Anecdotes about Authors, and Artists

ART AND ARTISTS.

CURIOUS FACTS AND CHARACTERISTIC SKETCHES.

TITIAN AND CHARLES V.

In 1547, at the invitation of Charles V., Titian joined the imperial court. The Emperor, then advanced in years, sat to him for the third time. During the sitting, Titian happened to drop one of his pencils; the Emperor took it up; and on the artist expressing how unworthy he was of such an honour, Charles replied that Titian was “worthy of being waited upon by CÆsar.”—(See the Frontispiece.)—After the resignation of Charles V., Titian found as great a patron in his son, Philip II.; and when, in 1554, the painter complained to Philip of the irregularity with which a pension of 400 crowns granted to him by the Emperor was paid to him, the King wrote an order for the payment to the governor of Milan, concluding with the following words:—“You know how I am interested in this order, as it affects Titian; comply with it, therefore, in such a manner as to give me no occasion to repeat it.”

The Duke of Ferrara was so attached to Titian, that he frequently invited him to accompany him, in his barge, from Venice to Ferrara. At the latter place, he became acquainted with Ariosto. But, to reckon up the protectors and friends of Titian, would be to name nearly all the persons of the age, to whom rank, talent, and exalted character appertained.

CHILDHOOD OF BENJAMIN WEST.

Benjamin West, the son of John West and Sarah Pearson, was born in Springfield, in the state of Pennsylvania, October 10, 1733. His mother, it seems, had gone to hear one Edward Peckover preach about the sinfulness of the Old World and the spotlessness of the New: terrified and overcome by the earnest eloquence of the enthusiast, she shrieked aloud, was carried home, and, in the midst of agitation and terror, was safely delivered of the future president of the Royal Academy. When the preacher was told of this, he rejoiced, “Note that child,” said he, “for he has come into the world in a remarkable way, and will assuredly prove a wonderful man.” The child prospered, and when seven years’ old began to fulfil the prediction of the preacher.

Little West was one day set to rock the cradle of his sister’s child, and was so struck with the beauty of the slumbering babe, that he drew its features in red and black ink. “I declare,” cried his astonished sister, “he has made a likeness of little baby!” He was next noticed by a party of wild Indians, who, pleased with the sketches which Benjamin had made of birds and flowers, taught him how to prepare the red and yellow colours with which they stained their weapons; to these, his mother added indigo, and thus he obtained the three primary colours. It is also related, that West’s artistic career was commenced through the present of a box of colours, which was made to him, when about nine years old, by a Pennsylvanian merchant, whose attention was attracted by some of the boy’s pen-and-ink sketches.

GUIDO’S TIME.

Guido, when in embarrassment from his habit of gaming and extravagance, is related by Malvasia, his well-informed biographer, to have sold his time at a stipulated sum per hour, to certain dealers, one of whom tasked the painter so rigidly, as to stand by him, with watch in hand, while he worked. Thus were produced numbers of heads and half figures, which, though executed with the facility of a master, had little else to recommend them. Malvasia relates, that such works were sometimes begun and finished in three hours, and even less time.

CHARACTER OF GAINSBOROUGH.

Shortly after Gainsborough’s death, Sir Joshua Reynolds, then President of the Royal Academy, delivered a discourse to the students, of which “the character of Gainsborough” was the subject. In this he alludes to Gainsborough’s method of handling—his habit of scratching. “All these odd scratches and marks,” he observes, “which, on a close examination, are so observable in Gainsborough’s pictures, and which, even to experienced painters, appear rather the effect of accident than design—this chaos, this uncouth and shapeless appearance—by a kind of magic, at a certain distance, assumes form, and all the parts seem to drop into their proper places; so that we can hardly refuse acknowledging the full effect of diligence, under the appearance of chaste and hasty negligence.”

BENEFIT OF RIVALRY.

Giorgione is, in some of his portraits, still unsurpassed. Du Fresnoy observes of him, that he dressed his figures wonderfully well; and it may truly be said, that, but for him, Titian would never have attained that perfection, which was the consequence of the rivalship and jealousy which prevailed between them.

BACKHUYSEN.

Backhuysen’s favourite subjects were wrecks and stormy seas, which he frequently sketched from nature in an open boat, at the great peril of himself and the boatmen. He made many constructive drawings of ships for the Czar Peter the Great, who took lessons of the painter, and frequently visited his painting-room. Among his other avocations, Backhuysen also gave lessons in writing, in which he introduced a new and approved method. He was a man of cheerful eccentricity. Within a few days of his death, he ordered a number of bottles of choice wine, on each of which he set his seal. A certain number of his friends were then invited to his funeral, to each of whom he bequeathed a gold coin, requesting them to spend it merrily, and to drink the wine with as much cordiality as he had in consigning it to them.

GEORGE MORLAND.

George Morland, the famous painter of rustic and low life—a great but dissolute genius—when he left the paternal roof, had for master an Irishman in Drury-lane, who kept him constantly at his easel by never leaving his elbow. His meals were brought him by the shop-boy; his dinner consisting usually of sixpennyworth of beef from a cookshop, and a pint of beer. If he asked for five shillings, his taskmaster would growl, “D’ye think I’m made of money?” and give him half-a-crown. Morland painted pictures for this man enough to fill a room for admittance to which half-a-crown was charged. From this bondage he was freed by an invitation to Margate, by a lady of fortune, to paint portraits in the season; he stole away from his garret, and entered on profitable labour. In winter he returned to London. He had so risen in repute, that prints from his pictures had a marvellous sale. Soon, such was the demand for anything from his hand, that, though often ill-paid, he could earn from seventy to a hundred guineas a-week. But no man could be more heedless of money; and he hardly ever knew what it was to be out of want. He was constantly granting bills, and when they fell due, he seldom had cash to meet them. To get a note of £20 renewed for a fortnight, he has been known to give a picture that at once sold in his presence for £10. His easel was always surrounded by associates of the lowest cast—horse-dealers, jockeys, cobblers, &c. He had a wooden barrier placed across his room, with a bar that lifted up, to allow the passage of those with whom he had business, or who enjoyed his special favour. He might have been said to be in an academy in the midst of models. He would get one to stand for a hand, another for a head, an attitude, or a figure, according as their countenance or character suited him. Thus he painted some of his best pictures, while his low companions were regaling on gin and red herrings around him.

Morland, indeed, neither in nor beyond the studio let slip an opportunity which he could turn to professional advantage. Nature was the grand source from which he drew all his images. He dreaded becoming a mannerist. With other artists he never held any intercourse, nor had he prints of any kind in his possession; and he often declared that he would not step across the street to see the finest assemblage of paintings that ever was exhibited. Once, indeed, he was induced to go to see Lord Bute’s collection; but, having passed through one room, he refused to see more, declaring that he did not wish to contemplate the works of any other man, lest he should become an imitator.

At the death of his father, Morland was advised to claim the dormant title of Baronet, which had been conferred on one of his lineal ancestors by Charles II. Finding, however, that there was no emolument attached to the title, he renounced the distinction; saying that “plain George Morland could always sell his pictures, and there was more honour in being a fine painter than a titled gentleman; that he would have borne the vanity of a title had there been any income to accompany it; but as matters stood, he would wear none of the fooleries of his ancestors.” He died in 1804, while in confinement in consequence of intemperance.

DISINTERESTEDNESS OF ENGLISH PAINTERS.

There are no examples in the history of painting, of such noble disinterestedness as has ever been shown by the English Historical Painters. Hogarth and others adorned the Foundling for nothing; Reynolds and West offered to adorn St. Paul’s for nothing, and yet were refused! Barry painted the Adelphi without remuneration; but, as Burke beautifully says, “the temple of honour ought to be seated on an eminence. If it be open through virtue, let it be remembered, too, that virtue is never tried but by some difficulty and some struggle.”—Haydon’s Lectures.

THE DOUBLE CHIN.

One of the finest examples of preserving beauty, even in maturity, is given in Niobe, the mother.

“In early life, at a rout, (says Haydon,) I admired and followed, during the evening, a mother and her daughters, distinguished for their beauty. The mother did not look old, and yet looked the mother. On scrutinizing and comparing mother and daughters, I found there was a little double chin in the mother, which marked her, without diminishing her beauty. I went at once, on my return to my studio, to the Niobe mother, and found this very mark in the Niobe mother, which I had never observed before, under her chin.”

SYMPATHY AND CALCULATION.

When Sir Richard Phillips, in his Morning’s Walk from London to Kew, visited the Church on Kew-green, he halted beside the tomb of Gainsborough, and said to the sexton’s assistant, “Ah, friend, this is a hallowed spot—here lies one of Britain’s favoured sons, whose genius has assisted in exalting her among the nations of the earth.”—“Perhaps it was so,” said the man; “but we know nothing about the people buried, except to keep up their monuments, if the family pay; and, perhaps, Sir, you belong to this family; if so, I’ll tell you how much is due.”—“Yes, truly, friend,” said Sir Richard, “I am one of the great family, bound to preserve the monument of Gainsborough; but if you take me for one of his relatives, you are mistaken.”—“Perhaps, Sir, you may be of the family, but were not included in the will; therefore, are not obligated.” Sir Richard could not avoid looking with scorn at the fellow; but, as the spot claimed better feelings, gave him a trifle, and so got rid of him.

RUSKIN’S “MODERN PAINTERS.”

In a note-book of 1848, we read of Ruskin’s first work:—One of the most extraordinary and delightful books of the day, is Modern Painters, by a “Graduate of Oxford;” in which the author admits and vindicates his direct opposition to the general opinion, in placing Turner and other modern landscape painters above those of the seventeenth century—Claude, Gaspar Poussin, Salvator Rosa, Canaletto, Hobbima, &c.

Yet, this remarkable book has been strangely treated by what is called the literary world. The larger reviews have taken little or no notice of it; and those periodicals which are considered to represent the literature of the fine arts, and to watch over their progress and interests, almost without an exception, have treated it with the most marked injustice, and the most shameful derision. Yet, in spite of all this neglect and maltreatment, the work has found its way into the minds and hearts of men. This is better shown by the first volume having reached a third edition, than by any of the most elaborate patronage from the press.

A writer in the North British Review, waxing eloquently wroth at this reception of a work of unquestionably high genius by the critics, observed:—“The national treatment is in this case a good index to the national mind and feeling; so that it is not to be wondered at, that such productions as Charles Lamb’s Essays on the Genius of Hogarth, and on the Barrenness of the Imaginative Faculty in the productions of Modern Art—Hazlitt’s Works on Art—those of Sir Charles Bell and his brother John,—should rarely occur, and be not much regarded, and little understood, when they do, in a country where Hogarth was looked upon by the majority as a caricaturist fully as coarse as clever,—where Wilkie’s ‘Distraining for Rent’ could get no purchaser, because it was an unpleasant subject,—where to this day Turner is better known as being unintelligible and untrue, than as being more truthful, more thoughtful, than any painter of inanimate nature, ancient or modern,—where Maclise is accounted worthy to illustrate Shakspeare, and embody Macbeth and Hamlet, as having a kindred genius,—and where it was reserved to a few young, self-relying, unknown Scottish artists, (students of the Royal Scottish Academy,) to purchase Etty’s three pictures of Judith, the Combat, and the Lion-like Men of Moab, at a price which, though perilous to themselves, was equally disgraceful to the public who had disregarded them, and inadequate to the deserving of their gifted producer.”

RUBENS’S “CHAPEAU DE PAILLE.”

This exquisite picture was the gem of Sir Robert Peel’s fine collection. Its transparency and brilliancy are unrivalled: it is all but life itself. It was bought by Sir R. Peel for 3500 guineas.

The name of “Chapeau de Paille,” as applied to this picture, appears to be a misnomer. The portrait is in what is strangely termed a Spanish hat. Why it has become the fashion in this country to designate every slouched hat with a feather a Spanish hat, it is hard to say; since at the period that such hats were worn, (about the reign of Charles I. in England,) they were not more peculiar to Spain than to other European countries. Rubens himself wore a hat of this description; and it is related that his mistress, having placed his hat upon her own head, he borrowed from this circumstance the celebrated picture in question. With respect to the misnomer, it has been conjectured that Span’sh hut being somewhat similar in sound to Span hut, Flemish for straw hat, first led to the incongruous title “Chapeau de Paille.” Now, Span hut, the Flemish name of this work, does not mean a straw hat, but a wide-brimmed hat; and further, whoever has had the good fortune to see the picture, must be aware that the woman is there represented not in a straw (paille) hat, but a black hat. The French title, “Chapeau de Paille,” is, therefore, and we think with reason supposed to be but a corruption of Chapeau de Poil (nap, or beaver,) its real designation.

A PROMPT REMEDY.

Opie was painting an old beau of fashion. Whenever he thought the painter was touching the mouth, he screwed it up in a most ridiculous manner. Opie, who was a blunt man, said very quietly, “Sir, if you want the mouth left out, I will do it with pleasure.”

WILKIE’S SIMPLICITY.

Never, relates Haydon, was anything more extraordinary than the modesty and simplicity of Wilkie, at the period of his production of “The Village Politicians.” Jackson told me he had the greatest difficulty to persuade him to send this celebrated picture to the Exhibition; and I remember his (Wilkie’s) bewildered astonishment at the prodigious enthusiasm of the people at the Exhibition when it went, May, 1806. On the Sunday after the private day and dinner, the News said:—“A young Scotchman, by name Wilkie, has a wonderful work.” I immediately sallied forth, took up Jackson, and away we rushed to Wilkie. I found him in his parlour, in Norton-street, at breakfast. “Wilkie,” said I, “your name is in the paper.” “Is it, really?” said he, staring with delight. I then read the puff, ore rotundo; and Jackson, I, and he, in an ecstacy, joined hands, and danced round the table.

THE GRAVE OF LAWRENCE.

Sir Thomas Lawrence, when attending the funeral of Mr. Dawe, R.A., in the vault of St. Paul’s Cathedral, was observed to look wistfully about him, as if contemplating the place as that to which he himself would some day be borne; and, when the service was concluded, it was remarked that he stopped to look at the inscription upon the stone which covers the body of his predecessor, West. Within three months from the date of this incident, the vaults were re-opened to receive Lawrence’s remains.

“IT WILL NEVER DO.”

“Oh, how I hate this expression!” said poor Haydon, in his famous Lectures. “When Wellington said he would break the charm of Napoleon’s invincibility, what was the reply? It will never do! When Columbus asserted there was another hemisphere, what was the reply? It will never do! And when Galileo offered to prove the earth went round the sun, the Holy Inquisition said, It shall never do! It will never do has been always the favourite watch-cry of those, in all ages and countries, who ever look on all schemes for the advancement of mankind as indirect reflections on the narrowness of their own petty comprehensions.”

LOST CHANCE OF A NATIONAL GALLERY.

George the Fourth (when Regent) proposed to connect Carlton House, in Pall-Mall, with Marlborough House, and St. James’s Palace, by a gallery of portraits of the sovereigns and other historic personages of England; but, unfortunately Mr. Nash’s speculation of burying Carlton House and Gardens, and overlaying St. James’s Park with terraces, prevailed; and this magnificent design of an historical gallery was abandoned; although the crown of England possesses materials for an historical collection which would be infinitely superior to that of Versailles.

REYNOLDS’S PORTRAIT OF LORD HEATHFIELD.

