picture; there is the portrait of him that you painted; let me have it
for Lord ----. I will retouch it, and it will do well enough.’ ‘_Well
enough!_ very pretty,’ thought I; ‘you might be civil, when you ask a
favor.’ So I _thought_; but I _said_, ‘Very well, sir.’ So the picture
was carried down to his room, and at it he went. I saw he was puzzled.
He worked at it all that day. The next morning, ‘Stuart,’ says he, ‘have
you got your palette set?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Well, you can soon set another;
let me have it; I can’t satisfy myself with that head.’
“I gave him my palette, and he worked the greater part of that day. In
the afternoon I went into his room, and he was hard at it. I saw that he
had got up to the knees in mud. ‘Stuart,’ says he, ‘I don’t know how it
is, but you have a way of managing your tints unlike everybody else.
Here, take the palette, and finish the head.’ ‘I can’t, sir,’ ‘You
can’t?’ ‘I can’t indeed, sir, as it is; but let it stand till to-morrow
morning and get dry, and I will go over it with all my heart.’ The
picture was to go away the day after the morrow; so he made me promise
to do it early next morning.
He never came down into the painting room until about ten o’clock, I
went into his room bright and early, and by half past nine I had
finished the head. That done, _Rafe_ (Raphael West, the master’s son)
and I began to fence; I with my maul-stick, and he with his father’s. I
had just driven Rafe up to the wall, with his back to one of his
father’s best pictures, when the old gentleman, as neat as a lad of wax,
with his hair powdered, his white silk stockings and yellow morocco
slippers, popped into the room, looking as if he had stepped out of a
band-box. We had made so much noise that we did not hear him come down
the gallery, or open the door. ‘There, you dog,’ says I to Rafe, ‘there
I have you, and nothing but your back-ground _relieves_ you.’
“The old gentleman could not help smiling at my technical joke, but
soon, looking very stern, ‘Mr. Stuart,’ says he, ‘is this the way you
use me?’ ‘Why! what’s the matter, sir? I have neither hurt the boy nor
the background.’ ‘Sir, when you knew I had promised that the picture of
his majesty should be finished to-day, ready to be sent away to-morrow,
thus to be neglecting me and your promise! How can you answer it to me
or to yourself?’
“‘Sir,’ said I, ‘do not condemn me without examining the easel. I have
finished the picture: please to look at it.’ He did so, complimented me
highly, and I had ample revenge for his, ‘It will do well enough.’”
STUART’S SCHOLARSHIP.
Trumbull, speaking of Stuart as he knew him in London, says, “He was a
much better scholar than I had supposed he was. He once undertook to
paint my portrait, and I sat every day for a week, and then he left off
without finishing it, saying, ‘he could make nothing of my d----d
sallow face.’ But during the time, in his conversation, I observed that
he had not only read, but remembered what he had read. In speaking of
the character of man, he said, ‘Linnæus is right; Plato and Diogenes
call man a biped without feathers; that’s a shallow definition.
Franklin’s is better--a tool-making animal; but Linnæus’ is the
best--homo, animal mendax, rapax, pugnax.’”
STUART’S RULE OF THE PAYMENT OF HALF PRICE AT THE FIRST SITTING.
Stuart thus explains how he came to adopt a custom, which, when
practicable, commends itself to others. “Lord St. Vincent, the Duke of
Northumberland, and Colonel Barre, came unexpectedly into my room, one
morning after my setting up an independent easel, and explained the
object of their visit. They understood that I was under pecuniary
embarrassment, and offered me assistance, which I declined. They then
said they would sit for their portraits; of course I was ready to serve
them. They then advised that I should make it a rule that half the price
must be paid at the first sitting. They insisted on setting the example,
and I followed the practice, ever after this delicate mode of their
showing their friendship.”
STUART’S POWERS OF PERCEPTION.
Stuart read men’s characters at a glance, and always engaged his sitters
on some interesting topic of conversation, and while their features were
thus lit up, he transferred them to his canvass, with the magic of his
pencil. Hence his portraits are full of animation, truth, and nature.
This trait is well illustrated by the following anecdote. Lord Mulgrave
employed him to paint his brother, General Phipps, who was going out to
India. When the portrait was finished, and the general had sailed, the
Earl called for the picture, and on examining it, he seemed disturbed,
and said, “This picture looks strange, sir; how is it? I think I see
insanity in that face!” “I painted your brother as I saw him,” replied
the painter. The first account Lord Mulgrave had of his brother was,
that insanity, unknown and unapprehended by any of his friends, had
driven him to commit suicide. Washington Allston, in his eulogium on
Stuart, says, “The narratives and anecdotes with which his knowledge of
men and the world had stored his memory, and which he often gave with
great beauty and dramatic effect, were not unfrequently employed by Mr.
