patches, the lights and shadows will be so too; and vice versa.

If, for instance, we suppose a continued sweep of hills, either entirely wooded, or entirely bare, to be under the influence of a low cloudless sun---whatever parts are exposed to that sun, will have one broad light upon them; whatever are hid from it, one broad shade. If again we suppose the wood to have been thinned in such a manner, as to have left masses, groups, and single trees, so disposed as to present a pleasing and connected whole, though with detached parts; or the bare hills to have been planted in the same style---the variety of light and shadow will be greatly increased, and the general breadth still be preserved: nor would that breadth be injured if an old ruin, a cottage, or any building of a quiet tint were discovered among the trees. But if the wood were so thinned, as to have a poor, scattered, unconnected appearance; or the hills planted with clumps and detached trees--

the lights and shadows would have the same broken and disjointed effect as the objects themselves: and if to this were added any harsh contrast, such as clumps of firs, and white buildings, the irritation would be greatly increased. In all these cases, the eye, instead of reposing on one broad, connected whole, is stopt and harassed by little disunited, discordant parts. I of course suppose the sun to act on these different objects with equal splendour; for there are some days, when the whole sky is so full of jarring lights, that the shadiest groves and avenues hardly preserve their solemnity; and there are others, when the atmosphere, like the last glazing of a picture, softens into mellowness, whatever is crude throughout the landscape.

This is peculiarly the effect of twilight*;

* Milton, whose eyes seem to have been most sensibly affected by every accident and gradation of light, (and that possibly in a great degree from the weakness, and consequently the irritability of those organs) speaks always of twilight with peculiar pleasure. He has even reversed

at that delightful time, even artificial water, however naked, edgy, and tame its banks, will often receive a momentary charm; for then all that is scattered and cutting, all that disgusts a painter's eye, is blended together in one broad and soothing harmony of light and shadow. I have more than once at such a moment, happened to arrive at a place entirely new to me, and have been struck in the highest degree with the appearance of wood, water, and buildings, that seemed to accompany and

what Socrates did by philosophy; he has called up twilight from earth, and placed it in heaven:

From that high mount of God whence light and shade Spring forth, the face of brightest heaven had chang'd To grateful twilight.

What is also singular, he has in this passage made shade an essence equally with light, not merely a privation of it; a compliment, never, I believe, paid to shadow before, but which might be expected from his aversion to glare, so frequently, and so strongly expressed:

Hide me from day's garish eye.

When the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams.

set off each other in the happiest manner; and I have felt quite impatient to examine all these beauties by day-light:

"At length the morn, and cold indifference came."

The charm which held them together, and made them act so powerfully as a whole, had vanished.

It may, perhaps, be said, that the ima gination from a few imperfect hints, often forms beauties which have no existence, and that indifference may naturally arise, from those phantoms not being realized, I am far from denying the power of partial concealment and obscurity on the imagination; but in these cases, the set of objects when seen by twilight, is beautiful as a picture, and would appear highly so, if exactly represented on the canvas; but in full day-light, the sun, as it were, decompounds what had been so happily mixed together, and separates a striking whole, into detached unimpressive parts.

Nothing, I believe, would be of more service in forming a taste for general effect,

and general composition, than to examine the same scenes in the full distinctness of day, and again after sun-set. In fact, twilight does, what an improver ought to do: it connects what was before scattered; it fills up staring, meagre vacancies; it destroys edginess; and by giving shadow as well as light to water, at once increases both its brilliancy and softness. It must, however, be observed, that twilight, while it takes off the edginess of those objects which are below the horizon, more sensibly marks the outline of those which are above it, and opposed to the sky; and consequently discovers the defects, as well as the beauties of their forms. From this circumstance improvers may learn a very useful lesson, that the outline against the sky should be particularly attended to, so that nothing lumpy, meagre, or discordant should be there; for at all times, in such a situation, the form is made out, but most of all when twilight has melted the other parts together. At that time many varied groups, and elegant shapes of trees, which were