wind into the tangling of the grass, and the bright colour into the fall of the sea-foam--various, universal in his aim;" after which very fatiguing pursuit, we are happy to find him "under the shade of some spreading elm;" yet his heart is oak--and he is "English, all English at his heart." But Mr Clarkson Stanfield is a man of men--"firm, and fearless, and unerring in his knowledge--stern and decisive in his truth--perfect and certain in composition--shunning nothing, concealing nothing, and falsifying nothing--never affected, never morbid, never failing--conscious of his strength, but never ostentatious of it--acquainted with every line and hue of the deep sea--chiseling his waves with unhesitating knowledge of every curve of their anatomy, and every moment of their motion--building his mountains rock by rock, with wind in every fissure, and weight in every stone--and modeling the masses of his sky with the strength of tempest in their every fold." It is curious--yet a searcher after nature's truths ought to know, as he is here told, that waves may be anatomized, and must be _chiseled_, and that mountains are and ought to be _built_ up rock by rock, as a wall brick by brick; no easy task considering that there is a disagreeable "wind in every fissure, and weight in every stone"--and that the aerial sky, incapable to touch, must be "modeled in masses." All this is given after an equally extravagant abuse of Claude, of Salvator Rosa, and Poussin. He finds fault with Claude, because his sea does not "upset the flower-pots on the wall," forgetting that they are put there because the sea could not--with Salvator, for his "contemptible fragment of splintery crag, which an Alpine snow-wreath" (which would have no business there) "would smother in its first swell, with a stunted bush or two growing out of it, and a Dudley or Halifax-like volume of smoke for a sky"--with Poussin, for that he treats foliage (whereof "every bough is a revelation!") as "a black round mass of impenetrable paint, diverging into feathers instead of leaves, and supported on a stick instead of a trunk." A page or two from this, our author sadly abuses poor Canaletti, as far as we can see, for not painting a tumbled-down wall, which perhaps, in his day, was not in a ruinous state at all; it is a curious passage--and shows how much may be made out of a wall. Pyramus's chink was nothing to this--behold a specimen of "fine writing!" "Well: take the next house. We remember that too; it was mouldering inch by inch into the canal, and the bricks had fallen away from its shattered marble shafts, and left them white and skeleton-like, yet with their fretwork of cold flowers wreathed about them still, untouched by time; and through the rents of the wall behind them there used to come long sunbeams gleamed by the weeds through which they pierced, which flitted, and fell one by one round those grey and quiet shafts, catching here a leaf and there a leaf,