and domestic trials greatly affected his spirit. He seems to have
inspired very little tenderness even in the heart of his own mother, and
he died as miserably as he lived, longing for the eternal rest from pain
and neglect. His contemporaries have left almost nothing on record
concerning his personal appearance, but the few existing portraits of
him, and particularly this cast of his dead face, certainly show
sweetness mingled with strength. Mr. Howells, in his _Modern Italian
Poets_, quotes Niebuhr as saying of the young Leopardi: “Conceive of my
astonishment, when I saw standing before me, in the poor little chamber,
a mere youth, pale and shy, frail in person and obviously in ill-health,
who was by far the first, in fact the only, Greek philologist in Italy.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: GIACOMO LEOPARDI]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The best and most sympathetic portrait of John Boyle O’Reilly is the
following, to be found in the life of that gentleman written by his
friend, Mr. James Jeffrey Roche: “Recalling him as he then was [1870],
the abiding memory of him is that of his marvellously sweet smile, and
his strikingly clear and frank gaze; the beauty of his face lay chiefly
in his eyes. The official advertisement of his escape says that those
eyes were brown, and prison descriptions are generally more accurate
than flattering. Almost anybody looking at him less closely, would have
said that his eyes were black. As a matter of fact, they were hazel, but
his dark skin and jet-black eyebrows and hair gave an impression of
blackness to the large, well-formed eyes beneath. They were very
expressive, whether flashing with some sudden fancy or glowing with a
deeper burning thought, or sparkling with pure boyish fun. There was
another expression, which they sometimes wore at this period of his
life, and which may be described for lack of a better word, as a hunted
look—not frightened or furtive, but an alert, watchful expression, which
made it easy to understand how he could have deliberately armed himself
with the firm intention of surrendering his liberty only with his
life.... No portrait ever made of him does justice to that which was the
great charm of his countenance—its wonderful light and life. His eyes
had the depth and fire and mobile color of glowing carbuncle. For the
rest he had the rich brown complexion, so familiar in after-years; a
small black mustache, only half concealing his finely-cut mouth, and
revealing a set of perfectly white, regular teeth. His form was slight,
but erect and soldier-like. He carried his head well raised, and a
little thrown back. He was a man whom no one would pass without a second
glance.”
It is rather a curious fact that the men most interested, naturally, in
the study of the human face, and in its portrayal with chisel or pencil,
are the men most poorly represented in this collection; Sir Thomas
Lawrence being the only painter of portraits, and Hiram Powers, Haydon,
and Canova the only makers of masks, whose masks are here presented.
Three views of the life-mask of Sir Thomas Lawrence were engraved by R.
J. Lane, in 1830. They are contained on one plate, and represent the
full face, as well as profiles looking to the right and to the left. The
print is very rare, and bears the following inscription: “From a plaster
cast taken at the age of thirty-four, in the possession of an attached
friend.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Edward H. Baily, the sculptor, is known to have made a cast of
Lawrence’s features after death. “The head was finely shaped and bald,
and it bore a striking resemblance to that of Canning, although the face
lacked something of Canning’s elevated expression.” This death-mask is
here presented.
Lawrence is said to have been a beautiful creature in his boyhood, with
bright eyes, and long chestnut hair. In later life we are told that
“although not tall—he was under five feet nine inches—his beautiful
face, active figure, agreeable manners, and fine voice were not thrown
away upon either lords or ladies, emperors or kings.” Opie said of him
once, “Lawrence made coxcombs of his sitters, and his sitters made a
coxcomb of him.” And George IV., the Sir Hubert Stanley of fine manners,
pronounced him “a high-bred gentleman.” This is praise indeed! Another,
and perhaps not so exalted an authority, said, “Lawrence’s appearance
was exceedingly graceful and gentlemanly. His countenance was open and
noble, his eyes were large and lustrous and very expressive.” Dr. R. R.
Madden, in his _Memoirs of the Countess of Blessington_, quotes a
brother artist, and a friend of Lawrence, as saying of him, “As a man
Sir Thomas Lawrence was amiable, kind, generous, and forgiving. His
manner was elegant but not high-bred. He had too much the air of always
submitting. He had smiled so often, and so long, that at last his smile
had the appearance of being set in enamel.”
The mask of J. M. W. Turner formerly belonged to the late Dr. Pocock of
Brighton, England, and is now in the possession of Mr. William Ward, of
London. It was made, after death, by the late Thomas Woolner. There are
but few portraits of Turner in existence, the most life-like being an
engraving by M. M. Halloway, of a half-length profile sketch bearing
this inscription: “Drawn by me in the print-room of the British Museum.