“Of all conceptions, as well as executions of portraits,” says Dr. Dibdin, “that of Lord Heathfield, by Reynolds, is doubtless amongst the very finest and most characteristic. The veteran has a key, gently raised, in his right hand, which he is about to place in his left. It is the key of the impregnable fortress of Gibraltar; and he seems to say, ‘Wrest it from me at your peril!’ Kneller, and even Vandyke, would have converted this key into a truncheon. What a bluff spirit of unbending intrepidity and integrity was the illustrious Elliott! His country knows no braver warrior of his class than he!”

THE ELGIN MARBLES

“What are these marbles remarkable for?” said a respectable gentleman at the British Museum to one of the attendants, after looking attentively round the Elgin Saloon. “Why, sir,” said the man, with propriety, “because they are so like life.” “Like life!” repeated the gentleman, with the greatest contempt; “why, what of that?” and walked away.

HENRY HOWARD, R.A.

Mr. Howard, the well-known Secretary and Professor of Painting to the Royal Academy, died October 5, 1847, in the seventy-eighth year of his age. He was born in 1770; and was at Rome in 1794, when, in his twenty-fourth year, he forwarded his first work, “The Death of Cain,” to the Royal Academy Exhibition. In 1807, he painted “The Infant Bacchus brought by Mercury to the Nymphs of Nysa;” and in the autumn of the same year, he was elected a Royal Academician. Of his fellow academicians, in 1848, only two out of forty survived—Sir Martin Archer Shee, and Mr. J. M. W. Turner. Others, however, elected after him, had died before him—Callcott, and William Daniell, for instance; Wilkie, Dawe, Raeburn, Hilton, Collins, Jackson, Chantrey, Constable, and Newton. His diploma picture on his election was “The Four Angels, loosed from the River Euphrates.” For fifty-three years, from 1794 to 1847, Mr. Howard never missed sending to a Royal Academy Exhibition. It would be difficult, perhaps, to find another example of such assiduity; yet, where his pictures went—for he had few or no patrons, so called—it is hard to say. Banks and Flaxman, the two great sculptors, took notice of Howard’s early efforts, gave him friendly encouragement in all he did, and suggested, it is said, new subjects for his pencil. Yet, his pictures were very popular; they are classically cold; his place, therefore, in the history of Art is not likely to be high or lasting.

ORIGINALS OF HOGARTH’S MARRIAGE A-LA-MODE.

In 1841, Messrs. Smith, the eminent printsellers, of Lisle-street, had the good fortune to discover in the country a duplicate set of the pictures of “The Marriage À-la-Mode,” by Hogarth; which appear to have escaped the researches of all the writers on his works. They are evidently the finished sketches, from which he afterwards painted the pictures now in the National Gallery, which are more highly wrought. The backgrounds of these pictures are very much subdued, which gives a greater importance to the figures. They became the property of H. R. Willett, Esq., of Merly House, Dorsetshire, who added them to his already rich collection of Hogarth’s works.

These pictures of “The Marriage-À-la-Mode” are painted in an exceedingly free and sketchy manner and are considered to have been most probably painted at the same time as the four pictures of the Election, now in the Soanean Museum, the execution of which they very much resemble. There is a considerable number of variations between these and the National Gallery pictures; and such differences throw much light upon the painter’s technical execution, which is somewhat disputed. “Although in some respects rather sketchily handled,” says a critic, “they are not painted feebly; and if they cannot be called highly finished, these productions are worthy to rank as cabinet pictures. To be fairly understood, (to use Charles Lamb’s happy expression,) ‘Hogarth’s pictures must be read, as well as looked at.’”

HOMAGE TO ART.

The first great painter in encaustic, of whose works lengthened descriptions have been handed down, was Polygnotus. He painted his celebrated “Triumph of Miltiades and the Victors of Marathon,” by public desire; and such was the admiration in which it was held, that the Athenians offered to reward the artist with whatever he might desire. Polygnotus nobly declined asking anything; upon which the Amphictionic Council proclaimed that he should be maintained at the public expense wherever he went. Such was the homage of a whole nation! What, then, shall we say to the sentiments of the narrow-minded prelate, who declared that a pin-maker was a more valuable member of society than Raphael!

“COLUMBUS AND THE EGG” ANTICIPATED.

Brunelleschi was the discoverer of the mode of erecting cupolas, which had been lost since the time of the Romans. Vasari relates a similar anecdote of him to that recorded of Columbus; though this has unquestionably the merit of being the first, since it occurred before the birth of Columbus. Brunelleschi died in 1446; Columbus was born in 1442.

A council of the most learned men of the day, from various parts of the world, was summoned to consult and show plans for the erection of a cupola, like that of the Pantheon at Rome. Brunelleschi refused to show his model, it being upon the most simple principles, but proposed that the man who could make an egg stand upright on a marble base should be the architect. The foreigners and artists agreeing to this, but failing in their attempts, desired Brunelleschi to do it himself; upon which he took the egg, and with a gentle tap broke the end, and placed it on the slab. The learned men unanimously protested that any one else could do the same; to which the architect replied, with a smile, that had they seen his model, they could as easily have known how to build a cupola.

The work then devolved upon him, but a want of confidence existing among the operatives and citizens, they pronounced the undertaking to be too great for one man; and arranged that Lorenzo Ghiberti, an artist of great repute at that time, should be co-architect with him. Brunelleschi’s anger and mortification were so great on hearing this decision, that he destroyed, in the space of half an hour, models and designs that had cost him years of labour, and would have quitted Florence but for the persuasions of Donatello. It is almost unnecessary to add, that the cupola was completed with perfect success by Brunelleschi; since St. Peter’s, at Rome, and our own St. Paul’s, were formed upon the model of his dome at Florence.

By the way, some of the wise men of the day proposed that a centre column should support the dome; others, that a huge mound of earth (with quatrini scattered among it) should be raised in the form of a cupola, the brick or stone wall built upon it. When finished, an order was to be issued, allowing the people to possess themselves of what money they might find in the rubbish; the mound would thus be easily removed, and the cupola be left clear!

THE RIVAL OF RAPHAEL.

When Raphael enjoyed at Rome the reputation of being the mightiest living master of the graphic art, the Bolognese preferred their countryman, Francisco Francia, who had long dwelt among them, and was of eminent talent. The two artists had never met, nor had one seen the works of the other. But a friendly correspondence existed between them. The desire of Francia to see some of the works of Raphael, of whom he ever heard more and more in praise, was extreme; but advanced years deterred him from encountering the fatigues and dangers of a journey to Rome. A circumstance at last occurred that gave him, without this trouble, the opportunity of seeing what he had so long desired. Raphael having painted a picture of St. Cecilia, to be placed in a chapel at Bologna, he wrote to Francia, requesting him to see it put up, and even to correct any defects he might perceive in it. As soon as Francia took the picture from its case, and put it in a proper light for viewing it, he was struck with admiration and wonder, and felt painfully how much he was Raphael’s inferior. The picture was indeed one of the finest that ever came from Raphael’s pencil; but it was only so much the more a source of grief to the unhappy Francia. He assisted, as desired, in placing it in the situation for which it was intended; but never afterwards had he a happy hour. In one moment he had seen all that he had ever done, all that had been once so much admired, thrown quite into the shade. He was too old to entertain any hope, by renewed efforts, of coming up with the excellence of Raphael, or even approaching it. Struck to the heart with grief and despair, he took to his bed, from which he never rose again. He was insensible to all consolation, and in a few days, the victim of a sublime melancholy, he died, in his sixty-eighth year.

TURNER’S MASTERPIECE.

“I think,” says the “Graduate of Oxford”—Ruskin—in his Modern Painters, “the noblest sea that Turner has ever painted, and, if so, the noblest certainly ever painted by man, is that of the Slave Ship, the chief Academy picture of the Exhibition of 1840. It is a sunset on the Atlantic, after prolonged storm; but the storm is partially lulled, and the torn and streaming rain-clouds are moving in scarlet lines to lose themselves in the hollow of the night. The whole surface of sea included in the picture is divided into two ridges of enormous swell, not high nor local, but a low broad heaving of the whole ocean, like the lifting of its bosom by a deep-drawn breath after the torture of the storm. Between these two ridges, the fire of the sunset falls along the trough of the sea, dyeing it with an awful but glorious light,—the intense and lurid splendour which burns like gold, and bathes like blood. Along this fiery path and valley, the tossing waves by which the swell of the sea is recklessly divided, lift themselves in dark, indefinite, fantastic forms, each casting a faint and ghastly shadow behind it along the illumined foam. They do not rise everywhere, but three or four together, in wild groups, fitfully and furiously, as the under strength of the swell compels or permits them; leaving between them treacherous spaces of level and whirling water, now lighted with green and lamp-like fire, now flashing back the gold of the declining sun, now fearfully dyed from above with the indistinguishable images of the burning clouds, which fall upon them in flakes of crimson and scarlet, and give to the reckless waves the added motion of their own fiery flying. Purple and blue, the lurid shadows of the hollow breakers, are cast upon the mist of the night, which gathers cold and low, advancing like the shadow of death upon the guilty ship as it labours amidst the lightning of the sea, its thin masts written upon the sky in lines of blood, girded with condemnation in that fearful hue which signs the sky with horror, and mixes its flaming flood with the sunlight; and cast far along the desolate heave of the sepulchral waves, incarnadines the multitudinous sea.”

INTENSE EFFECT.

When Fuseli went with Haydon to the Elgin marbles, on recognising the flatness of the belly of the Theseus, in consequence of the bowels having naturally fallen in, he exclaimed, “By Gode, the Turks have sawed off his belly!” His eye was completely ruined.

REYNOLDS AND HAYDN.

During the residence of Haydn, the celebrated composer, in England, one of the royal princes commissioned Sir Joshua Reynolds to paint his portrait. Haydn went to the residence of the painter, and gave him a sitting; but he soon grew tired. Sir Joshua, with his usual care for his reputation, would not paint a man of so distinguished genius with a stupid countenance, and in consequence he adjourned the sitting to another day. The same weariness and want of expression occurring at the next attempt, Sir Joshua went and communicated the circumstance to the commissioning prince, who contrived the following stratagem. He sent to the painter’s house a pretty German girl who was in the service of the Queen. Haydn took his seat for the third time, and as soon as the conversation began to flag, a curtain rose, and the fair German addressed him in his native tongue, with a most elegant compliment. Haydn, delighted, overwhelmed the enchantress with questions, his countenance recovered its animation, and Sir Joshua rapidly and successfully seized its traits.

HAYDON’S FIRST SIGHT OF THE ELGIN MARBLES.

At my entrance among these divine things, (says Haydon,) for the first time with Wilkie, 1808, in Park-lane, the first thing I saw was the wrist of the right hand and arm of one of the Fates, leaning on the thigh; it is the Fate on the right side of the other, which, mutilated and destroyed as it was, proved that the great sculptor had kept the shape of the radius and ulna, as always seen in fine nature, male and female.

I felt at once, before I turned my eyes, that there was the nature and ideal beauty joined, which I had gone about the art longing for, but never finding! I saw at once I was amongst productions such as I had never before witnessed in the art; and that the great author merited the enthusiasm of antiquity, of Socrates, of Plato, of Aristotle, of Juvenal, of Cicero, of Valerius Maximus, and of Plutarch and Martial.

If such were my convictions on seeing this dilapidated but immortal wrist, what do you think they were on turning round to the Theseus, the horse’s head, and the fighting metope, the frieze, and the Jupiter’s breast?

Oh, may I retain such sensations beyond the grave! I foresaw at once a mighty revolution in the art of the world for ever! I saw that union of nature and ideal perfected in high art, and before this period pronounced by the ablest critics as impossible! I thanked God with all my heart, with all my soul, and with all my being, that I was ready to comprehend them from dissection. I bowed to the Immortal Spirit, which still hovered near them. I predicted at once their vast effect on the art of the world, and was smiled at for my boyish enthusiasm!

What I asserted in their future influence and enormous superiority, Canova, eight years after, confirmed. On my introduction by Hamilton, (author of Egyptiaca,) I asked Canova what he thought of them? and he instantly replied, with a glistening Italian fire, “Ils renverseront le systÊme des autres antiques.” Mr. Hamilton replied, “I have always said so, but who believed me? and what was the result of the principles I laid down? Why, many a squeeze of the hand to support me under my infirmities, and many a smile in my face in mercy at my delusion. ‘You are a young man,’ was often said; ‘and your enthusiasm is all very proper.’”

“After seeing them myself,” says Haydon, “I took Fuseli to see them; and, being a man of quick sensibility, he was taken entirely by surprise. Never shall I forget his uncompromising enthusiasm; he strode about, thundering out—‘The Greeks were gods!—the Greeks were gods!’ When he got home he wanted to modify his enthusiasm; but I always reminded him of his first impressions, and never let him escape.”

PAINTERS IN SOCIETY.

James Smith says:—“I don’t fancy Painters. General Phipps used to have them much at his table. He once asked me if I liked to meet them. I answered, ‘No; I know nothing in their way, and they know nothing out of it.’”

ANACHRONISMS IN PAINTING.

These are to be found in works of all ages. Thus we have Verrio’s Periwigged Spectators of Christ Healing the Sick; Abraham about to shoot Isaac with a pistol; Rubens’ Queen-mother, Cardinals, and Mercury; Velvet Brussels; Ethiopian King in a surplice, boots, and spurs; Belin’s Virgin and Child listening to a Violin; the Marriage of Christ with St. Catherine of Siena, with King David playing the Harp; Albert Durer’s flounced-petticoated Angel driving Adam and Eve from Paradise; Cigoli’s Simeon at the Circumcision, with “spectacles on nose;” the Virgin Mary helping herself to a cup of coffee from a chased coffee-pot; N. Poussin’s Rebecca at the Well, with Grecian architecture in the back-ground; Paul Veronese’s Benedictine Father and Swiss Soldiers; the red Lobsters in the Sea listening to the Preaching of St. Anthony of Padua; St. Jerome, with a clock by his side; and Poussin’s Deluge, with boats. In our time, West, the President of the Royal Academy, has represented Paris in a Roman instead of a Phrygian dress; and Wilkie has painted Oysters in the Chelsea Pensioners Reading the Gazette of the Battle of Waterloo—in June!

MOVING EARS.

Not one in ten thousand, perhaps, Mr. John Bell says, can move his ears. The celebrated Mr. Mery used, when lecturing, to amuse his pupils by saying that in one thing he surely belonged to the long-eared tribe; upon which he moved his ears very rapidly backwards and forwards. And Albinus, the celebrated anatomist, had the same power, which is performed by little muscles, not seen. Mr. Haydon tried it once in painting, with great effect. In his picture of Macbeth, painted for Sir George Beaumont, when the Thane was listening in horror before committing the murder, the painter ventured to press the ears forward, like an animal in fright, to give an idea of trying to catch the nearest sound. It was very effective, and increased amazingly the terror of the scene, without the spectators being aware of the reason.

RUSSELL, THE CRAYON PAINTER.

This ingenious R.A. was a native of Guildford, and the eldest son of Mr. John Russell, bookseller, of that town. In early youth he evinced a strong predilection for drawing, and was placed under the tuition of Mr. Francis Coates, an academician of great talent, after whose decease “he enjoyed the reputation of being the first artist in crayon painting, in which he particularly excelled in the delineation of female beauty.” In 1789, Russell was chosen a member of the Royal Academy; and soon after appointed crayon-painter to the King, the Prince of Wales, and the Duke of York. Notwithstanding this constant succession of professional employment, he devoted considerable attention to astronomical pursuits; and his Selenographia, or Model of the Moon, which occupied the whole of his leisure from the year 1785 until 1797, affords a remarkable instance of his ingenuity and perseverance. At the time of his decease he had finished two other drawings, which completed his plan, and exhibit an elaborate view of the moon in a full state of illumination. Mr. Russell died at Hull in 1806.

