These are not woolly clouds, nor fleecy breadths of woolliness; not feathery clouds, nor brooding feathered pinions. They are not curls of animal hair, nor plumes of fowls. Only the morbid will be reminded by them of flocks of sheep, or flights of rocs. They are clouds made of vapor, not of flocculent pulp, or rags, or shoddy. They are no more like either syllabub or dumplings than Mr. Churches air is like lymph, his water like yeast, or his peaks like frosted plum-cake. Epithets from the kitchen or the factory are equally out of place. These are veritable clouds of coherent, translucent vapor; — magical creations, because there is no magic in them, but only profound, patient, able handiwork guided by love. They are beautiful because they are actual clouds of heaven, and show that the artist knew the infinite life of clouds and the dramatic energy of their coming and going, eventful with shadow and light, and sometimes with tears and dreary tragedies of storm, — that he has seen what wreathed smiles they have for sunshine, what mild rebuffs for boisterous winds, — seen their coquetries of flying and waiting, their coy advances, their wiles of hiding and peering forth with bright looks from under hoods of gray. And having thus studied the character and laws, the use and the loveliness of these spirits of the air, the artist, knowing that he cannot better the models of Nature, has adopted them. Painting of natural objects must be imitation or mockery. A great artist studies to master type
