Quintin Matsys, called the Blacksmith of Antwerp, was bred up to the
trade of a blacksmith or farrier, which business he followed till he was
twenty years of age, when, according to Lampsonius, his love for a
blue-eyed lass, whose cruel father, an artist, refused her hand to any
one but a painter, caused him to abandon his devotion to Vulcan, and
inspired him with the ambition to become a worshipper at the shrine of
the Muses. He possessed uncommon talents and genius, applied himself
with great assiduity, and in a short time produced pictures that gave
promise of the highest excellence, and gained him the fair hand for
which he sighed. The inscription on the monument erected to his memory
in the Cathedral of Notre Dame, at Antwerp, records in a few expressive
words the singular story of his life:
“_Connubialis amor de Mulcibre fecit Apellem._”
JOHN WESLEY JARVIS.
Jarvis, though a wayward and eccentric man, unfortunately for himself
and the world too much given to strong potations, was “a fellow of
infinite jest, of most excellent fancy,” whose “gambols, songs, and
flashes of merriment were wont to set the table on a roar.” He was a
merry wag, and an inimitable story-teller and mimic. Some of his stories
were dramatized by Dunlap, Hackett, and Matthews, the best of which is
the laughable farce of Monsieur Mallet. Dunlap says, “Another story
which Matthews dressed up for John Bull, originated with Jarvis. From a
friend I have what I suppose to be the original scene. My friend was
passing the painter’s room, when he suddenly threw up the window, and
called him in, saying, ‘I have something for your criticism, that you
will be pleased with.’ He entered, expecting to see a picture, or some
other specimen of the fine arts, but nothing of the kind was
produced--he was, however, introduced with a great deal of ceremony,
to Monsieur B----, ‘celebrated for his accurate knowledge of the
English language, and intimate critical acquaintance with its
poetry--particularly Shakspeare.’ Mr. A----, as I shall call my friend,
began to understand Jarvis’ object in calling him in. After a little
preliminary conversation, Jarvis said, ‘I hope, Monsieur B----, you
still retain your love of the drama?’ ‘O certainly, sir, wid my life I
renounce it.’ ‘Mr. A----, did you ever hear Monsieur recite?’ ‘Never.’
‘Your recitations from Racine, Monsieur B----, will you oblige us?’
“The polite and vain Frenchman was easily prevailed upon to roll out
several long speeches, from Racine and Corneille, with much
gesticulation and many a well-rounded _R_. This was only to introduce
the main subject of entertainment. ‘Monsieur B---- is not only
remarkable, as you hear, for his very extraordinary recitations from the
poets of his native land, but for his perfect conquest over the
difficulties of the English language, in the most difficult of all our
poets--Shakspeare. He has studied Hamlet and Macbeth thoroughly--and if
he would oblige us--do, ‘Monsieur B----, do give us, “To be, or not to
be.”’ ‘Sur, the language is too difficult--I make great efforts to be
sure, but still the foreigner is to be detected.’ This gentleman’s
peculiarities were in extreme precision and double efforts with the _th_
and the other shibboleths of English. The unsuspecting and vain man is
soon induced to give Hamlet’s soliloquy, the _th_ forced out as from a
pop-gun, and some of the words irresistibly comic. ‘But, Monsieur B----,
you are particularly great in Macbeth--_that_ “if it were done, when it
is done,” and “peep through the blanket,”--come, let us have Macbeth.’
Then followed Macbeth’s soliloquies in the same style. All this was
ludicrous enough, but upon this foundation Jarvis raised a
superstructure, which he carried as high as the zest with which it was
received by his companions, his own feelings, or other circumstances
prompted or warranted. The unfortunate Monsieur B---- was imitated and
caricatured with most laugh-provoking effect; but to add to the treat,
he was made not only to recite, but to comment and criticise. ‘If it
were done,’ ‘peep through the blanket,’ and, ‘catch with the sursease,
success,’ gave a rich field for the imaginary critic’s
commentaries--then he would expose, and overthrow Voltaire’s criticisms,
and give as examples of the true sublime in tragedy, the scene of the
witches in Macbeth.
