Peregrine resolves to return to England--Is diverted with the odd
Characters of two of his Countrymen, with whom he contracts an
acquaintance in the Apartments of the Palais Royal.
In the mean time our hero received a letter from his aunt, importing
that the commodore was in a very declining way, and longed much to see
him at the garrison; and at the same time he heard from his sister, who
gave him to understand that the young gentleman, who had for some
time made his addresses to her, was become very pressing in his
solicitations; so that she wanted to know in what manner she should
answer his repeated entreaties. Those two considerations determined the
young gentleman to retain to his native country; a resolution that was
far from being disagreeable to Jolter, who knew that the incumbent on a
living which was in the gift of Trunnion was extremely old, and that
it would be his interest to be upon the spot at the said incumbent's
decease.
Peregrine, who had resided about fifteen months in France, thought he
was now sufficiently qualified for eclipsing most of his contemporaries
in England, and therefore prepared for his departure with infinite
alacrity; being moreover inflamed with the most ardent desire of
revisiting his friends, and renewing his connections, particularly with
Emilia, whose heart he by this time, thought he was able to reduce on
his own terms.
As he proposed to make the tour of Flanders and Holland in his return
to England, he resolved to stay at Paris a week or two after his affairs
were settled, in hope of finding some companion disposed for the same
journey; and, in order to refresh his memory, made a second circuit
round all the places in that capital, where any curious production of
art is to be seen. In the course of this second examination he chanced
to enter the Palais Royal, just as two gentlemen alighted from a fiacre
at the gate; and all three being admitted at the same time, he soon
perceived that the strangers were of his own country. One of them was a
young man, in whose air and countenance appeared all the uncouth
gravity and supercilious self-conceit of a physician piping-hot from his
studies; while the other, to whom his companion spoke by the appellation
of Mr. Pallet, displayed at first sight a strange composition of levity
and assurance. Indeed, their characters, dress, and address, were
strongly contrasted: the doctor wore a suit of black, and a huge
tie-wig, neither suitable to his own age, nor the fashion of the country
where he then lived; whereas the other, though seemingly turned of
fifty, strutted in a gay summer dress of the Parisian cut, with a bag to
his own grey hair, and a red feather in his hat, which he carried under
his arm. As these figures seemed to promise something entertaining,
Pickle entered into conversation with them immediately, and soon
discovered that the old gentleman was a painter from London, who had
stolen a fortnight from his occupation, in order to visit the remarkable
paintings of France and Flanders; and that the doctor had taken the
opportunity of accompanying him in his tour. Being extremely talkative,
he not only communicated these particulars to our hero in a very few
minutes after their meeting, but also took occasion to whisper in his
ear that his fellow-traveller was a man of vast learning and, beyond
all doubt, the greatest poet of the age. As for himself, he was under no
necessity of making his own eulogium; for he soon gave such specimens of
his taste and talents as left Pickle no room to doubt of his capacity.
While they stood considering the pictures in one of the first
apartments, which are by no means the most masterly compositions,
the Swiss, who set up for a connoisseur, looking at a certain piece,
pronounced the word with a note of admiration; upon which Mr. Pallet,
who was not at all a critic in the French language, replied, with
great vivacity, “Manufac, you mean, and a very indifferent piece of
manufacture it is: pray, gentlemen, take notice; there is no keeping in
those heads upon the background, and no relief in the principal figure:
then you'll observe the shadings are harsh to the last degree; and, come
a little closer this way--don't you perceive that the foreshortening of
that arm is monstrous?--egad, sir! There is an absolute fracture in
the limb. Doctor, you understand anatomy: don't you think that muscle
evidently misplaced? Hark ye, Mr. what-d'ye-call-um (turning to the
attendant), what is the name of the dauber who painted that miserable
performance?” The Swiss, imagining that he was all this time expressing
his satisfaction, sanctioned his supposed commendation by exclaiming
sans prix. “Right,” cried Pallet: “I could not recollect his name,
though his manner is quite familiar to me. We have a few pieces
in England, done by that same Sangpree; but there they are in no
estimation; we have more taste among us than to relish the productions
of such a miserable gout. A'n't he an ignorant coxcomb, doctor?” The
physician, ashamed of his companion's blunder, thought it was necessary,
for the honour of his wan character, to take notice of it before the
stranger, and therefore answered his question by repeating this line
from Horace:--
Mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur.
