swept by the waves against the neighboring rocks, where
their blood mingles with the white foam of the raging billows. Some,
too, are floating on the surface of the sea, some are about to sink, and
some are endeavoring to reach the shore, against which they will be
inevitably dashed to pieces. The same variety of character, action, and
expression is observable among the spectators, some of whom are turning
aside with a shudder, some are doing their utmost to assist the drowning
persons, while others remain motionless and are merely looking on. A few
persons have made a fire beneath a rock, and are endeavoring to revive a
woman, who is apparently expiring. But now turn your eyes, reader,
towards another picture, and you will there see a calm, with all its
charms. The waters, which are tranquil, smooth, and cheerful-looking,
insensibly lose their transparency as they extend further from the
sight, while their surface gradually assumes a lighter tint, as they
roll from the shore to the horizon. The ships are motionless, and the
sailors and passengers are whiling away the time in various amusements.
If it is morning, what light vapors are seen rising all around! and how
they have refreshed and vivified every object they have fallen on! If it
is evening, what a golden tint do the tops of the mountains assume! How
various, too, are the hues of the sky! And how gently do the clouds move
along, as they cast the reflection of their different colors into the
sea! Go, reader, into the country, lift your eyes up towards the azure
vault of heaven, observe well the phenomena you then see there, and you
will think that a large piece of the canvass lighted by the sun himself
has been cut out and placed upon the easel of the artist: or form your
hand into a tube, so that, by looking through it, you will only be able
to see a limited space of the canvass painted by nature, and you will at
once fancy that you are gazing on one of Vernet's pictures which has
been taken from off his easel and placed in the sky. His nights, too,
are as touching as his days are fine; while his ports are as fine as his
imaginative pieces are piquant. He is equally wonderful, whether he
employs his pencil to depict a subject of everyday life, or he abandons
himself completely to his imagination; and he is equally
incomprehensible, whether he employs the orb of day or the orb of night,
natural or artificial lights, to light his pictures with: he is always
bold, ha