“Two days since, Constable compared a picture to a _sum_; for it is
wrong if you can take away or add a figure to it. In my picture of
‘Bird-Catchers,’ to avoid red, blue, and yellow---to recollect that
Callcott advised me to paint some parts of my picture thinly (leaving
the ground)--and that he gave credit to the man who never reminded you
of the palette.”
_HAYDON’S “JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON.”_
“Went to Spring Gardens,” says Collins, “to see Haydon’s picture of
‘The Judgment of Solomon.’ In this most extraordinary production there
is everything for which the Venetian school is so justly celebrated;
with this difference only, that Haydon has considered other qualities
equally necessary. Most men who have arrived at such excellence in
colour, have seemed to think they have done enough; but with Haydon it
was evidently the signal of his desire to have every greatness of every
other school. Hence, he lays siege to the drawing and expression of
Nature, which, in this picture, he has certainly carried from, and in
the very face of, all his competitors. Of the higher qualities of Art
are certainly the tone of the whole picture; the delicate variety of
colour; the exquisite sentiment in the mother bearing off her children;
and the consciousness of Solomon in the efficacy of his demonstration
of the real mother. In short, Haydon deserves the praise of every
real artist for having proved that it is possible (which, by the way,
I never doubted) to add all the beauties of colour and tone to the
grandeur of the most sublime subject, without diminishing the effect
upon the heart. Haydon has done all this; and produced, upon the whole,
the most perfect modern picture I ever saw; and that at the age of
seven-and-twenty!”
_SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE._
Among the correspondence of Collins occurs the following characteristic
letter to him from this celebrated writer.
“TO W. COLLINS, ESQ., A.R.A.
HIGHGATE, _December, 1818_.
“MY DEAR SIR,--I at once comply with, and thank you for, your request
to have some prospectuses. God knows I have so few friends, that
it would be unpardonable in me not to feel proportionably grateful
towards those few who think the time not wasted in which they interest
themselves in my behalf. There is an old Latin adage: ‘_Vis videri
pauper, et pauper es._’ Poor you profess yourself to be, and poor
therefore you are, and will remain. The prosperous feel only with the
prosperous; and if you subtract from the whole sum of their feeling
for all the gratifications of vanity and all their calculations of
_lending to the Lord_, both of which are best answered by conferring
the superfluity of their superfluities on advertised and advertisable
distress--or on such as are known to be in all respects their
inferiors--you will have, I fear, but a scanty remainder. All this is
too true; but then, what is that man to do whom no distress can bribe
to swindle or deceive? who cannot reply as Theophilus Cibber did to
his father, Colley Cibber, who, seeing him in a rich suit of clothes,
whispered to him as he passed, ‘The.! The.! I pity thee!’ ‘Pity me!
pity my tailor!’ Spite of the decided approbation which my plan of
delivering lectures has received from several judicious and highly
respectable individuals, it is too histrionic, too much like a retail
dealer in instruction and pastime, not to be depressing. If the duty
of living were not far more awful to my conscience than life itself is
agreeable to my feelings, I should sink under it. But, getting nothing
by my publications, which I have not the power of making estimable by
the public without loss of self-estimation, what can I do? The few
who have won the present age, while they have secured the praise of
posterity, as Sir Walter Scott, Mr. Southey, Lord Byron, etc., have
been in happier circumstances. And lecturing is the only means by which
I can enable myself to go on at all with the great philosophical work
to which the best and most genial hours of the last twenty years of
my life have been devoted. Poetry is out of the question. The attempt
would only hurry me into that sphere of acute feelings from which
abstruse research, the mother of self-oblivion, presents an asylum.
Yet sometimes, spite of myself, I cannot help bursting out into the
affecting exclamation of our Spenser (his ‘wine’ and ‘ivy garland’
interpreted as competence and joyous circumstances),--
“Thou kenn’st not, Percy, how the rhyme should rage!
Oh if my temples were bedewed with wine,
And girt with garlands of wild ivy-twine,
How I could rear the Muse on stately stage!
And teach her tread aloft in buskin fine,
With queen’d Bellona in her equipage--
But, ah, my courage cools ere it be warm!”
