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and bring up her family in peacewhat has she to do with any other sciences, when that one is rendered so difficult to acquire? Is she to captivate her lover, or retain the affection of her husband, with bismuth or manganese? If he ask for a song, is she to trouble him with categories; if he ask for a kiss, receive but cold pity for his ignorance ?

Sketcher. I must say we have chosen an admirable theatre for our lectures, and it would seem as if we had turned our whole audience into

stone.

Pictor. And with as little chance of moving any, as the "uncouth swain," that

"Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills."

But it is time to indulge in such ideas as this scenery should more naturally give rise to.

Sketcher. Yet such conversation may have its use; it may confirm the painter in his resolution what to pursue, and that he should not be ashamed before the world of his ig

norance of that which is of no use to him. It is, therefore, a lesson of

art.

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The "distant shore" of the poet conveys well the seclusion of this.

Sketcher. Now, this would be a fit scene for the nymphs, the daughters of Ocean. Here might they come, and having hung up their Eolian lyres on the rocks, lie in the light of the silver moon, and listen to the wild and fitful strains of pain and passion, and sympathize with the suffering Prometheus, whom they have recently visited, and left chained to the appalling Caucasus. This scene would well suit the tenderness of commiseration, if under such a light that would soften all that is rugged in it.

Pictor. Yes, by moonlight. Or, would it not do for those strange imaginary creatures, bodies and spirits, the Ariels, that " do bid

ding in the vasty deep," and drop intelligence in sea-shells from faroff lands in ocean's girth, to be gathered by the pure, the faithful, and the gifted?

Sketcher. What think you of this being the cave of Proteus, whose indefatigable care of his Phoca has something so strange in it, that, if the sea-god were not gifted with prophecy and power of metamorphosis, would be but whimsical; but being what he was, it is wild and poetical. Now evening is coming in, and you may expect his return; but he will only just look round the corners of the rocks, for he is shy, and seeing us, will be quickly off, and you will hear the plash of his herd into the sea again.

Pictor. Where would you place a choir of mermaids more satisfactorily than on that smooth sand? It is the mystery and wonder about all these imaginary beings that delight us. We may soon go into the common world, where there is no mystery, no wonder, but all is bare, and here we exercise a new faculty. It is in such places as this one really enjoys the sea, not in noted and frequented watering-places, where the hiding shells are poked out of their sandy beds by regiments of walkingsticks and parasols.

Sketcher. Sitting here, as we are, we enjoy this scene before and around us; but how difficult would it be, by any sketch, to convey the subject! The fact is, it is in no one point of view. We cannot be in the cavern and paint it, and the sea too, and the rocks on all sides, facing the sea; the surrounding enclosing character must be lost. It is of little use to sketch here. This is a place wherein to imbibe ideas, to impress a general something, which the forms, as they are placed, in any one view, will not give. The most faithful representation of such a spot would be the ideal.

Pictor. The eye, they say, retains for a time the images of objects after they are removed, and the mind's eye, without doubt, retains them longer still, so that after we have looked about us at any beautiful scenery, we have painted to us and for us, a whole which we can never see from any one position. The result and combination is the great beauty, and this picture is made for

us; it requires some natural power, and much practice, to be able to catch it; and we may be convinced from this how unsatisfactory are any accurate given views.

Sketcher. And besides this comprehensiveness, sound is blended with sight. The impressions are Nature's greatest truths, searched out or combined by a peculiar faculty, but they are instantly acknowledged.

We now left the cavern, and began our ascent of the steep pass by which we had reached it. Pictor, turning round, was much struck with the exact cast of a human countenance, designated in the form of the rock before us. It occupied, perhaps, about one-third of the great mass. Pictor resembled it to the head of Memnon, waiting the stroke of the sunbeam. There is something in the accidental forms assumed by rocks and clouds, that appeals directly to the imagination, which instantly combines them with the whole

scene in such a manner, that they become personifications of earth or air. The magic has gifted them with power, and they preside over all. You can never visit the spots again, even in idea, without being sensible of their presence. We wound our way to the top, and, ere long, were again in the " Valley of Rocks." This is a very desolate barren spot, and of little or no grandeur, to divert the mind from the absolute and detestable melancholy it must inspire. The castellated rocks on this sight are not imposing, but seemed piled there just to shut out the cheerful light, and the channel of escape, fit residences for evil-boding fowl, and bats obscene; mere dreariness, without the dignity of being commanding, Somewhere within reach might have been the very cave of despair, for it was the entire territory of Melancholy. The wretch might dwell somewhere by that upright grey cliff to the right

"Low in an hollow cave,
Far underneath a craggie cliff ypight,
Darke, doleful, drearie, like a greedie grave,
That still for carrion carcases doth crave:
On top whereof aye dwelt the ghastly owle,
Shrieking his balefull note, which ever drave
Far from that haunt all other chearefull fowle;
And all about it wand'ring ghostes did waile and howle."

