the rubbish of the schools together with them;
the waves of the Rhine swept them away forever: and a new dawn rose over
the rocks of the Siebengebirge.

208. There was another motive at work, which rendered the change still
more complete. His fellow artists were already conscious enough of his
superior power in drawing, and their best hope was that he might not be
able to color. They had begun to express this hope loudly enough for it
to reach his ears. The engraver of one of his most important marine
pictures told me, not long ago, that one day about the period in
question, Turner came into his room to examine the progress of the
plate, not having seen his own picture for several months. It was one of
his dark early pictures, but in the foreground was a little piece of
luxury, a pearly fish wrought into hues like those of an opal. He stood
before the picture for some moments; then laughed, and pointed joyously
to the fish:--"They say that Turner can't color!" and turned away.

209. Under the force of these various impulses the change was total.
_Every subject thenceforward was primarily conceived in color_; and no
engraving ever gave the slightest idea of any drawing of this period.

The artists who had any perception of the truth were in despair; the
Beaumontites, classicalists, and "owl species" in general, in as much
indignation as their dullness was capable of. They had deliberately
closed their eyes to all nature, and had gone on inquiring, "Where do
you put your brown 'tree'?" A vast revelation was made to them at once,
enough to have dazzled anyone; but to _them_, light unendurable as
incomprehensible. They "did to the moon complain," in one vociferous,
unanimous, continuous "Tu whoo." Shrieking rose from all dark places at
the same instant, just the same kind of shrieking that is now raised
against the Pre-Raphaelites. Those glorious old Arabian Nights, how true
they are! Mocking and whispering, and abuse loud and low by turns, from
all the black stones beside the road, when one living soul is toiling up
the hill to get the golden water. Mocking and whispering, that he may
look back, and become a black stone like themselves.

210. Turner looked not back, but he went on in such a temper as a strong
man must be in, when he is forced to walk with his fingers in his ears.
He retired into himself; he could look no longer for help, or counsel,
or sympathy from anyone; and the spirit of defiance in which he was
for