William Gilpin (1724-1804), author of works on the picturesque aspects of the scenery of Britain, illustrated by his own aquatint engravings, was in his own way an apostle of romanticism. Born at Scaleby, Carlisle, he studied at Queen's College, Oxford; kept a school at Cheam; and in 1777 became vicar of Boldre in Hampshire. He published, besides some theological works, a series of books on the scenery of the Wye, of the Lake District, of the Scottish Highlands, and of the Isle of Wight, which drew on him the ridicule of the author of Dr Syntax. His best-known book was his too poetic Remarks on Forest Scenery, in which he says: 'It is no exaggerated praise to call a tree the grandest and most beautiful of all the productions of the earth;' and he describes trees, singly and in masses, under all conditions of light and weather. In not a few points he may rank as an early forerunner of Ruskin. Sunrise in the Woods. The first dawn of day exhibits a beautiful obscurity. When the east begins just to brighten with the reflections only of effulgence, a pleasing progressive light, dubious and amusing, is thrown over the face of things. A single ray is able to assist the picturesque eye, which by such slender aid creates a thousand imaginary forms, if the scene be unknown, and as the light steals gradually on, is amused by correcting its vague ideas by the real objects. What in the confusion of twilight perhaps seemed a stretch of rising ground, broken into various parts, becomes now vast masses of wood and an extent of forest. As the sun begins to appear above the horizon, another change takes place. What was before only form, being now enlightened, begins to receive effect. This effect depends on two circumstances-the catching lights which touch the summits of every object, and the mistiness in which the rising orb is commonly enveloped. The effect is often pleasing when the sun rises in unsullied brightness, diffusing its ruddy light over the upper parts of objects, which is contrasted by the deeper shadows below; yet the effect is then only transcendent when he rises accompanied by a train of vapours in a misty atmosphere. Among lakes and mountains, this happy accompaniment often forms the most astonishing visions, and yet in the forest it is nearly as great. With what delightful effect do we sometimes see the sun's disk just appear above a woody hill, or, in Shakspeare's language, Stand tiptoe on the misty mountain's top' and dart his diverging rays through the rising vapour. The radiance, catching the tops of the trees as they hang midway upon the shaggy steep, and touching here and there a few other prominent objects, imperceptibly mixes its ruddy tint with the surrounding mists, setting on fire, as it were, their upper parts, while their lower skirts are lost in a dark mass of varied confusion, in which trees and ground, and radiance and obscurity, are all blended together. When the eye is fortunate enough to catch the glowing instant -for it is always a vanishing scene-it furnishes an idea worth treasuring among the choicest appearances of nature. Mistiness alone, we have observed, occasions a confusion in objects which is often picturesque ; but the glory of the vision depends on the glowing lights which are mingled with it. Landscape-painters, in general, pay too little attention to the discriminations of morning and evening. We are often at a loss to distinguish in pictures the rising from the setting sun, though their characters are very different both in the lights and shadows. The ruddy lights, indeed, of the evening are more easily distinguished, but it is not perhaps always sufficiently observed that the shadows of the evening are much less opaque than those of the morning. They may be brightened perhaps by the numberless rays floating in the atmosphere, which are incessantly reverberated in every direction, and may continue in action after the sun is set; whereas in the morning the rays of the preceding day having subsided, no object receives any light but from the immediate lustre of the sun. Whatever becomes of the theory, the fact, I believe, is well ascertained. Sir Uvedale Price (1747-1829), another notable apostle of the picturesque, was educated at Eton and Christ Church, where he became the friend of Fox, inherited a fortune on the death of his father and the estate of Foxley in Herefordshire, and was made a baronet in 1828. In his Essay on the Picturesque he earnestly recommended the study of the great landscape