and scientific arrangement, and the scenes which he described were so completely illusive, that the space appeared to recede for many miles, and his horizon seemed as palpably distant from the eye, as the extreme termination of the view would appear in nature.

"The opening subject of the Eidophusikon represented the view from the summit of One-tree Hill in Greenwich Park, looking up the Thames to the Metropolis; on one side, conspicuous upon its picturesque eminence, stood FlamsteadHouse; and below, on the right, the grand mass of building, Greenwich Hospital, with its imposing cupolas, cut out of paste-board, and painted with architectural correctness. The large groups of trees formed another division, behind which were the towns of Greenwich and Deptford, with the shore on each side stretching to the Metropolis, which was seen in its vast extent from Chelsea to Poplar. Behind were the hills of Highgate, Hampstead, and Harrow; and the intermediate space was occupied by the flat stage, as the pool or port of London, crowded with shipping, each mass of which being cut out in pasteboard, and receding in size by the perspective of their distance. The heathy appearance of the foreground was managed with cork, broken into the rugged and picturesque forms of a sand-pit, covered with minute mosses and lichens, and producing a captivating effect, amounting, indeed, to reality.

"This scene on the rising of the curtain was enveloped in that mysterious light which is the precursor of day-break, so true to nature, that the imagination of the spectator sniffed the sweet breath of morn. A faint light appeared along the horizon; the scene assumed a vapourish tint of grey; presently a gleam of saffron, changing to the pure varieties which tinge the fleecy clouds that pass away in morning mist; the picture brightened by degrees, the sun appeared, gilding the tops of the trees and the projections of the lofty buildings, and burnishing the vanes on the cupolas; when the whole scene burst upon the eye

in the gorgeous splendour of a beauteous day.

"The clouds in every scene had a natural motion, and they were painted in semi-transparent colours; so that they not only received light in front, but by a greater intensity of the argand lamps, were susceptible of being illuminated from behind. The linen on which they were painted was stretched on frames of twenty times the surface of the stage, which rose diagonally by a winding machine. De Loutherbourg, who excelled in representing the phenomena of clouds, may be said to have designed a series of effects on the same frame. Thus, the first gleam of morn led to the succeeding increase of light; and the motion being oblique, the clouds first appeared from beneath the horizon, rose to a meridian, and floated fast or slow according to their supposed density, or the power of the wind.

"To illuminate the interesting scenes for this display of nature, the ingenious projector had constructed his lights to throw their power in front of the scenes; and this plan might be tried with advantage for spectacles, and particular effects at least, on the great stages of our magnificent theatres. The lamps on De Loutherbourg's stage were above the proscenium, and hidden from the audience. Before them were slips of stained glass; yellow, red, grey, purple, and blue; by the shifting of which the painter could throw a tint upon the scenery, compatible with the time of day which he represented, and by a single slip, or their combinations, could produce a magical effect; thus giving a general hue of cheerfulness, sublimity, or awfulness, subservient to the phenomena of his scene.

"The inventive schemes of the artist to give motion and reality to the scenes I have promised to describe, will display the endless resources of his original mind. The effect of a Storm at Sea, with the loss of the Halsewell Indiaman, was awful and astonishing; for the conflict of the raging elements he described with all its characteristic horrors of wind, hail, thunder,

lightning, and the roaring of the waves, with such marvellous imitation of nature, that mariners have declared, whilst viewing the scene, that it amounted to reality.

"Gainsborough was so wrapt in delight with the Eidophusikon, that for a time he thought of nothing else he talked of nothing else, and passed his evenings at that Exhibition in long succession. Gainsborough, himself a great experimentalist, could not fail to admire scenes wrought to such perfection by the aid of so many collateral inventions. De Loutherbourg's genius was as prolific in imitations of nature to astonish the ear as to charm the sight. He introduced a new art,— the picturesque of sound.

"I can never forget the awful impression that was excited by his ingenious contrivance to produce the effect of the firing of a signal of distress, in his sea-storm. That appalling sound! which he who had been exposed to the terrors of a raging tempest, could not listen to, even in this mimic scene, without being reminded of the heart-sickening answer which sympathetic danger had reluctantly poured forth from his own loud gun-a hoarse sound to the howling wind, that proclaimed I too, holy Heaven! need that succour I fain would lend.'