J. T. Smith.” Unfortunately no date is attached.
Much has been put on record about Turner’s personal peculiarities and
eccentricities; but little has been said by his contemporaries
concerning his personal appearance. The best picture, although a slight
one, is from the pen of Mr. W. P. Frith: “Turner was a very short man,
with a large head, and a face usually much muffled to protect it from
the draughts for which the rooms [of the Royal Academy] were
celebrated.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: J. M. W. TURNER]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cyrus Redding, in his _Past Celebrities_, speaks of Turner’s
“unprepossessing exterior, his reserve, and his austerity of language.”
Wilkie Collins once described him as seated on the top of a flight of
steps, astride of a box, on Varnishing Day at the Royal Academy, “a
shabby Bacchus, nodding like a mandarin at his picture, which he with a
pendulum-motion now touched with his brush, now receded from.” And Peter
Cunningham, in an almost brutal way, set down Turner as “short, stout,
and bandy-legged, with a red, pimply face, imperious and covetous eyes,
and a tongue which expressed his sentiments with murmuring reluctance.”
Sir William Allen, according to Cunningham, was accustomed to describe
the great painter as a “Dutch Skipper.”
In view of all this, it is not remarkable that Turner had strong
objections to sitting for his portrait. He felt that any familiarity
with his face and figure would affect the poetry of his works in the
popular mind. “No one,” he said, “would believe, after seeing my
likeness, that I painted these pictures.” A contemporary portrait of
Turner, fishing in all his uncouth enthusiasm, with shabby garments, and
a cotton umbrella over his head, is unfortunately too long to be quoted
here.
Hiram Powers died in Florence in 1873, and lies in the Protestant
Cemetery of that city. His mask, after death, was made by Thomas Ball
and Joel T. Hart. Dr. Samuel Osgood said of Powers in 1870: “In his
looks, his ideas, as well as in all his works, he is a man of the golden
mean. There is nothing too much in his make or his manner. He is a good
specimen of a well-formed man, and his own statue would make a good sign
for the front of his studio.” In October, 1847, Mrs. Browning wrote:
“Mr. Powers, the sculptor, is our chief friend and favorite. A most
charming, simple, straightforward, genial American—as simple as the man
of genius he has proved himself to be.... The sculptor has eyes like a
wild Indian’s, so black and full of light—you would scarcely marvel if
they clove the marble without the help of his hand.” “Mr. Powers called
in the evening,” wrote Hawthorne in his _Italian Note-book_ in 1858—“a
plain personage, characterized by strong simplicity and warm kindliness,
with an impending brow, and large eyes which kindle as he speaks. He is
gray and slightly bald, but does not seem elderly nor past his prime. I
accept him at once as an honest and trustworthy man, and shall not vary
from this judgment.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: HIRAM POWERS]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mr. Preston Powers, who possesses the mask of his father, has also in
his possession a life-mask and a death-mask of Agassiz, and a death-mask
of Sumner; the last two having been made by himself. Through his
courtesy I am enabled to reproduce them all here.
The life-mask of Agassiz was made when the subject was about forty years
of age, and by an artist now unknown. It was given to Mr. Powers by Mr.
Alexander Agassiz at the time of the elder Agassiz’s death.
E. P. Whipple, in his _Recollections of Eminent Men_, said of Agassiz:
“You could not look at him without feeling that you were in the presence
of a magnificent specimen of physical, mental, and moral manhood; that
in him was realized Sainte-Beuve’s ideal of a scientist—the soul of a
sage in the body of an athlete. At that time [1845] he was one of the
comeliest of men. His full and ruddy face, glowing with health and
animation, was crowned by a brow which seemed to be the fit home for
such a comprehensive intelligence.” And Longfellow, in his _Journal_
(January 9, 1847), wrote: “In the evening a reunion at Felton’s to meet
Mr. Agassiz, the Swiss geologist and naturalist. A pleasant, voluble
man, with a bright beaming face.”
Mr. Curtis, in an oration upon Charles Sumner, delivered shortly after
the statesman’s death, said that “his look, his walk, his dress, his
manner, were not those of the busy advocate, even in his younger years,
but of the cultivated and brilliant man of society, the Admirable
Crichton of the saloons.”
Mrs. Jefferson Davis, in her _Life_ of her husband, spoke of Sumner as
“a handsome, unpleasing man, and an athlete whose physique proclaimed
his physical strength.” And Mr. Seward wrote to his wife in 1856:
“Sumner is much changed for the worse. His elasticity and vigor are
gone. He walks, and in every way moves, like a man who has not
altogether recovered from a paralysis, or like a man whose sight is
dimmed, and his limbs stiffened with age.”
