craft and towed groups of barges that transport bulky merchandise up and down the Hudson, and the fishing and carrying sloops and schooners that ply from port to port along the sea-board, are nearly always fascinating objects; and so, also, are the many varieties of smaller sailing and rowing boats that are used for common service, the yawl of the transport craft, for instance, and the dory of the fisherman.

The operations of fishing and lading afford thousands of admirable subjects for the painter, notwithstanding that in the construction of wharfs and buildings the elements of the picturesque are not abundant. Wharfs and the buildings connected with them are hardly ever built of material substantial enough to take on, with the lapse of time, that mellowing touch of nature that is so essential to beauty. As in the New England farmhouse, the thin boarding and shingling of sea-port dwellings and storehouses generally exhibit either the marks of premature decay, or else those monotonous expanses of crude paint which are a torture to the eye; while the piles and planks of wharfs and piers fail, equally, to have that expression of solidity which should be a prime quality in such works, and which would contrast agreeably with the buoyant and elastic grace of boats and rigging. In the stead of wholesome picturesqueness a slatternly and squalid aspect is apt to result, and the value to the artist of the good elements in boats, fishing-gear, and kindred objects is thereby greatly lessened.

Other industries than those of fishing and water transport rarely, at the present time, supply interesting materials for pictures that can be classed under the head of landscapes. The post-coach, with its picturesque accompaniments, has passed away with the conditions to which it was suited, and the convenient and now indispensable steam railway is certainly not a thing of pictorial interest. Its cuttings and embankments, its iron bridges and machine-shops, are cruel scars upon the face of nature which no feeling eye can regard without pain. Without indulging in any sentimental or unreasonable denunciation of the great mechanical activities of our time and country, of which the railway is the most conspicuous, but rather admitting their advantages within reasonable limits, it may yet be said that they

are destructive of landscape beauty. At least they are so when constructed as they now are in America, with reckless disregard of everything but the commonest utilitarian and financial ends.

It is conceivable that a railway should be carried through a given territory without seriously injuring its beauty. If, instead of pursuing the directest course at any sacrifice of natural features, care might be exercised to follow the lines that would harm them least; if the cuts and other inevitable disfigurements were healed, as far as might be, by turfing and planting; and if, in the place of unsightly and dangerous skeleton bridges of iron, welldesigned and strongly-built bridges of solid and safe masonry were employed, the railway might not be the offense to the eye that it now is. With the increase of appreciation of the worth of beauty, which is not to be despaired of, it is possible that the railway may, in time, be thus improved. Certainly, if it is not, it will, at its present rate of growth, so disfigure the face of the whole country as to make it uninhabitable for men of refined sensibilities. The preservation of natural beauty is one of the first conditions of the development of taste. Protection against its destruction is therefore a matter of national importance equal to any other, and without which no schemes of art education can be of much avail. In its present form, the railway, and all that it stands for, is a potent agency for the defeat of any efforts that may be made to diffuse those artistic tastes which help to raise a people out of the barbarism of vulgar in

terests.

The streets of our cities are almost wholly devoid of picturesque beauty. The dull and oppressive monotony of the brick and stone walls of the plainer dwellings and warehouses, and the pretentiously ornate character and incongruous juxtapositions of others, ren

der our street scenes, for the most part, repellent to the feeling eye. Of the newer styles of building little need here be said, because, were they even beyond criticism as examples of architecture, they could, on account of their newness, furnish no material to the painter. A degree of age is necessary to render any object of human work that holds a place in the landscape artistically interesting; for in such objects the artist's interest does not attach to the things themselves only, but also to the conditions to which the influences of nature may have brought them. To be nobly picturesque, a structure must, of course, be intrinsically noble, like the Leeds bridge, and the artist of feeling will appreciate this character; but in its brand-new state hardly any object can be a good subject for painting. Even Leeds bridge, in the days of its newness, must have largely lacked the charm that now commends it to our admiration.

The same disregard for what is agreeable to the eye that makes the railway so ugly has operated to deprive our older cities of nearly all that was once architecturally interesting, or had become historically significant. No inherent excellence of character or memorableness of association seems now to avail against the demolition of a structure that may happen to stand in the way of any commonplace utility. The old Hancock house in Boston was, for instance, a conspicuously good example of substantial building, in which picturesqueness had been secured in a natural and unaffected way. Though it was not a great work of art, it was yet a thoroughly good one of its kind; and it was an object upon which the eye might always rest with pleasure. One One street view in Boston had, a few years ago, considerable beauty that was chiefly owing to the Paddock elms, which grouped so well with the tower and spire of Park Street Church, and cast their pleasant shade over the now glaring

sidewalk of Tremont Street. The commonplace ugliness of another street view is still largely made up for by the ivied tower of the Old South meeting-house, whose preservation has recently, by a narrow chance, been secured by private munificence. These and many other instances that will occur to everybody show something of the nature of the obstacles to the growth of taste and the cultivation of the fine arts which beset our civilization. Without an appreciation for things that are excellent and memorable sufficient to protect them from wanton destruction, and without the presence of such things, no great school of art ever did or ever can flour

ish.