It is surprising this place should have been so long spoken of, not only as a beauty, but as the beauty of Linton and Lynmouth. It was a very fine July evening, and we were willing to lengthen our walk on our return. Instead, therefore, of keep ing our path through the Valley of Rocks, we ascended a steep hill to the left, which gave us a very commanding view. Linton, which itself stands so high above the Valley of the Lyn, was now below us; we were perhaps eight or nine hundred feet above the sea. Linton, with the haze and depth of the valley behind it, and the bold cliffs based in the channel, had a singular appearance. The white houses, whose tops and sides were touched by the sun, made it very conspicuous in the centre of the scene. There were circular walls about it, that seemed placed there to shut it out from the Valley of Melancholy, and left it as an inner line of an amphitheatre, whose arena

might be the Valley of Lynmouth; and the little bay beyond it gave you the idea as if it had been erected for the temporary purpose of some spectacle of deadly combat, perchance with the monsters that in the days of the Seven Champions infested every region, and had since become habitations of the lowly, regardless of such sights, and unknowing of such things.

We soon reached the summit of the hill we were ascending, and the view before us was very magnifi cent. We had a very high horizon, and a great expanse of water, over which the sun, yet distant from his setting, spread a broad line of most brilliant light, from the extreme point of sight to our very feet.

Pictor was delighted, and stood some time motionless, and silent, then made a frame, as it were, with his hands, as if composing or rather framing in his picture. We looked

sion to wait their approach in silence.

Pictor. How little is there here to sketch, and how much to admire! What materials could we use that would give any adequate idea of this sublime scene, before its beauty would vanish? Does it not look as if the glorious sun had passed over the earth, and over the sea, and had left on the waters the light of his chariot-wheels?

down on the left upon the tops of the cliffs, that, shooting out into the channel, formed within or between them the inlets, one of which we had just left. To the right we could just see the low land of the opposite coast, here distant. The horizontal line of the water was scarcely distinguishable from the sky, excepting at the termination of the broad road of light made on it by the sun, which, as I observed, ran the whole length of the perspective line of the water, nearly from the base on which we stood. The body of the sun was not visible, being behind a long band of cloud, above and below which its immediate brilliant golden colour was spread, intercepted at some short distance below by bluish grey voluminous clouds, that rose directly above the water, and above blended with the cooler tints of the sky, till it was lost over our heads in that beautifully intense ultramarine greyish purple, into which one delights to look, lying on the earth, face upwards, to watch the coming of the stars; but as they would not immediately appear, there was no occa

Sketcher. The great high-road of the gods, such track as they made when they went to feast with the distant Ethiopians; and how wondrously must the celestial steeds have bounded over the gorgeous golden road-for the moment we forget the liquid! Homer saw them, when he was sitting on a hill, looking over the great expanse as we are now. Hear his wondrous Greek, as it burst from the mouth of the great Improvisatore, of which Longinus remarks that it measured the bound of the immortal horses by the space of the world, and that another bound would find no space for them.

Όστον δ' ἠεροειδὲς ἀνὴς ἴδεν ὀφθαλμοῖσιν
Ημενος ἔν σκοπιῇ, λεύσσων ἐπὶ οἴνοπα πόντον·
Τότσον επιθρώσκεσι θεῶν ὑψαύχενες ἵπποι.

As much aerial space as a man is wont to behold with his eyes,
Sitting on a high hill looking over the purple sea,

So far bound the lofty-neck'd horses of the gods.

Pictor. But is it not the domain of Neptune? Imagine him passing, as when he took three strides from Ida, and with the fourth arrived in Ægæ, and then

"He to his chariot join'd his steeds,

Swift, brazen-hoof'd, and maned with wavy gold.

Himself attiring next in gold, he seiz'd

His golden scourge, and to his seat sublime
Ascending, o'er the billows drove; the whales,
Leaving their caverns, gambol'd on all sides
Around him, not unconscious of their king:
The sea clave wide for joy; he lightly flew,
And with unmoisten'd axle skimm'd the flood."

Sketcher. And all the pageant is passed, and he has left behind him the light of all his golden self, and of his " dazzling incorruptible abode." Such was the use the grand old Grecian bard made of his sketches from Nature; and, I doubt not, he saw some such scene as this, shut his eyes, and, composing the grand spectacle, poured it instantly forth in his own golden Greek.

VOL. XXXV. NO. CCXVIII.

Pictor. What vessel would not delight to sail upon that glorious path, under Neptune's license of protection?

Sketcher. So thought Homer; and, I dare to say, after the vision had passed, composed a hymn to the God of Sea. Let us sing it; and let it be-I forget what number it should be of "Homer's Hymns"—and thus I venture to translate it.

N

"Of Neptune, shaker of the earth, the awful god, I sing,
The shaker of the solemn sea, the wondrous Ocean-King
Thine Ægæ broad and Helicon, that with thy praises ring
Shaker of earth, a twofold power the gods have given thee,
Thou tamer of the stubborn steed, and ruler of the sea,

When ships do walk their perilous ways, their guardian thou shalt be.
Hail thou, whose dark locks floating far behind the surges sweep,
As with thine arm the mighty waves thou liftest in a heap,
And makest broad from land to land a pathway in the deep."

Pictor. Worthy the venerable heathen; but let us rather sing a nobler hymn.