Stuart in a way, and with an address peculiar to himself. From this
store it was his custom to draw largely, while occupied with his
sitters, apparently for their amusement; but his object was rather, by
thus banishing all restraint, to call forth, if possible, some
involuntary traits of natural character. It was this which enabled him
to animate his canvass, not with the appearance of mere general life,
but with that peculiar, distinctive life which separates the humblest
individual from his kind. He seemed to dive into the thoughts of
men--for they were made to rise and speak on the surface.”
STUART’S CONVERSATIONAL POWERS.
Dr. Waterhouse relates the following anecdote of Stuart. He was
traveling one day in an English stage-coach, with some gentlemen who
were all strangers, and at first rather taciturn, but he soon engaged
them in the most animated conversation. At length they arrived at their
place of destination, and stopped at an inn to dine. “His companions,”
says the Doctor, “were very desirous to know _who_ and _what_ he was,
for whatever Dr. Franklin may have said a half century ago about the
question-asking propensity of his countrymen, I never noticed so much
of that kind of traveling curiosity in New England as in Britain. To the
round-about inquiries to find out his calling or profession, Stuart
answered with a grave face and serious tone,
“‘I sometimes dress gentlemen’s and ladies’ hair’ (at that time, the
high craped, pomatumed hair was all the fashion).
“‘You are a hair-dresser, then?’
“‘What,’ said he, ‘do I look like a barber?’
“‘I beg your pardon, sir, but I inferred it from what you said. If I
mistook you, I may take the liberty to ask you what you are then?’
“‘Why, I sometimes brush a gentleman’s coat or hat, and sometimes adjust
a cravat.’
“‘O, you are a valet, then, to some nobleman?’
“‘A valet! Indeed sir, I am not. I am not a servant. To be sure, I make
coats and waistcoats for gentlemen.’
“‘O, you are a tailor?’
“‘A tailor! Do I look like a tailor? I assure you, I never handled a
goose, other than a roasted one.’
By this time they were all in a roar.
“‘What are you, then?’ said one.
“‘I’ll tell you,’ said Stuart. ‘Be assured, all I have told you is
literally true. I dress hair, brush hats and coats, adjust a cravat, and
make coats, waistcoats, and breeches, and likewise boots and shoes, at
your service.’
“‘O, ho! a boot and shoemaker after all!’
“Guess again, gentlemen. I never handled boot or shoe, but for my own
feet and legs; yet all I told you is true.’
“‘We may as well give up guessing.’
“‘Well then, I will tell you, upon my honor as a gentleman, my _bona
fide_ profession. I get my bread by making faces.’
He then screwed his countenance, and twisted the lineaments of his
visage in a manner such as Samuel Foote or Charles Matthews might have
envied. His companions, after loud peals of laughter, each took credit
to himself for having suspected that the gentleman belonged to the
theatre, and they all knew he must be a comedian by profession, when, to
their utter astonishment, he assured them he was never on the stage, and
very rarely saw the inside of a playhouse, or any similar place of
amusement. They all now looked at each other in utter amazement. Before
parting, Stuart said to his companions,--
“‘Gentlemen, you will find that all I have said of various employments
is comprised in these few words: _I am a portrait painter!_ If you will
call at John Palmer’s, York Buildings, London, I shall be ready and
willing to brush you a coat or hat, dress your hair _a la mode_, supply
you, if in need, with a wig of any fashion or dimensions, accommodate
you boots or shoes, give you ruffles or cravat, and make faces for
you.’”
STUART’S SUCCESS IN EUROPE.
Stanley, in his edition of Bryan’s Dictionary of Painters and Engravers
says, “He rose into eminence, and his claims were acknowledged, even in
the life time of Sir Joshua Reynolds. His high reputation as a portrait
painter, as well in Ireland as in England, introduced him to a large
acquaintance among the higher circles of society, and he was in the road
of realizing a large fortune, had he not returned to America.”
STUART IN IRELAND.