But God’s will be done. To feel the full force of the Christian
religion, it is perhaps necessary, for many tempers, that they should
first be made to feel, experimentally, the hollowness of human
friendship, the presumptuous emptiness of human hopes. I find more
substantial comfort now in pious George Herbert’s ‘Temple,’ which I
used to read to amuse myself with his quaintness--in short, only to
laugh at--than in all the poetry since the poems of Milton. If you have
not read ‘Herbert,’ I can recommend the book to you confidently. The
poem entitled ‘The Flower,’ is especially affecting; and, to me, such a
phrase as ‘relish versing,’ expresses a sincerity, a reality, which I
would unwillingly exchange for the more dignified, ‘and once more love
the Muse,’ etc. And so, with many other of Herbert’s homely phrases.
We are all anxious to hear from, and of, our excellent transatlantic
friend [Mr. Allston]. I need not repeat that your company, with or
without our friend Leslie, will gratify your sincere,
“S. T. COLERIDGE.”
_THE PAINTER’S SYMPATHISERS._
Collins was much amused on one occasion by the remark of some
fishermen. Having made a careful study of some boats and other objects
on the beach, which occupied him the greater part of the day, towards
evening, when he was preparing to leave, the sun burst out low in the
horizon, producing a very beautiful, although totally different, effect
on the same objects; and with his usual enthusiasm, he immediately set
to work again, and had sufficient light to preserve the effect. The
fishermen seemed deeply to sympathize with him at this unexpected and
additional labour as they called it; and endeavoured to console him by
saying, “Well, never mind, sir; every business has its troubles.”
[Illustration]
_COPLEY (JOHN SINGLETON), R.A._
John Singleton Copley was born at Boston in America, 3rd July, 1737.
His father was of English descent, and having resided a long time in
Ireland, many claimed the painter, when he became eminent, as a native
of the sister Isle. When eight or nine years old, he would remain in
an old lumber room for several hours at a time, drawing, in charcoal,
figures on the wall. At that time Boston had neither academy nor
private instructors in the art; and the young artist had therefore
to educate himself. In the year 1760 he sent his first painting
anonymously to the Exhibition of the Royal Academy, which raised high
expectations among the academicians. Seven years after, his name was
well known to admirers of Art, both in America and England. So proud
were the Bostonians of him, that they provided as many commissions
as he could execute. He visited London in 1774; but after a short
stay he left it for Italy. He thus writes to an acquaintance from
Rome,--“Having seen the Roman school, and the wonderful efforts of
genius exhibited by Grecian artists, I now wish to see the Venetian and
Flemish schools. There is a kind of luxury in seeing, as well as there
is in eating and drinking; the more we indulge, the less are we to be
restrained; and indulgence in Art I think innocent and laudable....
The only considerable stay which I intend to make will be at Parma,
to copy the fine Correggio. Art is in its utmost perfection here;
a mind susceptible of the fine feelings which Art is calculated to
excite will find abundance of pleasure in this country. The Apollo,
the Laocoön, etc., leave nothing for the human mind to wish for; more
cannot be effected by the genius of man than what is happily combined
in those miracles of the chisel.” Copley returned to London, and
being introduced by West to the Academy, the King, in 1783, sanctioned
his election as an R.A. His name being established, year after year
witnessed works of high and enduring merit from his brush. He was never
idle. The merit of his paintings was the more surprising when it was
considered with what rapidity they were executed. Perhaps among his
best works are the following, “King Charles ordering the arrest of the
five Members of Parliament,” “The Death of Chatham,” and “The Death of
Major Pierson,” a young officer who fell in the defence of St. Helier’s
against the French. This picture was painted for Boydell; and when,
long afterwards, his gallery was dispersed, was purchased back by the
artist, and was subsequently in the possession of his son, the late
Lord Lyndhurst, who, to his credit, was at the time of his death the
owner of several of the best works of his distinguished parent. Copley
died 9th September, 1815.
