te expression, and to use rich
vowel-sounds and liquid consonants with rolling effect. A deeper and
more serious turn of thought, that gradually usurped the place of the
first boyish effervescence, has been traced by him to the influence of
Byron, in whom, while others saw nothing more than wit and passion,
Ruskin perceived an earnest mind and a sound judgment.

But the most sincere poem--if sincerity be marked by unstudied phrase
and neglected rhyme--the most genuine "lyrical cry" of this period, is
that song in which our boy-poet poured forth his longing for the "blue
hills" he had loved as a baby, and for those Coniston crags over which,
when he became old and sorely stricken, he was still to see the morning
break. When he wrote these verses he was nearly fourteen, or just past
his birthday. It had been eighteen months since he had been in Wales,
and all the weary while he had seen no mountains; but in his regrets he
goes back a year farther still, to fix upon the Lakeland hills, less
majestic than Snowdon, but more endeared, and he describes his
sensations on approaching the beloved objects in the very terms that
Dante uses for his first sight of Beatrice:

"I weary for the fountain foaming,
For shady holm and hill;
My mind is on the mountain roaming,
My spirit's voice is still.

"The crags are lone on Coniston
And Glaramara's dell;
And dreary on the mighty one,
The cloud-enwreathed Sea-fell...."

"There is a thrill of strange delight
That passes quivering o'er me,
When blue hills rise upon the sight,
Like summer clouds before me."

Judge, then, of the delight with which he turned over the pages of a new
book, given him this birthday by the kind Mr. Telford, in whose carriage
he had first seen those blue hills--a book in which all his mountain
ideals, and more, were caught and kept enshrined--visions still, and of
mightier peaks and ampler valleys, romantically "tost" and sublimely
"lost," as he had so often written in his favourite rhymes. In the
vignettes to Rogers' "Italy," Turner had touched the chord for which
John Ruskin had been feeling all these years. No wonder that he took
Turner for his leader and master, and fondly tried to copy the wonderful
"Alps at Daybreak" to begin with, and then to imitate this new-found
magic art with his own subjects and finally to come boldly before the
world in passionate defence of a man who had done such great thi