painters, their works and art, in order to improve real scenery, as well as to promote landscape gardening on true principles. He wrote also with elegance' on artificial water, on house decorations, architecture, and buildings. He insisted that the picturesque in nature is distinct from the sublime and the beautiful; and in enforcing and maintaining this, he attacked the style of ornamental gardening which Mason the poet had recommended, and Kent and Brown, the great landscape improvers, had reduced to practice. Some of Price's positions had the honour to be debated and confuted by Dugald Stewart. Price was credited with having greatly stimulated public interest in questions of art and taste, in provoking the desire to observe and enjoy and conscientiously reproduce natural beauty. Atmospheric Effects. It is not only the change of vegetation which gives to autumn its golden hue, but also the atmosphere itself, and the lights and shadows which then prevail. Spring has its light and flitting clouds, with shadows equally flitting and uncertain; refreshing showers, with gay and genial bursts of sunshine, that seem suddenly to call forth and to nourish the young buds and flowers. In autumn all is matured; and the rich hues of the ripened fruits and of the changing foliage are rendered still richer by the warm haze, which, on a fine day in that season, spreads the last varnish over every part of the picture. In winter, the trees and woods, from their total loss of foliage, have so lifeless and meagre an appearance, so different from the freshness of spring, the fullness of summer, and the richness of autumn, that many, not insensible to the beauties of scenery at other times, scarcely look at it during that season. But the contracted circle which the sun then describes, however unwished for on every other consideration, is of great advantage with respect to breadth, for then even the midday lights and shadows, from their horizontal direction, are so striking, and the parts so finely illuminated, and yet so connected and filled up by them, that I have many times forgotten the nakedness of the trees, from admiration of the general masses. In summer the exact reverse is the case; the rich clothing of the parts makes a faint impression, from the vague and general glare of light without shadow. John O'Keefe (1747–1833), a prolific farcewriter, was born in Dublin, and for a year or two was an art student, but, smitten with a passion for the stage, he came out as an actor in his native city. He generally produced some dramatic piece every year for his benefit, and one of these, Tony Lumpkin in Town, was played with success in 1778 at the Haymarket Theatre in London. Failing eyesight disqualified him for acting, but, settling in London about 1780, he continued to supply the theatres with new pieces, and up to the year 1809 had written about fifty plays and farces. Most of these were called comic operas or musical farces, and some of them enjoyed great success, such as The Agreeable Surprise, Wild Oats, Modern Antiques, Fontainebleau, The Highland Reel, Love in a Camp, The Poor Soldier, and Sprigs of Laurel, in the first of which the character of Lingo the schoolmaster is a laughable piece of broad humour. Wild Oats is still sometimes played. O'Keefe's things were merely intended to make people laugh, and they fully answered that object. The lively dramatist, who was one of the victims of Gifford's savage criticism in the Baviad and Mæviad, went quite blind by 1797, and in 1800 he had a benefit at Covent Garden Theatre, and delivered a poetical address. He died at the age of eighty-five. His songs, brightly conceived and cleverly written, had many of them the good luck to become popular, and wedded to the music of such composers as Shield and Arnold, have kept their place in popular song-books. I am a friar of orders grey' is standard song; 'Amo, amas, I loved a lass,' is still occasionally sung, and so are 'The Thorn' and 'Flow, thou regal, purple stream.' George Colman 'the Younger' (1762-1836) was the most able and successful comic dramatist of his day. The son of the author of The Jealous Wife and Clandestine Marriage (see page 561), Colman had an hereditary attachment to the drama. He was educated at Westminster School, and was afterwards entered at Christ Church College, Oxford; but his idleness and dissipation led his father to withdraw him hence and banish him to Aberdeen, where, though still distinguished for his eccentric dress and