WILKIE’S MISTAKEN ANALOGY.

On the birth of the son of a friend (afterwards a popular novelist), Sir David Wilkie was requested to become one of the sponsors for the child. Sir David, whose studies of human nature extended to everything but infant human nature, had evidently been refreshing his boyish recollections of kittens and puppies; for, after looking intently into the child’s eyes, as it was held up for his inspection, he exclaimed to the father, with serious astonishment and satisfaction, “He sees!”

DEATH OF GAINSBOROUGH.

When assured that the progress of his fatal malady (cancer) precluded all hopes of life, Gainsborough desired to be buried in Kew churchyard, and that his name only should be cut on his gravestone. He sent for Sir Joshua Reynolds, and was reconciled to him: then exclaiming, “We are all going to heaven, and Vandyke is of the company,” he immediately expired, in the sixty-first year of his age. Sheridan and Sir Joshua followed him to his grave.

FANATICISM THE DESTROYER OF ART.

It is curious to reflect, that mistaken views of religion have in all times been the prime cause of the ruin of art. It was not Alaric or Theodoric, but an edict from Honorius, that ordered the early Christians to destroy such images, if any remained.

Flaxman says: “The commands for destroying sacred paintings and sculpture prevented the artist from suffering his mind to rise to the contemplation or execution of any sublime effort, as he dreaded a prison or a stake, and reduced him to the lowest drudgery in his profession. This extraordinary check to our national art occurred at a time which offered the most essential and extraordinary assistance to its progress.” Flaxman proceeds to remark, that “the civil wars completed what fanaticism had begun; and English art was so completely extinguished that foreign artists were always employed for public or private undertakings.”

In the reign of Elizabeth it became a fashionable taste to sally forth and knock pictures to pieces; and in the “State Trials” is a curious trial of Henry Sherfield, Esq., Recorder of Salisbury, who concealed himself in the church, and with a long pike knocked a window to pieces: as he was doing this, he was watched through the door, and seen to slip down, headlong, where he lay groaning for a long time, and a horse was sent for to carry him home: he was fined 500l., and imprisoned in the Fleet; and the Attorney-general for the Crown, 1632, said there were people, he verily believed, who would have knocked off the cherubim from the ark. By the witnesses examined, it was evidently a matter of religious conscience in Sherfield, who complained that his pew was opposite the window, and that the representation of God by a human figure disturbed him at prayer.

Queen Elizabeth was the bitterest persecutor: she ordered all walls to be whitewashed, and all candlesticks and pictures to be utterly destroyed, so that no memorial remain of the same.

In Charles the First’s time, on the Journals of the House is found, 1645, July 23: “Ordered, that all pictures having the second person in the Trinity shall be burnt.” Walpole relates, that one Blessie was hired at half-a-crown a day to break the painted glass window at Croydon Church. There is extant the journal of a parliamentary visitor, appropriately enough named Dowsing, appointed for demolishing superstitious pictures and ornaments of churches, &c.; and by calculation, he and his agents are found to have destroyed about 4660 pictures, from June 9, 1643, to October 4, 1644, evidently not all glass, because when they were glass he specifies them.

The result of this continued persecution, says Hayden, was the ruin of “high art;” for the people had not taste enough to feel any sympathy for it independently of religion, and every man who has pursued it since, who had no private fortune, and was not supported by a pension like West, became infallibly ruined.

Historical painters left without employment began to complain. In the time of Edward VI. and Elizabeth we find them petitioning for bread! They revived a little with Charles I. and II. Thornhill got employed in the early part of the last century; then came the Society in St. Martin’s Lane, 1760; and in 1768 was established the Royal Academy, to help high art; but there being still no employment for it, the power in art fell into the hands of portrait-painters, who too long continued to wield it, with individual exceptions, to the further decay and destruction of this eminent style.

THE THORNHILL MIRACLE.

Every one remembers the marvellous story of Sir James Thornhill stepping back to see the effect of his work, while painting Greenwich Hospital; and being prevented falling from the ceiling to the floor, by a person intentionally defacing the picture, and causing the painter to rush forward, and thus save himself. This may have occurred; but we rather suspect the anecdote to be of legendary origin, and to come from no less distance than the Tyrol; in short, to be a paraphrase of a catholic miracle, unless the Tyrolese are quizzing the English story, which is not very probable. At Innspruck, you are gravely told that when Daniel Asam was painting the inside of the cupola of one of the churches, and had just finished the hand of St. James, he stepped back on the scaffold to ascertain the effect: there was no friend at hand gifted with the happy thought of defacing the work, and thus saving the artist, as in Sir James Thornhill’s case, and therefore Daniel Asam fell backward; but, to the astonishment of the awe-struck beholders, who were looking up from beneath, the hand and arm of the saint, which the artist had just finished, were seen to extend themselves from the fresco, and grasping the fortunate Asam by the arm, accompany him in his descent of 200 feet, and bear him up so gently, that he reached the ground without the slightest shock. What became of the “awe-struck beholders,” and why the saint and painter did not fall on their heads, or why they did not serve as an easel in bringing the pair miraculously to the ground, we are not told.

The Painted Hall at Greenwich, contains 53,678 square feet of Sir James Thornhill’s work, and cost 6,685l., being at the rate of 8l. per yard for the ceiling, and 1l. per yard for the sides. The whole is admirably described in Steele’s play of The Lovers.

THE PICTURES AT BUCKINGHAM PALACE.

The pictures which now constitute the private gallery of her Majesty at Buckingham Palace, were principally collected by George the Fourth, whose exclusive predilection for pictures of the Dutch and Flemish schools is well known. To those which he brought together here, and which formerly hung in Carlton House, her present Majesty has made, since her accession, many valuable additions—some purchased, and others selected from the royal collections at Windsor and Hampton Court; others have been added by Prince Albert, from the collection of the late Professor d’Alton, of Bonn. * * * George IV. began to form his collection about the year 1802, and was chiefly guided by the advice and judgment of Sir Charles Long, afterwards Lord Farnborough, an accomplished man, whose taste for art, and intimacy with the king, then Prince of Wales, rendered him a very fit person to carry the royal wishes into execution. The importation of the Orleans gallery had diffused a feeling—or, it may be, a fashion—for the higher specimens of the Italian schools, but under the auspices of George IV. the tide set in an opposite direction. In the year 1812, the very select gallery of Flemish and Dutch pictures collected by Sir Francis Baring was transferred by purchase to the Prince Regent. Sir Francis Baring had purchased the best pictures from the collections of M. Geldermeester of Amsterdam, (sold in 1800,) and that of the Countess of Holderness, (sold in 1802,) and, except the Hope Gallery, there was nothing at that time to compare with it in England. Mr. Seguier valued this collection at eighty thousand pounds; but the exact sum paid for it was certainly much less.

The specimens of Rubens and Van Dyck are excellent, but do not present sufficient variety to afford an adequate idea of the wide range or power of the first of these great painters, nor of the particular talent of the last. On the other hand, the works and style of Gerard Douw, Teniers, Jan Steen, Adrian and Wilhelm Vandevelde, Wouvermans, and Burghem, may be very advantageously studied in this gallery, each of their specimens being many in number, various in subject, and good in their kind. Of Mieris and Metzes, there are finer specimens at Mr. Hope’s and Sir Robert Peel’s; and the Hobbimas and Cuyps must yield to those of Lord Ashburton and Lord Francis Egerton. But, on the whole, it is certainly the finest gallery of this class of works in England. The collection derives additional interest from the presence of some pictures of the modern British artists—Reynolds, Wilkie, Allan, Newton, Gainsborough. It is, however, only just to these painters to add, that not one of their pictures here ought to be considered as a first-rate example of their power.—Mrs. Jameson.

To West must be given the record of achieving this honour; and what he has thus done in restoring historical painting to the purity of its original channel, can only be appreciated by those who have contemplated the debauched taste introduced into this country by Verrio, Laguerre, and other painters, who revived the ridiculous fooleries patronized in the reign of James the First; but which had, by the countenance of the nobility, and people of fashion, taken strong hold of most men’s minds. “A change,” says Cunningham, “was now to be effected in the character of British art: hitherto historical painting had appeared in a masquing habit; the actions of Englishmen seemed all as having been performed, if costume were to be believed, by Greeks or by Romans. West at once dismissed this pedantry, and restored nature and propriety in his noble work of ‘the Death of Wolfe.’ The multitude acknowledged its excellence at once; the lovers of old art, the manufacturers of compositions, called by courtesy classical, complained of the barbarism of boots and buttons, and blunderbusses, and cried out for naked warriors, with bows, bucklers, and battering rams. Lord Grosvenor, disregarding the frowns of the amateurs, and the, at best, cold approbation of the Royal Academy, purchased this work, which, in spite of laced coats and cocked hats, is one of the best of our historical pictures. The Indian warrior watching the dying hero to see if he equalled in fortitude the children of the desert, is a fine stroke of nature and poetry.”

West, however, was plagued with misgivings as to his new doctrine; and the dampers came forth in numbers with their unvarying, “It will never do.” When it was understood that West actually intended to paint the characters as they appeared on the scene, the Archbishop of York called on Reynolds, and asked his opinion; they both called upon West to dissuade him from running so great a risk. Reynolds warned him of the danger which every innovation incurred of contempt and ridicule; and concluded by urging him to adopt the costume of antiquity as more becoming the greatness of the subject than the garb of modern warriors. West replied that the event to be commemorated happened in the year 1758, in a region of the world unknown to Greeks and Romans, and at a period when no warriors wearing such costumes existed. The subject to be represented was a great battle, fought and won; and the same truth which gives laws to the historian should rule the painter; that he wanted to mark the place, the time, the people, and to do this he must abide by the truth.

The objectors went away, and returned when West had finished the picture. Reynolds seated himself before it, and examined it with deep and minute attention for half an hour; then rising, said to Drummond, “West has conquered—he has treated his subject as it ought to be treated. I retract my objections: I foresee that this picture will not only become one of the most popular, but will occasion a revolution in art,” “I wish,” said king George the Third, to whom West related the conversation, “that I had known all this before, for the objection has been the means of Lord Grosvenor’s getting the picture; but you shall make a copy of it for me.” This anecdote, though it operates against the foresight of Reynolds, carries truth on the face of it.

The king not only gave West a pension of 1000l. a year, but when the artist hinted that the noble purpose of historical painting was best shown in depicting the excellencies of revealed religion, the monarch threw open St. George’s Chapel to be decorated with sacred subjects; and on his Majesty’s restoration to health, finding that the work had been suppressed, and the money withheld, he instantly ordered him to be paid, and the works proceeded with. The heads of the church, however, acted otherwise; for when the Academy proposed to decorate St. Paul’s with works of art, and Reynolds, West, Barry, Dance, Cipriani, and Angelica Kauffman offered pictures free of expense, the Bishop of Bristol, Dr. Newton, at that time Dean of St. Paul’s, warmly took up the idea; but the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London refused their consent. The Bishop of London said: “My good Lord Bishop of Bristol, I have already been distantly and imperfectly informed of such an affair having been in contemplation; but as the sole power at last remains with myself, I therefore inform your lordship that whilst I live and have the power, I will never suffer the doors of the metropolitan church to be opened for the introduction of popery into it.”

Notwithstanding this heavy blow to the cause of art, the example of the king was the cause of many altarpieces being painted by West and others; one of the best of which is the very appropriate one in the chapel of Greenwich Hospital.[11]

THE CAT RAPHAEL.

Gottfried Mind, a celebrated Swiss painter, was called the Cat Raphael, from the excellence with which he painted that animal. This peculiar talent was discovered and awakened by chance. At the time when Frendenberger painted his picture of the Peasant cleaving wood before his Cottage, with his wife sitting by and feeding her child with pap out of a pot, round which a cat is prowling, Mind cast a broad stare on the sketch of this last figure, and said, in his rugged, laconic way, “That is no cat!” Frendenberger asked, with a smile, whether he thought he could do it better? Mind offered to try; went into a corner, and drew the cat, which Frendenberger liked so much that he made his new pupil finish it out, and the master copied the scholar’s work—for it is Mind’s cat that is engraved in Frendenberger’s plate. Prints of Mind’s cats are now very common.

SMALL CONVERSATION.

Fuseli had a great dislike to common-place observations. After sitting perfectly silent for a long time in his own room, during “the bald disjointed chat” of some idle callers in, who were gabbling with one another about the weather, and other topics of as interesting a nature, he suddenly exclaimed, “We had pork for dinner to-day!” “Dear! Mr. Fuseli, what an odd remark!” “Why, it is as good as anything you have been saying for the last hour.”

CHANGING HATS.

Barry, the painter, was with Nollekens at Rome in 1760, and they were extremely intimate. Barry took the liberty one night, when they were about to leave the English Coffee-house, to exchange hats with him; Barry’s being edged with lace, and Nollekens’s a very shabby, plain one. Upon his returning the hat next morning, he was requested by Nollekens to let him know why he left him his gold-laced hat. “Why, to tell you the truth, my dear Joey,” answered Barry, “I fully expected assassination last night, and I was to have been known by my laced hat.” Nollekens often used to relate the story, adding: “It’s what the Old Bailey people would call a true bill against Jem.”

SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE’S BOYHOOD.

When Lawrence was but ten years old, his name had flown over the kingdom; he had read scenes from Shakspeare in a way that called forth the praise of Garrick, and drawn faces and figures with such skill as to obtain the approbation of Prince Hoare; his father, desirous of making the most of his talents, carried him to Oxford, where he was patronized by heads of colleges, and noblemen of taste, and produced a number of portraits, wonderful in one so young and uninstructed. Money now came in; he went to Bath, hired a house—raised his price from one guinea to two; his Mrs. Siddons, as Zara, was engraved—Sir Henry Harpur desired to adopt him as his son—Prince Hoare saw something so angelic in his face, that he proposed to paint him in the character of Christ, and the artists of London heard with wonder of a boy who was rivalling their best efforts with the pencil, and realizing, as was imagined, a fortune.

The Hon. Daines Barrington has the following record of Lawrence’s precocious talent in his Miscellanies: “This boy is now, (viz. February, 1780,) nearly ten years and a half old; but, at the age of nine, without the most distant instruction from any one, he was capable of copying historical pictures in a masterly style, and also succeeded amazingly in compositions of his own, particularly that of Peter denying Christ. In about seven minutes he scarcely ever failed of drawing a strong likeness of any person present, which had generally much freedom and grace, if the subject permitted.”

HARLOW’S TRIAL OF QUEEN KATHERINE.

This celebrated picture, (known also as “The Kemble Family,” from its introducing their portraits,) was the last and most esteemed work of J. H. Harlow, whom Sir Thomas Lawrence generously characterizes as “the most promising of all our painters.” The painting was commenced and finished in 1817; immediately after its exhibition at the Royal Academy, it was finely copied in mezzotint, by G. Clint; and the print in its time probably enjoyed more popularity than any production of its class. A proof impression has been known to realize upwards of twenty guineas.

