ome arches may be still standing, and
the loss of those which are fallen may be supplied by a few planks, with
a rail, thrown over the vacancy. It is a picturesque object: it suits
the situation; and the antiquity of the passage, the care taken to keep
it still open, though the original building is decayed, the apparent
necessity which thence results for a communication, give it an imposing
air of reality." The context of this passages shows that the bridge
leads nowhither. On the management of rocks Whately is a connoisseur.
"Their most distinguished characters," he says, "are _dignity_, _terror_,
and _fancy_: the expressions of all are constantly wild; and sometimes a
rocky scene is only wild, without pretensions to any particular
character." But ruins are what he likes best, and he recommends that
they shall be constructed on the model of Tintern Abbey. They must be
obvious ruins, much dilapidated, or the visitors will examine them too
closely. "An appendage evidently more modern than the principal
structure will sometimes corroborate the effect; the shed of a cottager
amidst the remains of a temple, is a contrast both to the former and the
present state of the building." It seems almost impossible that this
should have been offered as serious advice; but it was the admired usage
of the time. Whately's book was a recognized authority, and ran through
several editions. He is also known as a Shakespeare critic, of no
particular mark.

A more influential writer than Whately was William Gilpin, an industrious
clergyman and schoolmaster, who spent his holidays wandering and
sketching in the most approved parts of England, Wales and Scotland. His
books on the Picturesque were long held in esteem. The earliest of them
was entitled _Observations on the River Wye and several parts of South
Wales . . . relative chiefly to picturesque beauty_ (1782). Others,
which followed in steady succession, rendered a like service to the Lake
district, the Highlands of Scotland, the New Forest, and the Isle of
Wight. Those books taught the aesthetic appreciation of wild nature to a
whole generation. It is a testimony to their influence that for a time
they enslaved the youth of Wordsworth. In _The Prelude_ he tells how, in
early life, he misunderstood the teaching of Nature, not from
insensibility, but from the presumption which applied to the impassioned
life of Nature the "rules of mimic art." He calls this habit "a strong