“The Duke of Rutland,” says Dunlap, who had the story from the artist
himself, “invited Stuart to his house in Dublin. Stuart got money enough
together somehow to pay his passage to Ireland; but when he got there,
he found that the duke had died the day before. If anybody else had gone
there, the duke would have been just as sure to live, for something
extraordinary must happen to Stuart, of course. He soon got into the
debtors’ prison again; but he was a star still. He would not let people
give him money. Rich people and nobles _would_ be painted by him, and
they had to go to jail to find the painter. There he held his court;
flashing equipages of lords and ladies came dashing up to prison, while
their exquisite proprietors waited for their first sitting. He began the
pictures of a great many nobles and men of wealth and fashion, received
half price at the first sitting, and left their Irish lordships
imprisoned in effigy. Having thus liberated _himself_, and there being
no law that would justify the jailor in holding half-finished peers in
prison, the painter fulfilled his engagements, more at his ease, in his
own house, and in the bosom of his own family; and it is probable the
Irish gentlemen laughed heartily at the trick, and willingly paid the
remainder of the price.”
STUART’S RETURN TO AMERICA.
Miss Stuart, the daughter of the painter, says, “he arrived in Dublin in
1788, and notwithstanding the loss of his friendly inviter, he met with
great success, painted most of the nobility, and lived in a good deal of
splendor. The love of his own country, his admiration of General
Washington, and the very great desire he had to paint his portrait, was
his _only_ inducement to turn his back on his good fortunes in Europe.”
Accordingly, in 1793, he embarked for New York, where he took up his
abode for some months, and painted the portraits of Sir John Temple,
John Jay, Gen. Clarkson, John R. Murray, Colonel Giles, and other
persons of distinction.
STUART AND WASHINGTON.
In 1794, Stuart proceeded to Philadelphia, for the purpose of painting a
portrait of Washington, who received him courteously. He used to say
that when he entered the room where Washington was, he felt embarrassed,
and that it was the first time in his life he had ever felt awed in the
presence of a fellowman. Washington was then standing on the highest
eminence of earthly glory, and the gaze of the world was steadily fixed
upon the man, whom Botta terms “the Father of Freedom.” To leave to
posterity a faithful portrait of the Father of his country, had become
the most earnest wish of Stuart’s life. This he accomplished, but not at
the first time; he was not satisfied with the expression, and destroyed
the picture. The President sat again, and he produced that head which
embodies not only the features but the soul of Washington, from which he
painted all his other portraits of that great man. This picture is now
in the Boston Atheneum.
STUART’S LAST PICTURE.
After the removal of Congress to Washington, Stuart followed, and
resided there till 1806, when he went to Boston, and passed there the
rest of his days. He painted a great many portraits, which are scattered
all over the country. The last work he ever painted was a head of the
elder John Quincy Adams. He began it a full-length: but he was an old
man, and only lived to complete the head, which is considered one of his
best likenesses, and shows that the powers of his mind and the magic of
his pencil continued brilliant to the last. The picture was finished by
that eminent and highly gifted artist, Thomas Sully, who would not touch
the head, as he said, “he would have thought it little less than
sacrilege.” He died in 1828, in the seventy-fifth year of his age.
STUART’S REPUTATION.
As a painter of heads, Stuart stands almost unrivalled in any age or
country; beyond this he made no pretensions, and indeed bestowed very
little care or labor. He used to express his contempt for fine finishing
of the extremities, or rich and elegant accessories, which he used to
say was “work for girls.” Whether these were his real sentiments, or
affectation, it is difficult to determine. He was, however, totally
deficient in that academic education which is necessary to success in
the highest branch of the art--historical painting. He had genius enough
to have distinguished himself in any branch, but he could not, or would
not, brook the necessary toil.
STUART’S DRAWING.
Stuart never had patience to undergo the drudgery necessary to become a
skillful draughtsman. His kind instructor, Mr. West, urged upon him its
importance and necessity, and advised him to frequent the Royal Academy
for this purpose, which he neglected to do. Trumbull relates that
Fuseli, on being shown some of his drawings, observed in his usual
sarcastic manner, “young man, if this is the best you can do, you had
better go and make shoes.”
STUART A PUNSTER.
Stuart was an inveterate punster. Mr. Allston, calling on him a short
time before his death, asked him how he was. “Ah!” said he, drawing up
his pantaloons, and showing his emaciated leg, which in his youth had
been his pride, “you can judge how much I am _out of drawing_.”
STUART BORN IN A SNUFF-MILL.