_PORTRAIT PAINTING._
A portrait painter in large practice might write a pretty book on the
vanity and singularity of his sitters. A certain man came to Copley,
and had himself, and wife, and seven children all included in a family
piece. “It wants but one thing,” said he, “and that is the portrait
of my first wife--for this one is my second.” “But,” said the artist,
“she is dead you know, sir: what can I do? she is only to be admitted
as an angel.” “Oh, no! not at all,” answered the other; “she must come
in as a woman--no angels for me.” The portrait was added, but some
time elapsed before the person came back; when he returned, he had
a stranger lady on his arm. “I must have another cast of your hand,
Copley,” he said: “an accident befel my second wife; this lady is my
third; and she is come to have her likeness included in the family
picture.” The painter complied--the likeness was introduced--and the
husband looked with a glance of satisfaction on his three spouses. Not
so the lady; she remonstrated; never was such a thing heard of! out her
predecessors must go. The artist painted them out accordingly, and had
to bring an action at law to obtain payment for the portraits he had
obliterated.--_Life of Copley: Family Library._
[Illustration]
_DAVID (JACQUES LOUIS)._
Jacques Louis David, the celebrated French painter, was born in Paris
in the year 1748, and studied under Vienne. It is said of him, that
while endeavouring to give an air of antique character to his works,
he was too often cold and inexpressive, resembling coloured statuary
more than nature. By many admirers he is looked up to as the head and
restorer of the French school. The following may be reckoned as his
most celebrated pictures:--“The Rape of the Sabines,” “The Coronation
of Napoleon,” “The Oath taken in the Tennis Court,” “Brutus,”
“Belisarius,” “The Funeral of Patroclus,” and “The Death of Socrates.”
He died in December, 1825.
_DAVID’S MARRIAGE._
Jacques Louis David was very successful with his pupils. At each
distribution of prizes at the Academy of Rome, one of his pupils
generally bore away the palm. The King of France, who acknowledged the
royalty of the arts, ordered apartments to be prepared for David in the
Louvre.
Till then, David had never dreamed of marrying; he only thought of the
productions of his genius. Before taking possession of his apartments
in the Louvre, it was necessary for him to come to some arrangement
with Pécoul, the King’s architect. David had known his son at Rome.
They had often talked together of their country and absent families.
Pécoul’s son had said to David, “I have some handsome sisters; you must
choose one, and we shall then be brothers.” On the painter’s departure
for Paris, he had given him a letter to his father, principally as an
introduction to his sisters. More than two years had passed by, and the
letter still remained in a portfolio of drawings. One day, as David
turned it over, he said--“Who knows but destiny may have traced this?”
And so it remained for another six months.
At last he called on Pécoul.
“Ah!” said the architect, “you are David, and you want apartments in
the Louvre?”
“Yes, sir, the King has had the kindness to allow me to reside there.”
David had the letter in his pocket; he blushed, drew it out, and gave
it, with much emotion, to the architect.
“Egad!” said Pécoul, “this letter will still keep a little longer; come
and dine with me, and we will read it at the dessert.” Saying this,
Pécoul, in his turn, put the letter into his pocket.
David went to dinner. There was a great display of luxury and coquetry.
It was Pécoul’s ardent wish that the glory and fortune of David should
spring from his own house.
At the dessert, Pécoul took out his son’s letter and read it aloud.
This was like a piece of theatrical clap-trap. The profoundest silence
ensued; the young girls held down their heads while eyeing David.
David interrogated the sphinx. Pécoul, as he read the letter, tried
also to read the thoughts of David in his eyes. The mother alone
thought of him who had written the letter, for her son was still at
Rome.
The letter ran as follows:--“The bearer of this, dear father, is my
best friend; do your utmost that he may become my brother. This will
be easy enough; he is twenty-five, and you have some marriageable
daughters; he has genius, and you have money.”
Monsieur Pécoul finished reading; but his auditors were still listening.
“You see, mesdemoiselles,” at last said David, taken unexpectedly, “how
your brother settles matters. I am quite confused at his good opinion
of me; but he does not seem to know that neither daughter nor sister
ought to be forced, where marriage is concerned. As for me, who am
alone in the world, I should be too happy to people my solitude with
beauty and virtue.”
