unix are fine masses, better pines than other people's, but not a
bit like pines for all that; he feels his weakness, and tears them off
the distant mountains with the mercilessness of an avalanche. The Stone
pines of the two Italian compositions are fine in their arrangement, but
they are very pitiful pines; the glory of the Alpine rose he never
touches; he munches chestnuts with no relish; never has learned to like
olives; and, by the vine, we find him in the foreground of the Grenoble
Alps laid utterly and incontrovertibly on his back.

I adduce these evidences of Turner's nationality (and innumerable others
might be given if need were) not as proofs of weakness but of power; not
so much as testifying want of perception in foreign lands, as strong
hold on his own will; for I am sure that no artist who has not this hold
upon his own will ever get good out of any other. Keeping this principle
in mind, it is instructive to observe the depth and solemnity which
Turner's feeling received from the scenery of the continent, the keen
appreciation up to a certain point of all that is locally
characteristic, and the ready seizure for future use of all valuable
material.

Sec. 41. Turner's painting of French and Swiss landscape. The latter
deficient.

Of all foreign countries he has most entirely entered into the spirit of
France; partly because here he found more fellowship of scene with his
own England, partly because an amount of thought which will miss of
Italy or Switzerland, will fathom France; partly because there is in the
French foliage and forms of ground, much that is especially congenial
with his own peculiar choice of form. To what cause it is owing I cannot
tell, nor is it generally allowed or felt; but of the fact I am certain,
that for grace of stem and perfection of form in their transparent
foliage, the French trees are altogether unmatched; and their modes of
grouping and massing are so perfectly and constantly beautiful that I
think of all countries for educating an artist to the perception of
grace, France bears the bell; and that not romantic nor mountainous
France, not the Vosges, nor Auvergne, nor Provence, but lowland France,
Picardy and Normandy, the valleys of the Loire and Seine, and even the
district, so thoughtlessly and mindlessly abused by English travellers,
as uninteresting, traversed between Calais and Dijon; of which there is
not a single valley but is full of the most lovely pict