The painter, who was rather more ignorant of Latin than of French,
taking it for granted that this quotation of his friend conveyed an
assent to his opinion, “Very true,” said he, “Potato domine date, this
piece is not worth a single potato.” Peregrine was astonished at this
surprising perversion of the words and meaning of a Latin line, which,
at first, he could not help thinking was a premeditated joke; but,
upon second thoughts, he saw no reason to doubt that it was the
extemporaneous effect of sheer pertness and ignorance, at which he
broke out into an immoderate fit of laughter. Pallet, believing that the
gentleman's mirth was occasioned by his arch animadversion upon the work
of Sangpree, underwent the same emotion in a much louder strain, and
endeavoured to heighten the jest by more observations of the same
nature; while the doctor, confounded at his impudence and want of
knowledge, reprimanded him in these words of Homer:--
Siga, me tis allos Achaion touton akouse muthon.
This rebuke, the reader will easily perceive, was not calculated for the
meridian of his friend's intellects, but uttered with a view of raising
his own character in the opinion of Mr. Pickle, who retorted this parade
of learning in three verses from the same author, being part of the
speech of Polydamas to Hector, importing that it is impossible for one
man to excel in everything.
The self-sufficient physician, who did not expect such a repartee from
a youth of Peregrine's appearance, looked upon his reply as a fair
challenge, and instantly rehearsed forty or fifty lines of the Iliad
in a breath. Observing that the stranger made no effort to match this
effusion, he interpreted his silence into submission; then, in order to
ascertain his victory, insulted him with divers fragments of authors,
whom his supposed competitor did not even know by name; while Mr. Pallet
stared with admiration at the profound scholarship of his companion. Our
young gentleman, far from repining at this superiority laughed within
himself at the ridiculous ambition of the pedantic doctor. He rated him
in his own mind as a mere index-hunter, who held the eel of science by
the tail, and foresaw an infinite fund of diversion in his solemnity and
pride, if properly extracted by means of his fellow-traveller's
vanity and assurance. Prompted by these considerations, he resolved to
cultivate their acquaintance, and, if possible, amuse himself at their
expense in his journey through Flanders, understanding that they were
determined upon the same route. In this view he treated them with
extraordinary attention, and seemed to pay particular deference to the
remarks of the painter, who, with great intrepidity, pronounced judgment
upon every picture in the palace, or, in other words, exposed his own
nakedness in every sentence that proceeded from his mouth.
When they came to consider the Murder of the Innocents by Le Brun,
the Swiss observed, that it was un beau morceau, and Mr. Pallet
replied,--“Yes, yes, one may see with half an eye, that it can be
the production of no other; for Bomorso's style both in colouring
and drapery, is altogether peculiar: then his design is tame, and his
expression antic and unnatural. Doctor, you have seen my judgment of
Solomon; I think I may, without presumption--but, I don't choose to make
comparisons; I leave that odious task to other people, and let my works
speak for themselves. France, to be sure, is rich in the arts; but
what is the reason? The king encourages men of genius with honour and
rewards; whereas, in England, we are obliged to stand on our own feet,
and combat the envy and malice of our brethren. Egad! I have a good mind
to come and settle here in Paris. I should like to have an apartment in
the Louvre, with a snug pension of so many thousand livres.”
In this manner did Pallet proceed with an eternal rotation of tongue,
floundering from one mistake to another, until it was the turn of
Poussin's Seven Sacraments to be examined. Here again, the Swiss, out
of the abundance of his zeal, expressed his admiration, by saying these
pieces were impayable; when the painter, turning to him, with an air of
exultation, “Pardon me, friend, there you happen to be mistaken: these
are none of Impayable's; but done by Nicholas Pouseen. I have seen
prints of them in England, so that none of your tricks upon travellers,
Mr. Swiss or Swash, or what's your name.” He was much elated by this
imaginary triumph of his understanding, which animated him to persevere
in his curious observations upon all the other pieces of that celebrated
collection; but perceiving that the doctor manifested no signs of
pleasure and satisfaction, but rather beheld them with a silent air of
disdain, he could not digest his indifference, and asked, with a waggish
sneer, if ever he had seen such a number of masterpieces before? The
physician, eyeing him with a look of compassion, mingled with contempt,
observed that there was nothing there which deserved the attention
of any person acquainted with the ideas of the ancients; and that
the author of the finest piece now in being was unworthy to clean the
brushes of one of those great masters who are celebrated by the Greek
and Roman writers.
