In the first place, I now saw Claudes worthy of the reputation he
bore. Three or four of these were studied with great delight; the
delight one feels, who, conscientiously bound to be delighted,
suddenly comes into a situation to be so. I saw, now, those
atmospheric traits, those reproductions of the mysteries of air, and
of light, which are called so wonderful, and for which all admire
Claude, but for which so few admire Him who made Claude, and who every
day creates around us, in the commonest scenes, effects far more
beautiful. How much, even now, my admiration of Claude was genuine, I
cannot say. How can we ever be sure on this point, when we admire what
has prestige and sanction, not to admire which is an argument against
ourselves? Certainly, however, I did feel great delight in some of
these works.
One of my favorites was Rembrandt. I always did admire the gorgeous
and solemn mysteries of his coloring. Rembrandt is like Hawthorne. He
chooses simple and everyday objects, and so arranges light and shadow
as to give them a sombre richness and a mysterious gloom. The House of
Seven Gables is a succession of Rembrandt pictures, done in words
instead of oils.
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