folly, he applied himself to classical and other studies. At Aberdeen he published a poem on Charles James Fox, entitled The Man of the People, and wrote a musical farce, The Female Dramatist, It was which was brought out by his father at the Haymarket Theatre, but condemned. A second dramatic attempt, Two to One (1784), had some success and fixed his inclinations; for though his father intended him for the Bar and entered him of Lincoln's Inn, the drama engrossed his attention. In 1784 he contracted a thoughtless Gretna Green marriage, and next year brought out a second musical comedy, Turk and no Turk, and when his father became incapacitated by attacks of paralysis, undertook the management of the Haymarket. Numerous pieces proceeded from his pen: Inkle and Yarico, a musical opera based on a story from the Spectator, brought out with success in 1787; Ways and Means, a comedy (1788); The Battle of Hexham (1789); The Surrender of Calais (1791); The Mountaineers (1793); The Iron Chest (1796), founded on Godwin's novel of Caleb Williams, and at first a failure; The Heir at Law (1797); Blue Beard (1798), a mere piece of scenic display and music; The Review, or the Wags of Windsor (1798), an excellent farce; The Poor Gentleman (1802); Love Laughs at Locksmiths (1803); Gay Deceivers (1804); John Bull (1805); Who Wants a Guinea? (1805); We Fly by Night (1806); The Africans (1808); X Y Z (1810); The Law of Java (1822), a musical drama, &c. after the condemnation of the Iron Chest, which afterwards became a standard acting play, that Colman added 'the younger' to his name. 'Lest my father's memory,' he says, 'may be injured by mistakes, and in the confusion of aftertime the translator of Terence, and the author of The Jealous Wife, should be supposed guilty of The Iron Chest, I shall, were I to reach the patriarchal longevity of Methuselah, continue (in all my dramatic publications) to subscribe myself George Colman, the younger? No modern dramatist has added so many stock pieces to the theatre as Colman, or given so much genuine mirth and humour to playgoers. His society was much courted; he was a favourite with George IV., and, in conjunction with Sheridan, was wont to set the royal table in a roar. His gaiety, however, was not allied to prudence, and theatrical property is a very precarious possession. As manager, Colman got entangled in lawsuits, and was forced to reside in the King's Bench. The king relieved him by appointing him to the post of licenser and examiner of plays, worth from £300 to £400 a year. In this office Colman incurred the enmity of several dramatic authors by the rigour with which he scrutinised their productions. His own plays are far from being strictly correct or highly moral, but not an oath or double-entendre, not even a mild O Lord,' was suffered to escape his expurgatorial pen, and he was peculiarly keen-scented in detecting all political allusions. Besides his numerous plays, Colman wrote some poetical travesties and levities, published as My Nightgown and Slippers (1797), and republished (1802), with additions, as Broad Grins; also Poetical Vagaries, Vagaries Vindicated, and Eccentricities for Edinburgh. In these delicacy and decorum are often sacrificed to broad mirth and humour. The last work of the lively author was memoirs of his own early life and times, entitled Random Records (1830). Colman's comedies abound in witty and ludicrous delineations of character interspersed with bursts of tenderness and feeling, somewhat in the style of Sterne, whom indeed he closely copied in his Poor Gentleman. Sir Walter Scott praised John Bull as by far the best effort of recent comic drama: 'The scenes of broad humour are executed in the best possible taste; and the whimsical yet native characters reflect the manners of real life. The sentimental parts, although one of them includes a finely wrought-up scene of paternal distress, partake of the falsetto of German pathos. But the piece is both humorous and affecting; and we readily excuse its obvious imperfections in consideration of its exciting our laughter and our tears.' Ollapod in the Poor Gentleman is one of Colman's most original conceptions ; Pangloss in the Heir at Law is a satirical portrait of a pedant, proud of being both LL.D. and A. double S.; and his Irishmen, Yorkshiremen, and country rustics are entertaining though overcharged portraits. A tendency to farce is the besetting sin of Colman's comedies; and in his more serious plays there is a curious mixture