“O lad! O lad!” exclaimed the painter, with a loud laugh, “you have
fairly brought yourself into a dilemma at last, dear doctor; for it is
well known that your ancient Greek and Roman artists knew nothing at
all of the matter, in comparison with our modern masters; for this good
reason, because they had but three or four colours, and knew not how to
paint with oil: besides, which of all your old fusty Grecians would you
put upon a footing with the divine Raphael, the most excellent Michael
Angelo, Bona Roti, the graceful Guido, the bewitching Titian, and above
all others, the sublime Rubens, the--.” He would have proceeded with
a long catalogue of names which he had got by heart for the purpose,
without retaining the least idea of their several qualifications, had
not he been interrupted by his friend, whose indignation being kindled
by the irreverence with which he mentioned the Greeks, he called
him blasphemer, Goth, Boeotian, and, in his turn, asked with great
vehemence, which of those puny moderns could match with Panaenus of
Athens, and his brother Phidias; Polycletus of Sicyon; Polygnotus, the
Thracian; Parrhasius of Ephesus, surnamed Abrodiaitos, or the Beau; and
Apelles, the prince of painters? He challenged him to show any portrait
of these days that could vie with the Helen of Zeuxis, the Heraclean; or
any composition equal to the Sacrifice of Iphigenia, by Timanthes,
the Sicyonian; not to mention the Twelve Gods of Asclepiodorus, the
Athenian, for which Mnason, tyrant of Elatea, gave him about three
hundred pounds apiece; or Homer's Hell, by Nicias, who refused sixty
talents, amounting to upwards of eleven thousand pounds, and generously
made a present of it to his own country. He desired him to produce a
collection equal to that in the temple of Delphos, mentioned in the
“Ion” of Euripides; where Hercules and his companion Iolaus, are
represented in the act of killing the Lernaean hydra with golden
sickles, kruseais harpais, where Bellerophon appears on his winged
steed, vanquishing the fire-breathing chimera, tan puripneousan; and the
war of the giants is described. Here Jupiter stands wielding the red-hot
thunderbolts, keraunon amphipuron; there Pallas, dreadful to the view,
Gorgopon, brandishes her spear against the huge Euceladus; and Bacchus,
with slender ivy rods, defeats and slays the ges teknon, or the mighty
son of earth.
The painter was astonished and confounded at this rhapsody of names and
instances, which was uttered with surprising eagerness and rapidity,
suspecting at first that the whole was the creation of his own brain;
but when Pickle, with a view of flattering the doctor's self-conceit,
espoused his side of the question, and confirmed the truth of everything
he advanced, Mr. Pallet changed his opinion, and in emphatic silence
adored the immensity of his friend's understanding. In short, Peregrine
easily perceived that they were false enthusiasts, without the smallest
pretensions to taste and sensibility; and pretended to be in raptures
with they knew not what; the one thinking it was incumbent upon him
to express transports on seeing the works of those who had been most
eminent in their profession, whether they did or did not really raise
his admiration; and the other as a scholar deeming it his duty to
magnify the ancients above all competition, with an affected fervour,
which the knowledge of their excellencies never inspired. Indeed, our
young gentleman so successfully accommodated himself to the disposition
of each, that long before their review was finished, he was become a
particular favourite with both.
From the Palais Royal he accompanied them to the cloisters of the
Carthusian's, where they considered the History of St. Bruno, by Le
Sueur, whose name being utterly unknown to the painter, he gave judgment
against the whole composition, as pitiful and paltry; though, in the
opinion of all good judges, it is a most masterly performance.
Having satisfied their curiosity in this place, Peregrine asked them
to favour him with their company at dinner; but whether out of caution
against the insinuations of one whose character they did not know, or by
reason of a prior engagement, they declined his invitation on pretence
of having an appointment at a certain ordinary, though they expressed
a desire of being further acquainted with him; and Mr. Pallet took the
freedom of asking his name, which he not only declared, but promised,
as they were strangers in Paris, to wait upon them next day in the
forenoon, in order to conduct them to the Hotel de Toulouse, and the
houses of several other noblemen, remarkable for painting or curious
furniture. They thankfully embraced his proposal, and that same day made
inquiry among the English gentlemen about the character of our hero,
which they found so much to their satisfaction, that, upon their second
meeting, they courted his good graces without reserve; and as they had
heard of his intended departure, begged earnestly to have the honour of
accompanying him through the Low Countries. He assured them that
nothing could be more agreeable to him than the prospect of having such
fellow-travellers; and they immediately appointed a day for setting out
on that tour.