What became of Paul Potter?  How did he isolate himself in the heart of this rich and swarming school, where practical ability was extreme, talent universal, style somewhat similar, and, nevertheless—­a beautiful thing at that happy time—­the methods of feeling were very individual?  Had he any fellow-pupils?  We do not see them.  His friends are unknown.  He was born,—­it is the utmost we can do to be sure of the exact year.  He reveals himself early, signing a charming etching at fourteen; at twenty-two he is ignorant on many points, but on others his maturity is unexampled.  He laboured and produced work upon work; doing some things admirably.  He accumulated them in a few years in haste and abundance, as if death were at his heels, and yet with an appreciation and a patience which render this prodigious labour miraculous.  He married, young, for any one else but very late for him, for it was on July 3, 1650; and on August 4, 1654, four years afterwards, death seized him in the height of his glory, but before he had learned his whole ground.  What could be simpler, shorter, and more fully accomplished?  Genius and no lessons, ardent study, an ingenuous and able product, attentive observation and reflection; add to this great natural charm, the gentleness of a meditative mind, the appreciation of a conscience filled with scruples, the sadness inseparable from solitary labour, and, perhaps, the natural melancholy belonging to sickly beings, and you very nearly have all Paul Potter.

To this extent, if we except its charm, The Bull at The Hague represents him wonderfully well.  It is a great study, too great from the common-sense point of view, not too great for the research of which it was the object, nor for the instruction that the painter drew from it.

Reflect that Paul Potter, compared with his brilliant contemporaries, was ignorant of all the skill of the handicraft:  I do not speak of the tricks of which his frankness can never be suspected.  He especially studied forms and aspects in their absolute simplicity.  The least artifice was an embarrassment which would have spoiled him, because it would have altered his clear view of things.  A great bull in a vast plain, an immense sky, and no horizon, so to speak,—­what better opportunity is there for a student to learn once for all a host of very difficult things, and to know them, as they say, by rule and compass.  The action is very simple; he did not fail with it; the movement is true, and the head admirably full of life.  The beast has his age, his type, his character, his disposition, his length, his height, his joints, his bones, his muscles, his hair rough or smooth, in flocks or curls, his hide loose or stretched,—­all is perfection.  The head, the eye, the neck and shoulders, the chest, from the point of view of a naive and powerful observation, form a very rare specimen, perhaps, really without an equal.  I do not say that the pigment is beautiful, nor that the colour