Where shall the maiden meek, There is a winding footpath behind the Valley of Rocks Inn, that leads down to the little Quay; but we preferred returning to Lynmouth by the carriage road. We had nearly reached the bottom of the hill, when we met the females of our party, who were proceeding to the waterside by a path that commenced a little way up the hill, in preference to what, in its improved state, may almost be called the street of Lynmouth. This walk was chosen, because, as the sun was now setting in great magnificence, it presented a more striking view of the effects of the glorious luminary over the world which he was blessing at his departure. This path was a little above the buildings and the Quay, and commanded them in agreeable perspective: the broad Channel and the Welsh mountains bounded the view. The little river was both seen and heard, as in tints of pinkish grey it brawled in its restless and earnest speed to the great bosom of its rest. To the left, the rich bank of the hill rose, covered with foliage, and was terminated by high and spreading trees, between whose leafage and branches the golden light was streaming. As we proceeded nearer the Quay, the path was in deep shade, darkened by the high wooded bank on one side, and high trees rising out of broken ground on the other, that shot out their branches over the termination of the little street below. These trees are bold and fine, and I never saw this passage by any light that it did not exhibit considerable beauty both of form and colour. A boat, with its keel upwards, was lying on one side the path at the bottom of the rocky bank, near which was a dark, narrow way that led upwards to Linton. A little lower down were some rude steps, and the upper part of an old house, which had an entrance here as well as below, where the path reached the Quay. There are some good studies about this passage, but they are for various uses, not for views, except to those who would make the sentiment of their picture to rest in colour,-for, doubtless, Rem- Pictor. This is beautiful; here sight and sound uniting, fill the mind with awe of the element that can be so great, so powerful in its very play, leaving thereby the power of its wrath to imagination. A few minutes ago you would have been delighted to have stepped down on the stones of the pier, to have watched the pouring in; and now it is a foot under water, and the resistance it offers below sends the waves clear and transparent over its top with a rush, that would take you off your footing in a moment, and send you into the deep water like a bob or bottle of sea-weed, as a reproof for your impertinent scrutiny. There is something much more noticeable in the waters in this state, than in their greater fury. Sketcher. Yes, because the idea of your having recently desired the footing, from which you are now cut off, brings yourself into connexion with the element; it has made you for a moment its playmate, and you are feelingly convinced of the strength of the monster's paw. But had you seen him at once put out his whole power in one great dash of foam and fury, you would not have felt the smallest inclination to subject yourself to his wrath; the idea would not have crossed your mind, and you would have seen the display comparatively unmoved. Whatever is more powerful than ourselves, and has life and action, is always grand to us; and the more we can bring ourselves in imagination within its reach or vortex, the more grand it becomes. There is little sublimity where there is no sense of our own inferiority, no fear, no sense of danger. Pictor. Water generally conveys to my mind a feeling of terror, or something akin to it. Even a small cascade overpowers me, but that may be with its sound; but a deep, still, dark pool in a mountain stream amid the solitary woods, fills me with horror. And even a shallow, creeping, insinuating, almost silent stream, with a few white bubbles on the transparent surface, that by their passage just shew the motion and progress over a dark-brown bed, all stealing its designing way through dark shade, has often chilled me, as by the presence of a hydra gifted with fascination. I have so often mentioned this feeling, and have met but with ridicule for my imaginary hy drophobia, that I must suppose it to be a peculiar weakness-a supersti tion. Sketcher. Painters and poets have keen eyes and ears, and see and hear sights and sounds, that would be audible and visible to many others, if they would walk abroad to study these things as you do. But they look mostly to general views; in which, by the by, nature is most deficient, scattering about her poetry in her materials and in parts, offer ing her more extended general pictures to draw away from the search those whom she less favours. Descending from the steps, and leaning over the wall of the little Quay, we for some time watched the coming-in sea from that point. We saw a black mass of stone, with its head just above water, that looked like an object of sport for the waves, that would at some distance slowly approach, and swell, and threaten, and curl darkening under their brows, then with a rush pounce upon the black object, and washing over it, steal aside and retreat in comparative quiet, again to repeat the sport. Pictor. How like tigers at play! and see, within our view what variety there is! Here it is sport;here again a succession of waves come on like pawing foaming horses. There again, at a little distance to our left, the element steals like an insidious serpent, licking the pebbles that shine at the feet of that half-fascinated daughter of Eve, who is coquetting with its approach, now flying and now returning, and allowing her delicate feet to be wetted by its deceitful tongue. Small regard has he, the villain, for her beauty, and would willingly bear her away with a hiss, to gorge his monstrous ravenous brood, all waiting, lurking out of sight in the blue deep, for their daily meals. Sketcher. Watch that broken plank, part perhaps of some heretofore fair bark, that has proudly and triumphantly buffeted the stormy main, and visited the "vex'd Bermudas." See how the waves seem to stretch out for it, as it lies on the very