A few things of excellent character, though of modest pretensions, which have attained age enough to give them something of a picturesque charm as well as historic interest, still exist among

us.

Some of the older college buildings in Cambridge have a quiet dignity of aspect, arising from both excellence of design and the mellowing touch of time. Old Harvard and Massachusetts halls, Holden Chapel, and Hollis and Stoughton are well proportioned, reasonable, and substantial buildings, which, while not to be classed as beautiful examples of architecture, are entirely agreeable objects to look upon, and will remain so as long as they last. Few buildings are met with in any of our older towns and cities which are nearly so good as these; and their quiet expression ought to furnish a useful lesson to our rising architects. Very different and very much better would have been the present aspect of this seat of learning, had the whole town assumed and retained a character such as buildings so substantial and dignified as these would have imparted to it. With such a style of building, and with the suburbs and river banks kept free from unnecessary disfigurements, Cambridge would be a far pleasanter place than it now is to live in.

Materials for art would not be wanting in a town of such character; and the conditions most favorable to art are the same that are most favorable to all the best interests and enjoyments of men. Our general indifference to these conditions is amazing, as the scattered rubbish, staring advertisements, and monstrous ugliness in building which disfigure the suburbs of all our larger towns too undeniably attest. These are no necessary part of the industrial progress by which it is sometimes sought to excuse them. They are signs of an indifference and an insensitiveness that do us little credit as an enlightened people.

In our public parks and in the pleasure grounds of the wealthy, the artist will find good subjects less frequently than might be the case were the art of the landscape gardener better understood among us. The value of straight lines on level ground, and the almost inevitable weakness of sinuous paths and roadways that are not governed in their course by natural undulations of surface or by obstacles either natural or artificial, seem to be not generally enough recognized. All imitation of the freedom of nature, the formation of artificial mounds, rockeries, cataracts, and kindred fancies, are apt to be bad in effect. We may terrace a hillside, and conduct a stream through walled channels, let it fall from ledge to ledge of good masonry, and shoot in fountain spray into marble basins, with good effect. An artist may revel in artificial works of this kind when once they have been enough touched by nature to take off their brand-newness; but imitations of the features of wild and free nature are tolerable only on the stage. A park or garden is properly an artificial thing, and it is generally most effective and delightful when all its arrangements are frankly and reasonably so. As a rule, on level ground, right lines and geometric curves are the most suitable for

paths and flower-plots. In Boston, the Common and the Public Garden afford illustration, on the one hand of a mode of laying out which is reasonable and effective, and on the other of a mode which is weak and ineffective. A painter may find good subjects for his pencil in the Common, but he will not find many in the Public Garden. The filigreed cast-iron railings which often inclose our public parks are unsightly objects which cannot be made to harmonize with anything beautiful. Plain or simply ornamented wrought-iron railings would be in no way offensive to the eye. Inclosure of some sort all such grounds ought to have. The fashion of leveling fences is objectionable because it takes away that expression of security and seclusion which are among the first requisites of pleasure grounds, whether public or private. A fence need never be a disagreeable object. On the contrary, it is, when reasonably designed and well constructed, a pleasant feature in any scene where it has a use. One of the most agreeable of all fences is the living hedge, for which we have so wide a variety of suitable shrubs that it is a wonder it is not more generally employed.

It is singular that in our parks, where the exigencies of economy and utility cannot be urged, a well-designed and well-constructed bridge of stone should so rarely appear. The discordant constructions of painted iron which so often do duty as bridges in public pleasure grounds invariably destroy the effect of every scene in which they occur, and, together with the mediocre statuary conspicuously mounted on showily ornate pedestals, do incalculable mischief in vulgarizing the public taste, while they drive to despair the artist in search of materials for pictures.

Subjects like the foregoing embrace about all that the Middle and New England States now afford which are at all suited to the purposes of the landscape

painter. Other regions of the country, with exception, perhaps, of some portions of the South, hardly, I suppose, possess as much material for the artist. The vast regions of the West, though in many parts rich in varied and magnificent scenery, are as yet, for the most part, too newly settled to have attained the conditions that are essential to the painter. On the whole, though good subjects for painting are to be found in the older parts of the country, yet the discriminating admirer of landscape beauty cannot fail to feel that they are of very limited range, while those of a highly interesting kind are comparatively few. The scenes that most commonly meet our eyes, in our daily walks, are not such as to awaken artistic enthusiasm. This is not because our civilization is new. Picturesque material was far more abundant with us when it was newer. It is rather because we, at this

time, in our treatment of nature, practically do not regard its beauty as of equal importance with the material services which it can be made to yield.

Under these conditions, it behooves those of us who value beauty, and all that it stands for, to do what we can to extend its appreciation. We ought to be modest in our estimate of the landscape art now produced, and to recognize the fact that its real improvement must necessarily be slow. The artist cannot be independent of the conditions which surround him. The most that he can do is to gather what is best out of them. It behooves him to cultivate a spirit of discrimination in all that he delineates. By a habit of choice according to his apprehensions, a critical spirit, growing more and more just by exercise, will be formed in him, whereby the character of his art will be proportionately raised.

Charles H. Moore.

Christopher P. Cranch.