At the autopsy it was discovered that the brain of Sumner showed no
trace of the assault from the effects of which he suffered so terribly.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: LOUIS AGASSIZ—From Life]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: LOUIS AGASSIZ—From Death]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: CHARLES SUMNER]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Canova must have been a beautiful character. It is not often that so
much good is spoken, even of the dead, as has been spoken of him since
he died; and if the chroniclers are right, he deserved it all. In
personal appearance, however, we read that he was not particularly
attractive. His hair was black and luxuriant, and his forehead of noble
dimensions, but the outline of his features was neither grand nor
extraordinary. The phrenologists gave him a massive brain upward and
forward of the ears, wonderful constructive talent, with large ideality
and strong intellect. He was very abstemious in his habits, very
thoughtful, and a hard worker. Count Cicognara, in a biographical sketch
of Canova, thus described his face during his very last hours: “His
visage became, and remained for some time, highly radiant and
expressive, as if his mind was absorbed in some sublime conception,
creating powerful and unusual emotion in all around him. Thus he must
have looked when imagining that venerable figure of the pontiff who is
represented in the attitude of prayer in the Vatican. His death was
wholly unattended by the agonies which make a death-bed so distressing,
nor did even a sigh or convulsion announce his dying moment.”
This is the visage which his friends cast in plaster, and it was, no
doubt, the basis of the medallion bust of Canova, in profile, which
forms part of the pyramidal tomb erected by certain of his pupils in
1827, in the church of Sante Maria Gloriosa dei Frari, the pantheon of
Venice. The monument, according to Mr. Ruskin, is “consummate in
science, intolerable in affectation, ridiculous in conception; null and
void to the uttermost in invention and feeling;” and the medallion
represents the great sculptor in all his glorious prime of strength and
beauty.
The death-mask of Canova, as here reproduced, in its peaceful and quiet
repose, is in strong contrast with that of Richard Brinsley Sheridan,
shown upon a subsequent page.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: ANTONIO CANOVA]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the whole history of English letters, there can be found no sadder
chapter than that which contains the story of Sheridan’s death. The body
out of which the breath was fast going, and from which intelligent
action had entirely gone, was seized by sheriff’s officers for debt, and
only by the threats of attending physicians did it escape being carried
to a low sponging-house, wrapped in nothing but the blankets that
covered the bed on which it lay. The “life and succor” his friends had
begged were denied him, and “Westminster Abbey and a funeral” were all
he received. As a French journal said at the time, it only proved that
“France is the place for a man of letters to live in, and England the
place for him to die in.” Sheridan’s appearance during his last hours
was thus depicted by one who saw for himself the havoc made: “His
countenance was distorted under the writhings of unutterable anguish.
Pain and the effects of pain were visible on that sunken cheek; and on
that brow which had never knitted under oppression, or frowned upon the
importunities of the unfortunate, pain in its most acute form had
contracted there its harsh and forbidding lines.... Still, amid those
rigid lines which continuous suffering had indented there, you might
perceive the softer and more harmonious tracings of uncomplaining
patience, fortitude in its endurance, and resignation in its calmness.”
This is the face exhibited here—one of the most unpleasant to look upon
which the collection contains, notwithstanding Sheridan’s own boast, not
very long before his death, that “his eyes would look up as brightly at
his coffin-lid as ever.” His spirits did not fail him so long as
consciousness remained, and when asked by the attending surgeons if he
had ever before undergone an operation, he replied, “Only when sitting
for my portrait, or having my hair cut.” It is to be regretted that this
last portrait for which he sat, should be so worn and weary in its
expression. Moore, in his _Life of Sheridan_, did not mention the taking
of the mask, although he spoke of the plaster cast of Sheridan’s hand,
under which some keen observer had written:
“Good at a fight, better at a play,
God-like in giving—but the devil to pay.”
Concerning Moore’s own appearance, Leigh Hunt wrote: “Moore’s forehead
was bony and full of character, with ‘bumps’ of wit large and radiant
enough to transport a phrenologist. His eyes were as dark and fine as
you would wish to see under a set of vine leaves; his mouth generous,
and good-humored with dimples.” Scott said in his _Journal_, in 1825:
“Moore’s countenance is plain, but the expression is very animated,
especially in speaking or singing, so that it is far more interesting
than the finest features could have rendered it.” In 1833 Gerald Griffin
made a visit to Moore at Sloperton, and thus described Moore himself: “A
little man, but full of spirits, with eyes, hands, feet, and frame
forever in motion.... I am no great observer of proportions, but he
seemed to me to be a neat-made little fellow, tidily buttoned up, young
as fifteen at heart, though with hair that reminded me of ‘Alps in the
sunset’; not handsome, perhaps, but something in the whole cut of him
that pleased me.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: THOMAS MOORE]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A year later, N. P. Willis, who _was_ a great observer of proportions,
met Moore at Lady Blessington’s, and thus recorded his observations:
“His forehead is wrinkled, with the exception of a most prominent
development of the organ of gayety, which, singularly enough, shines
with the lustre and smooth polish of a pearl, and is surrounded by a
semicircle of lines drawn close about it like intrenchments against
Time. His eyes still sparkle like a champagne bubble, though the invader
has drawn his pencillings about the corners.... His mouth is the most
characteristic feature of all. The lips are delicately cut, slight, and
changeable as an aspen, but there is a set look about the lower lip—a
determination of the muscle to a particular expression, and you fancy
that you can almost see wit astride upon it.... The slightly tossed nose
confirms the fun of the expression, and altogether it is a face that
sparkles, beams, radiates.”