The picture is on mahogany panel, stated to have cost the artist 15l.; it is one and a half inch in thickness, and in size about seven feet by five feet. It originated with Mr. T. Welsh, the professor of music, who, in the first instance, commissioned Harlow to paint for him a kit-cat size portrait of Mrs. Siddons, in the character of Queen Katherine, in Shakspeare’s play of Henry VIII., introducing a few scenic accessories in the distance. For this portrait Harlow was to receive twenty-five guineas; but the idea of representing the whole scene occurred to the artist, who, with Mr. Welsh, prevailed upon most of the actors to sit for their portraits; in addition to these are portraits of the friends of both parties, including the artist himself. The sum ultimately paid by Mr. Welsh for the picture was one hundred guineas; and a like amount was paid by Mr. Cribb for Harlow’s permission to engrave the well-known print, to which we have already adverted.

Harlow owed many obligations to Fuseli for his critical remarks on this picture: when he first saw it, chiefly in dead-colouring, he said: “I do not disapprove of the general arrangement of your work, and I see you will give it a powerful effect of light and shadow; but you have here a composition of more than twenty figures, or, I should rather say, parts of figures, because you have not shown one leg or foot, which makes it very defective. Now, if you do not know how to draw legs and feet, I will show you,” and taking up a crayon, he drew two on the wainscot of the room. Harlow profited by these instructions, and the next time Fuseli saw the picture, the whole arrangement in the foreground was changed. He then said to Harlow, “So far you have done well; but now you have not introduced a back figure, to throw the eye of the spectator into the picture;” and then pointed out by what means he might improve it in this particular. Accordingly, Harlow introduced the two boys who are taking up the cushion.

It has been stated that the majority of the actors in the scene sat for their portraits in this picture. John Kemble, however, refused when asked to do so by Mr. Welsh, strengthening his refusal with emphasis profane. Harlow was not, however, to be defeated; and he actually drew Kemble’s portrait in one of the stage-boxes of Covent Garden Theatre, while the great actor was playing his part. The vexation such a ruse must have occasioned to a man of Kemble’s temperament may be imagined. Egerton, Pope, and Stephen Kemble were successively painted for Henry VIII., the artist retaining the latter. The head or Charles Kemble was likewise twice painted; the first, which cost him many sittings, was considered by himself and others to be very successful. The artist thought otherwise; and, contrary to Mr. Kemble’s wish and remonstrance, he one morning painted out the approved head: in a day or two, however, entirely from memory, Harlow repainted the portrait with increased fidelity. It is stated that but one sitting was required of Mrs. Siddons: the fact is, the great actress held her uplifted arm frequently till she could hold it raised no longer, and the majestic limb was finished from another original.

DEATH OF CORREGGIO.

Towards the close of Correggio’s days, it is said that the canons of one of the churches which he was employed to embellish, were so disappointed with the work, that, to insult him, they paid him the price in copper; that he had this unworthy burthen to carry eight miles in a burning sun; the length of the way, the weight of the load, and depression of spirits, brought on a fever which carried him in three days to his grave.

Among the many legends respecting this illustrious artist, it is said that, when young, he looked long and earnestly on one of the pictures of Raphael—his brow coloured, his eye brightened, and he exclaimed, “I also am a painter.” Titian, when he first saw his works, exclaimed, “Were I not Titian, I would wish to be Correggio.”

A LUCKY PURCHASE.

In the spring of 1837, Mr. Atherstone bought for a few guineas a Magdalen, by Correggio, at the Auction Mart, where he saw it among a heap of spoiled canvass, that an amateur (no connoisseur) of pictures had sent to be sold. This gentleman had bought it in Italy for 100l., admiring its beauty, but ignorant of its value. It was in perfect preservation; in the grandest style of Correggio: and in colouring surpassing in brilliancy and depth of tone even the famous specimens in the National Gallery.

COPLEY’S “DEATH OF LORD CHATHAM”

Washington, on seeing this picture, remarked, “this work, highly valuable in itself, is rendered more estimable in my eye when I remember that America gave birth to the celebrated artist that produced it.” The picture is ten feet long, and seven feet six inches high. The painter refused fifteen hundred guineas for it; it was purchased, we know not at what price, by the Earl of Liverpool, who used to say that such a work ought not to be in his possession, but in that of the public. These words were not heard in vain by the son of the Earl, who munificently presented it to the National Gallery.

THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON’S CORREGGIO.

Allan Cunningham warms into rapture in speaking of this wondrous picture, captured by Wellington at Vittoria. “The size is small, some fifteen inches square, or so; but true genius can work miracles in little compass. The central light of the picture is altogether heavenly; we never saw anything so insufferably brilliant; it haunted us round the room at Apsley House, and fairly extinguished the light of its companion-pictures. Joseph Bonaparte, not only a good king, but a good judge of painting, had this exquisite picture in his carriage when the tide of battle turned against him: it was transferred to the collection of the conqueror.”

GIOTTO AND THE PIGS.

One day, when Giotto, the painter, was taking his Sunday walk, in his best attire, with a party of friends, at Florence, and was in the midst of a long story, some pigs passed suddenly by; and one of them, running between the painter’s legs, threw him down. When he got on his legs again, instead of swearing a terrible oath at the pig, on the Lord’s-day, as a graver man might have done, he observed, laughing, “People say these beasts are stupid, but they seem to me to have some sense of justice; for I have earned several thousands of crowns with their bristles, but I never gave one of them even a ladleful of soup in my life.”

HOW WILKIE BECAME A PAINTER.

Sir John Sinclair, happening once to dine in company with Wilkie, asked, in the course of conversation, if any particular circumstance had led him to adopt his profession. Sir John inquired, “Had your father, mother, or any of your relations a turn for painting? or what led you to follow that art?” To which Wilkie replied, “The truth is, Sir John, that you made me a painter.”—“How, I?” exclaimed the Baronet; “I never had the pleasure of meeting you before.” Wilkie then gave the following explanation:—“When you were drawing up the Statistical Account of Scotland, my father, who was a clergyman in Fife, had much correspondence with you respecting his parish, in the course of which you sent him a coloured drawing of a soldier, in the uniform of your Highland Fencible Regiment. I was so delighted with the sight, that I was constantly drawing copies of it; and thus, insensibly, I was transformed into a painter.”

CIMABUE AND GIOTTO.

In the year 1300, Giovani Cimabue and Giotto, both of Florence, were the first to assert the natural dignity and originality of art; and the story of these illustrious friends is instructive and romantic. The former was a gentleman by birth and scholarship, and brought to his art a knowledge of the poetry and sculpture of Greece and Rome. The latter was a shepherd; when the inspiration of art fell upon him, he was watching his flocks among the hills; and his first attempts in art were to draw his sheep and goats upon rocks and stones. It happened that Cimabue, who was then high in fame, observed the sketches of the gifted shepherd; entered into conversation with him; heard from his own lips his natural notions of the dignity of art; and was so much charmed by his compositions and conversation, that he carried him to Florence, and became his close and intimate friend and associate. They found Italian painting rude in form, without spirit, and without sentiment. They let out their own hearts fully in their compositions, and to this day their works are highly esteemed for grave dignity of character, and for originality of conception. Of these great Florentines, Giotto, the shepherd, is confessedly the more eminent: in him we see the dawn, or rather the sunrise, of the fuller light of Raphael.

MICHAEL ANGELO IN BOYHOOD AND OLD AGE.

This great man showed from his infancy a strong inclination for drawing, and made so early a proficiency in it that, at the age of fourteen, he is said to have corrected the drawings of his master, Domenico Ghirlandaio. When Michael Angelo was an old man, one of these drawings being shown to him, he said, “In my youth I was a better artist than I am now.”

HOGARTH’S “MARCH TO FINCHLEY.”

This celebrated picture was disposed of by the painter by lottery. There were 1843 chances subscribed for; Hogarth gave the remaining 167 tickets to the Foundling Hospital, and the same night delivered the picture to the Governors. The fortunate number is generally stated to have been among the tickets which the painter handed to the Hospital; but, it is related in the Gentleman’s Magazine, though anonymously, that a lady was the possessor of the fortunate number, and intended to present it to the Foundling Hospital; but that some person having suggested what a door would be opened to scandal, were any of her sex to make such a present, it was given to Hogarth, on the express condition that it should be presented in his own name.

STORY OF A MINIATURE.

Mr. Gordon relates:—“M. Averani, a young French artist at Florence, had extraordinary talent for copying miniatures, giving them all the force of oil. I had frequently seen him at work in the gallery, and I purchased of him a clever copy of the Fornarina of Raphael, and one of the Venus Vestita of Titian, in the Pitti Palace, said to be the only miniature painted by this great man. It had a good deal of the character of Queen Mary Stuart, was painted on a gold ground, had great force, and was highly finished. I gave the artist his price, six sequins, and brought it to England. When I disposed of my vertu, in Sloane-street, previous to my settling in Scotland, this miniature made a flaming appearance in the catalogue. The gem was bought by a gentleman for fifty-five guineas. I thought I had done very well by this transaction, until I saw it advertised in the Morning Chronicle, stating that “an original portrait of Mary, Queen of Scotland, the undoubted work of Titian, value one thousand guineas, was to be seen at No. 14, Pall-mall; price of admission, 2s. 6d.” The bait took; the owner put three or four hundred pounds into his pocket by the exhibition, and sold the portrait for seven or eight hundred pounds. Here was I an innocent accessory to the greatest imposition that was ever practised on the public. As a work of art, it was worth all I got for it; and I was offered nearly that sum by a friend who knew its whole history. I understand that a nobleman was the purchaser of this beautiful miniature.”

SITTING FOR A HUSBAND.

John Astley, the painter, was born at Wem, in Shropshire. He was a pupil of Hudson, and was at Rome about the same time with Sir Joshua Reynolds. After his return to England, he went to Dublin, practised there as a painter for three years, and in that time earned 3000l. As he was painting his way back to London, in his own postchaise, with an outrider, he loitered in his neighbourhood, and, visiting Nutsford Assembly, he there saw Lady Daniel, a widow, who was so captivated by him, that she contrived to sit to him for her portrait, and then offered him her hand, which he at once accepted. Poor Astley, in the decline of life, was disturbed by reflections upon the dissipation of his early days, and was haunted with apprehensions of indigence and want. He died at his house, Duckenfield Lodge, Cheshire, Nov. 14, 1787, and was buried at the church of that village.

ARTISTIC TEXT.

Wills, the portrait-painter, was not very successful in his profession, and so quitted it, and, having received a liberal education, took orders. He was for several years curate of Canons, in Middlesex, and at the death of the incumbent he obtained the living. In the year 1768, he was appointed chaplain to the chartered Society of Artists; and he preached a sermon at Covent-garden Church, on St. Luke’s Day, in the same year; the text being taken from Job, chap. xxxvii. verse 14—“Stand still, and consider the wondrous works of God.” This discourse was afterwards printed at the request of the Society; but Wills did not long enjoy his appointment, in consequence of the disputes which broke out among the members.

GENEROSITY OF CANOVA.

The celebrated Italian sculptor Canova, when rich and titled, remained the same simple, unostentatious man as in his unknown and humble youth. He cared nothing for personal luxuries. Not only the pension of 3000 crowns granted him by the Pope with the title of Marquis, but a great part of the wealth acquired by his labours, were bestowed in acts of charity, and upon unfortunate artists. One year, the harvest failing, he fed the poor of his native Venetian village all winter at his own expense. The manner in which he bestowed his favours reflected additional honour on him. A poor, proud, bad painter, was in danger of starving, with all his family. Canova knew the man would refuse a gift; and, out of respect to his feelings, he sacrificed his own taste. He requested him to paint a picture, leaving the subject and size to his own choice, and saying he had set aside 400 scudi (not less than £100) for this purpose, half of which he handed him at present, the other half should be sent when the work was finished; adding, that the sooner he received it, he should be the better pleased.

HOGARTH’S VANITY.

Hogarth displayed no little vanity regarding his pretensions as a portrait-painter. One day, when dining at Dr. Cheselden’s, he was told that John Freke, surgeon of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, had asserted in Dick’s coffee-house, that Greene was as eminent in composition as Handel. “That fellow, Freke,” cried Hogarth, “is always shooting his bolt absurdly, one way or another. Handel is a giant in music, Greene only a light Florimel-kind of composer.” “Ay, but,” said the other, “Freke declared you were as good a portrait-painter as Vandyke.” “There he was in the right,” quoth Hogarth; “and so I am, give me but my time, and let me choose my subject.”

Writing of himself, Hogarth says:—“The portrait which I painted with most pleasure, and in which I particularly wished to excel, was that of Captain Coram, for the Foundling Hospital;” and he adds, in allusion to his detraction as a portrait-painter, “If I am so wretched an artist as my enemies assert, it is somewhat strange that this, which was one of the first I painted the size of life, should stand the test of twenty years’ competition, and be generally thought the best portrait in the place, notwithstanding the first painters in the kingdom exerted all their talents to vie with it.”

THE FOUNDLING HOSPITAL AND THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

That Tenterden Steeple was the cause of Goodwin Sands does not appear a whit more strange than that in the Foundling Hospital originated the Royal Academy of Arts. Yet, such was the case. The Hospital was incorporated in 1739, and in a few years the present building was erected; but, as the income of the charity could not, with propriety, be expended upon decorations, many of the principal artists of that day generously gave pictures for several of the apartments of the hospital. These were permitted to be shown to the public upon proper application; and hence became one of the sights of the metropolis. The pictures proved very attractive; and this success suggested the annual Exhibition of the united artists, which institution was the precursor of the Royal Academy, in the Adelphi, in the year 1760. Thus, within the walls of the Foundling, the curious may see the state of British art previously to the epoch when King George the Third first countenanced the historical talent of West.

Among the earliest “governors and guardians” of the Hospital we find William Hogarth, who liberally subscribed his money, and gave his time and talent, towards carrying out the designs of his friend, the venerable Captain Coram, through whose zeal and humanity the Hospital was established. Hogarth’s first artistical aid was the engraving of a head-piece to a power-of-attorney, drawn for the collection of subscriptions towards the Charity; Hogarth next presented to the Hospital an engraved plate of Coram.

Among the early artistic patrons of the Charity, we find Rysbrach, the sculptor; Hayman, the embellisher of Vauxhall Gardens; Highmore, Hudson, and Allan Ramsay; and Richard Wilson, the prince of English landscape-painters. They met often at the hospital, and thus advanced charity and the arts together; for the exhibition of their donations in paintings &c. drew a daily crowd of visitors in splendid carriages; and a visit to the Foundling became the most fashionable morning lounge of the reign of George the Second. The grounds in front of the Hospital were the promenade; and brocaded silks, gold-headed canes, and laced three-cornered (Egham, Staines, and Windsor) hats, formed a gay bevy in Lambs’ Conduit Fields.

A very interesting series of biographettes of “the artists of the Foundling,” with a catalogue raisonnÉe of the pictures presented by them, will be found in Mr. Brownlow’s “Memoranda; or, Chronicles” of the Hospital. Among the pictures by Hogarth, are--“Moses brought to Pharaoh’s Daughter,” the “March to Finchley,” and a “Portrait of Captain Coram.” Here are, also, “The Charterhouse,” by Gainsborough; “St. George’s and the Foundling Hospitals,” by Wilson; “Portrait of Handel,” by Kneller; “The Earl of Dartmouth,” by Reynolds; The Cartoon of “The Murder of the Innocents,” by Raphael; the altarpiece of the chapel, “Christ presenting a Little Child,” by West; Portrait of the “Earl of Macclesfield,” by Wilson; “Dr. Mead,” by Allan Ramsay; “George the Second,” by Shackleton; “the Offering of the Wise Men,” by Casali; crayon portrait of “Taylor White,” by Cotes; “A Landscape,” by Lambert; “A Sea-piece,” by Brooking, &c.