of prose and verse, high-toned sentiment and low humour. Their effect on the stage is, however, irresistible. Octavian in the Mountaineers was a complimentary sketch of John Kemble: Lovely as day he was-but envious clouds Would charm the towering eagle in her flight, The following extracts are both from the Poor Gentleman: Sir Charles at Breakfast. Sir Charles Cropland. Has old Warner, the steward, been told that I arrived last night? Valet [adjusting Sir Charles's hair]. Yes, Sir Charles; with orders to attend you this morning. Sir Cha. [yawning and stretching]. What can a man of fashion do with himself in the country at this wretchedly dull time of the year? Valet. It is very pleasant to-day out in the park, Sir Charles. Sir Cha. Pleasant, you booby! How can the country be pleasant in the middle of spring? All the world's in London. Valet. I think, somehow, it looks so lively, Sir Charles, when the corn is coming up. Three days, Mr Sir Cha. A very tedious time. Warner. Warner. Ah, good sir, things would prosper better if you honoured us with your presence a little more. I wish you lived entirely upon the estate, Sir Charles. Sir Cha. Thank you, Warner; but modern men of fashion find it difficult to live upon their estates. Warner. The country about you so charming! Sir Cha. Look ye, Warner-I must hunt in Leicestershire-for that's the thing. In the frosts and the spring months, I must be in town at the clubs-for that's the thing. In summer I must be at the watering-places-for that's the thing. Now, Warner, under these circumstances, how is it possible for me to reside upon my estate? For my estate being in Kent Warner. The most beautiful part of the country. Sir Cha. Pshaw, beauty! we don't mind that in Leicestershire. My estate, I say, being in KentWarner. A land of milk and honey! Sir Cha. I hate milk and honey. Warner. A land of fat! Sir Cha. Hang your fat! being in Kent Warner. So woody! Listen to me. My estate Sir Cha. Curse the wood! No-that's wrong; for it's convenient. I am come on purpose to cut it. Warner. Ah! I was afraid so! Dice on the table, and then the axe to the root! Money lost at play, and then, good lack! the forest groans for it. Sir Cha. But you are not the forest, and why do you groan for it? Warner. I heartily wish, Sir Charles, you may not encumber the goodly estate. Your worthy ancestors had views for their posterity. Sir Cha. And I shall have views for my posterity-I shall take special care the trees shan't intercept their prospect. Servant [entering]. Mr Ollapod, the apothecary, is in the hall, Sir Charles, to inquire after your health. Sir Cha. Shew him in. [Exit servant.] The fellow's a character, and treats time as he does his patients. He shall kill a quarter of an hour for me this morning.—In short, Mr Warner, I must have three thousand pounds in three days. Fell timber to that amount immediately. 'Tis my peremptory order, sir. Warner. I shall obey you, Sir Charles; but 'tis with a heavy heart! Forgive an old servant of the family if he grieves to see you forget some of the duties for which society has a claim upon you. Sir Cha. What do you mean by duties? Warner. Duties, Sir Charles, which the extravagant man of property can never fulfil-such as to support the dignity of an English landholder for the honour of old England; to promote the welfare of his honest tenants; and to succour the industrious poor, who naturally look up to him for assistance. But I shall obey you, Sir Charles. [Exit. Sir Cha. A tiresome old blockhead! But where is this Ollapod? His jumble of physic and shooting may enliven me; and, to a man of gallantry in the country, his intelligence is by no means uninteresting, nor his services inconvenient.-Ha, Ollapod! Ollapod [entering]. Sir Charles, I have the honour to be your slave. Hope your health is good. Been a hard winter here. Sore throats were plenty; so were woodcocks. Flushed four couple one morning in a half-mile walk from our town to cure Mrs Quarles of a quinsy. May coming on soon, Sir Charles-season of delight, love and campaigning! Hope you come to sojourn, Sir Charles. Shouldn't be always on the wing-that's being too flighty. He, he, he! Do you take, good sir-do you take? Sir Cha. O yes, I take. But by the cockade in your hat, Ollapod, you have added lately, it seems, to your avocations. Olla. He, he! yes, Sir Charles. I have now the honour to be cornet in the Volunteer Association Corps of our town. It fell out unexpected-pop, on a sudden; like the going off of a