"De Loutherbourg had tried many schemes to effect this; but none were satisfactory to his nice ear, until he caused a large skin to be dressed into parchment, which was fastened by screws to a circular frame, forming a vast tambourine; to this was attached a compact sponge that went upon a whalebone spring, which, struck with violence, gave the effect of a near explosion; a more gentle blow, that of a faroff gun; and the reverberation of the sponge produced a marvellous imitation of the echo from cloud to cloud, dying away in silence.

"The thunder was no less natural, and infinitely grand. A spacious sheet of thin copper was suspended by a chain, which, shaken by one of the lower corners, produced the distant rumbling, seemingly below the horizon; and as the clouds rolled on, approached nearer and nearer, increasing peal by peal, until, following rapidly the lightning's zig

zag flash, which was admirably vivid and sudden, it burst in a tremendous crash immediately overhead.

"The waves for his stage were carved in soft wood from models made in clay. They were coloured with great skill, and being highly varnished, reflected the lightning. Each turned on its own axis towards the other, in a contrary direc-tion, throwing up the foam, now at one spot, now at another; and diminishing in altitude as they receded in distance, were subdued by corresponding tints. Thus the perturbed waters appeared to cover a vast space. One machine of simple construction turned the whole; and the motion was regulated according to the increasing of the storm.

"The vessels, which were beautiful models, went over the waves with a natural undulation, those nearest making their courses with a rate proportionate to their bulk, and those farther off moving with a slower pace. They were all correctly rigged, and carried only such sails as their situations would demand. Those in the distance were coloured in every part to preserve the aërial perspective of the scene. The illusion was so perfect, that the audience were frequently heard to exclaim, Hark! the signal of distress came from the vessel labouring out there-now from that.'

"The rush of the waves was effected by a large octagonal box, made of pasteboard with internal shelves, and charged with small shells, peas, and light balls, which, as the machine wheeled upon its axis, were hurled in heaps with every turn; accompanied by two machines, of a circular form, covered with tightly strained silk, which pressed against each other, and by a swift motion, gave out a hollow whistling sound in perfect imitation of loud gusts of wind. Large silken balls, passed hastily over the surface of the great tambourine, increased the awful din.

"The rain and hail were no less truly imitated. For the rain, a long four-sided tude was charged with small seed, which, according to the degree of its motion, from a horizontal to a vertical position, forced the atoms in a pattering stream to

and then brought back by its proprietor, in a sadly deteriorated condition to London, where it was ultimately consumed by an accidental fire, above twenty years ago.

We have been thus minute in our description of the Eidophusikon, both because the subject is in itself amusing, and because we were desirous, in common justice to a deceased man of genius, to shew that the Diorama, however admirable, is by no means a novel idea; but that, on the contrary, it is founded on only a part of that curious and complicated invention which De Loutherbourg carried into effect with such extraordinary success.

The Diorama has, we understand, been for some time the wonder and delight of Paris. Its projectors and proprietors conceiving, and, as we hope and have no doubt it will prove, justly conceiving, that it would constitute a very attractive Exhibition in London, have erected a magnificent and spacious building for its reception, on the north side of the New Road, nearly opposite to Portland-place. Although the exterior of the edifice is still unfinished, it is said that no less a sum than 10,0001. has already been laid out upon it; an expenditure that could be justified only by the extraordinary claims to public patronage, both with regard to what it is, and much more with regard to what it may be rendered, which it unquestionably pos

sesses.

The present Exhibition, which was opened for a private view on Saturday the 27th of September, and to the public on the succeeding Monday, consists of two pictures; the dimensions of which, as well as the deceptive circumstances under which they are seen allow us to judge, afe probably about fifteen feet by twelve. The subject of one is the beautiful and romantic Valley of Sarnen, in the Canton of Underwald, in Switzerland; that of the other, the Chapel of the Trinity, in the ancient and venerable Cathedral of Canterbury. These pictures are viewed singly, from an apartment resembling a small theatre, divided into an amphitheatre or pit, and a small tier of boxes, handsomely decorated, at an elevation of three or four feet

above the amphitheatre. The cieling is circular, richly ornamented with transparent devices, and surrounded with a series of medallions, being the portraits of eminent painters and sculptors of "the olden time." About every quarter of an hour, a signal being given by the ringing of a bell, this apartment begins to turn on a pivot; the spectators slowly revolve with it, and by this contrivance one picture is gradually shut up, and the other as gradually opened to view. At the expiration of the next quarter of an hour, the movement is reversed, the second picture disappears, and the original one is again exposed. The spectators are in no way hurried; but are permitted to remain during as many of these alternations as they please to witness.