M‘ARDELL’S PRINTS.

M‘Ardell, (says Smith, in his Life of Nollekens), resided at the Golden Ball, Henrietta-street, Covent Garden. Of the numerous and splendid productions of this excellent engraver of pictures by Sir Joshua, nothing can be said after the declaration of Reynolds himself, that “M‘Ardell’s prints would immortalize him;” however, I will venture to indulge in one remark more, namely, that that engraver has conferred immortality also upon himself in his wonderful print from Hogarth’s picture of ‘Captain Coram,’ the founder of the Foundling Hospital. A brilliant proof of this head in its finest possible state of condition, in my humble opinion, surpasses anything in mezzotinto now extant.

UNFORTUNATE ACCURACY.

Liotard, a Swiss artist, who came to this country in the reign of George II., and stayed two years, is best known by his works in crayons. His likenesses were as exact as possible, and too like to please those who sat to him: thus he had great business the first year, and very little the second. Devoid of imagination, and one would think of memory also, he could render nothing but what he saw before his eyes. Freckles, marks of the smallpock, everything, found its place; not so much from fidelity, as because he could not conceive the absence of anything that appeared to him. Truth prevailed in all his works; grace in very few or none. Nor was there any ease in his outline; but the stiffness of a bust in all his portraits. Liotard’s lack of employment may, therefore, easily be accounted for.

IMMORTALITY OF PAINTING.

It is painful to think how soon the paintings of Raphael, and Titian, and Correggio, and other illustrious men, will perish and pass away. “How long,” said Napoleon to David, “will a picture last?” “About four or five hundred years—a fine immortality!” The poet multiplies his works by means of a cheap material; and Homer, and Virgil, and Dante, and Tasso, and Moliere, and Milton, and Shakspeare, may bid oblivion defiance; the sculptor impresses his conceptions on metal or on marble, and expects to survive the wreck of nations, or the wrongs of time; but the painter commits to perishable cloth or wood, the visions of his fancy, and dies in the certain assurance that the life of his works will be but short in the land they adorn.

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS’S “PUCK.”

This merry imp is the portrait of a child, which was painted without any particular aim as to character. When Alderman Boydell saw it, he said: “Sir Joshua, if you will make this pretty thing into a Puck, for my Shakspeare Gallery, I will give you a hundred guineas for it.” The President smiled and said little, as was his custom: a few hours’ happy labour made the picture what we see it.

RAPHAEL’S CARTOON OF THE MURDER OF THE INNOCENTS.

This cartoon came into the possession of the Foundling Hospital by the conditional bequest of Prince Hoare, Esq. Haydon describes it as “one of the finest instances in the world of variety of expression and beauty of composition, as a work of ‘high art.’” It is the centre part of one of the best cartoons which belonged to the set executed by Raphael, at the order of Leo X., and sent afterwards to Flanders, to be copied in tapestry, for exhibition at the Vatican.

The original number of the cartoons was thirteen; but in consequence of the Flemish weavers cutting them into strips for their working machinery, after the tapestry was executed and sent to Rome, the original cartoons were left mingled together in boxes.

When Rubens was in England, he told Charles I. the condition they were in; and the king, who had the finest taste, desired him to procure them. Seven perfect ones were purchased, all, it may be inferred, which remained, and sent to his majesty; what became or had become of the remainder, nobody knows; but here and there, all over Europe, fragments have appeared. At Oxford there are two or three heads; and we believe the Duke of Hamilton or Buccleuch, has others. After Charles’s misfortunes, the cartoons now at Hampton Court were sold, with the rest of his Majesty’s fine collection; but by Cromwell’s express orders they were bought in for three hundred pounds. During the reign of Charles II. they were offered to France for fourteen thousand francs, but Charles was dissuaded from selling them.

The above portion of the “Murder of the Innocents,” was sold at Westminster many years ago, as disputed property. Prince Hoare’s father, before the sale, explained to an opulent friend the great treasure about to be disposed of, and persuaded him to advance the money requisite, on condition of sharing the property. To his great surprise he bought it for twenty-six pounds; and his friend, having no taste, told Mr. Hoare if he would paint him and his family, he would relinquish his right.

These particulars Mr. Haydon had from Prince Hoare, the son; they are related in a letter from the painter to Mr. Lievesley, at the Foundling Hospital, dated October 3, 1837, wherein Haydon suggests the better exhibition of the work as a model of study; and soon after the Governors of the Hospital sent the cartoon by way of loan, to the National Gallery, where it may now be seen and studied.[12]

JARVIS SPENCER.

Spencer was a miniature-painter of much celebrity, contemporaneous with Hogarth. He was originally a gentleman’s servant, but having a natural turn for art, he amused himself with drawing. It happened that one of the family with whom he lived sat for a portrait to a miniature-painter, and when the work was completed, it was shown to Spencer, who said he thought he could copy it. He was allowed to make the attempt, when his success was so great, that the family he lived with at once patronised him, and by their interest he became a fashionable painter of the day.

A DRAPERY PAINTER.

Peter Jones, a pupil of Hudson, may be considered a portrait-painter, though his chief excellence was in painting draperies. In this branch of the art, so useful to a fashionable face-painter, he was much employed by Reynolds, Cotes, and West. Many of Sir Joshua’s best whole-lengths are those to which Jones painted the draperies: among them was the portrait of Lady Elizabeth Keppell, in the dress she wore as bridesmaid to the queen: for this Jones was paid twelve guineas; but Sir Joshua was not remarkably liberal on such occasions, of which Jones did not neglect to complain. When the Royal Academy was founded, he was chosen one of its members.

“STRANGE” ADVENTURE.

The following anecdote of Sir Robert Strange, (says Smith,) was related to me by the late Richard Cooper, who instructed Queen Charlotte in drawing, and was for some time drawing-master to Eton School. “Robert Strange, (says Cooper,) was a countryman of mine, a North Briton, who served his time to my father as an engraver, and was a soldier in the rebel army of 1745. It so happened when Duke William put them to flight, that Strange, finding a door open, made his way into the house, ascended to the first-floor, and entered a room where a young lady was seated at needlework, and singing. Young Strange implored her protection. The lady, without rising, or being in the least disconcerted, desired him to get under her hoop. He immediately stooped, and the amiable woman covered him up. Shortly after this, the house was searched; the lady continued at her work, singing as before; the soldiers upon entering the room, considering Miss Lunsdale alone, respectfully retired. Robert, as soon as the search was over, being released from his concealment, kissed the hand of his protectress, at which moment, for the first time, he found himself in love. He married the lady; and no persons, beset as they were with early difficulties, lived more happily.”

Strange afterwards became a loyal man, though for a long time he sighed to be pardoned by his king who, however, was graciously pleased to be reconciled to him, and afterwards knighted him. Sir Robert was a conscientious publisher in delivering subscription impressions of prints; he never took off more proofs than were really bespoken, and every name was put upon the print as it came out of the press, unless it were faulty, and then it was destroyed; not laid aside for future sale, as has been the practice with some of our late publishers.

ORIGIN OF THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB.

George Lambert was for many years principal scene-painter to Covent Garden Theatre; and being a person of great respectability in character and profession, he was often visited, while at work, by persons of consideration. As it frequently happened that he was too much pressed by business to leave the theatre for dinner, he contented himself with a beef-steak, broiled upon the fire in the painting-room. In this humble meal he was sometimes joined by his visitors: the conviviality of the accidental meeting inspired the party with a resolution to establish a club, which was accordingly done, under the title of “The Beef-Steak Club;” and the party assembled periodically in the painting-room.[13] The members were afterwards accommodated with a private apartment in the theatre, where the meeting was held for many years; but, after Covent Garden was last rebuilt, the place of meeting was changed to the Shakspeare Tavern. It was then removed to the Lyceum Theatre, in the Strand, on the destruction of which, by fire, in 1830, the place of meeting was transferred to the Bedford Coffeehouse, in Covent Garden. The regime of the club is a course of beef-steaks, followed by stewed cheese in silver dishes. The number of members is only twenty-four; and the days of meeting are every Saturday, from November until the end of June.

WILKIE’S EARLY LIFE.

John Burnet was educated with Wilkie in the first four years of his studies in the Trustees’ Academy of Edinburgh; and, after arriving in London, in 1806, witnessed the progress of nearly every picture of familiar life which he painted. Burnet relates, that Wilkie was always first on the stairs leading up to the Academy, (which was then held in St. James’s-square,) anxious not to lose a moment of the hours of drawing; and this love of art, paramount to all other gratifications, continued with him to the last, even when his success had put the means in his power of indulging relaxation and procuring amusement. When in the Academy, his intenseness attracted the notice of the more volatile students, who used to pelt him with small pills of soft bread. As he was one of the first to be present, so he was one of the last to depart. After Academy hours, which were from ten to twelve in the forenoon, (the best time of the day for application,) those who were apprentices returned to their several professions; but Wilkie invariably returned to his lodgings, there to follow out what was begun in the Academy, by copying from his own hands and face in a mirror: thus, as it were, engrafting the great principles of the antique on the basis of nature.

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS’S DINNERS.

Sir Joshua appears to have been but an irregular manager in his conviviality. “Often was the dinner board prepared for seven or eight, required to accommodate itself to fifteen or sixteen; for often, on the very eve of dinner, would Sir Joshua tempt afternoon visitors with intimation that Johnson, or Garrick, or Goldsmith was to dine there. Nor was the want of seats the only difficulty. A want of knives and forks, of plates and glasses, as often succeeded. In something of the same style, too, was the attendance; the kitchen had to keep pace with the visitors; and it was easy to know the guests best acquainted with the house by their never failing to call instantly for beer, bread, or wine, that they might get them before the first course was over, and the worst confusion began. Once was Sir Joshua prevailed upon to furnish his table with dinner-glasses and decanters; and some saving of time they proved; yet, as they were demolished in the course of service, he could never be persuaded to replace them. “But these trifling embarrassments,” says Mr. Courtenay, describing them to Sir James Macintosh, “only served to enhance the hilarity and the singular pleasure of the entertainment.” It was not the wine, dishes, and cookery, not the fish and venison, that were talked of or recommended: those social hours, that irregular convivial talk, had matter of higher relish, and far more eagerly enjoyed. And amid all the animated bustle of his guests, the host sat perfectly composed; always attentive to what was said, never minding what was ate or drank, and leaving every one at perfect liberty to scramble for himself.”—Forster’s Life of Goldsmith.

FINDING A PAINTER.

Brooking, a ship-painter of rare merit, about the middle of the last century, like many of the artists of the time, worked for the shops. Mr. Taylor White, Treasurer of the Foundling Hospital, one day saw some of the sea-pieces of this artist in a shop-window in Castle-street, Leicester-square. He inquired his name, but was answered equivocally by the dealer, who told Mr. White that if he pleased he could procure other pictures by the same painter. Brooking was accustomed to write his name upon his pictures, which mark was as often obliterated by the shopkeeper before he placed them in his window. It, however, happened that the artist carried home a piece on which his name was inscribed; and the master being from home, his wife, who received it, placed it in the window without effacing the signature. Luckily, Mr. White saw the picture before it was removed, and thus discovered the name of the painter whose works he so much admired. He instantly advertised for the artist to meet him at a certain wholesale linen-draper’s in the city. To this invitation, Brooking, at first, paid no regard; but, seeing it repeated, with assurance of benefit to the person to whom it was addressed, he prudently attended to it, and had an interview with Mr. White, who, from that time, became his friend and patron. One of Brooking’s sea-pieces hangs in the Foundling Hospital: it was painted in eighteen days, and is, altogether, a first-class picture.—Brownlow’s Memoranda of the Foundling Hospital.

REYNOLDS’S AND LAWRENCE’S PORTRAITS.

Sir D. Wilkie, in his remarks on Portrait Painting, says:—No representations of female character have equalled in sweetness and beauty the female portraits of Sir Joshua Reynolds; yet, a contemporary has remarked, that this was accomplished greatly at the expense of likeness. Hoppner, who was himself distinguished for the beauty with which he endowed the female form, remarked, that even to him it was a matter of surprise that Reynolds could send home portraits with so little resemblance to the originals. This, indeed, in his day, occasioned portraits to be left on his hands, or turned to the wall, which, since the means of comparing resemblances have ceased, have blazed forth in all the splendour of grace and elegance, which the originals would have been envied for had they ever possessed them. I may add to this what is remarked of Sir Thomas Lawrence: his likenesses were celebrated as the most successful of his time; yet, no likenesses exalted so much or refined more upon the originals. He wished to seize the expression, rather than copy the features. His attainment of likeness was most laborious: one distinguished person, who favoured him with forty sittings for his head alone, declared he was the slowest painter he had ever sat to, and he had sat to many.

This distinguished person, (says Burnet, in his Practical Essays,) I believe, was Sir Walter Scott. The picture was painted for his Majesty, and Lawrence was most anxious to make the picture the best of any painted from so celebrated a character. At other times, however, Sir Thomas was as dexterous with his pencil as any artist. I remember him mentioning that he painted the portrait of Curran, the celebrated Irish barrister, in one day; he came in the morning, remained to dinner, and left at dusk; or, as Lawrence expressed it, quoting his favourite author,

Zoffani was a native of Frankfort, and came to England as a painter of small portraits, when he was about thirty years of age. He was employed by George the Third, and painted portraits of the royal family. He was celebrated for small whole-lengths, and painted several pieces of Garrick, and his contemporaries in dramatic scenes. He was engaged by the queen to paint a view of the tribune of Florence; and while there he was noticed by the Emperor of Germany, who inquired his name; and on hearing it, asked what countryman he was. Zoffani replied, “An Englishman.” “Why,” said the Emperor, “your name is German!” “True,” replied the painter, “I was born in Germany; that was accidental: I call that my country where I have been protected.”

Zoffani was admitted a member of the Royal Academy in 1783. He went afterwards to the East Indies, where he became a favourite of the Nabob of Oude, and amassed a handsome fortune, with which he returned to England, and settled at Strand-on-the-Green. Whilst there, he presented a large and well-executed painting of the Last Supper, as an altarpiece, to St. George’s Chapel, then lately built, where it still remains. Every head in the picture, (excepting that of Christ) is a likeness. Here is a portrait of Zoffani himself; the others were likenesses of persons then living at Strand-on-the-Green and Old Brentford. Zoffani had in his establishment a nursemaid who possessed fine hands, which he ever and anon painted in his pictures.

PATRONAGE OF ART.