field-piece, or an alderman in an apoplexy. Sir Cha. Explain. Olla. Happening to be at home-rainy day—no going out to sport, blister, shoot, nor bleed-was busy behind the counter. You know my shop, Sir Charles-Galen's head over the door-new gilt him last week, by-the-bye -looks as fresh as a pill. Proceed. Sir Cha. Well, no more on that head now. Olla. On that head! he, he, he! That's very well -very well indeed! Thank you, good sir; I owe you one. Churchwarden Posh, of our town, being ill of an indigestion from eating three pounds of measly pork at a vestry dinner, I was making up a cathartic for the patient, when who should strut into the shop but Lieutenant Grains, the brewer-sleek as a dray-horsein a smart scarlet jacket, tastily turned up with a rhubarb-coloured lapel. I confess his figure struck me. I looked at him as I was thumping the mortar, and felt instantly inoculated with a military ardour. Sir Cha. Inoculated! I hope your ardour was of a favourable sort? Olla. Ha, ha! That's very well-very well, indeed! Thank you, good sir; I owe you one. We first talked of shooting. He knew my celebrity that way, Sir Charles. I told him the day before I had killed six brace of birds. I thumpt on at the mortar. We then talked of physic. I told him the day before I had killed-lost, I mean-six brace of patients. I thumpt on at the mortar, eyeing him all the while; for he looked very flashy, to be sure; and I felt an itching to belong to the corps. The medical and military both deal in death, you know; so 'twas natural. He, he! Do you take, good sir-do you take? Sir Cha. Take? Oh, nobody can miss. Olla. He then talked of the corps itself; said it was sickly; and if a professional person would administer to the health of the Association-dose the men and drench the horse--he could perhaps procure him a cornetcy. Sir Cha. Well, you jumped at the offer. Olla. Jumped! I jumped over the counter, kicked down Churchwarden Posh's cathartic into the pocket of Lieutenant Grains' small scarlet jacket, tastily turned up with a rhubarb-coloured lapel; embraced him and his offer; and I am now Cornet Ollapod, apothecary at the Galen's Head, of the Association Corps of Cavalry, at your service. Sir Cha. I wish you joy of your appointment. You may now distil water for the shop from the laurels you gather in the field. Olla. Water for-oh! laurel-water--he, he! Come, that's very well-very well indeed! Thank you, good sir; I owe you one. Why, I fancy fame will follow, when the poison of a small mistake I made has ceased to operate. Sir Cha. A mistake? Olla. Having to attend Lady Kitty Carbuncle on a grand field-day, I clapt a pint bottle of her ladyship's diet-drink into one of my holsters, intending to proceed to the patient after the exercise was over. I reached the martial ground, and jalloped-galloped, I mean— wheeled, and flourished with great éclat; but when the word 'Fire' was given, meaning to pull out my pistol in a terrible hurry, I presented, neck foremost, the hanged diet-drink of Lady Kitty Carbuncle; and the medicine being unfortunately fermented by the jolting of my horse, it forced out the cork with a prodigious pop full in the face of my gallant commander. Ollapod visits Miss Lucretia Mactab (a 'stiff maiden aunt,' sister of one of the oldest barons in Scotland). Foss [entering]. There is one Mr Ollapod at the gate, an' please your ladyship's honour, come to pay a visit to the family. Lucretia. Ollapod? What is the gentleman? Foss. He says he's a cornet in the Galen's Head. 'Tis the first time I ever heard of the corps. Luc. Ha! some new-raised regiment. Shew the gentleman in. [Exit Foss.] The country, then, has heard of my arrival at last. A woman of condition, in a family, can never long conceal her retreat. Ollapod! that sounds like an ancient name. If I am not mistaken, he is nobly descended. Ollapod [entering]. Madam, I have the honour of paying my respects. Sweet spot, here, among the cows; good for consumptions-charming woods hereabouts-pheasants flourish- -so do agues-sorry not to see the good lieutenant-admire his room-hope soon to have his company. Do you take, good madam-do you take? Luc. I beg, sir, you will be seated. Olla. O dear madam! [Sitting down.] A charming chair to bleed in! [Aside. Luc. I am sorry Mr Worthington is not at home to receive you, sir. Olla. You are a relation of the lieutenant, madam? Luc. I only by his marriage, I assure you, sir. Aunt to his deceased wife. But I am not surprised at your question. My friends