f the one mode, as they repeat that with which the
eye is already familiar, are soon recognised and estimated; while the
advances of the artist on a new path must necessarily be slow--for a few
are able to judge of that _which deviates from the usual course, or are
qualified to appreciate original studies_." In this passage is contained,
both the principle of Constable's painting, and the history of its
results: for, strange as it may seem, so little do general observers look
at nature with an observing and pictorial eye--so much are their ideas of
what it contains received at second-hand, by reflection from
pictures--that the forms under which artists have combined to represent
her (forms representing, it may be, a portion of the truth, but certainly
not the whole truth) have, in the great majority of cases, superseded the
stamp and authority of nature; and truth itself, where it did not steal in
under a conventional garb, has been refused admittance by more than one
committee of taste. "What a sad thing," Constable writes to Leslie, "that
this lovely art is so wrested to its own destruction! Used only to blind
our eyes, and to prevent us from seeing the sun shine, the fields bloom,
the trees blossom, the foliage rustle; while old black rubbed-out and
dirty canvasses take the place of God's own works!"

With his mind made up as to the course to be adopted, Constable betook
himself to the study of nature on the spot. Careful _drawing_ was his
first object, as the substance to which the embodiment of colour and
chiaroscuro was to be applied, and without which, though there might be
effect, there could be no truth. His studies of trees and foreground are
said to have been eminently beautiful. These, however, he loved to exhibit
in their vernal, rather than their autumnal character. "I never did admire
the autumnal tints, even in nature--so little of a painter am I in the eye
of common connoisseurship. I love the exhilarating freshness of spring."
Buildings he did not court, but rather avoided--though in later life he
grappled successfully even with architectural detail, as in his pictures
of Salisbury Cathedral;[2] but, in general, he dealt with it sparingly.
Shipping and coast-scenes he considered "more fit for execution than for
sentiment." What he luxuriated in was the study of atmospheric effects,
and the principles of light and shadow as applied to his sylvan and
pastoral landscapes. "I hold the genuine pastoral feelin