There is none of that sharpness; but, on the contrary, a softness of outline." He made a lorgnette of his two hands; the others did so too, and found they saw much better--oh, ever so much better! "Whereas yours," resumed Snarl, "is hard; and, forgive me, rather tea-board like.

Then your _chiaro scuro,_ my good sir, is very defective; for instance, in nature, the nose, intercepting the light on one side the face, throws, of necessity, a shadow under the eye.

Caravaggio, Venetians generally, and the Bolognese masters, do particular justice to this.

No such shade appears in this portrait." "'Tis so, stop my vitals!" observed Colley Cibber.

And they all looked, and, having looked, wagged their heads in assent--as the fat, white lords at Christie's waggle fifty pounds more out for a copy of Rembrandt, a brown levitical Dutchman, visible in the pitch-dark by some sleight of sun Newton had not wit to discover.
Soaper dissented from the mass.
"But, my dear Snarl, if there are no shades, there are lights, loads of lights." "There are," replied Snarl; "only they are impossible, that is all.
You have, however," concluded he, with a manner slightly supercilious, "succeeded in the mechanical parts; the hair and the dress are well, Mr.
Triplet; but your Woffington is not a woman, not nature." They all nodded and waggled assent; but this sagacious motion was arrested as by an earthquake.
The picture rang out, in the voice of a clarion, an answer that outlived the speaker: "She's a woman! for she has taken four men in! She's nature! for a fluent dunce doesn't know her when he sees her!" Imagine the tableau! It was charming! Such opening of eyes and mouths! Cibber fell by second nature into an attitude of the old comedy.