"There," the critics said, "we have had perfection.

Let us rest in that." And all growth in landscape-art ceased.

Then came Turner, who, when he had followed the old for a time and got its good, broke away from it, as if in laughter.

"What," he felt, "the infinite of nature is before me; inconceivable change and variety in earth, and sky, and sea--and shall I be tied down to one form of painting landscape, one arrangement of artistic properties?
Let the old perfection go." And we had our revolution in landscape art: nothing, perhaps, so faultless as Claude's composition, but life, love of nature, and an illimitable range; incessant change, movement, and aspiration which have never since allowed the landscape artist to think that he has attained.
On another side of the art of painting, Rossetti, Millais, Hunt arose; and they said, "We will paint men as they actually were in the past, in the moments of their passion, and with their emotions on their faces, and with the scenery around them as it was; and whatever background of nature there was behind them, it shall be painted direct from the very work of nature herself, and in her very colours.

In doing this our range will become infinite.