1. "Praise the Lord, O my soul; O Lord, my God, thou art become exceeding glorious; thou art clothed with majesty and honour. 2. Thou deckest thyself with light as it were with a garment, and spreadest out the heavens like a curtain.

3. Who layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters; and maketh the clouds his chariot, and walketh upon the wings of the wind."

The homage was paid. "A change came o'er the spirit of the dream;" the clouds closed; the light departed; the large expanse before us became of one hue. We left the hill, and had little conversation until we reached Linton. "I think," said I to Pictor," it is about six years ago, that we were four of us standing in this churchyard, looking in admiration at the scene before us. It is now as it

was then; but of us-two out of the four are no more. One of the departed was a very dear friend, of exquisite taste, a high and noble mind, endeared to me by many ties, and still by many recollections. With the other departed I had only some few months before become acquainted. I recollect when we were standing on that spot, just on the other side of this wall, hearing him express a wish that his bones might lie in such a spot. And there they lie. He was then in good health. I never saw him from that evening. Let us go and look at his grave; it is in the very corner of the churchyard, and last year stood quite apart from all other graves. Let us visit it, for it is the grave of a Painter."

Pictor and I entered the churchyard -the grave was now no longer alone. Sketcher. I see they have laid another beside him.

Pictor. Whatever Gray may say in his Elegy of the "mute inglorious Miltons," (why did he omit the painters?) it is probable there lies here no other painter, where

"The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep."

Sketcher." The rude forefathers of the hamlet" were little akin to him. He was a stranger to these parts; and though in truth like Gray's genius-one" to fortune and to fame unknown," yet not altogether undeserving of being known-had he He was been a practicable man. strange, possessing some genius, but scarcely was it under dominion of judgment. He may rather be said to have been possessed of or by his genius; and it was wayward; even his manner of working was peculiar to himself. Were you to see only his sketches in their first uncouth state, you would have pronounced them the veriest daubs, plastered with dabs of white and grey. But he would work them up so as to surprise you. There was occasionally some poetry, but in general such a scorn of detail. He would glaze his pictures in a manner quite his own; and before he would put the last tone, which was generally a glazing of burnt sienna, there was always something to admire, even where the work was a failure. I have seen one little picture of his, an old woodman or rustic, with his dog, returning at sunset, that was extremely brilliant and vigorously painted. This little piece (the best I ever saw of his) was ordered by a gentleman, at a very trifling sum, who rejected it; the artist, in his indignation, would have destroyed his work; but it was saved, and he gave it away. He painted every thing, all sorts of subjects, animals, landscapes, old men and maidens,

and sometimes in a manner unlike his own. I have seen old whiteheaded men worked in with loads of colour, yet with great truth. There is or was a white-headed rustic about these parts that must have been his companion many an hour, for the studies from him are without number.

"Haply that hoary-headed sage may say, Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn."

Then again would he delight to paint some youthful village beauty, with a true feeling of her simple innocence, and touch in the delicate hues and features with a nice discretion, that would make his other works appear the more strange; and looking over his room, your eye would be directed from some gentler beauty to a powerful sketch of the Weird Sisters. He came here, not so much for the scenery, as to paint, for a few months, in a quiet and inexpensive place. But he became charmed with the spot, took a lease of some ground, and built, or began to build, for it remains still unfinished, that odd-looking house, apart from the village, which you saw to the left of the road to the Valley of Rocks. The interior, by all accounts, shewed the man-rude unplastered walls, and rooms whimsically formed, and the whole building oddly planned and constructed. In a place that was intended for, and might have been called a room, if the stair

did not ascend directly into it, without the precaution of a landing-place, I saw, after his death, a highly ornamented and probably valuable organ. But as to furniture, I believe there never was at any time much more than a bed, a chair, and a table: Every thing without the man, and belonging to him, was somehow or other characteristic of the man within. But there he lies-peace be with him.

Pictor. And what are become of his sketches?

Sketcher. I know not; they were not such as to be much valued. Whatever was good in them, in the state in which I saw most of them, would not be understood but by artists; but unless in a rather advanced state, little beauty would be perceptible. And, latterly, when he was involved in building, and its expenses and annoyances, he painted but little. I should be inclined to think the sketches are destroyed.

I now left my friend in the Churchyard, while I went to the Valley of Rocks Inn, to make enquiry of Mr Litson, a very civil and liberal landlord, respecting letters, and to make some other arrangements for the comfort of our party below. On my return to the Churchyard, I found Pictor sitting opposite the grave, with pencil and paper. "What is your sketch ?" said I. He rose to meet me, and put the paper into my hand. It contained the following lines.

THE PAINTER's grave.
Where shall the sunbeams play?
Where shall the moonbeams light?
For him who bade them stay,
With hand of power and might-
Upon the Painter's grave.

Where the stormy pageant rise,
And the harmless lightnings fly?
Where the magician lies

That fix'd them in the sky-
Before the Painter's grave.

Where shall the flowrets shed
Sweet odours? O'er his earth

Who from their lowly bed

Gave them immortal birth-
Upon the Painter's grave.

Where shall the aged rest,
And own one friend he found,

That thought grey hairs were best,
And age like holy ground?

Upon the Painter's grave,

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