es. His Cowes,
Isle of Wight, is a summer twilight about half an hour, or more, after
sunset. Intensity of repose is the great aim throughout, and the unity
of tone of the picture is one of the finest things that Turner has ever
done. But there is not only quietness, there is the very deepest
solemnity in the whole of the light, as well as in the stillness of the
vessels; and Turner wishes to enhance this feeling by representing not
only repose, but _power_ in repose, the emblem, in the sea, of the quiet
ships of war. Accordingly, he takes the greatest possible pains to get
his surface polished, calm, and smooth, but he indicates the reflection
of a buoy, floating a full quarter of a mile off, by three black strokes
with wide intervals between them, the last of which touches the water
within twenty yards of the spectator. Now these three reflections can
only indicate the farther sides of three rises of an enormous swell, and
give by their intervals of separation, a space of from twelve to twenty
yards for the breadth of each wave, including the sweep between them,
and this swell is farther indicated by the reflection of the new moon
falling, in a wide zigzag line. The exceeding majesty which this single
circumstance gives to the whole picture, the sublime sensation of power
and knowledge of former exertion which we instantly receive from it, if
we have but acquaintance with nature enough to understand its language,
render this work not only a piece of the most refined truth, (as which I
have at present named it,) but to my mind, one of the highest pieces of
intellectual art existing.

Sec. 13. In scenes on the Loire and Seine.

Again, in the scene on the Loire, with the square precipice and fiery
sunset, in the Rivers of France, repose has been aimed at in the same
way, and most thoroughly given; but the immense width of the river at
this spot makes it look like a lake or sea, and it was therefore
necessary that we should be made thoroughly to understand and feel that
this is not the calm of still water, but the tranquillity of a majestic
current. Accordingly, a boat swings at anchor on the right; and the
stream, dividing at its bow, flows towards us in two long, dark waves,
especial attention to which is enforced by the one on the left being
brought across the reflected stream of sunshine, which it separates, and
which is broken in the nearer water by the general undulation and
agitation caused by the boat's wake; a