After an awkward pause, the architect broke silence by telling David
that he would religiously follow his son’s advice, especially as
the celebrated painter of “Belisarius” had no natural aversion to
matrimony. The conversation resumed its liveliness, and every one spoke
much and gaily; but when David rose to leave, he did not yet know which
of the two young girls he should marry. Of the two beauties he married
the Roman type.
_DAVID’S CRUELTY._
It is related of David, that during the reign of terror, when the
executions were most numerous and indiscriminate, he would give vent to
his ferocious nature by exclaiming with a chuckle, “_C’est ça, il faut
encore broyer du rouge_.”
_HIS EXCESSIVE VANITY._
His cruelty was only equalled by his vanity and sycophancy. Boasting
of being like Robespierre--incorruptible, one who knew him remarked,
“I know what would bribe you!” “What?” he indignantly exclaimed. “An
apotheosis in the Pantheon during your lifetime,” was the answer.
On his death-bed, at the direction of his physicians, an engraving of
one of his works was shown him to test the state of his faculties;
he cast on it his glassy eyes, and muttered, “_Il n’y a que moi qui
pouvait concevoir la tête de Léonidas._”
_DANTON’S FEATURES._
David, who regarded as a demi-god Danton, the organizer of the massacre
of the prisons during the reign of terror, attempted several times
to delineate the horrid countenance of this remarkable man; at last,
giving up the attempt as impossible, David exclaimed, “_Il serait plus
facile de peindre l’éruption d’un volcan, que les traits de ce grand
homme._”
_DAVID AND NAPOLEON._
In his celebrated picture of the distribution of the eagles to
Napoleon’s legions, David had represented Victory soaring over them,
holding forth crowns of laurel. “What do you mean, sir, by this foolish
allegory?” exclaimed the Emperor, “it was perfectly unnecessary.
Without borrowing such absurd fictions, the world must know that all my
soldiers are conquerors.” On returning some days after this ebullition
of temper, the Emperor was delighted at finding David had painted three
scrolls, bearing the names of Buonaparte, Hannibal, and Charlemagne.
_DAVID AND THE EMPEROR’S PORTRAIT._
Before painting the Emperor’s portrait, he asked him how he would be
represented. “On the field of victory, sire, sword in hand?” “Bah!”
replied the Emperor. “Victories are not gained by the sword. Represent
me, sir, dashing forward on a fiery steed.”
Again, when requested to sit a little more steadily, to obtain a
good resemblance, Napoleon replied: “Pshaw, sir! who cares for a
resemblance? What are mere features, sir? The genius of the artist is
shown by his success in representing the fire--the inspiration of the
face. Think you, sir, Alexander ever sat to Apelles?”
[Illustration]
_DENON (DOMINIQUE VIVANT)._
Dominique Vivant Denon was born in a small town of Burgundy, of a
noble family, in the year 1747. He was appointed by the King, at an
early age, gentleman-in-ordinary. Soon after, he was made secretary of
embassy, and accompanied Baron Talleyrand to Naples. It was in this
capacity, during the absence of Talleyrand, that Denon charmed all
he had acquaintance with by his rare superiority of talent and depth
of conception, which, lying concealed under an inexhaustible fund
of wit and humour, was not even suspected to exist till the wit and
courtier vanished to make room for the diplomatist. While in Italy, he
devoted his mornings to the study of the Fine Arts, of which he was
passionately fond. He was selected by Buonaparte to accompany him to
Egypt, in which celebrated campaign Denon by turns wielded the sword
and handled the pencil. It was remarked by all that his stock of
gaiety never deserted him, even when under the severest privations.
Many instances are recorded of his humanity and feeling on crossing the
desert. His terrific picture of the Arab dying in the desert of hunger
and thirst was taken from nature; and such and even worse scenes were
daily met with by the artist during this memorable undertaking of the
great general. Denon returned with Buonaparte to France, and prepared
his immortal travels in Upper and Lower Egypt during the Egyptian
campaigns. This work, which has obtained the highest suffrages, and
been translated into almost all European languages, was much admired by
Buonaparte himself. One day, on looking over the work, Napoleon said,
“If I lost Egypt, Denon has conquered it.” As a mark of appreciation
of Denon’s talent and attachment, he was appointed by Napoleon
director and administrator-general of the museums and medal-mint.
