Let the young painter go to Fontainebleau, and while he stupefies himself with studies that teach him the mechanical side of his trade, let him walk in the great air, and be a servant of mirth, and not pick and botanise, but wait upon the moods of nature. So he will learn⁠—or learn not to forget⁠—the poetry of life and earth, which, when he has acquired his track, will save him from joyless reproduction.