To suffer from the want of discernment on the part of the nobility and the people, appears to be the fate of artists in this country. It was not a whit better formerly than it is in our own time. Hogarth had to sell his pictures by raffle, and Wilson was obliged to retire into Wales, from its affording cheaper living. The committee of the British Institution purchased a picture by Gainsborough, for eleven hundred guineas, and presented it to the National Gallery, as an example of excellence; yet this very picture hung for years in the artist’s painting-room without a purchaser; the price was only fifty pounds. In our own times, says John Burnet, “let us take the case of Sir David Wilkie as an example; a painter who has founded a school of art unknown before in this or in any other country—a combination of the invention of Hogarth with the pictorial excellences of Ostade and Teniers; yet this artist’s works, on his coming to London in 1804, were exposed in a shop window at Charing Cross for a few pounds; and a work for which he could only receive fifteen guineas, was sold the other day for eight hundred. Do transactions such as these show the taste or discernment of the public? Lord Mansfield thought thirty pounds a large sum for ‘the Village Politicians;’ and Sir George Beaumont, as a kind of patronage, gave Wilkie a commission to paint the picture of ‘the Blind Fiddler,’ and paid him fifty guineas for what would now bring a thousand at a public sale.[14] It seems, therefore, a fair inference that a discerning public, or a patronising nobility, are only shown when an artist’s reputation makes it safe to encourage him.”—Practical Essays.

DANGEROUS RETORT.

Antonio More was a favourite of Philip of Spain, whose familiarity with him placed the painter’s life in danger; for he one day ventured to return a slap on the shoulder, which the king in a playful moment gave him, by rubbing some carmine on his Majesty’s hand. This behaviour was accepted by the monarch as a jest; but it was hinted to More that the holy tribunal might regard it as sacrilege; and he fled, to save himself, into Flanders, where he was employed by the Duke of Alva.

THE VENETIAN SCHOOL.

The late Sir Walter Scott used to say that when he told a story, he generally contrived to put a laced coat and a cocked hat upon it: this is a good illustration of the Venetian painters—their stories look like the spectacles of a melodrama.—Burnet’s Essays.

REYNOLDS’S “NATIVITY.”

In a fire at Belvoir Castle, in October, 1816, several of the pictures were burnt; among them was Sir Joshua Reynolds’s “Nativity,” a composition of thirteen figures, and in dimensions twelve feet by eighteen. This noble picture had been purchased by the Duke of Rutland for 1200 guineas.

HOLLOWAY AND “THE CARTOONS.”

Holloway, who so successfully copied in black chalks the cartoons of Raphael in Hampton Court Palace, was an eccentric genius, deeply read in Scripture, which he expounded in the most nasal tone; but it was very interesting to listen to his observations on the beauties and merits of these master-pieces of art. A Madame Bouiller, a French emigrÉe, was also occupied on the same subjects. She was patronised by West, who gave her permission to study in the palace; and said that he had never seen such masterly artistical touches of the crayon as hers.

One morning Holloway was found foaming with rage in the Cartoon Gallery. Some person had written against the cartoons, denominating them “wretched daubs;” and sorely did it wound the feelings of the enthusiastic artist, who worshipped with religious fervour these works of Raphael. Yet it was a grotesque scene to behold Madame Bouiller pacing after Holloway, up and down the gallery, with all the grimace and intensity of a Frenchwoman, and re-echoing his furious lamentations.

TITIAN’S PAINTING.

Sir Abraham Hume, the accomplished annotator of The Life and Works of Titian, observes: “It appears to be generally understood that Titian had, in the different periods of life, three distinct manners of painting: the first hard and dry, resembling his master, Giovanni Bellino; the second, acquired from studying the works of Giorgione, was more bold, round, rich in colour, and exquisitely wrought up; the third was the result of his matured taste and judgment, and, properly speaking, may be termed his own—in which he introduced more cool tints into the shadows and flesh, approaching nearer to nature than the universal glow of Giorgione.”

After stating what little is known of the mechanical means employed by Titian in the colouring of his pictures, Sir Abraham remarks: “Titian’s grand secret of all appears to have consisted in the unremitting exercise of application, patience, and perseverance, joined to an enthusiastic attachment to his art: his custom was to employ considerable time in finishing his pictures, working on them repeatedly, till he brought them to perfection; and his maxim was, that whatever was done in a hurry, could not be well done.” In manner and character, as well as talent, Titian may not inappropriately be associated with the most eminent painter this country ever produced, Sir Joshua Reynolds.

CATLIN’S PICTURES.

Catlin, the traveller, was born in Wyoming, on the Susquehannah: he was bred to the law, but after he had practised two or three years, he sold his law library, and with the proceeds commenced as painter in Philadelphia, without either teacher or adviser. Within a few years, a delegation of Indians arrived from wilds of the far west in Philadelphia, “arrayed and equipped in all their classical beauty—with shield and helmet—with tunic and manteau, tinted and tasselled off exactly for the painter’s palette. In silent and stoic dignity, these lords of the forest strutted about the city for a few days wrapped in their pictured robes, with their brows plumed with the quills of the war-eagle,” and then quitted for Washington city, leaving Catlin to regret their departure. This, however, led him to consider the preservation by pictorial illustrations of the history and customs of these people, as a theme worthy the life of one man; and he therefore resolved that nothing short of the loss of life should prevent him from visiting their country, and becoming their historian. He could find no advocate or abettor of his views; still, he broke from all connexions of family and home, and thus, firmly fixed, armed, equipped, and supplied, he started, in the year 1832, and penetrated the vast and pathless wilds of the Great Far West—devoted to the production of habitual and graphic portraiture of the manners, customs, and character of an interesting race of people who were rapidly passing away from the earth.

Catlin spent about eight years in the Indian country, and, in 1841, brought home portraits of the principal personages from each tribe, views of their villages, pastimes, and religious ceremonies; and a collection of their costumes, manufactures, and weapons. He was undoubtedly the first artist who ever started upon such a labour, designing to carry his canvass to the Rocky Mountains. He visited forty-eight different tribes, containing 400,000 souls, and mostly speaking different languages. He brought home 310 portraits in oil, all painted in their native dress, and in their own wigwams; besides 200 paintings of their villages, wigwams, games, and religious ceremonies, dances, ball-plays, buffalo-hunts, &c.; containing 3000 full-length figures; together with landscapes, and a collection of costumes and other artificial produce, from the size of a huge wigwam to that of a rattle. It was for a time expected that the collection would have been purchased by the British Government, and added to the British Museum, but the opportunity was let slip; and thus did we lose these records of a race of our fellow-creatures, whom we shall very shortly have swept from the face of the globe.

MARTIN’S “DELUGE.”

Sir E. Bulwer Lytton has written this eloquent criticism: “Martin’s ‘Deluge’ is the most simple of his works; it is, perhaps, also, the most awful. Poussin had represented before him the waste of inundation; but not the inundation of a world. With an imagination that pierces from effects to their ghastly and sublime agency, Martin gives, in the same picture, a possible solution to the phenomenon he records; and in the gloomy and perturbed heaven, you see the conjunction of the sun, the moon, and a comet. I consider this the most magnificent alliance of philosophy and art of which the history of painting can boast.”

SIR JOSHUA’S GOODNATURE.

In the year 1760, a youth named Buckingham, a scholar at Mr. King’s academy, in Chapel-street, Soho, presuming upon his father’s knowledge of Sir Joshua Reynolds, asked the President if he would paint him a flag for the next breaking-up of the school; when Sir Joshua goodnaturedly replied, if he would call upon him at a certain time, he would see what he could do. The boy accordingly went, accompanied by a school-fellow, named Williamson (the narrator of this anecdote), when Sir Joshua Reynolds presented them with a flag, about a yard square, on which he had painted the king’s coat of arms. This flag was carried in the breaking-up procession to the Yorkshire Stingo, an honour to the boys, and a still greater honour to him who painted it, and gave up his valuable time to promote their holiday amusements.

THOMAS SYDNEY COOPER “THE ENGLISH PAUL POTTER.”

The admirers of Mr. Cooper’s Cuyp-like pictures will be gratified with the following anecdote of the early recognition of the painter’s genius, pleasantly related by Miss Mitford, in her Belford Regis.

“Sometime in November, 1831, Mr. Cribb, an ornamental gilder in London, (King-street, Covent Garden,) was struck with a small picture—a cattle-piece, in a shop window in Greek-street, Soho. On inquiring for the artist, he could learn no tidings of him; but the people of the shop promised to find him out. Time after time, our persevering lover of the arts called to repeat his inquiries, but always unsuccessfully; until about three months after, when he found that the person he sought was a Mr. Thomas Sydney Cooper, a young artist, who had been for many years settled at Brussels, as a drawing-master, but had been driven from that city by the Revolution, which had deprived him of his pupils, among whom were some of the members of the royal family; and, unable to obtain employment in London as a cattle-painter, he had, with the generous self-devotion which most ennobles a man of genius, supported his family by making lithographic drawings of fashionable caps and bonnets, I suppose, as a puff for some milliner, or some periodical which deals in costumes. In the midst of this interesting family, and of these caps and bonnets, Mr. Cribb found him; and deriving from what he saw of his sketches and drawings additional conviction of his genius, he immediately commissioned him to paint a picture on his own subject, and at his own price, making such an advance as the richest artist could not scruple to accept on a commission, conjuring him to leave off caps and bonnets, and foretelling his future eminence. Mr. Cribb says, that he shall never forget the delight of Mr. Cooper’s face when he gave the order—he has the right to the luxury of such a recollection. Well! the picture was completed: our friend, Mr. Cribb, who is not a man to do his work by halves, bespoke a companion, and while that was painting, showed the first to a great number of artists and amateurs, who all agreed in expressing the strongest admiration, and in wondering where the painter could have been hidden. Before the second picture was half finished, a Mr. Carpenter, (I believe that I am right in the name,) gave Mr. Cooper a commission for a piece, which was exhibited in May, 1833, at the Suffolk-street Gallery; and from that moment orders poured in, and the artist’s fortune was made. It is right to add, that Mr. Cooper was generously eager to have this story made known, and Mr. Cribb as generously averse to its publication. But surety, it ought to be recorded for the example sake, and for their mutual honour.”

VERRIO AND CHARLES II.

Verrio, who painted the ceilings in Windsor Castle, was a great favourite with Charles II. The painter was very expensive, and kept a great table; he often pressed the King for money, with a freedom encouraged by his Majesty’s own frankness. Once, at Hampton Court, when he had but lately received an advance of £1000, he found the King in such a circle, that he could not approach. He called out, “Sire, I desire the favour of speaking to your Majesty.” “Well, Verrio,” said the King, “what is your request?” “Money, Sire; I am so short of cash, that I am not able to pay my workmen; and your Majesty and I have learned by experience, that pedlars and painters cannot long live on credit.” The King smiled, and said “he had but lately ordered him £1000.” “Yes, Sire,” replied Verrio; “but that was soon paid away, and I have no gold left.” “At that rate,” said the King, “you would spend more money than I do to maintain my family.” “True,” answered Verrio; “but does your Majesty keep an open table as I do?”

HOGARTH’S PICTURES AT VAUXHALL GARDENS.

Soon after his marriage, Hogarth had summer lodgings at South Lambeth, and became intimate with Jonathan Tyers, then proprietor of Vauxhall Gardens. On passing the tavern one morning, Hogarth saw Tyers, and observing him to be very melancholy, “How now, Master Tyers; why so sad this morning?” said the painter. “Sad times, Master Hogarth,” replied Tyers, “and my reflections were on a subject not likely to brighten a man’s countenance: I was thinking, do you know, which was likely to prove the easiest death, hanging or drowning.” “Oh,” said Hogarth, “is it come to that?” “Very nearly, I assure you,” said Tyers. “Then,” replied Hogarth, “the remedy you think of applying is not likely to mend the matter; don’t hang or drown to-day. I have a thought that may save the necessity of either, and will communicate it to you to-morrow morning; call at my house in Leicester Fields.” The interview took place, and the result was the concocting and getting up the first “Ridotto al Fresco,” which was very successful; one of the new attractions being the embellishment of the pavilions in the gardens by Hogarth’s pencil. Thus he drew the Four Parts of the Day, which Hayman copied; and the two scenes of Evening and Night, with portraits of Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn. Hayman was one of the earliest members of the Royal Academy, and was, when young, a scene-painter at Drury Lane Theatre.

Hogarth was at this time in prosperity, and assisted Tyers more essentially than by the few pieces he painted for the gardens; and for this Tyers presented the painter with a gold ticket of admission for himself and friends, which was handed down to Hogarth’s descendants—the medal being for the admission of six persons, or “one coach,” as it was termed.

RUBENS AND THE LION.

It is related that Rubens caused a remarkably fine and powerful lion to be brought to his house, in order to study him in every variety of attitude. One day, Rubens observing the lion yawn, was so pleased with his action, that he wished to paint it, and he desired the keeper to tickle the animal under the chin, to make him repeatedly open his jaws; at length, the lion became savage at this treatment, and cast such furious glances at his keeper, that Rubens attended to his warning, and had the animal removed. The keeper is said to have been torn to pieces by the lion shortly afterwards; apparently, he had never forgotten the affront.

NARROW ESCAPE.

Andrea Boscoli, the Italian painter, whilst sketching the fortifications of Loretto, was seized by the officers of justice, and condemned to be hanged; but he happily escaped within a few hours of execution, by the interposition of Signor Bandini, who explained to the chief magistrate the painter’s innocent object.

GAINSBOROUGH.

Gainsborough was born at Sudbury, in Suffolk, in 1727, and had the good fortune to take Nature for his mistress in art, and her to follow through life. Respecting this painter, memory is strong in his native place. A beautiful wood, of four miles extent, is shown, whose ancient trees, winding glades, and sunny nooks inspired him while yet a school-boy with the love of art. Scenes are pointed out where he used to sit and fill his copy-books with pencillings of flowers and trees, and whatever pleased his fancy. No fine clump of trees, no picturesque stream nor romantic glade, no cattle grazing, nor flocks reposing, nor peasants pursuing their work, nor pastoral occupations, escaped his diligent pencil. He received some instruction from Gravelot; and from Hayman, the friend of Hogarth. Having married, he settled in Ipswich; but in his thirty-first year removed to Bath, where he was appreciated as he deserved, and was enabled by his pencil to live respectably.

He then removed to London, where he added the lucrative branch of portrait-painting to his favourite pursuit of landscape. The permanent splendour of his colours, and the natural and living air which he communicated to whatever he touched, made him at this time, in the estimation of many, a dangerous rival of Sir Joshua himself.

Gainsborough was quite a child of nature, and everything that came from his easel smacked strongly of that raciness, freshness, and originality, the study of nature alone can give. “The Woodman and his Dog in the Storm” was one of his favourite compositions; yet, while he lived, he could find no purchaser at the paltry sum of one hundred guineas. After his death, five hundred guineas were paid for it by Lord Gainsborough, in whose house it was subsequently burnt. “The Shepherd’s Boy in the Shower,” and the “Cottage Girl with her Dog and Pitcher,” were also his prime favourites. Although having the good taste to express no contempt for the society of literary or fashionable men, Gainsborough, unlike the courtly Sir Joshua, cared little for their company. Music was his passion, or rather, next to his profession, the business of his life. Smith, in his Life of Nollekens, relates that he once found Colonel Hamilton playing so exquisitely to Gainsborough on the violin, that the artist exclaimed, “Go on, and I will give you the picture of the ‘Boy at the Stile,’ which you have so often wished to purchase of me.” The Colonel proceeded, and the painter stood in speechless admiration, with tears of rapture on his cheek. Hamilton then called a coach, and carried away the picture.

HAYDON AT SCHOOL.

Haydon was born at Plymouth, and at ten years old was sent to the Grammar School, under the care of the Rev. Dr. Bidlake, who possessed great taste for painting, and first noticed Haydon’s love of drawing; and, as a reward for diligence in school, the reverend gentleman used to indulge his pupil by admitting him to his painting-room, where he was allowed to pass his hal.-holidays.