“‘Huen shall we thtree meet aggen?’ but, ‘mounched, and mounched, and
mounched,’ was a delicious feast for the critic--and ‘rrump fed
rronion,’ gave an opportunity to show that the English witch was a true
John Bull, and fed upon the ‘rrump of the beef,’ ‘thither in a sieve
I’ll sail and like a rat without a tail, I’ll do--I’ll do--I’ll do,’
being recited in burlesque imitation, gives an opportunity for comment
and criticism, something in this manner. ‘You see not only how true to
nature, but to the science of navigation all this is. If the rat had a
tail, he could steer the sieve as the sailor steer his ship by the
rudder; but if he have no tail, he cannot command the navigation, that
is, the course of the sieve; and it will run round--and round--and
round--that is what the witch say--“I’ll do--I’ll do--I’ll do!”’ But how
can the humor of the story-teller be represented by the writer--or how
can I dispose my reader to receive a story dressed in cold black and
white--in formal type--with the same hilarity which attends upon the
table, and the warm and warming rosy wine? The reader has perceived the
want of these magical auxiliaries in the above.”
Jarvis was equally ludicrous in his readings from Shakspeare, in
imitation of the stutterer and lisper. The venerable Dr. C. S. Francis,
who was intimately acquainted with the painter, says, “Dr. Syntax never
with more avidity sought after the sublime and picturesque, than did
Jarvis after the scenes of many-colored life; whether his subject was
the author of Common Sense or the notorious Baron von Hoffman. His
stories, particularly those connected with his southern tours, abounded
in motley scenes and ludicrous occurrences; there was no lacking of
hair-breadth escapes, whether the incidents involved the collisions of
intellect, or sprung from alligators and rattlesnakes. His humor won the
admiration of every hearer, and he is recognized as the master of
anecdote. But he deserves to be remembered on other accounts--his
corporeal intrepidity and his reckless indifference of consequences. I
believe there have been not a few of the faculty who have exercised,
with public advantage, their professional duties among us for a series
of years, who never became as familiar with the terrific scenes of
yellow fever and of malignant cholera as Jarvis did. He seemed to have a
singular desire to become personally acquainted with the details
connected with such occurrences; and a death-bed scene, with all its
appalling circumstances, in a disorder of a formidable character, was
sought after by him with the solicitude of the inquirer after fresh
news. Nor was this wholly an idle curiosity. Jarvis often freely gave of
his limited stores to the indigent, and he listened with a fellow
feeling to the recital of the profuse liberality with which that opulent
merchant of our city, the late Thomas H. Smith, supplied daily the wants
of the afflicted and necessitous sufferer during the pestilence of 1832.
“We are indebted to Jarvis for probably the best, if not the only good
drawing of the morbid effects of cholera on the human body while it
existed here in 1832. During that season of dismay and danger our
professional artists declined visiting the cholera hospitals, and were
reluctant to delineate when the subject was brought to them. But it
afforded a new topic for the consideration of Jarvis, and perhaps also
for the better display of his anatomical attainments, he with
promptitude discharged the task. When making a drawing from the lifeless
and morbid organs of digestion, to one who inquired if he were not
apprehensive of danger while thus employed, he put the interrogatory,
‘Pray what part of the system is affected by the cholera?’ ‘The
digestive organs,’ was the reply. ‘Oh no, then,’ said Jarvis, ‘for now
you see I am doubly armed--- I am furnished with two sets.’”
THE BIGGEST LIE.
Jarvis resided a long time at Charleston, S. C., where his convivial
qualities made him a great favorite. On one occasion, at a large dinner
party, after the wine had freely circulated, banishing not only form,
but discretion, some one of the company proposed that they should make
up a prize to the man who would tell the greatest and most palpable
_lie_. It was purposely arranged that Jarvis should speak last. The
President began. They
“Spoke of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field.”
Lie followed lie; and as it is easy to heap absurdity upon absurdity,
and extravagance on enormous exaggeration; and as easy to excite
laughter and command applause, when champaigne has been enthroned in the
seat of judgment, each lie was hailed with shouts of approbation and
bursts of merriment. One of the company, who sat next to Jarvis, had
exceeded all his competitors, and unanimous admiration seemed to ensure
him the prize. The _lie_ was so monstrous and palpable, that it was
thought wit or ingenuity could not equal it. Still, something was
expected from the famous story-teller, and every eye was turned on the
painter. He rose, and placing his hand on his breast and making a low
bow, gravely said, “Gentlemen, I assure you that I fully and
unequivocally believe every word the last speaker has uttered.” A burst
of applause followed, and the prize was adjudged to the witty artist.
