concerned, he was to such a degree self taught,
and only partially taught, that it is said he never learnt to paint
figures--those in his pictures were painted by other painters, and that
Claude even painted animals badly.

Mr Ruskin has been hard on Claude, whether justly or unjustly, I cannot
pretend to say.

The critic denies the painter not only a sense of truth in art, but all
imagination as a landscape painter 'Of men of name,' Mr Ruskin writes,
'Perhaps Claude is the best instance of a want of imagination, nearly
total, borne out by painful but untaught study of nature, and much
feeling for abstract beauty of form, with none whatever for harmony of
expression.' Mr Ruskin condemns in the strongest terms 'the mourning and
murky olive browns and verdigris greens, in which Claude, with the
industry and intelligence of a Sevres china painter, drags the laborious
bramble leaves over his childish foreground.' But Mr Ruskin himself
acknowledges, with a reservation, Claude's charm in foliage, and
pronounces more conditionally his power, when it was at its best, in
skies--a region in which the greater, as well as the less, Poussin was
declared to fail signally; 'a perfectly genuine and untouched sky of
Claude,' Mr Ruskin writes, 'is indeed most perfect, and beyond praise,
in all qualities of air; though even with him I often feel rather that
there is a great deal of pleasant air between me and the firmament, than
that the firmament itself is only air.'

When all has been said that can be said, let us look at a mellow or a
sunny Claude on any wall where it may hang, and judge for ourselves of
the satisfaction it is calculated to give.

Claude was fond of painting scenes on the Tiber and in the Roman
Campagna, but while he tried to reproduce the hills and woodlands of
Italy, he did not seek to paint the mountain landscapes of the
Apennines.

Besides Claude's numerous works in England and scattered through other
countries, some of his finest paintings are in the Doria and Sciarra
palaces in Rome. He rarely put his name to his works; when he did so he
signed it frequently 'Claudio,' sometimes 'Claudius.' I have spoken of
his book of sketches, in which he had been wont to note on the back of
the sketch the date of the completed picture, and to whom sold. This
book he called the 'Libro di Verita,' or, Book of Truth, and its
apparent use was to check the sale of spurious paintings in Claude's
name, even during his lifetime.