THE ARTIST OUT OF PLACE 179 



" Now," said I, " as you seem to have descended 

 from your stilts, which I beg to say are very 

 becoming, though somewhat out of season, I will 

 tell you how all people are not exactly of our way 

 of thinking, as to the triumph of art and these 

 classical illusions ; imagining, on the contrary, that 

 painting is a sleight of hand, and comes by intuition. 



" I was lately sauntering with my painting-box 

 in the romantic glen beneath the towers 



4 Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie ; 

 Each baron, for a sable shroud, 

 Sheathed in his iron panoply.' 



As I went along I traced the mazes of the river, 

 in some places brawling among the rocks, and at 

 others gliding silently through the mossy stones. 

 I was thus endeavouring to find out such points 

 of view as had most interest, and to investigate 

 the peculiar character in which the charm of the 

 scene consisted. 



" Having at length settled all this to my satis- 

 faction, and marked in the outline of a scene with 

 a piece of white crayon, preparatory to colouring 

 it in oil, a very respectable-looking lady came sail- 

 ing up to me, and begged to look at my canvas. 

 The day being somewhat advanced, she asked me 

 how many sketches I had made that morning; 

 and upon my telling her that the one she was 

 looking at was the first, she replied with very 

 perfect exultation that her daughters had not been 

 half an hour in the glen before they made nearly 

 a bookful of drawings ; but then, indeed, there 

 were very few people so gifted as her daughters. 