Stuart was an inordinate snuff-taker. He used to jocosely apologize for
the habit, by saying that “he was born in a snuff-mill,” which was
literally true, for his father was a manufacturer of snuff. He said, “a
pinch of snuff had a wonderful effect upon a man’s spirits.” An old sea
captain once observed to him, “you see, sir, I have always a nostril in
reserve. When the right becomes callous after a few weeks’ usage, I
apply for comfort to the left, which having had time to regain its sense
of feeling, enjoys the _blackguard_ till the right comes to its senses.”
“Thank you,” said Stuart, “it’s a great discovery. Strange that I should
not have made it myself, when I have been voyaging all my life in these
channels.”
STUART’S NOSE.
Stuart always maintained that a likeness depended more on the _nose_,
than any other feature, and in proof of his theory, he would put his
thumb under his own large and flexible proboscis, and turning it up,
exclaim, “who would know my portrait with such a nose as this?”
Therefore, he is said to have generally painted a likeness, before
_putting in_ the eyes. On one occasion, a pert young coxcomb, who was
sitting for his portrait, stole a glance at the canvass and exclaimed,
“why, it has no eyes!” Stuart coolly observed, “It is not nine days old
yet,” referring of course to the time when a _puppy_ first opens its
eyes.
STUART’S SITTERS.
A portrait was once returned to Stuart with the grievous complaint, that
the muslin of the cravat was too coarsely executed. Stuart indignantly
observed to a friend, “I am determined to glue a piece of muslin of the
finest texture on the part that offends their _exquisite_ judgment, and
send it back again.” A lady once sat to him dressed in the extreme of
fashion, loaded with jewelry and gewgaws, besides an abundance of hair
powder and rouge. Stuart, being _hard up_ for cash, consented to “raise
a monument to her folly.” After the picture was completed, he observed
to a friend, “There is what I have all my life been endeavoring to
avoid,--vanity and bad taste.”
A gentleman of note employed Stuart to paint his own portrait and that
of his wife, who, when he married her, was a very rich widow, but a very
ordinary looking person. The husband was handsome, and of a noble
figure, and the painter _hit him off_, to admiration. Not so with the
lady; he flattered her as much as he could without destroying the
likeness, but the husband was not satisfied, expressed his
dissatisfaction in polite terms, and requested him to try again. He did
so, without any better success. The husband now began to fret, when the
painter losing his patience, jumped up, laid down his palette, took a
huge pinch of snuff, and stalking rapidly up and down the room,
exclaimed, “What a d--d business is this of a portrait painter--zounds,
you bring a _potato_, and expect him to paint you a peach.”
STUART’S MARK.
Stuart, it is said, never signed but one picture in his life, and that
was his own portrait, before mentioned, on which he wrote _Gilbert
Charles Stuart_. Dr. Waterhouse says, “his parents named him after his
father, and Charles the Pretender, but Stuart soon dropt the Charles, as
he was a staunch republican. When asked why he did not sign his
pictures, he replied, “I mark them all over.”
STUART AND HIS DOG.
In the early part of Stuart’s career as a portrait painter in London, he
had for his attendant a wild boy, the son of a poor widow, who spent
half his time in frolicking with a fine Newfoundland dog belonging to
his master. The boy and dog were inseparable companions, and when Tom
went on an errand, Towzer must accompany him. Tom was a terrible
truant, and played so many tricks upon Stuart, that he again and again
threatened to discharge him. One day, out of all patience at his long
absence, he posted off to his mother, in a rage, to dismiss him. The old
woman, perceiving a tempest, _began first_, and told a pitiful story,
how his dog had upset her mutton pie, broke the dish, greased the floor,
and devoured the meat. “I am glad of it; you encourage the rascal to
come here, and here I will send him.” An idea struck Stuart, and he
consented to keep Tom, on condition that she kept his visit a profound
secret. When the boy returned, he found his master at his easel, and
being roundly lectured, he told a story that had no relation to his
mother, Towzer, or the pie. “Very well,” said the painter, “bring in
dinner, I shall know all about it by-and-by.” Stuart sat down to his
dinner, and Towzer took his accustomed place by his side, while Tom
stood in attendance. “Well, Towzer, your mouth don’t water for your
share; where have you been?” and he put his ear to the dog’s mouth, “I
thought so, with Tom’s mother, ha!” “Bow-wow.” “And have you had your
dinner?” “Bow.” “I thought so; what have you been eating? Put your mouth
nearer, sir. Mutton-pie; very pretty. So you and Tom have eaten Mrs.