This office was just in accordance with Denon’s taste and talents. No
medals were allowed to be struck of which the designs and execution
had not received the approbation of Denon; and to this cause, say
the connoisseurs, is to be attributed the uniform superiority of the
Napoleon medals in beauty of execution over every other collection in
the world. Denon was specially appointed to superintend the erection of
the column in the Place Vendôme in honour of the battle of Austerlitz.
The model was to be the column of Trajan at Rome; but, it is generally
agreed, Denon greatly surpassed his model. After the fall of Napoleon,
Denon lived in retirement, occupying himself with his collection of
medals, etc. His cabinet was open several days in the week, and was
resorted to by strangers from all parts of the world. For the last
seven years before his death, which took place in the year 1825,
he employed his spare moments in the composition of a work on the
“History of Art,” with about 300 to 400 plates from his own cabinet.
The subscription was soon closed after his intention was known. Many of
the first French artists, it is said, owe their advancement in life to
his interest and influence. He died at the age of seventy-eight.
_NAIVETÉ OF TALLEYRAND’S WIFE._
“Talleyrand invited Denon to dinner. When he went home to his wife, he
said, ‘My dear, I have invited Denon to dine. He is a great traveller,
and you must say something handsome to him about his travels, as he may
be useful to us with the Emperor.’ His wife being extremely ignorant,
and probably never having read any other books of travels than that
of Robinson Crusoe, concluded that Denon could be nobody else than
Robinson. Wishing to be very civil to him, she, before a large company,
asked him divers questions about his man Friday! Denon, astonished,
did not know what to think at first; but at length discovered by her
questions that she really imagined him to be Robinson Crusoe. His
astonishment and that of the company cannot be described, nor the
peals of laughter which it excited in Paris, as the story flew like
wildfire through the city; and even Talleyrand himself was ashamed of
it.”--_Gentleman’s Magazine._
_DENON’S CURIOSITIES._
The following are a few of the many curiosities sold by auction in
Paris in 1846. Various instruments which belonged to the tribunal of
the Inquisition at Valladolid. The ring of John-without-Fear, Duke of
Burgundy, who was assassinated on the bridge of Monterau; the ring
being found in his grave in 1792. Plaster casts of the heads of
Cromwell, Charles XII., and Robespierre. Fragments of bones found
in the burial place of the Cid and Ximena at Burgos. Bones from the
grave of Abelard and Heloise at Paraclete. Hair of Agnes Sorel, who
was burned at Loches, and of Ines de Castro, at Alkaboga. Part of the
moustaches of Henry IV., found in excellent preservation when the royal
tombs at St. Denis were emptied in 1793. A piece of Turenne’s shroud.
Bones of Molière and La Fontaine. Some hair of General Desaix. A tooth
of Voltaire. A piece of the shirt stained with blood worn by Napoleon
at the time of his death. A lock of his hair, and a leaf of the weeping
willow which overshadows his grave at St. Helena.
[Illustration]
_FLAXMAN (JOHN), R.A._
Flaxman held the distinguished position of Professor of Sculpture to
the Royal Academy. He was an excellent Greek and Latin scholar, and
his mind seems to have been early imbued with that classic feeling and
taste which it is essential for an historical sculptor to possess, and
which laid the foundation of his future celebrity. He was admitted a
Student of the Royal Academy, in 1770. In 1787, Mr. Flaxman went to
Italy, where he pursued his studies for seven years. While resident at
Rome, he made about eighty designs from the Iliad and Odyssey. These
were so highly approved that he was afterwards engaged to illustrate,
in the same manner, the works of Dante for Mr. Thomas Hope, and
Æschylus for the late Countess Spencer. All these designs were made
at Rome, and engraved there by Thomas Piroli. The Homer was published
in quarto, in 1793, and again, with additional plates, in 1805; the
Æschylus, in 1795; the Dante, in 1807. His illustrations of Hesiod
were made after his return to England; they were engraved by W. Blake,
and published in 1816. Mr. Flaxman returned from Rome in 1794, and was
elected on his way a Member of the Academies of Florence and Carrara.