JARVIS AND BISHOP MOORE.
Jarvis painted the portrait of Bishop Benjamin Moore, who used to relate
one of his quick strokes of humor with great glee. The good Bishop,
during one of the sittings, introduced the subject of religion, and
asked Jarvis some questions as to his belief or practice. The painter,
with an arch look, but as if intent upon catching the likeness of the
sitter, waved his hand and said, “Turn your face more that way, Bishop,
and _shut your mouth_.”
JARVIS AND COMMODORE PERRY.
When Jarvis painted the portrait of Commodore Perry, he wished to infuse
into the likeness of the hero the fire which he supposed animated him
during the terrible contest on Lake Erie. During two or three sittings
he tried in vain to rouse him by his lively conversation; he would soon
sink into a reverie; it was evident that his thoughts were far away. The
painter now had recourse to artifice. He deliberately laid down his
palette and pencils, got up, and seizing a chair, swung it over his head
in a menacing manner. This strange conduct instantly brought Perry to
his feet, his eyes flashing fire, and every feature lit up with the
desired expression. “There, that will do,” said the painter; “please sit
just as you are.” The result was the admirable picture which now adorns
our City Hall, representing the hero standing in his boat, with his flag
in one arm, triumphantly waving his sword, as he left the dismantled St.
Lawrence for the Niagara, to renew the contest, resolved to conquer or
die.
JARVIS AND THE PHILOSOPHER.
Jarvis was a great wag as well as an inimitable story-teller. Whenever
he met with an eccentric genius, he delighted to make him indulge in
strong potations, and then engage him on his favorite hobby. On one such
occasion, a gentleman who had a smattering of Zoology, declared it as
his opinion, that it was possible to change the nature of animals; for
instance, that by cutting off the end of dogs’ or monkeys’ tails for a
few generations, they would become tailless. “That is capital logic,”
said Jarvis, “I wonder that the Jews have now any _tails_!” The
philosopher shot out of the room amidst shouts of laughter.
JARVIS AND DR. MITCHELL.
Jarvis could not forbear to crack a joke on the learned Dr. Mitchell,
whose profundity sometimes led him to analyze cause and effect in a
hyper-philosophical manner. “Can you tell,” said he one day to the
learned Doctor, who was sitting for his portrait, “why white sheep eat
more than black ones?” “But is it a fact?” enquired the Doctor. “Most
assuredly,” said the painter, “as every farmer will tell you.” The
Doctor then went on to give sundry philosophical reasons why white sheep
might require more food than black ones. “Your reasons are
excellent--but I think I can give you a better one. In my opinion the
reason why white sheep eat more than black ones is, because there are
more of them!”
JARVIS’ HABITS.
Jarvis, in his more prosperous days, was always improvident and
recklessly extravagant. Dunlap says, “when he went to New Orleans for
the first time, (in 1833) he took Henry Inman with him. To use his own
words,--‘my purse and my pockets were empty; (when he went to N. O.) I
spent $3000 there in six months, and brought $3000 to New York. The next
winter I did the same.’ He used to receive six sitters a day. A sitting
occupied an hour. The picture was then handed to Inman, who painted upon
the background and drapery under the master’s directions. Thus six
portraits were finished each week.” His prices at this time were $100
for a head, and $150 for head and hands.
“Mr. Sully once told me,” says Dunlap, “that calling on Jarvis, he was
shown into a room, and left to wait some minutes before he entered. He
saw a book on the table amidst palette, brushes, tumblers, candlesticks,
and other heterogeneous affairs, and on opening it, he found a life of
Moreland. When Jarvis came into the room, Sully sat with the book in his
hand. ‘Do you know why I like that book?’ said Jarvis. ‘I suppose
because it is the life of a painter,’ was the reply. ‘Not merely that,’
rejoined the other, ‘but because I think he was like myself.’” What a
commentary! Moreland was a man of genius, and might have shone as a
bright star in the history of art, had he not degraded himself by
dissipation, almost to a level with the pigs he delighted to paint. The
glory of both Stuart and Jarvis is obscured by the same fatal passion.