At the age of fourteen, Haydon was sent to Plympton St. Mary School, where Sir Joshua Reynolds acquired all the scholastic knowledge he ever received. On the ceiling of the school-room was a sketch drawn by Reynolds with a burnt cork; and it was young Haydon’s delight to sit and contemplate this early production of the great master. Whilst at this school, he was about to join the medical profession; but the witnessing of an operation at once debarred him. When he left the Plympton School, after a stay there of about two years, he had not decided what profession he should pursue; and whilst at home in this unsettled state, his mind was never at rest, but he was constantly employed in drawing or painting, and reading hard. About this time, Reynolds’s “Discourses” attracted his attention, and fixed his resolution on painting; and, as the first step to which, he resolved to study anatomy.

RUBENS’S DAY.

Rubens was in the habit of rising very early: in summer at four o’clock, and immediately afterwards he heard mass. He then went to work, and while painting, he habitually employed a person to read to him from one of the classical authors, (the favourites being Livy, Plutarch, Cicero, and Seneca,) or from some eminent poet. This was the time when he generally received his visitors, with whom he entered willingly into conversation on a variety of topics, in the most animated and agreeable manner. An hour before dinner was always devoted to recreation, which consisted either in allowing his thoughts to dwell as they listed on subjects connected with science or politics,—which latter interested him deeply,—or in contemplating his treasures of art. From anxiety not to impair the brilliant play of his fancy, he indulged but sparingly in the pleasures of the table, and drank but little wine. After working again till evening, he usually, if not prevented by business, mounted a spirited Andalusian horse, and rode for an hour or two. This was his favourite exercise: he was extremely fond of horses, and his stables generally contained some of remarkable beauty. On his return home, it was his custom to receive a few friends, principally men of learning, or artists, with whom he shared his frugal meal, (he was the declared enemy of all excess,) and passed the evening in instructive and cheerful conversation. This active and regular mode of life could alone have enabled Rubens to satisfy all the demands which were made upon him as an artist; and the astonishing number of works he completed, the genuineness of which is beyond all doubt, can only be accounted for through his union of extraordinary diligence with the acknowledged fertility of his productive powers.

DILIGENCE OF RUBENS.

Like other great painters, Rubens was an architect, too; and, besides his own house, the church and the college of the Jesuits, in Antwerp, were built from his designs.

We are enabled to form some estimate of the astonishingly productive powers of Rubens, when we consider that about 1000 of his works have been engraved; and, including copies, the number of engravings from his works amount to more than 1500. The extraordinary number of his paintings adorn not merely the most celebrated public and private galleries, and various churches in Europe, but they have even found their way to America. In Lima, especially, there are several, and some of them of considerable value and excellence. Yet, of the countless pictures everywhere attributed to Rubens, but a small proportion were entirely painted by his own hands; the others contain more or less of the workmanship of his pupils. The greatest number of works, begun and finished by his own hands, are to be found in the galleries of Madrid, Antwerp, and Blenheim.—Mrs. Jameson’s Translation of Dr. Waagen’s Essay on Rubens.

HAYDON’S “JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON.”

This picture was bought of the artist by Sir W. Elford and Mr. Tingcomb, for 700l. Whilst painting it, Haydon got embroiled in a controversy on the Elgin Marbles, with Mr. Payne Knight, one of the Directors of the British Institution. This gave great offence; and when the painter had been four months at work on the “Solomon,” he was left without resources; but, by selling successively his books, prints, and clothes, he was enabled to go on with his picture. At length, after a labour of two years, and by a closing exertion of painting six days, and nearly as many nights, the picture was completed, and exhibited in Spring Gardens, with great success. The Directors of the British Institution then showed their sense of Haydon’s genius by a vote of 100 guineas, and all ill-feeling was forgotten. For this work, Haydon was presented with the freedom of the borough of Plymouth, says the vote, “as a testimony of respect for his extraordinary merit as an historical painter; and particularly for the production of his recent picture, ‘the Judgment of Solomon,’ a work of such superior excellence, as to reflect honour on his birthplace, distinction on his name, lustre on the art, and reputation on the country.”

Miss Mitford addressed to the painter the following Sonnet on this picture:—

“Tears in the eye, and on the lips a sigh!
Haydon, the great, the beautiful, the bold,
Thy Wisdom’s King, thy Mercy’s God unfold?
There art and genius blend in unison high,
But this is of the soul. The majesty
Of grief dwells here; grief cast in such a mould
As Niobe’s of yore. The tale is told
All at a glance. ‘A childless mother I!’
The tale is told, and who can e’er forget,
That e’er has seen that visage of despair!
With unaccustomed tears our cheeks are wet,
Heavy our hearts with unaccustomed care,
Upon our thoughts it presses like a debt,
We close our eyes in vain; that face is there.”

Mr. West, on seeing the picture, was affected to tears, at the figure of the pale, fainting mother.

VAN DE VELDE AND BACKHUYSEN.

When Dr. Waagen visited England in 1835, his sea passage gave rise to the following exquisite critical observations: “I must mention as a particularly fortunate circumstance, that the sea gradually subsided from a state of violent agitation to a total calm and a bright sunshine, attenuated with a clouded sky, and flying showers. I had an opportunity of observing in succession all the situations and effects which have been represented by the celebrated Dutch marine painters, William Van de Velde, and Backhuysen. Now, for the first time, I fully understood the truth of their pictures, in the varied undulation of the water, and the refined art with which, by shadows of clouds, intervening dashes of sunshine near, or at a distance, and ships to animate the scene, they produce such a charming variety in the uniform surface of the sea. To conclude in a striking manner this series of pictures, Nature was so kind as to favour us at last with a thunder-storm, but not to interrupt by long-continued rain, suffered it to be of very short duration.”

A PAINTER’S HAIR-DRESSING.

It was the constant practice of Sir Joshua Reynolds, as soon as a female sitter had placed herself on his throne, to destroy the tasteless labours of the hairdresser and the lady’s maid with the end of a pencil-stick.

A MIS-MATCHED PORTRAIT.

Dr. Waagen relates the following singular anecdote of one of the portraits in the Waterloo Chamber at Windsor Castle—that of the minister, William von Humboldt. The conception is poor, and the likeness very general; but the want is, that the body does not at all suit the head; for when king George the Fourth, who was a personal friend of the minister, during his last visit to England, and a short time before his departure, made him sit to Sir Thomas Lawrence, the latter being pressed for time, took a canvass on which he had begun a portrait of Lord Liverpool, and had already finished his body in a purple coat, and painted upon it the head of M. Von Humboldt, intending to alter it afterwards. This, however, in consequence of the death of the king, and of Sir Thomas Lawrence, was not done.

VAST PAINTED WINDOW.

In the spring of 1830, there was exhibited in London a superb specimen of painting on glass, the size almost amounting to the stupendous, being eighteen by twenty-four feet. The term “window,” however, is hardly applicable to this vast work, for there was no framework visible; but the entire picture consisted of upwards of 350 pieces, of irregular forms and sizes, fitted into metal astragals, so contrived as to fall with the shadows, and thus to assist the appearance of an uninterrupted and unique picture upon a sheet of glass.

The subject was “the Tournament of the Field of the Cloth of Gold,” between Henry VIII. and Francis I., in the plain of Ardres, near Calais; a scene of overwhelming gorgeousness, and, in the splendour of its appointments well suited to the brilliant effects which is the peculiar characteristic of painting in enamel. The stage represented was the last tourney on June 25, 1520. The field is minutely described by Hall, whose details the painter had closely followed. There were artificial trees, with green damask leaves; and branches and boughs, and withered leaves, of cloth-of-gold; the trunks and arms being also covered with cloth-of-gold, and intermingled with fruits and flowers of Venice gold; and “their beautie shewed farre.” In these trees were hung, emblazoned upon shields, “the Kynge of Englande’s armes, within a gartier, and the French Kynge’s within a collar of his order of Sainct Michael, with a close croune, with a flower de lise in the toppe;” and around and above were the shields of the noblemen of the two courts. The two queens were seated in a magnificent pavilion, and next to the Queen of England sat Wolsey; the judges were on stages, the heralds, in their tabards, placed at suitable points; and around were gathered the flower of the French and English nobility, to witness this closing glory of the last days of chivalry.

The action of the piece is thus described:—The trumpets sounded, and the two kings and their retinues entered the field; they then put down their vizors, and rode to the encounter valiantly; or, as Hall says, “the ii kynges were ready, and either of them encountered one man-of-armes; the French Kynge to the erle of Devonshire, the Kynge of England to Mounsire Florrenges, and brake his Poldron, and him disarmed, when ye strokes were stricken, this battail was departed, and was much praised.”

The picture contained upwards of one hundred figures (life size) of which forty were portraits, after Holbein and other contemporary authorities. The armour of the two kings and the challenger was very successfully painted; their coursers almost breathed chivalric fire; and the costumes and heraldic devices presented a blaze of dazzling splendour. Among the spectators, the most striking portraits were the two queens; Wolsey, Anne Boleyn, and the Countess of Chateaubriant; Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk; and Queen Mary, Dowager of France; with the ill-fated Duke of Buckingham, whose hasty comment upon the extravagance of the tournament proved his downfall. The elaborate richness of the costumes sparkling with gold and jewels, the fleecy, floating feathers of the champions, their burnished armour and glittering arms, the congregated glories of velvet, ermine, and cloth-of-gold, and the heraldic emblazonry amidst the emerald freshness of the foliage—all combined to form a scene of unparalleled sumptuousness and effect.

The picture was executed in glass by Mr. Thomas Wilmshurst (a pupil of the late Mr. Moss), from a sketch by Mr. R. T. Bone; the horses by Mr. Woodward. The work cost the artist nearly 3000l. It was exhibited in a first-floor at No. 15, Oxford-street, and occupied one end of a room decorated for the occasion with paneling and carving in the taste of the time of Henry the Eighth. It was very attractive as an exhibition, and nearly 50,000 descriptive catalogues were sold. Sad, then, to relate, in one unlucky night, the picture and the house were entirely burnt in an accidental fire; not even a sketch or study was saved from destruction; and the property was wholly uninsured. As a specimen of glass painting, the work was very successful: the colours were very brilliant, and the ruby red of old was all but equalled. The artistic treatment was altogether original; the painters, in no instance, borrowing from the contemporary picture of the same scene in the Hampton Court collection.

CLAUDE’S “LIBRO DI VERITA.”

It was thus Claude Lorraine denominated a book in which he made drawings of all the pictures he had ever executed. Since even in his own day his works had obtained a great reputation, it was found that many inferior artists had painted pictures in his style, and sold them as genuine Claudes; so that it was found necessary to prove the authenticity of his paintings by a reference to his “Book of Truth.”

This renowned record of genius is in the possession of the Duke of Devonshire. The drawings are in number about 200, and upon the back of the first is a paper pasted, with the following words in Claude’s own handwriting and orthography:—

“Audi 10 dagosto, 1677. Ce livre aupartien a moy que je faict durant ma vie. Claudio Gillee Dit le lorains. A Roma ce 23. Aos. 1680.”

When Claude wrote the last date, he was seventy-eight years old, and he died two years afterwards. On the back of every drawing is the number, with his monogram, the place for which the picture was painted, and usually the person by whom it was ordered, and the year; but the “Claudio fecit” is never wanting. According to his will, this book was to remain always the property of his own family; and it was so faithfully kept by his immediate descendants, that all the efforts of the Cardinal d’EstrÉes, the French ambassador at Rome, to procure it, were in vain. His later posterity had so entirely lost all traces of this pious reverence for it, that they sold it for the trifling price of 200 scudi to a French jeweller, who again sold it in Holland, whence it came into the possession of the Duke of Devonshire, who preserved it with due honours. The well-known copies by Barlow, in the work of Boydell, give but a very vague and monotonous representation of these splendid drawings.

Dr. Waagen, who inspected the treasure at Devonshire House, says: “The delicacy, ease, and masterly handling of all, from the slightest sketches to those most carefully finished, exceed description; the latter produce, indeed, all the effect of finished pictures. With the simple material of a pen, and tints of Indian ink, sepia, or bistre, with some white to bring out the lights, every characteristic of sunshine or shade, or ‘the incense-breathing morn,’ is perfectly expressed. Most happily has he employed for this purpose the blue tinge of the paper, and the warm sepia for the glow of evening. Some are only drawn with a pen, or the principal forms are slightly sketched in pencil, with the great masses of light broadly thrown in with white; the imagination easily fills up the rest.”

THE OLDEST PICTURE IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY.

This picture is—Portraits of a Flemish Gentleman and Lady, standing in the middle of an apartment, with their hands joined. In the back-ground are a bed, a mirror, and a window, partly open; the objects in the room being distinctly reflected in the mirror. A branch chandelier hangs from the ceiling, with the candle still burning in it; in the foreground is a small poodle. In the frame of the mirror are ten minute circular compartments, in which are painted stories from the life of Christ; and immediately under the mirror is written “Johannes de Eyck fuit hic,” with the date 1434 below. This signifies literally, “John Van Eyck was this man,” an interpretation which leads to the conjecture that this may be Van Eyck’s own portrait, with that of his wife, though in this case the wife’s name should have been written as well as his own; and the expression is not exactly that which would have been expected. The words are, however, distinctly fuit hic. As already mentioned, the date of the picture is 1434, when John Van Eyck was, according to the assumed date of his birth, in his fortieth year, which is about the age of the man in this picture. Van Mander speaks of the painting as the portraits of a man and his wife; or bride and bridegroom: it may be a bridegroom introducing his bride to her home.

This picture, about a century after it was painted, was in the possession of a barber-surgeon at Bruges, who presented it to the then Regent of the Netherlands, Mary, the sister of Charles X., and Queen Dowager of Hungary. This princess valued the picture so highly, that she granted the barber-surgeon in return, an annual pension, or office worth 100 florins per annum. It appears, however, to have again fallen into obscure hands; for it was discovered by Major-General Hay in the apartments to which he was taken in 1815, at Brussels, after he had been wounded at the battle of Waterloo. He purchased the picture after his recovery, and disposed of it to the British Government in 1842, when it was placed in the National Gallery. It is the oldest painting in the collection.

EXPERIMENTAL COLOURING.

The great experimental colourist of the fifteenth century, Van Eyck, has left unfading proofs of his skill as well as his genius; whilst the experimental colourist of the eighteenth century, Sir Joshua Reynolds, has already lost so much of his tone and brightness. The painters of our own time throughout Europe, notwithstanding the recent discoveries in chemistry and natural science, are unable to reproduce the rich hues of Titian, or of the early Germans.

Yet, Van Eyck met with many disappointments. He had just applied a newly-invented combination, (probably of lime-water and some other ingredients,) to a large and highly-finished picture. This mixture required to be rapidly dried; and for that purpose the picture was left for a short time in the sun. When the artist returned to witness the result of his experiment, he found that the action of the heat on the composition had split the canvas, and that his work was utterly ruined! Happily for the arts, their best votaries have possessed the genius of perseverance, as well as the genius of enterprise.

STOTHARD’S FRIEZE.

One of Stothard’s last great designs was that for the frieze of the interior of Buckingham Palace. The subjects are illustrative of the history of England, and principally relative to the Wars of the Red and White Roses. The venerable artist was between seventy and eighty years old when he executed these; and they possess all the spirit and vigour of imagination that distinguished his best days. As a whole, there is not, perhaps, to be found a more interesting series of historical designs of any country in ancient or modern times. The drawing of this frieze ought to have been in the possession of the King; but they were sold at Christie’s, with other works, on the decease of the painter. Mr. Rogers was the purchaser.