His first work after his arrival in England, and for which he received
the commission before he left Rome, was the monument to Lord Mansfield,
in Westminster Abbey. He designed and executed many other sepulchral
monuments, the most notable being those of Earl Howe, Lord Nelson, and
Sir Joshua Reynolds, in St. Paul’s cathedral; while Westminster Abbey,
and various other cathedrals and churches, are enriched with exquisite
productions of his genius. Flaxman died, 3rd December, 1826, at the age
of seventy-one.
_HIS OBLIGING DISPOSITION._
The following letter curiously illustrates the kind and obliging nature
of the celebrated sculptor. It is addressed to John Bischoff, Esq.,
Leeds:--
“BUCKINGHAM STREET, FITZROY SQUARE,
“_19th of Aug. 1814_.
“DEAR SIR,--Your first respected letter was duly received, concerning
the drawing for Dr. Whitaker’s new edition of ‘The History of Leeds;’
the answer to which has been delayed so long because I wished to send
by it such information respecting the manner of engraving the monument
of Captains Walker and Beckett, with the expense, as might enable Dr.
Whitaker and yourself to determine what kind of print will be most
likely to answer the purpose of publication--which will consequently
determine the kind of drawing from which the copper-plate must be
engraved. This information I have just obtained. A highly-finished
shadowed engraving, of the proper size for a quarto book, will cost
twenty guineas, or more; and in this department of Art there are two
engravers of distinguished excellence, Mr. Bromley and Mr. Englehart.
For such an engraving a drawing should be made by Mr. Stothard, who is
used to draw for engravers; which is an absolute requisite, as this is
a distinct branch of Art. A drawing of this kind costs about five or
six guineas. If the Rev. Doctor would be satisfied with an outline of
the monument--such as those published of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey,
as well as some in Cowper’s translations of Milton’s Latin poems,
which is now a favourite style of decoration in books--I can make the
outline myself, and will request the Editor’s acceptance of it. The
engraving, including the copper-plate, will cost six guineas if done
by Mr. Blake, the best engraver of outlines. When you favour me with
Dr. Whitaker’s intentions on this subject, pray send in the letter the
size of the intended book. I hope you will excuse the trouble I have
occasioned you; and accept my particular thanks for your kindness and
attention.
“I have the honour to remain, etc.,
“JOHN FLAXMAN.”
[Illustration]
_FUSELI (HENRY), R.A._
Henry Fuseli was a native of Zurich, and came to England at an early
age, being undecided whether to make Literature or Art his study. He
happened to take some of his drawings to Sir Joshua Reynolds, and
requested the great painter to give his candid opinion upon their
execution. The President was so struck with the power of conception
displayed in them, that after attentively viewing them, he said, “Young
man, were I the author of these drawings, and offered ten thousand a
year not to practise as an artist, I would reject it with contempt.”
This opinion, so flattering, decided him. In 1798, on the opening
of his Milton Gallery, he fully satisfied all who might previously
have had misgivings, by a rare display of lofty imagination, blended
with extensive intellectual acquirements. All were agreed upon his
marvellous genius as displayed in that exhibition. Among his masterly
works in the Shakspeare Gallery, his “Ghost of Hamlet’s Father” was,
perhaps, the grandest. Mr. Fuseli enjoyed the friendship of the most
distinguished literati of the age. His townsman, Lavater, entertained
a very high opinion of him before ever he discovered his genius by his
after career. On leaving his native town to begin life, Lavater put
into his hand a small piece of paper, beautifully framed, on which was
written, “Do but the tenth part of what you _can_ do.” “Hang that up in
your bed-room,” said Lavater, “and I know what will be the result.” Mr.
Fuseli enjoyed excellent health, no doubt the result of his habitual
temperance; whether in town or country, summer or winter, he was seldom
in bed after five o’clock. He died in the year 1825, at the ripe old
age of 84, and his remains were interred in St. Paul’s cathedral.
