It has been before stated that Vernet's father intended him for an
historical painter, but nature formed his genius to imitate her
sweetest, as well as most terrible aspect. When he was on his way to
Marseilles, he met with so many charming prospects, that he induced his
companion to halt so often while he sketched them, that it took them a
much longer time to reach that port than it would otherwise have done.
When he first saw the sea from the high hill, called La Viste, near
Marseilles, he stood wrapt in admiration. Before him stretched the blue
waters of the Mediterranean as far as the eye could reach, while three
islands, a few leagues from the shore, seemed to have been placed there
on purpose to break the uniformity of the immense expanse of waters, and
to gratify the eye; on his right rose a sloping town of country houses,
intersected with trees, rising above one another on successive terraces;
on his left was the little harbor of Mastigues; in front, innumerable
vessels rocked to and fro in the harbor of Marseilles, while the horizon
was terminated by the picturesque tower of Bouc, nearly lost, however,
in the distance. This scene made a lasting impression on Vernet. Nature
seemed not only to invite, but to woo him to paint marine subjects, and
from that moment his vocation was decided on. Thus nature frequently
instructs men of genius, and leads them on in the true path to
excellence and renown. Like the Æolian harp, which waits for a breath of
air to produce a sound, so they frequently wait or strive in vain, till
nature strikes a sympathetic chord, that vibrates to the soul. Thus
Joseph Vernet never thought of his forte till he first stood on La
Viste; and after that, he was nothing but a painter of ships and
harbors, and tranquil seas, till the day when lashed to the mast, he
first beheld the wild sea in such rude commotion, as threatened to
engulf the noble ship and all on board at every moment. Then his mind
was elevated to the grandeur of the scene; and he recollected forever
the minutest incident of the occasion.
"It was on going from Marseilles to Rome," says one of his biographers,
M. Pitra, "that Joseph Vernet, on seeing a tempest gathering, when they
were off the Island of Sardinia, was seized, not with terror, but with
admiration; in the midst of the general alarm, the painter seemed really
to relish the peril; his only desire was to face the tempest, and to be,
so to say, mixed up with it, in order that, some day or other, he might
astonish and frighten others by the terrible effects he would learn to
produce; his only fear was that he might lose the sight of a spectacle
so new to him. He had himself lashed to the main mast, and while he was
tossed about in every direction, saturated with seawater, and excited by
this hand-to-hand struggle with his model, he painted the tempest, not
on his canvass, but in his memory, which never forgot anything. He saw
and remembered all--clouds, waves, and rock, hues and colors, with the
motion of the boats and the rocking of the ship, and the accidental
light which intersected a slate-colored sky that served as a ground to
the whiteness of the sea-foam." But, according to D'Argenville and
others, this event occurred in 1752, when he was on his way to Paris, at
the invitation of Louis XV. Embarking at Leghorn in a small felucca, he
sailed to Marseilles. A violent storm happened on the voyage, which
greatly terrified some of the passengers, but Vernet, undaunted, and
struck with the grandeur of the scene, requested the sailors to lash him
to the mast head, and there he remained, absorbed in admiration, and
endeavoring to transfer to his sketch-book, a correct picture of the
sublime scene with which he was surrounded. His grandson, Horace Vernet,
painted an excellent picture of this scene, which was exhibited in the
Louvre in 1816, and attracted a great deal of attention.