in town would wonder to see the Honourable Miss Lucretia Mactab, sister to the late Lord Lofty, cooped up in a farmhouse. Olla. [aside]. The honourable! humph! a bit of quality tumbled into decay. The sister of a dead peer in a pigsty! Luc. You are of the military, I am informed, sir? Olla. He, he! Yes, madam. Cornet Ollapod, of our volunteers a fine healthy troop-ready to give the enemy a dose whenever they dare to attack us. Luc. I was always prodigiously partial to the military. My great-grandfather, Marmaduke, Baron Lofty, commanded a troop of horse under the Duke of Marlborough, that famous general of his age. Olla. Marlborough was a hero of a man, madam; and lived at Woodstock-a sweet sporting country, where Rosamond perished by poison-arsenic as likely as anything. Luc. And have you served much, Mr Ollapod? Olla. He, he! Yes, madam; served all the nobility and gentry for five miles round. Luc. Sir! Olla. And shall be happy to serve the good lieutenant and his family. [Bowing. Luc. We shall be proud of your acquaintance, sir. A gentleman of the army is always an acquisition among the Goths and Vandals of the country, where every sheepish squire has the air of an apothecary. Olla. Madam! An apothe Zounds!-hum !— He, he! I-You must know, I-I deal a little in galenicals myself [sheepishly]. Luc. Galenicals! Oh, they are for operations, I suppose, among the military. Olla. Operations! he, he! Come, that's very wellvery well indeed! Thank you, good madam; I owe you one. Galenicals, madam, are medicines. Luc. Medicines ! Olla. Yes, physic: buckthorn, senna, and so forth. Luc. [rising]. Why, then, you are an apothecary? Olla. [rising too, and bowing]. And man-midwife at your service, madam. Luc. At my service, indeed! Olla. Yes, madam! Cornet Ollapod at the gilt Galen's Head, of the Volunteer Association Corps of Cavalry-as ready for the foe as a customer; always willing to charge them both. Do you take, good madam-do you take? Luc. And has the Honourable Miss Lucretia Mactab been talking all this while to a petty dealer in drugs? Olla. Drugs! Why, she turns up her honourable nose as if she was going to swallow them! [aside]. No man more respected than myself, madam. Courted by the corps, idolised by invalids; and for a shot-ask my friend, Sir Charles Cropland. Luc. Is Sir Charles Cropland a friend of yours, sir? Olla. Intimate. He doesn't make wry faces at physic, whatever others may do, madam. This village flanks the intrenchments of his park-full of fine fat venison; which is as light a food for digestion as Luc. But he is never on his estate here, I am told. Luc. Bless me! has Sir Charles, then Olla. Told me all-your accidental meeting in the metropolis, and his visits when the lieutenant was out. Luc. Oh, shocking! I declare I shall faint. Olla. Faint! never mind that, with a medical man in the room. I can bring you about in a twinkling. Luc. And what has Sir Charles Cropland presumed to advance about me? Olla. Oh, nothing derogatory. Respectful as a ducklegged drummer to a commander-in-chief. Luc. I have only proceeded in this affair from the purest motives, and in a mode becoming a Mactab. Olla. None dare to doubt it. Luc. And if Sir Charles has dropt in to a dish of tea with myself and Emily in London, when the lieutenant was out, I see no harm in it. Olla. Nor I either: except that tea shakes the nervous system to shatters. But to the point. The baronet's my bosom friend. Having heard you were here-' Ollapod,' says he, squeezing my hand in his own, which had strong symptoms of fever-‘Ollapod,' says he, 'you are a military man, and may be trusted.' 'I'm a cornet,' says I, 'and close as a pill-box.' 'Fly, then, to Miss Lucretia Mactab, that honourable picture of prudence Luc. He, he! Did Sir Charles say that? Olla. [aside]. How these tabbies love to be toadied! Luc. In short, Sir Charles, I perceive, has appointed you his emissary, to consult with me when he may have an interview. Olla. Madam, you are the sharpest shot at the truth I ever met in my life. And now we are in consultation, what think you of a walk with Miss Emily by the old elms at the back of the village this evening? Luc. Why, I am willing to take any steps which may promote Emily's future welfare. Olla. Take steps! what, in a walk? He, he! Come, that's very well-very well indeed! Thank you, good madam; I owe you one. I shall communicate to my friend with due despatch. Command Cornet Ollapod on all occasions; and whatever the gilt Galen's Head can produce |