_HIS CAT._
It is related of the famous Fuseli, that he had a very imperfect
sympathy for the harmless domestic cat. One day he was heard roaring
at the top of his voice, “Same, Same, why the devil don’t you come?”
The affectionate Mrs. F., who was in an adjoining room, rushed out, and
catching sight of her husband’s agonized features, asked in dismay,
“What do you want of Sam, my dear Henry?” The only reply to which
was, “Oh! d---- your dear Henry; send up Same.” On hastening to his
assistance, the professor was found sprawling on his back, and pointing
to the great doors of his painting room. It was found that he had a few
minutes before gone there to take out a large picture to paint upon,
when a couple of cats that had crawled through the roof rushed out and
confronted him, thus causing all the disturbance. The man for whom he
had called so vigorously by the name of “Same,” was Samuel Stronger,
his model, who found his patron as white as a ghost.
_HIS GAITERS._
It was not unusual for Fuseli to walk into the students’ room, with
his gaiters in his hand. He would put them on just before the Academy
closed for the night. One night, in his hurry to begin, he forgot the
gaiters, or rather mislaid them. A long-continued grumbling announced
to the students present that something was wrong. One of the students,
less careful than the others, began to titter; this caught the
professor’s ears, who bounced out of the room, exclaiming, “Oh! you are
all a set of teeves; you have stolen my gaiters!” The merriment had not
subsided, when, reappearing with the missing articles in his hand, and
assuming as bland a smile as he could command, he apologetically added,
“Oh, no! I was the teef myself. It was I who stole the gaiters!”
_THE DRAMA._
Fuseli was a profound scholar in the works of Shakspeare, so much so
that he had the various passages of the plays at his fingers’ ends. As
an illustration, the following incident occurred at a dinner table, at
which many were present. Sitting beside Fuseli was a very garrulous,
shallow young man, who several times misquoted the great dramatist.
After receiving blunder upon blunder with an audible growl, he
addressed the young gentleman with, “Where’s that to be found?”
“In Titus Andronicus, where the black, as you recollect, says--”
“No, saar, I do not recollect; I do not think it is in Taitus
Andronicus at all.”
“Macbeth, perhaps,” ventured the quoter.
“No, no; it is not in Maac-beath.”
“In Hamlet.”
“No, nor in Haamlet, saar.”
“Well, then, I do not recollect where it is,” admitted the speaker.
To which Fuseli added, “Perhaps you do not know, but it is in Otello,
saar,” much to the diversion of the assembled guests.
_NOISY STUDENTS._
Hearing a violent noise in the studio, and inquiring the cause, he was
answered by one of the porters, “It’s only those fellows, the students,
sir.” “Fellows!” exclaimed Fuseli; “I would have you to know, sir,
those _fellows_ may one day become Academicians.” The noise increasing,
he opened the door with, “You are a den of wild beasts.” Munro, who was
one of the students, bowed, and said, “And Fuseli is our keeper.”
_THE YORKSHIREMAN._
Discoursing one day upon the merits of Phocion, the Athenian, a
gentleman gravely put the question, “Pray, sir, who was Mr. Phocion?”
Fuseli as gravely answered, “From your dialect, sir, I presume you
are from Yorkshire; and, if so, I wonder you do not recollect
Mr. Phocion’s name, as he was Member for your county in the Long
Parliament!”
_RICHARDSON’S NOVELS._
A gentleman speaking one day in the presence of Fuseli, of books,
remarked, “No one now reads the works of Richardson.” “Do they not?”
said the painter, “then by G-- they ought. If people are tired of old
novels, I should be glad to know your criterion of books. If Richardson
is old, Homer is obsolete. _Clarissa_ to me is pathetic; I never read
it without crying like a child.”
_CLASSICAL ATTAINMENTS._
Haydon, in his lectures on painting, observes: “In general literature,
what is called polite literature, Fuseli was highly accomplished.