“O that men should put an enemy in their mouths, to steal away their
brains! that we should, with joy, revel, pleasure, and applause,
transform ourselves into beasts.”
“Jarvis,” says Dunlap, “was fond of notoriety from almost any source,
and probably thought it aided him in his profession. His dress was
generally unique. His long coat, trimmed with furs like a Russian
prince, or a potentate from the north pole, and his two enormous dogs
which accompanied him through the streets, and often carried home his
market basket, must be remembered by many.”
ROBERT FULTON.
It is not generally known that this celebrated engineer was in his early
life a practical painter.--From the age of 17 to 21, he painted
portraits and landscapes in Philadelphia. In his 22d year, he went to
England to prosecute his studies under West, who received him with great
kindness, and was so much pleased with his genius and amiable qualities,
that he took him into his own house, as a member of his family. After
leaving West, he seems to have made painting his chief employment for a
livelihood for several years, though at this time, his mind was occupied
with various great projects connected with engineering. In 1797, he went
to Paris in prosecution of these projects, and to fill his empty
coffers, he projected the first panorama ever exhibited in that city. He
was a true lover of art, too, and endeavored to induce the citizens of
Philadelphia to get up a subscription to purchase some of West’s
choicest pictures, which then could have been bought very cheap, as the
commencement of a gallery in that city.
AN EXALTED MIND AND A TRUE PATRIOT.
Robert Fulton, after years of toil, anxiety, and ridicule, thus writes
to his friend, Joel Barlow, immediately after his first steam-boat
voyage from New York to Albany and back:
“New York, August 2, 1807.
“MY DEAR FRIEND--My steam-boat voyage to Albany and back, has
turned out rather more favorably than I had calculated. The
distance from New York to Albany is 150 miles; I ran it up in
thirty-two hours, and down in thirty hours; the latter is five
miles an hour. I had a light breeze against me the whole way,
goings and coming, so that no use was made of my sails, and the
voyage has been performed wholly by the power of the steam engine.
I overtook many sloops and schooners, beating to windward, and
passed them as if they had been at anchor.
“The power of propelling boats by steam, is now fully proved. The
morning I left New York, there were not, perhaps, thirty persons,
who believed that the boat would move one mile an hour, or be of
the least utility; and while we were putting off from the wharf,
which was crowded with spectators, I heard a number of sarcastic
remarks. This is the way, you know, in which ignorant men
compliment what they call philosophers and projectors.
“Having employed much time, money, and zeal, in accomplishing this
work, it gives me, as it will you, great pleasure, to see it so
fully answer my expectations. It will give a quick and cheap
conveyance to merchandize on the Mississippi, Missouri, and other
great rivers, which are now laying open their treasures to the
enterprise of our countrymen. Although the prospect of personal
emolument has been some inducement to me, yet I feel infinitely
more pleasure in reflecting on the immense advantages my country
will derive from the invention.”
GILBERT CHARLES STUART.
This preëminent portrait painter was born at Narragansett, Rhode Island,
in 1756. He received his first instruction from a Scotch painter at
Newport, named Alexander, who was so much pleased with his talents and
lively disposition, that he took him with him on his return to Scotland.
His friend dying soon after, the youth found himself pennyless in a
strange country, but undismayed, he resolved to return home, and found
himself obliged to work his passage before the mast. He had already made
considerable progress in art, and on his return commenced portrait
painting, although without meeting much encouragement. He was in Boston
at the time of the Battle of Lexington, but immediately left that city
and went to New York, where he painted the portrait of his grandmother
from memory, though she had been dead about ten years, which is said to
have been a capital likeness, and gained him some business. About this
time he painted his own portrait, the only one he ever took of himself,
to the excellence of which his friend Dr. Waterhouse bears ample
testimony. He says, “it was painted in his freest manner, and with a
Rubens’ hat,” and in another place, that “Stuart in his best days, said
he need not be ashamed of it.”
STUART GOES TO LONDON.
