as it grows less and less distinct,
becomes part of the subject of a _larger_ picture. Fig. 1 represents
nearly what Turner's treatment of it would be if it were the principal
subject of a vignette; and Fig. 4 his treatment of it as an object in
the extreme distance of a large oil picture. If at the same supposed
distance it entered into a smaller drawing, so as to be much smaller in
size, he might get the gradations with less trouble, sometimes even by a
single sweep of the brush; but _some_ gradation would assuredly be
retained, though the tower were diminished to the height of one of the
long letters of this type.

Sec. 8. "But is Turner right in doing this?"

Yes. The truth is indeed so. If you watch any object as it fades in
distance, it will lose gradually its force, its intelligibility, its
anatomy, its whole comprehensible being; but it will _never_ lose its
gradation of light. Up to the last moment, what light is seen on it,
feebly glimmering and narrowed almost to a point or a line, is still
full of change. One part is brighter than another, and brighter with as
lovely and tender increase as it was when nearest to us; and at last,
though a white house ten miles away will be seen only as a small square
spot of light, its windows, doors, or roof, being as utterly invisible
as if they were not in existence, the gradation of its light will not be
lost; one part of the spot will be seen to be brighter than another.

Sec. 9. Is there not a deep meaning in this? We, in our daily looking at
the thing, think that its own make is the most important part of it.
Windows and porticos, eaves and cornices, how interesting and how useful
are they! Surely, the chief importance of the thing is in these. No; not
in these; but in the play of the light of heaven upon it. There is a
place and time when all those windows and porticos will be lost sight
of; when the only question becomes, "what light had it?" How much of
heaven was looking upon it? What were the broad relations of it, in
light and darkness, to the sky and earth, and all things around it? It
might have strange humors and ways of its own--many a rent in its wall,
and many a roughness on its roof; or it might have many attractivenesses
and noblenesses of its own--fair mouldings and gay ornaments; but the
time comes when all these are vain, and when the slight, wandering
warmth of heaven's sunshine which the building itself felt not, and not
one eye in a thousand saw,