He perhaps knew as much of Homer as any man; but he was not a deep
classic; he could puzzle Dr. Burney by a question, but he was more
puzzled if Dr. Burney questioned him. Porson spoke lightly of his
knowledge of Greek, but in comparison with Porson, a man might know
little and yet know a great deal; a friend once asked him to construe a
difficult passage in the chorus in the Agamemnon of Æschylus--he cursed
all choruses, and said he never read them! But his power of acquiring,
idiomatically, a living language was certainly extraordinary; six
weeks, he said, was enough for him to speak any language; yet though
his tendency to literature gave him in society the power of being very
amusing, I think it my duty to caution the young men present; he, for
an artist, allowed literature to take too predominant a part in his
practice, and sunk too much the painter in the critic.”
[Illustration]
_GAINSBOROUGH (THOMAS), R.A._
This eminent landscape painter was born at Sudbury, in Suffolk, in
1727. His father was a clothier by trade, and of very peculiar habits.
It was to his mother, an accomplished woman, that he owed so much
affectionate encouragement during his boyhood. He often absented
himself from school, and spent the time sketching the picturesque
dwellings with overhanging storeys in his neighbourhood. It has been
said of him, “Nature was his teacher, and the woods of Suffolk were his
Academy.” His affection for his birthplace was very great throughout
his career, and there was not a tree of any beauty there that was not
treasured in his memory. At the age of fifteen he left for London, and
returned disappointed to Sudbury after four years’ absence. On his
return to his native town he devoted himself to the study of landscape,
and soon after married the handsome Margaret Burr, who brought an
annuity of £200. Still he studied hard, and his fame extended. It was
in 1774, after thirty-three years, he returned to the metropolis, his
fame having long preceded him. With a splendid income, he occupied
Schomberg House, Pall Mall, at a rental of £300 a year. Here there was
much demand upon his industry by royalty, peers, and commoners. He died
in August, 1788, in the sixty-second year of his age.
_THE CONCEITED ALDERMAN._
Gainsborough was one day painting the portrait of a rich citizen, who
told the painter that he had come in his new five-guinea wig. His
manner and his attempts to look pretty had such an effect upon the
artist, it was with the greatest difficulty he was prevented laughing
in his face. At length, when the worthy alderman begged he would not
overlook the dimple in his chin, his manner was so simpering that
no power of his face could withstand it; Gainsborough burst into an
immoderate fit of laughter, threw his pencils on the floor, and d--ning
the dimple, declared he could not paint that or the alderman either,
and never touched the picture more.
_THE ARTIST’S INDEPENDENCE._
A gentleman being disappointed at not receiving his picture, called
upon the painter, and inquired of the porter in a loud voice, “Has
that fellow, Gainsborough, finished my portrait?” He was shown into
the studio, where he beheld his portrait, and was much pleased with
it. After ordering the artist to send it home forthwith, he added,
“I may as well give you a cheque for the other fifty guineas.” “Stay
a minute,” said Gainsborough, “it just wants a finishing stroke;”
and snatching up a background brush, he dashed it across the smiling
features, indignantly exclaiming, “Sir, where is my fellow now?”
_HIS LETTER TO THE DUKE OF BEDFORD._
“MY LORD DUKE,--A most worthy, honest man, and one of the greatest
geniuses for musical compositions England ever produced, is now in
London, and has got two or three members of parliament along with him
out of Devonshire, to make application for one of the receivers of the
land-tax of that county, now resigned by a very old man, one Mr. Haddy.
His name is William Jackson; lives at Exeter; and for his plainness,
truth, and ingenuity, at the same time, is beloved as no man ever was.
Your grace has doubtless heard his compositions; but he is no fiddler,
your grace may take my word for it. He is extremely clever and good,
is a married man with a young family, and is qualified over and over
for the place; has got friends of fortune who will be bound for him in
any sum; and they are all making application to His Grace the Duke of
Grafton to get him the place. But, my Lord Duke, I told him they could
not do it without me; that I must write to your grace about it. He is
at Mr. Arnold’s, in Norfolk Street, in the Strand; and if your grace
would be pleased to think of it, I should be ever bound to pray for
your grace. Your grace knows that I am an _original_, and therefore, I
hope, will be the more ready to pardon this monstrous freedom from your
grace’s, etc.,