At the palace of the Prince Borghese in Rome, several young English and
American artists were engaged, last winter, in copying the renowned
productions of the old masters. Portray to yourself, kind reader, two
large halls--the walls of which are lined with paintings, and
intercommunicating by a side door, now thrown open for the benefit of
the parties. In the first of these apartments are erected three
easels--before which, in the attitude of painters, stand--first, a
Virginian, intent upon the exquisite Magdalene of Correggio,--opposite,
the native of a country town of Great Britain--transferring, as nearly
as possible, the Prodigal Son, of the great Venetian,--while, within a
few feet of the former, a Londoner is travailing for the inspiration of
Titian, by contemplating his "Sacred and Profane Loves." The artists
may thus be said to occupy, relatively, the three points of an
isosceles-triangle. Gaze now, through the above-mentioned passage, and
behold, at the extremity of the second and lesser hall, the figure of a
Baltimorean--fancying, perchance, the surprise of the natives when they
see _his_ copy of the inimitable Cupid beside him.
These worthy followers of the rainbow art were wont to amuse
themselves, and beguile the time, with conversations upon the merits
and manners of their respective countries; and occasionally, by a very
natural process, such amicable debates would assume not a little of the
earnest spirit of controversy. Then would the brush fall less
frequently upon the canvass--their eyes linger less devotedly upon the
great originals around, and ever and anon the disputants would step a
pace or two from the object of their labors, raise aloft their
pencils--as though, like the styles of the ancients, they subserved
equally the purposes of art and of warfare, or wave their mottled
pallets as shields against the errors of argument. A full history of
these discussions, hallowed by the scene of the combat, diversified by
the characters of the combatants, and disguised by the nature of the
points contested--would doubtless be a valuable accession to our
literature. The great topics of national policy, domestic manners,
republicanism, aristocracy, slavery, corn laws, etc. as unfolded, in
the elegant and discerning disputations of the absentees in a Roman
palace, would prove something new, vivid and seasonable. But to me
falls the humbler task of narrating one scene of the drama, as
illustrative of the wisdom and safety of keeping one's own secret.
On a day, when the war of words had ran unusually high, there was a
momentary, and, as it were, a spontaneous quietude. After the manner of
their predecessors in the same city--years bygone, the gladiators
rested upon their arms. There was an interlude of _silence_. They
gradually reassumed the appropriate occupations of the hour. A few
unusually fine touches were bestowed upon the slowly-progressing
copies--when the aspiring portrayer of the beautiful parable thus
opened a new cannonade:
"Well, smooth over, as you may, the blot of slavery--and deny or
palliate, as you best can, the charge of non-refinement, the world will
never admit the existence of true civilization in a country where so
barbaric a practice as _gouging_ prevails."
At the commencement of this speech, the pencil of the Virginian had
stopped transfixed within an inch of the pensive countenance on his
canvass; and with nerves braced in expectancy, he awaited the issue.
And when the orator, like a second Brutus, paused for a reply, his
adversary was mute--perhaps from indignation, probably in the
absorption consequent upon preparing to refute and chastise. The
Londoner wheeled around, and, with a nod of congratulation to his
brother islander, and a provoking and triumphant smile upon the
Virginian, begged to be informed "of the origin and nature of the
_American_ custom of gouging?" When lo! there were heard quick steps
along the polished floors, and as the eyes of the artists followed
their direction, the form of the Baltimorean emerged from the adjoining
hall. His painter's stick, pallet and brush, were grasped convulsively
in his left hand, as with energetic strides he reached the centre of
the arena, and gazed meaningly upon the disputants.
"You would know, sir," he exclaimed, eyeing fiercely the hero of the
British capital, "what is gouging? Go, sir, to Basil Hall--your
literary countryman: when ascending the Mississippi, _he_ was put on
shore by the captain of a steamboat for ungentlemanly deportment--and
on the banks of that river, sir, _he was gouged!_" As the last emphatic
words exploded, a gentleman, who had been viewing the paintings,
abruptly left the room. The Londoner looked wonders, his compatriot
tittered, the Cupid-limner wiped his brow. "Who was that?" inquired the
Virginian. "That, sir, was Captain Hall!"