edge; and now they have reached it; they have washed over it— they have moved it; and now they rush in with greater force and confidence. They have it; and see how they bear it back with them into the mass of foam, where is the conflict of the inpouring and the receding. Who would venture to the rescue? Go, bid the fair one read the lesson, and draw a moral from it. Pictor. How forcibly does it remind us of the prophetic vision of Isaiah: "Their roaring shall be like a lion, they shall roar like young lions; yea, they shall roar and lay hold of their . prey, and shall carry it away safe, and none shall deliver it. And in that day they shall roar against them like the roaring of the sea." The sun had now set; we left the pier to join our party, who had wandered down among the rocks. We found them deeply sheltered in a recess, among large fragments of stone, with the high cliff at their backs. The water was scarcely heard here. We were directed to them by the sound of the guitar, whose tones, so peculiarly vibrating and adapted to the open air, blended with the voice, stole upon the ear with great tenderness. Ariel might have listened to it, and mermaids have dropped their sea-shells. It is music draws the true magic circle. It influences all animate things, and characterises inanimate. For here the very rocks seemed to arch themselves to hear it; the air seemed in stillness to receive it; the waters to glide in more gently, and fall to its cadence; it brought out the stars; and their winking spake plainly, "Softly tread:" so for a while we stood still. There is a picture. At the conclusion of the song we joined the fair musicians; of whom and whose converse I am not here permitted to speak. We were forming our plans for the mor row; and I was expatiating with much delight upon the beauty of the valleys we were to visit, when Pictor remarked, that there was something not quite pleasing, especially under the influence of this fading light and scene, in descriptions of sunny and green spots, endeared too by many recollections. "Were we," said he, "far removed from them, we might think upon them as regions that the blessed orb of day might be still looking upon, (for we are not over particular in measurement of degrees.) To be out of instant reach may be enough for the imaginative; but now that they are so near us, and we know them to be under the deep veil of an almost awful solitude, buried in nature's sleep, so like death, the fancy passes instantly from the brightness to the darkness. The transition is sudden and painful. The more vivid the description or the recollection, the deeper the gloom in contrast. It is the sunniest, the brightest object, throws the darker shadow." There was a pause; to break which, the guitar was placed in Pictor's hands. He bent his head to the instrument a few seconds, as in deep thought; touched a few chords; and feelingly, with subdued voice, sang the following To me they seem like a forsaken feast, "We must break this spell," said I. 'Pictor has been visiting the Painter's Grave, and ruminating sweet and bitter melancholy.' Let us return. We have yet one social pleasure that will dissipate all gloom; when the clear transparent pure white China cups shall throw up their perfumed incense to the Good Genius,' we shall be cheerful again." We rose, and moved homewards. As Pictor was desirous of seeing the effect of the low light over the scene from the little pier, we walked aside to the steps of the look-out house. Since we had left it, a great change had taken place. The high hill, on which Linton stands, had now lost the marks of all petty divisions, and appeared one wooded dark mass, yet varying in depth of shade and tone of colour, as it was nearer to, or receded from the eye. At the foot of this hill lay the little street; the whitewashed walls sufficiently marked it, but as all was in the repose of deep shade, not obtrusively so. The very high rocky hill, that rose above the little valley of the West Lyn, was separated from the other by its lighter tone. The one being woody, the other grey rock, gave them distinction of colour. Yet they were happily blended, and the outlines of separation so soft, as scarcely to obtain notice. The pier on which we stood, meeting the line of the street nearly at right angles, gave the charm of enclosure to the little harbour. The water was very dark with the reflection of the hills. Immediately under our eyes were a few small vessels, whose masts and cordage were relieved against the darkness, though not too nicely seen. All was stillness. It was a little harbour of peace and PICTOR'S SONG. O, who would sit in the moonlight pale, O, who would sit in the silent vale? This lamp shall be our orb of night, All On the flowery beds all green and bright, O, the nightingale's is but a silly choice, A listener cold-and sweeter the voice For moonlight glades, and brawling brooks, O, we will the happy listeners be, As it were a fairy, with half-closed eye, That on this our pleasanter world would spy. O, who would exchange a home like this, For the gardens, and banks, and "bowers of bliss," O that Kaisar or King the peace could find Within four bright walls and a cheerful mind! We retired to rest, I trust not unthankful for the enjoyment of the day, as for many other blessings. Another day's proceedings must be for another paper. NOTE.-Knowledge is power-commonly meant scientific, and only scientific, to the exclusion of religious acquirement. With what consummate skill has Milton arranged all the delusive arguments upon this subject, and put them into the mouth of the great Tempter! The promise of that knowledge was to teach our first parents to be regardless of their Maker, to set themselves up in a power equal to his. Power though it may be, it is nowhere pronounced to be Virtue or Happiness the wisdom to be derived from a far other fountain than that "scientific sap;" and thus are described the intoxicating deleterious effects of that "mortal taste." "Soon as the force of that fallacious fruit, About their spirits had play'd, and inmost powers Then, again, Adam's conviction "In evil hour didst thou give ear Our wonted ornaments now soil'd and stain'd." |