We will endeavour to render the difference between ordinary pictures and the pictures of the Diorama as intelligible to our readers as we can. An ordinary picture is, as they know, painted on an opaque ground and lighted on its surface. The pictures of the Diorama are painted on transparent media, with colours partly transparent and partly opaque, and are lighted both on their surface and behind; generally, or partially, according to the purpose contemplated. That the vividness of the light is infinitely greater than even that prince of splendour, Rembrandt, could ever produce on an opaque ground, lighted only on its surface, will be obvious to any one who recollects the brilliance of the lights even in the most commonlypainted window-blind; and to this is to be added what a window-blind entirely wants, when looked at from the interior of a room, namely, the direct light thrown on the surface; and thrown at the Diorama in such a manner, by a judicious concealment of its source, as to produce an effect of chiaro-scuro, (aided by the comparative gloom of the apartment in which the spectators sit) of which it it not too much to say, that it absolutely rivals that of nature. In one of the pictures now exhibiting that effect is permanent, in the other it is variable.

Such is the mechanism of the thing. It is evident that the suc

cussful application of this mechanism must depend principally on the talents and knowledge of the artists who are employed to paint the pictures. We will speak separately of those under our considera

tion.

And first of the Chapel of the Trinity, in Canterbury Cathedral. This is really a very skilful work of art. It is difficult even for an artist, and it must be incomparably more difficult for a general spectator, whose eye is uneducated, and who is wholly unable to detect those nice distinctions and differences which at once strike a professional man, to believe that he is not looking at a model rather than at a plain surface. The perspective, both linear and aerial, is very accurate; and the light and shade are true, and, owing to the causes to which we have already alluded, singularly powerful. To add to the perplexity of the beholders, some steps, near the fore-ground and leading to the aisle, are represented as undergoing repair. They are dilapidated in various places, and have planks laid over them for the convenience of the workmen, two of whom, it being the hour of relaxation from labour, are asleep in a corner. Some slabs of marble, heaps of mortar, pitchers, tools, &c. lie close by; and we have no doubt that many a visitor to the Diorama will innocently conceive that all these things are real, and belong to the edifice in which he stands, and do not form any part of the picture at which he is gazing. Indeed, it is said that a gentleman the other day was so convinced that the two workmen were actually flesh and blood, that he threw some halfpence at the lazy fellows to rouse them, and was surprised to find no other result produced than that of his own very proper exclusion from the room. A friend of ours too de clares, that he overheard a pretty Parisian ask her Maman, with great naïvate, as she pointed to the mason's litter which we have just described, "Pourquoi met-on toute cette cochonnerie-là devant le tableau ?"

The Valley of Sarnen, although very respectably painted, is not, in our opinion, by any means equal to the Chapel. Nevertheless, in con

sequence of the change of effect to which it is subjected, it will probably be the more popular production of the two. Its first appearance is that of a beautiful and picturesqué landscape, possessing every advantageous accompaniment of mountain, wood, and water, and seen through the bland atmosphere of a soft, delicious, serene summer's day, While the eye is busily engaged in tracing and admiring its various features, the horizon becomes overcast; not with the gloom of night, but with that of an approaching storm. The darkness gradually encreasing, advances, first to the middle distance, and then to the fore-ground, involving the whole scene in a murky tempestuous tone; with the exception of some of the high lights on the edges of the clouds, which, on the contrary, receive an accession of slendour. Presently, the reflection of those lights is seen in the lake, which assumes a golden hue; and it is thence transferred to a ri vulet that runs through the centre of the piece, and subsequently to various small pools of water, which were originally almost invisible. A partial gleam of sunshine on a snow-capped mountain in the extreme distance is at this instant strikingly fine. By degrees (perhaps somewhat too hastily) the storm passes away, the general obscurity is dissipated, the sky clears, the landscape smiles again, and every thing is restored to its primitive harmony and tranquillity.

From what we have stated, it will be seen that of the principles which entered into the construction of the Eidophusikon, the Diorama has hitherto borrowed only the double light, in front and behind; and the consequent power of obscuring or illuminating any portion of the picture at pleasure. The introduction of actual substances of various and transient hues, warm, cold, or neatral, of imitative sounds, and above all of appropriate motion, has hitherto been abstained from. There is one exception to the last remark, and, in consequence of its being but one, an injudicious exception. We allude to the "bubbling runnel" in the fore-ground of the Valley of Sarnen, to which, in the language