nius for painting portraits and common life, but
must attempt the heroic;--failed signally; and what is worse, carried a
whole nation blundering after him. Had you told a Frenchman so, twenty
years ago, he would have thrown the dementi in your teeth; or, at least,
laughed at you in scornful incredulity. They say of us that we don't
know when we are beaten: they go a step further, and swear their defeats
are victories. David was a part of the glory of the empire; and one
might as well have said then that "Romulus" was a bad picture, as that
Toulouse was a lost battle. Old-fashioned people, who believe in
the Emperor, believe in the Theatre Francais, and believe that Ducis
improved upon Shakspeare, have the above opinion. Still, it is curious
to remark, in this place, how art and literature become party matters,
and political sects have their favorite painters and authors.

Nevertheless, Jacques Louis David is dead, he died about a year after
his bodily demise in 1825. The romanticism killed him. Walter Scott,
from his Castle of Abbotsford, sent out a troop of gallant young Scotch
adventurers, merry outlaws, valiant knights, and savage Highlanders,
who, with trunk hosen and buff jerkins, fierce two-handed swords, and
harness on their back, did challenge, combat, and overcome the heroes
and demigods of Greece and Rome. Notre Dame a la rescousse! Sir Brian
de Bois Guilbert has borne Hector of Troy clear out of his saddle.
Andromache may weep: but her spouse is beyond the reach of physic. See!
Robin Hood twangs his bow, and the heathen gods fly, howling. Montjoie
Saint Denis! down goes Ajax under the mace of Dunois; and yonder
are Leonidas and Romulus begging their lives of Rob Roy Macgregor.
Classicism is dead. Sir John Froissart has taken Dr. Lempriere by the
nose, and reigns sovereign.

Of the great pictures of David the defunct, we need not, then, say much.
Romulus is a mighty fine young fellow, no doubt; and if he has come out
to battle stark naked (except a very handsome helmet), it is because the
costume became him, and shows off his figure to advantage. But was there
ever anything so absurd as this passion for the nude, which was followed
by all the painters of the Davidian epoch? And how are we to suppose
yonder straddle to be the true characteristic of the heroic and the
sublime? Romulus stretches his legs as far as ever nature will allow;
the Horatii, in receiving their swords, think proper to stretch their
legs