The principal figure is that of a man, who, like pious Æneas, carries his father on his back, certainly not in the most elegant or picturesque attitude possible, while with one hand he pulls his wife up after him rather unceremoniously. The wife for her part suffers considerable inconvenience from a young gentleman behind, who, having a mortal aversion to being drowned, has got his mother fast hold by the hair, by means of which he almost pulls her head off her shoulders.
The whole family are certainly not very comfortably situated; and, in fact, the old gentleman who is riding on his son's shoulders is the only one at all at his ease, and he appears to have a very good seat, and not to care much about it. Yet I have heard this picture lauded to the skies both in France and England.
Poussin painted a picture on the same subject. It scarcely could be surpassed. The scene is a wild mountainous desert, which the ever-rising waters have nearly covered. The ark is seen floating in the distance, and a solitary flash of lightning, shown dimly through the thick rain, breaks across the lurid clouds in the background. Amongst the dull bleak rocks in front, a monstrous serpent winds its way slowly up, to avoid the growing waves. The sky lowers upon the earth, and the earth looks heavily back to the sky: all is wild, silent, and solemn; one awful gloom, and mighty desolation.
In every art but that of music, and perhaps even there in a degree, nature furnishes us with a standard by which to regulate our taste. In judging of what is most beautiful in nature herself, there may be many opinions; but that which is out of nature altogether must always be in bad taste. The same Being which formed every thing in this beautiful world formed equally our minds to enjoy and admire it. He made nature for man, and man for nature, with perfect harmony between his soul and all that surrounds it; and the least deviation from those forms, to which the great Artist restrained his work is discord to the human mind. Whenever we see any thing distorted from its original shape, or represented in circumstances in which it could not have been placed, without thinking, of why, our taste revolts as from something impossible and untrue.
With respect to engraving I can say but little, as I have no knowledge of the art; but it strikes me that in modern French prints, at least, there is hardness without force, and feebleness without softness; nor have I ever seen the beautiful roundness of flesh well represented.
A French, artist of some merit assured me, one morning, that the arts had now migrated from Italy to receive their highest degree of perfection in France. In that point, I believe, every other nation on the face of the earth will be found to differ from this favoured people.
But there is, however, one observation to be made, not only with respect to painting, but to all other arts. They are far more generally diffused in France than in England. The French have always conceived perfection in the arts to be a part of the national glory. Their king and statesmen have thought the encouragement of arts and sciences at home, to be as much a part of their duty, as the defence of their country in the field, or the maintenance of its interests in the cabinet; and the wise spirit which has actuated them of course has produced its result upon the minds of the people. The taste for what is beautiful--one great step to the taste for what is good--is general throughout France, and every one strives to gratify it in its degree. Amongst us it is the wealthy and the great alone, who have the inclination to seek, or the power to patronize, the arts; and paintings or statues are found almost solely in their collections. In France, every second person is taught to draw, whether he succeeds or not. Every little town has its gallery and museum; all the world are admitted to study if they like, and improve if they can; and the chimney-sweep and the peer stand side by side to criticise or admire.
THE LOVER'S LEAP.
Hei milli quod nullis amor est medicabilis herbis.
A walk through a strange town after dark possesses fully as much interest as a walk in the day-time, if it be but well timed and properly conducted. There is a pleasure in the very act of exploring, which can never be so fully enjoyed as when we find our way through any unknown place half hidden in the obscurity of night. But it is necessary that it should not be all darkness. We should choose our time when the greater part of the people have shaken off the load of cares which weigh them down in the light, and when national character walks forth freed from the bonds of daily drudgery: yet it should be long before man has extinguished his mimicry of heaven's best gift, and whilst most of the shops are lighted up, shining out like diamonds in the gloom around.