Jenkins’ mutton-pie, have you?” “Bow-wow.” “He lies, sir,” exclaimed
Tom, in amazement, “I didn’t touch it; he broke mother’s dish, and eat
all the mutton!” From that time, Tom concluded that the devil must be in
the dog or the painter, and that he had no chance for successful lying.
THE TEMPLE OF DIANA AT EPHESUS.
This famous temple, according to Vitruvius, was designed and commenced
by Ctesiphon, a Cretan architect of great eminence. It was two hundred
years in building, and was accounted one of the seven wonders of the
world. The gods having designated the spot, according to tradition,
every nation of Asia Minor contributed to its completion, with the most
fervent zeal. It was ornamented with one hundred and twenty-seven
columns of Parian marble, of the Ionic order, sixty feet high,
thirty-seven of which were the gifts of as many kings, and were
exquisitely wrought. This great temple was finished by Demetrius and
Paonius of Ephesus. It was afterwards burned by Erostratus, in order to
immortalize his name. It was subsequently rebuilt, but was finally
destroyed totally by the barbarians, in the third or fourth century.
THE DYING GLADIATOR.
The most famous work of Ctesilas was the Dying Gladiator, which has
received the highest commendations from both ancient and modern writers.
It was long preserved at Rome, in the Chigi palace, but was taken to
Paris with the Laocoön and other antiques, in 1796. These works were
restored by the allies, in 1815. Ctesilas flourished about B. C. 432,
was a cotemporary of Phidias, and with him and others competed for the
prize offered for six statues of the temple of Diana at Ephesus; the
first was awarded to Polycletus, the second to Phidias, and the third to
Ctesilas. He also distinguished himself by a number of other works,
among which were a statue of Pericles, and a Wounded Amazon.
FABIUS MAXIMUS.
It was not until the second Punic war that the Romans acquired a taste
for the arts and elegancies of life: for though in the first war with
Carthage, they had conquered Sicily (which in the old Roman geography
made a part of Greece), and were masters of several cities in the
eastern part of Italy, (which were inhabited by Grecian colonies, and
adorned with pictures and statues in which the Greeks excelled all the
world,) they had hitherto looked on them with so careless an eye, that
they were not touched with their beauty. This insensibility long
remained, either from the grossness of their minds, or from
superstition, or (what is more likely) from a political dread that their
martial spirit and natural roughness might be destroyed by Grecian art
and elegance. When Fabius Maximus, in the second Punic war, captured
Tarentum, he found it full of riches, and adorned with pictures and
statues, particularly with some fine colossal figures of the gods
fighting against the rebel giants: Fabius ordered that the money and
plate should be sent to Rome, but that the statues and pictures should
be left behind. The Secretary, struck with the size and noble air of the
statues, asked whether they too were to be left with the rest? “Yes,”
replied he, “leave their angry gods to the Tarentines; we will have
nothing to do with them.”
LOVE OF THE ARTS AMONG THE ROMANS.
We may judge to what extent the love of the arts prevailed in Rome, by a
speech of Cato the Censor, in the Senate, about seventeen years after
the taking of Syracuse. In vain did Cato exclaim against the pernicious
taste, and its demoralizing effects; the Roman generals, in their
several conquests, seem to have striven who should bring away the most
statues and pictures to adorn their triumphs and the city of Rome.
Flaminius from Greece, and more particularly Æmilius from Macedonia,
brought a very great number of vases and statues. Not many years after,
Scipio Africanus destroyed Carthage, and transferred to Rome the chief
ornaments of that city. The same year, Mummius sacked Corinth, one of
the principal repositories of the finest works of art. Having but little
taste himself, he took the surest method not to be mistaken, for he
carried off all that came in his way, and in such quantities, that he
alone is said to have filled Rome with pictures and statues. Sylla,
besides many others, made vast additions to them afterwards, by the
taking of Athens, and by his conquests in Asia.
COMPARATIVE MERITS OF THE VENUS DE MEDICI, AND THE VENUS VICTRIX.
The Venus de Medici is placed in the tribune of the Florentine gallery,
between two other Venuses, the Celestial and the Victorious. “If you
observe them well,” says Spence, “you will find as much difference
between her air, and that of the celestial Venus, as there is between
Titian’s wife as a Venus, and as a Madonna, in the same room.”
THE EFFECT OF PAINTING ON THE MIND.
The effects of the pencil are sometimes wonderful. It is said that
Alexander trembled and grew pale on seeing a picture of Palamedes
betrayed to death by his friends. It doubtless brought to his mind a
stinging remembrance of his treatment of Aristonicus.