the stillness of the scene, interrupted only by the gentle murmurs of the waves falling at your feet, or perhaps by the solemn dashing of oars, or at intervals by the hoarse bawling of the seamen; "music in such full unison," with the surrounding objects, are altogether calculated to inspire the contemplative solitary stroller with so pleasing a train of thoughts, that he does not awake from his reverie, till

"Black and deep the night begins to fall,
A shade immense, sunk in the quenching gloom;
Magnificent and vast are Heaven and earth.
Order confounded lies; all beauty void;
Distinction lost; and gay variety

One universal blot; such the fair power
Of Light, to kindle and create the whole."

What can give a more adequate idea of the power of the Divine Creator than such a scene? What can give a fuller comprehension of the compass of human invention, than the intercourse which is maintained between the most distant nations through the medium of navigation? And to an Englishman, can there be a more pleasing or exulting theme, than the wide extent of the commerce of

Great

Great Britain and the glory of the British navy, the bulwark of this happy land?

"This royal throne of Kings, this scepter'd Isle, This earth of Majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi Paradise,

This fortress built by Nature for herself,
Against infection and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house
Against the envy of less happier lands."

Neither is the beach a less pleasing scene by moon-light; particularly when stationed upon the jetty during a flowing tide, you watch each wave as it rolls majestically towards the shore, "lit up" by the brilliant reflection of the moon, and heightened at intervals by a subordinate, but redder gleam, shot from the light-house's lofty eminence, while the black impending cliffs interpose themselves as barriers, that seem to mock the resistless element with which they contend, but with which they contend in vain. Every year makes a powerful impression upon the scene; what in one year stands as a bold point projecting into the sea, in the next

*

gives place, and is perhaps hollowed into a spacious bay. Still the general character remains the same, though when examined in parts, it is materially altered.

To a picturesque observer these alterations are very amusing: new situations are continually created, and new outlines presented to his view, To the artist also, the sea furnishes an almost never-ending source of amusement; it is a constant moving picture, capable of a thousand modifications, and of being treated on canvas in various ways it admits

* A remarkable instance of this kind happened a few years since, at Trimingham, where one of these bays was formed to a very considerable extent; not indeed by the action of the sea, but by a subterraneous body of water, supposed to be collected by the choaking up of a spring. Two farm-houses, with their yards and out-buildings, besides several acres of land, fell a prey to this unsuspected enemy. One of these houses stood several weeks after the first had fallen, and was considered in a state of safety, till a crack in the land beyond it was discovered: upon this separated part was a stack of hay, the removal of which was attended with singular good fortune; for the wheels of the waggon, containing the last load, had scarcely cleared the separated part when the whole gave way.

adinits too of the grandest effects of light and shadow, and in the hands of such a master as Vandervelt, of producing wonderful effect. But in the storm alone the grand effects I am speaking of are to be found,

"When huge uproar lords it wide."

It wants, at such times, no adventitious aids to set it off. The calm, on the contrary, without some assistance, as rocks, fortifications, or figures, will hardly be able to support itself. It is true, you may place a vessel in the foreground; but a ship lying with her whole broadside to the eye, however noble it may be to contemplate, or pleasing by the goodness of its painting, will always be a formal object. If you wish to make it picturesque, you must compose your foreground of some projecting rock or pier head, a boat or two lying on the shore, and a few appropriate figures; remove the ship in the foreground to the second distance, with others in the last distance to mark the horizon; and with these materials, if well managed, a very pleasing picture may be formed.

But a storm at sea has, in itself, sufficient grandeur

grandeur to support it: the vessel labouring with the sea having all its formal lines broken by the disposition of its sails, and which be ing, as is often the case, strongly illuminated by the sun bursting through the gloom, with the whitening surges breaking upon the shoals, or dashing against the side of the vessel, doubly augmenting the blackness of the sea and sky, form a contrast so noble, as to render all other aids superfluous.

Even the dreadful effects of shipwreck produce materials, of which the artist fails not to take the greatest advantage. They are, indeed, all of them of the noblest kind: the terrific grandeur of the sea and sky, the former, as Shakespeare emphatically expresses it,

Mounting to the welkin's cheek,"

are certainly amongst the sublimest effects of nature: add to this, the shattered state of the vessel dismasted, and straining upon some fa tal rock (from which the friendly beacon held out its aid in vain), her canvas split to pieces by the wind, and blowing about in ragged remnants; are objects that cannot fail to strike

home