forms. When he has grasped the type, then he can construct individuals as he will, but any attempt to create new types results in inanity or caricature, in the deformity of feebleness, or the deformity of the grotesque.
Nothing in the picture is more masterly than these clouds upon the Cordillera. See how they climb and cling to the slopes, how they bridge the hollows, and fling themselves against the opponent cliffs, how they trail and linger, as if to choose their bivouac for the night-watches. They do not sag ponderous and lethargic, nor droop in sorry dejection, weeping out their hearts because their backs are broken. Nor do they fritter away their dignity in a fantastic dance. They are elate and springy with eagerness through all their brilliant phalanxes, and detach themselves with perfect individuality from the far-away sky and the dark mountain. They are naturally and rightly in their place, and give the needful horizontal, for change of line, after so much height, as well as the needful concealment and revelation of form.
But the Llano at the Heart of the Andes, the village, the Montaña, the cataract, and the inexhaustible charms of the rich foreground, invite us. Let us take at a leap the gulf on the mountain-side where a thread of cascade is faintly visible. We advance over the gradual slope behind the dark forest, and notice the forceful quiet of that breadth of gray woodland in shadow, in the middle distance, with its bold fronts of rock.
