So went he playing on the wat’ry plain.’
Faerie Queen.
There is a striking description in Mr. Burke’s Reflections of the late Queen of France, whose charms had left their poison in the heart of this Irish orator and patriot, and set the world in a ferment sixteen years afterwards. ‘And surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision.’ The idea is in Don Quixote, where the Duenna speaks of the air with which the Duchess ‘treads, or rather seems to disdain the ground she walks on.’ We have heard the same account of the gracefulness of Marie Antoinette from an artist, who saw her at Versailles much about the same time that Mr. Burke did. He stood in one corner of a little antechamber, and as the doors were narrow, she was obliged to pass sideways with her hoop. She glided by him in an instant, as if borne on a cloud.
[50]. In a fruit or flower-piece by Vanhuysum, the minutest details acquire a certain grace and beauty from the delicacy with which they are finished. The eye dwells with a giddy delight on the liquid drops of dew, on the gauze wings of an insect, on the hair and feathers of a bird’s nest, the streaked and speckled egg-shells, the fine legs of the little travelling caterpillar. Who will suppose that the painter had not the same pleasure in detecting these nice distinctions in nature, that the critic has in tracing them in the picture?
[51]. We here allude particularly to Turner, the ablest landscape painter now living, whose pictures are, however, too much abstractions of aerial perspective, and representations not so properly of the objects of nature as of the medium through which they are seen. They are the triumph of the knowledge of the artist, and of the power of the pencil over the barrenness of the subject. They are pictures of the elements of air, earth, and water. The artist delights to go back to the first chaos of the world, or to that state of things when the waters were separated from the dry land, and light from darkness, but as yet no living thing nor tree bearing fruit was seen upon the face of the earth. All is ‘without form and void.’ Some one said of his landscapes that they were pictures of nothing, and very like.
[52]. Raphael not only could not paint a landscape; he could not paint people in a landscape. He could not have painted the heads or the figures, or even the dresses, of the St. Peter Martyr. His figures have always an in-door look, that is, a set, determined, voluntary, dramatic character, arising from their own passions, or a watchfulness of those of others, and want that wild uncertainty of expression, which is connected with the accidents of nature and the changes of the elements. He has nothing romantic about him.
[53]. A good-natured man will always have a smack of pedantry about him. A lawyer, who talks about law, certioraris, noli prosequis, and silk gowns, though he may be a blockhead, is by no means dangerous. It is a very bad sign (unless where it arises from singular modesty) when you cannot tell a man’s profession from his conversation. Such persons either feel no interest in what concerns them most, or do not express what they feel. ‘Not to admire any thing’ is a very unsafe rule. A London apprentice, who did not admire the Lord Mayor’s coach, would stand a good chance of being hanged. We know but one person absurd enough to have formed his whole character on the above maxim of Horace, and who affects a superiority over others from an uncommon degree of natural and artificial stupidity.
[54]. ‘Je crois que l’imagination étoit la première de ses facultés, et qu’elle absorboit même toutes les autres.’—P. 80.
[55]. ‘Il avoit une grande puissance de raison sur les matieres abstraites, sur les objets qui n’ont de réalité que dans la pensée,’ etc.—P. 81.
[56]. He did more towards the French Revolution than any other man. Voltaire, by his wit and penetration, had rendered superstition contemptible, and tyranny odious: but it was Rousseau who brought the feeling of irreconcilable enmity to rank and privileges, above humanity, home to the bosom of every man,—identified it with all the pride of intellect, and with the deepest yearnings of the human heart.