This was Moore as others saw him when he was in his prime. His later
years were clouded by a loss of memory, and a helplessness almost
childish. The light of his intellect grew dim by degrees, although Lord
John Russell said that there was never a total extinction of the bright
flame. He died calmly and without pain; and the cast of his face
certainly reflects much that Willis had drawn in his _Pencillings by the
Way_.
Sheridan said once of a fellow-Irishman that Burke’s “abilities, happily
for the glory of our age, are not intrusted to the perishable eloquence
of the day, but will live to be the admiration of that hour when all of
us shall be mute, and most of us forgotten.” Burke, in all his
relations, was a better man than Sheridan, and he met, as he deserved, a
better fate. He fell asleep for the last time with Addison’s chapter on
“The Immortality of the Soul” under his pillow, and with the respect and
gratitude of all England at his feet. The mask of Burke was offered for
sale—and was sold—in London a few months ago, with a certificate from
Mr. Edward B. Wood, stating that it was made by the especial desire of
Queen Charlotte on the day of Burke’s death. The name of the artist is
unknown, but he is said to have received two hundred guineas for the
work. After the death of her Majesty the mask was given by George IV. to
C. Nugent, his gentleman-in-waiting, from whom it came into the
possession of his nephew, Mr. Wood. This original mask, from the Queen’s
cabinet, is now the property of The Players. It is very like the
familiar portrait of Burke by Opie.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: EDMUND BURKE]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
George Combe had a mask of Curran in this country, of which mine, no
doubt, is a replica, as it bears a strong resemblance to the established
portraits of Curran. Its existence does not appear to have been known to
the sculptor of the medallion head of Curran on the monument in St.
Patrick’s, Dublin, for that was avowedly taken from the portrait by Sir
Thomas Lawrence. A short time before his death Curran wrote to a friend
that his “entire life had been passed in a wretched futurity,” but that
happily he had found the remedy, and that was to “give over the folly of
breathing at all.” He ceased to breathe at all in Brompton, London, in
the autumn of 1817; and his bones, now buried in Dublin, were laid for
some years in a vault of Paddington church.
We learn from various sources that Curran was under the middle height,
“very ugly,” with intensely bright, black eyes, perfectly straight
jet-black hair, a “thick” complexion, and “a protruding underlip on a
retreating face.” Croker, speaking of his oratory, said: “You began by
being prejudiced against him by his bad character and ill-looking
appearance, like the devil with his tail cut off, and you were at last
carried away by his splendid language and by the power of his metaphor.”
The mask of Lord Palmerston was taken immediately after death at
Brockton Hall, by Mr. Jackson. Only one cast was ever made—that which is
in my collection—and upon this was based the head upon the statue of
Palmerston by Mr. Jackson, now in Westminster Abbey. The Marquis of
Lorne, in his _Life of Palmerston_, says: “Some of us may have seen him
rise quickly and lightly, when nearly fourscore, from his seat in the
House of Commons, and speak with clearness and directness but no attempt
at eloquence, and often with some hesitation, at the table; his black
frock-coat buttoned across the well-knit and erect figure of middle
stature, his sentences spoken towards the bar of the House; his gray
short hair brushed forward and the gray whiskers framing the head erect
on the shoulders. Some may remember, under the shaven chin, the loose
bow-knot, neatly tied at the throat, the bit of open shirt-front, with
standing collar.” His appearance in 1837 is thus described: “Lord
Palmerston is tall and handsome. His face is round and of the darkest
hue. His hair is black, and always exhibits proofs of the skill and
attention of the _friseur_. His clothes are in the extreme of fashion.
He is very fond of his personal appearance.” And Sir William Fraser
sketched him as he appeared to a later generation: “Lord Palmerston on
horseback looked a big man, and standing at the table of the House he
did not appear ill-proportioned. Each foot, to describe it
mathematically, was ‘a four-sided, irregular figure.’ His portraits in
_Punch_ are very like him. Those with a flower or straw in the mouth are
the best. He had a very horsy look.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: LORD PALMERSTON]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The death-mask of Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield, as here
shown, was found by me a year or two ago in the out-of-the-way little
shop of a mould-maker in Chelsea. It was taken by Sir Edgar Boehm, and
the nose in the cast was broken, evidently intentionally and wantonly,
by some malicious person who wished, perhaps, in this iconoclastic way
to express with emphasis his political opinions. Despite its mutilated
condition it is of great interest to all lovers and admirers of the
original.