Not meeting with any adequate encouragement, and the country being in a
deplorable state, in the midst of the Revolution, Stuart set sail for
London in 1778, at the age of twenty-two, to try his fortunes in that
city. He was a wayward and eccentric genius, proud as Lucifer withal;
and on his arrival in that metropolis, he found himself full of poverty,
enthusiasm, and hope,--often a painter’s only capital. He expected to
have found Waterhouse, who would have helped him with his advice, and
purse if necessary, but he had gone to Edinburg. Instead of going
directly to West, as he should have done, he wandered about the “dreary
solitude” of London, as Johnson used to characterize the busy hum of
that crowded city to the poverty-stricken sons of genius, till he had
expended his last dollar.
STUART AN ORGANIST.
Stuart had a great taste for music, which he had cultivated, and was an
accomplished musician. One day, as he was passing a church in
Foster-Lane, hearing the sound of an organ, he stepped in, and
ascertaining that the vestry were testing the candidates for the post of
organist, he asked if he might try. Being told that he could, he did so,
and succeeded in getting the place, with a salary of thirty guineas a
year!
STUART’S INTRODUCTION TO WEST.
During all this time, for some unknown reason, Stuart never sought the
acquaintance of West, but the moment that excellent man heard of the
young painter and his circumstances, he immediately sent a messenger to
him with money to relieve his necessities, and invited him to call at
his studio. “Such was Stuart’s first introduction,” says Dunlap, “to
the man from whose instruction he derived the most important advantages
from that time forward; whose character he always justly appreciated,
but whose example he could not, or would not follow.” Stuart himself
says, “On application to West to receive me as a pupil, I was welcomed
with true benevolence, encouraged and taken into the family, and nothing
could exceed the attentions of the great artist to me--they were
paternal.” He was twenty-four years old when he entered the studio of
West. Before he left the roof of his benefactor and teacher, he painted
a full-length portrait of him, which elicited general admiration. It was
exhibited at the Royal Academy, and the young painter paid frequent
visits to the exhibition rooms. It happened that one day, as he stood
near the picture, surrounded by artists and students (for he had fine
wit, and was an inimitable story-teller), West came in and joined the
group. He praised the picture, and addressing himself to his pupil,
said, “you have done well, Stuart, very well; now all you have to do is
to go home and do better.” Stuart always expressed the obligations he
was under to that distinguished artist. When West saw that he was fitted
for the field, prepared for and capable of contending with the best
portrait painters, he advised him to commence his professional career,
and pointed out to him the way to fame and fortune. But Stuart did not
follow this wise counsel, preferring to indulge his own wayward fancy.
He had a noble, generous, and disinterested heart, but he was eccentric,
improvident, and extravagant, and consequently he was always in
necessitous circumstances.
STUART AND WEST.
“I used often to provoke my good old master,” said Stuart to Dunlap,
“though, heaven knows, without intending it. You remember the color
closet at the bottom of his painting-room. One day, Trumbull and I came
into his room, and little suspecting that he was within hearing, I began
to lecture on his pictures, and particularly upon one then on his easel.
I was a giddy, foolish fellow then. He had begun a portrait of a child,
and he had a way of making curly hair by a flourish of his brush, thus,
like a figure of three. “Here, Trumbull,” said I, “do you want to learn
how to paint hair? There it is, my boy! Our master figures out a head of
hair like a sum in arithmetic. Let us see--we may tell how many guineas
he is to have for this head by simple addition,--three and three make
six, and three are nine, and three are twelve--” How much the sum would
have amounted to, I can’t tell, for just then in stalked the master,
with palette-knife and palette, and put to flight my calculations. “Very
well, Mr. Stuart”--he always _mistered_ me when he was angry, as a man’s
wife calls him _my dear_, when she wishes him to the d----l,--“Very
well, Mr. Stuart! very well indeed!” You may believe that I looked
foolish enough, and he gave me a pretty sharp lecture, without my making
any reply. But when the head was finished, there were no _figures of
three in the hair_.”
“Mr. West,” says Stuart, “treated me very cavalierly on one occasion:
but I had my revenge. My old master, who was always called upon to paint
a portrait of his majesty for every governor-general sent out to India,
received an order for one for Lord ----. He was busily employed upon one
of his _ten-acre_ pictures, in company with prophets and apostles, and
thought he could turn over the king to me. He could never paint a
portrait.