We remember reading a humorous sketch entitled, “The late Mr. Smith,”
whose portrait after his death was removed by his widow to the
lumber-room, lest it should be displeasing to her second husband:
occasionally the children would bring out the portrait, and with a rusty
foil run “the ugly old man” through the eyes.
Here we have one of the reasons why family portraits are so often thrust
aside; but there are several others. The Rev. Mr. Eagles relates the
following, in _Blackwood’s Magazine:_ “I remember, when a boy, walking
with an elderly gentleman, and passing a broker’s stall, there was the
portrait of a fine florid gentleman in regimentals. He stopped to look
at it—he might have bought it for a few shillings. After he had gone
away—‘That,’ said he, ‘is the portrait of my wife’s great uncle—member
for the county, and colonel of militia: you see how he is degraded to
these steps.’ ‘Why do you not rescue him?’ said I. ‘Because he left me
nothing,’ was the reply. A relative of mine, an old lady, hit upon a
happy device; the example is worth following. Her husband was the last
of his race, for she had no children. She took all the family portraits
out of their frames, rolled up all the pictures, and put them in the
coffin with the deceased.”
Sheridan has turned an incident of this class to admirable account, in
his _School for Scandal_, in the reservation of Uncle Oliver’s portrait
from sale.
Sometimes a good picture has unpleasant associations. “That is an
excellent portrait of Ireland, the Shakspeare forger,” said a collector
to a picture-dealer in Wardour-street; whose ready reply was, “Will you
buy it, sir? it is but half a guinea.” “No,” answered the other; “it
would seem either that I admired Ireland’s dishonest ingenuity, or that
I had been his friend.”
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