introduced for the sake of its picturesque
interest; although what interest could be taken by any healthy human
creature in such vessels as were then painted has always remained a
mystery to me. The ships of Claude, having hulls of a shape something
between a cocoa-nut and a high-heeled shoe, balanced on their keels on
the top of the water, with some scaffolding and cross-sticks above, and
a flag at the top of every stick, form perhaps the _purest_ exhibition
of human inanity and fatuity which the arts have yet produced. The
harbors also, in which these model navies ride, are worthy of all
observation for the intensity of the false taste which, endeavoring to
unite in them the characters of pleasure-ground and port, destroys the
veracity of both. There are many inlets of the Italian seas where sweet
gardens and regular terraces descend to the water's edge; but these are
not the spots where merchant vessels anchor, or where bales are
disembarked. On the other hand, there are many busy quays and noisy
arsenals upon the shores of Italy; but Queen's palaces are not built
upon the quays, nor are the docks in any wise adorned with
conservatories or ruins. It was reserved for the genius of Claude to
combine the luxurious with the lucrative, and rise to a commercial
ideal, in which cables are fastened to temple pillars, and lighthouses
adorned with rows of beaupots. It seems strange also that any power
which Salvator showed in the treatment of other subjects utterly deserts
him when he approaches the sea. Though always coarse, false, and vulgar,
he has at least energy, and some degree of invention, as long as he
remains on land; his terrestrial atrocities are animated, and his
rock-born fancies formidable. But the sea air seems to dim his sight and
paralyze his hand. His love of darkness and destruction, far from
seeking sympathy in the rage of ocean, disappears as he approaches the
beach; after having tortured the innocence of trees into demoniac
convulsions, and shattered the loveliness of purple hills into colorless
dislocation, he approaches the real wrath and restlessness of ocean
without either admiration or dismay, and appears to feel nothing at its
shore except a meager interest in bathers, fishermen, and gentlemen in
court dress bargaining for state cabins. Of all the pictures by men who
bear the reputation of great masters which I have ever seen in my life
(except only some by Domenichino), the two large "Marines" in t