Hitherto I have only
had instinct to guide me in judging of art; I feel more as if I had
been walking blindfold--this book seems to give me eyes. I _do_ wish
I had pictures within reach by which to test the new sense. Who can
read these glowing descriptions of Turner's works without longing to
see them? However eloquent and convincing the language in which
another's opinion is placed before you, you still wish to judge for
yourself. I like this author's style much: there is both energy and
beauty in it; I like himself too, because he is such a hearty
admirer. He does not give Turner half-measure of praise or
veneration, he eulogises, he reverences him (or rather his genius)
with his whole soul. One can sympathise with that sort of devout,
serious admiration (for he is no rhapsodist)--one can respect it; and
yet possibly many people would laugh at it. I am truly obliged to
Mr. Smith for giving me this book, not having often met with one that
has pleased me more.
'You will have seen some of the notices of _Wildfell Hall_. I wish
my sister felt the unfavourable ones less keenly. She does not _say_
much, for she is of a remarkably taciturn, still, thoughtful nature,
reserved even with her nearest of kin, but I cannot avoid seeing that
her spirits are depressed sometimes.
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