d its changes, and has brought down and laid open to the world
another apocalypse of heaven." Very well, considering that the cirrus
never touches even the highest mountains of Europe, to follow its
phase (query faces) and feature 15,000 feet high, and given pink dots,
four pink dots for the faces and features of human beings within
fifteen feet of his brush. We will not say whether the old masters
painted this cirrus or not. We believe they painted what they and we
see, at least so much as suited their pictures--but as they were not,
generally speaking, exclusively sky-painters, but painters of subjects
to which the skies were subordinate, they may be fairly held excused
for this their lack of ballooning after the "cirrus;" and we thank
them that they were not "glare-seekers," "threading" their way, with
it before them, "among the then transparent clouds, while all around
the sun is unshadowed fire." We lose him altogether in the "central
cloud region," where he helps nature pretty considerably as she "melts
even the unoccupied azure into palpitating shades," and hopelessly
turns the corner of common observation, and escapes among the "fifty
aisles penetrating through angelic chapels to the shechinah of the
blue." We must expect him to descend a little vain of his exploit, and
so he does--and wonders not that the form and colour of Turner should
be misunderstood, for "they require for the full perception of their
meaning and truth, such knowledge and such time as not one in a
thousand possesses, or can bestow." The inference is, that the
graduate has graduated a successful phaeton, driving Mr Turner's
chariot through all the signs of the zodiac. So he sends all artists,
ancient and modern, to Mr Turner's country, as "a magnificent
statement, all truth"--that is, "impetuous clouds, twisted rain,
flickering sunshine, fleeting shadow, gushing water, and oppressed
cattle"--yes, more, it wants repose, and there it is--"High and far
above the dark volumes of the swift rain-cloud, are seen on the left,
through their opening, the quiet, horizontal, silent flakes of the
highest cirrus, resting in the repose of the deep sky;" and there they
are, "delicate, soft, passing vapours," and there is "the exquisite
depth and _palpitating_ tenderness of the blue with which they are
islanded." Thus _islanded in tenderness_, what wonder is it if Ixion
embraced a cloud? Let not the modern lover of nature entertain such a
thought; "Bright Ph[