JOHN MARTIN ON GLASS PAINTING.

About the year 1844, when John Martin, the historical painter, was examined before the Parliamentary Committee on Arts and Manufactures, he was questioned as to the information he had collected on the subject of glass-painting. To this he replied, “Glass-painting has fallen almost to the same level as china-painting; but it might be greatly improved now to what it was in ancient times. There is an ignorant opinion among the people that the ancient art of glass-painting is completely lost: it is totally void of foundation; for we can carry it to a much higher pitch than the ancients, except in one particular colour, which is that of ruby, and we come very near to that. We can blend the colours, and produce the effect of light and shadow, which they could not do, by harmonizing and mixing the colours in such a way, and fixing by proper enameling and burning, that they shall afterwards become just as permanent as those of the ancients, with the additional advantage of throwing in superior art.” Martin began life as a painter on glass. One of his earliest pictures was for the conservatory at the mansion of the Marquess of Wellesley, at Knightsbridge.

“SITTING FOR THE HAND.”

If you have an artist for a friend, (says N. P. Willis,) he makes use of you while you call, to “sit for the hand” of the portrait on his easel. Having a preference for the society of artists myself, and frequenting their studios considerably, I know of some hundred and fifty unsuspecting gentlemen on canvas, who have procured, for posterity and their children, portraits of their own heads and dress-coats to be sure, but of the hands of other persons.

HAYDON AND FUSELI.

Prince Hoare introduced Haydon to Fuseli, who was so struck with his close attendance at the Royal Academy, that he one day said, “Why, when do you dine?” The account of his introduction is very characteristic. “Such was the horror connected with Fuseli’s name, (says Haydon,) that I remember perfectly well the day before I was to go to him, a letter from my father concluded in these words: ‘God speed you with the terrible Fuseli.’ Awaking from a night of awful dreaming, the awful morning came. I took my sketch-book and drawings,—invoking the protection of my good genius to bring me back alive, and sallied forth to meet the enchanter in his den! After an abstracted walk of perpetual musing, on what I should say, how I should look, and what I should do, I found myself before his door in Berners-street——1805.” Haydon was shown into his painting-room, full of Fuseli’s hideous conceptions. He adds:—“At last, when I was wondering what metamorphosis I was to undergo, the door slowly opened, and I saw a little hand come slowly round the edge of it, which did not look very gigantic, or belonging to a very powerful figure, and round came a little white-faced lion-headed man, dressed in an old flannel dressing-gown, tied by a rope, and the bottom of Mrs. Fuseli’s work-basket on his head for a cap. I was perfectly amazed! there stood the designer of Satan in many an airy whirl plunging to the earth; and was this the painter himself?—Certainly. Not such as I had imagined when enjoying his inventions. I did not know whether to laugh or cry, but at any rate I felt that I was his match if he attempted the supernatural. We quietly stared at each other, and Fuseli kindly understanding my astonishment and inexperience, asked in the mildest voice for my drawings. Here my evil genius took the lead, and instead of showing him my studies from the antique, which I had brought, and had meant to have shown him, I showed him my sketch-book I did not mean to show him, with a sketch I had made coming along, of a man pushing a sugar-cask into a grocer’s shop. Fuseli seeing my fright, said, by way of encouragement, ‘At least the fellow does his business with energy.’” From that hour commenced a friendship which lasted till his death.

RICHARD WILSON.

Wilson loved, when a child, to trace figures of men and animals, with a burnt stick, upon the walls of the house, a predilection which his father encouraged. His relation, Sir George Wynn, next took him to London, and placed him under the care of one Wright, an obscure portrait-painter. His progress was so successful, that in 1748, when he was thirty-five years old, he had so distinguished himself as to be employed to paint a picture of the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York, for their tutor, the Bishop of Norwich. In 1749, Wilson was enabled by his own savings, and the aid of his friends, to go to Italy, where he continued portrait-painting, till an accident opened another avenue to fame, and shut up the way to fortune. Having waited one morning for the coming of Zuccarelli the artist, to beguile the time, he painted a scene upon which the window of his friend looked, with so much grace and effect, that Zuccarelli was astonished, and inquired if he had studied landscape. Wilson replied that he had not. “Then I advise you,” said the other, “to try—for you are sure of success;” and this counsel was confirmed by Vernet, the French painter. His studies in landscape must have been rapidly successful, for he had some pupils in that line while at Rome; and his works were so highly esteemed, that Mengs painted his portrait, for which Wilson, in return, painted a landscape.

It is not known at what time he returned to England; but he was in London in 1758, and resided over the north arcade of the Piazza, Covent-garden, where he obtained great celebrity as a landscape painter. To the first Exhibition of 1760, he sent his picture of Niobe, which confirmed his reputation. Yet Wilson, from inattention to his own interests, lost his connexions and employment, and was left, late in life, in comfortless infirmity—having been reduced to solicit the office of librarian of the Royal Academy, of which he had been one of the brightest ornaments.

THE BRIDGEWATER GALLERY.

Had its origin in the Orleans Gallery. The Italian part of the collection had been mortgaged for 40,000l. to Harman’s banking-house, when Mr. Bryan, a celebrated collector and picture-dealer, and author of the “Dictionary of Painters,” induced the Duke of Bridgewater to purchase the whole as it stood for 43,000l. The pictures, amounting to 305, were then valued separately by Mr. Bryan, making a total of 72,000l.; and from among them the Duke selected ninety-four of the finest, at the prices at which they were valued, amounting altogether to 39,000 guineas. The Duke subsequently admitted his nephew, the Earl Gower, and the Earl of Carlisle, to share his acquisition; resigning to the former a fourth part, and to the latter an eighth of the whole number thus acquired. The exhibition and sale of the rest produced 41,000l.; consequently, the speculation turned out most profitably; for the ninety-four pictures, which had been valued at 39,000l., were acquired, in fact, for 2000l. The forty-seven retained for the Duke of Bridgewater were valued at 23,130l. * * The Duke of Bridgewater already possessed some fine pictures, and after the acquisition of his share of the Orleans Gallery, he continued to add largely to his collection, till his death in 1803, when he left his pictures, valued at 150,000l., to his nephew, George, first Marquis of Stafford, afterwards first Duke of Sutherland. During the life of this nobleman, the collection, added to one formed by himself when Earl Gower, was placed in the house in Cleveland-row; and the whole known then, and for thirty years afterwards, as the Stafford Gallery, became celebrated all over Europe. On the death of the Marquis of Stafford, in 1833, his second son, Lord Francis Leveson Gower, taking the surname of Egerton, inherited, under the will of his grand-uncle, the Bridgewater property, including the collection of pictures formed by the Duke. The Stafford Gallery was thus divided: that part of the collection which had been acquired by the Marquis of Stafford fell to his eldest son, the present Duke of Sutherland; while the Bridgewater collection, properly so called, devolved to Lord Francis Egerton, and has resumed its original appellation, being now known as the Bridgewater Gallery. This gallery has a great attraction, owing principally to the taste of its present possessor: it contains some excellent works of modern English painters. Near to the famous “Rising of the Gale,” by Van de Velde, hangs the “Gale at Sea,” by Turner, not less sublime, not less true to the grandeur and the modesty of nature; and by Edwin Landseer, the beautiful original of a composition which the art of the engraver has made familiar to the eye, the “Return of the Hawking Party,” a picture which has all the romance of poetry and the antique time, and all the charm and value of a family picture. Nor should be passed, without particular notice, one of the most celebrated productions of the modern French historical school—“Charles I. in the Guard Room,” by Paul Delaroche; a truly grand picture, which Lord Francis Egerton has added to the Gallery since 1838.—Mrs. Jameson.

THE LOST PORTRAIT OF PRINCE CHARLES, BY VELASQUEZ.

It is well known that, in 1623, Charles, then Prince of Wales, accompanied by his father’s favourite, George Villiers, the celebrated Duke of Buckingham, visited Madrid, with the avowed object of wooing and winning the Infanta. We are informed by Pacheco, that his son-in-law, Velasquez, received one hundred crowns for taking the portrait of the prince, probably designed as a present to his lady-love. The suit, however, proved unsuccessful; but what became of the picture has not been recorded, even incidentally. There is reason to suppose it was committed to the custody of Villiers, who had at York House, which occupied the site of Villiers, Duke, and Buckingham streets, in the Adelphi, a splendid collection of pictures. Charles, on his return from Spain, reached York House past midnight, on the 6th of October; and the picture may have been left there in some private apartment, and afterwards have gradually fallen out of mind. There was a sale of pictures on the assassination of the first duke. Again, when the second duke fled to the Continent, to escape the vengeance of the parliament, he sold part of his paintings to raise money for his personal support; and according to a catalogue of these pictures, compiled by Vertue, the Velasquez was not among them. Subsequently, the parliament sold part of the remaining pictures. Either at or before the death of the second duke, a fourth sale took place. In 1697, York House was burned down; and it is possible the missing portrait may have been in the house at this date.

A very interesting search after the lost treasure is detailed in a pamphlet, extending to 228 pages, published in 1847, from which these particulars are, in the main, condensed:

About four years since, Mr. Snare, a bookseller, at Reading, and a dealer in pictures, was much struck with the notice of the long-lost portrait of Charles, by Velasquez, which occurs in Mr. Ford’s Hand-Book for Spain. Not long after, Mr. Snare, accompanied by a portrait-painter also living at Reading, went to Radley Hall, between Abingdon and Oxford, and there, among other pictures, saw a portrait in which he recognised the features of Charles the First; the owner told him the figure was by Vandyke, and the back ground by the artist’s most clever pupils; but a dreamy conviction came over Mr. Snare that it was the missing portrait by Velasquez. On the 25th of October, 1845, the pictures in Radley Hall were sold by auction; Mr. Snare attended, and bought the portrait for 8l., notwithstanding many picture-dealers were present. After some delay, he took the treasure home: he put it in all lights; he moistened it with turpentine, which strengthened his conviction: he ran for his wife to admire it with him, and he was wrought up to the highest pitch.

“I was quite beside myself,” says he, “with enthusiasm. I could not eat, and had no inclination to sleep. I sat up till three o’clock looking at the picture; and early in the morning I rose to place myself once more before it. I only took my eyes from the painting to read some book that made reference to the Spaniard whom I believed its author, or to the Flemish artist to whom, by vague report, it was attributed.”

To trace the pedigree of the picture was the possessor’s next object; and, in Pennant’s London, he found mentioned the house of the Earl of Fife, as standing on part of the site of the palace of Whitehall, anciently called York House, which Mr. Snare confuses with the York House beyond Hungerford Market, the family mansion of the Duke of Buckingham. Among the works which adorned Fife House, Pennant mentions—

“A head of Charles I., when Prince of Wales, done in Spain when he was there in 1623 on his romantic expedition to court the Infanta. It is supposed to have been the work of Velasco.”

Here was some clue. Mr. Snare then traced the owner of Radley Hall to have received the picture from a connoisseur, who in his turn received a number of pictures from the Earl of Fife’s undertaker, after his lordship’s funeral, in 1809.

Next he discovered a quarto pamphlet, entitled, “Catalogue of the Portraits and Pictures in the different houses belonging to the Earl of Fife, 1798.” A reprint of this catalogue was then found in the possession of Colonel Tynte, of Halewell, dated in 1807, the only alteration being a slight addition to the preface. Colonel Tynte remembers having been shown the pictures at Fife House, by the Earl himself. On page 38 of the Catalogue, under the head, “First Drawing-room,” the following entry occurs:—

“Charles I. when Prince of Wales. Three quarters. Painted at Madrid, 1625, when his marriage with the Infanta was proposed.

—— Velasquez. This picture belonged to the Duke of Buckingham.”

Pennant, however, speaks of the portrait as a head; but this may be owing to confused recollection, especially as there appears to have been in the ‘Little Drawing-room of the hall’ a head of Charles I. by old Stone.

Two persons, upon inspecting the portrait, next identified it as the picture they had seen at the connoisseur’s, and at the undertaker’s.

The general opinion, however, seemed to be that the painting was by Vandyke, not by Velasquez: so believed its possessor at Radley Hall, and the experienced person who cleaned the picture for Mr. Snare. He, on the other hand, maintains that although Vandyke was in England for a few weeks in 1620, there is no proof that he painted for royalty till 1632, when Charles was too old for the portrait in question, and when any allusion to the Spanish match would have been an insult to the nation.

Cumberland, in his “Anecdotes of Eminent Painters in Spain,” states that Prince Charles did not sit to Velasquez, but that he (Velasquez) took a sketch of the prince, as he was accompanying King Philip in the chase. Pacheco seems to have been the authority to Cumberland, who, however, has mistranslated the passage, which really should be “in the meantime, he also took a sketch (bosquexo) of the Prince of Wales, who presented him with one hundred crowns.” The word “sketch,” however suggests another difficulty, for the picture itself is a fine painting on canvas. Mr. Ford, in his Hand Book for Spain, comes to the rescue, when he says that Velasquez “seems to have drawn on the canvas, for any sketches or previous studies are not to be met with.” Still, the picture in question is all but finished. In it can be traced the red earthy preparation of the canvas, and the light colour over it, which Velasquez was accustomed to introduce. The pigments also bear decisive evidence of their belonging to the Spanish school, and are exactly similar to the pigments used in the authenticated works of Velasquez—“the Water Seller,” in the possession of his Grace the Duke of Wellington; the portrait of Philip II., in the Dulwich Gallery; and a whole-length portrait, the property of the Earl of Ellesmere.

Mr. Snare thus describes the painting itself:—

“Prince Charles is depicted in armour, decorated with the order of St. George; the right arm rests upon a globe, and in the hand is held a baton; the left arm is leaning upon the hip, being partly supported by the hilt of the sword; a drapery of a yellow ground, crossed by stripes of red, is behind the figure, but the curtain is made to cover one half of the globe on which the right arm is poised; the expression is tranquil; but in the distance is depicted a siege, numerous figures being there engaged in storming a town or fortress.”

Some proofs of identity are traceable in the costume and accessories. Thus, among the jewels sent to the Prince, was “a fair sworde, which was Prince Henry’s, fully garnished with dyamondes of several bignes.”

Now, the hilt of the sword in the picture sparkles as if jewelled. The drapery, which covers half of the globe, is a rich yellow damask, with streaks of red. These are the national colours of Spain.

In the “Memoirs of George Villiers, first Duke of Buckingham,” p. 17, we are told that, on the arrival of the Prince and Marquis—

“He (Olivarez) then complimented the Marquis, and told him, ‘Now the Prince of England was in Spain, their masters would divide the world between them.’”

Similar mention of dividing the world between them also occurs in notices of the above meeting in the Journals of the House of Commons; and in Buckingham’s Narrative, in Rushworth’s Historical Collections. This may explain the Prince leaning on the globe, while half of it is covered by the national drapery of Spain. Still, the globe and drapery were afterthoughts in the painting.

The picture was exhibited for some time in Old Bond-street; but the opinion in favour of its being by Velasquez did not gain ground among connoisseurs: the distance has more of the painter’s manner than the portrait itself, which is rather that of Vandyke. The pamphlet goes very far to settle the identity of the picture with that mentioned in the Fife House Catalogue; but the ascription may merely have been that of the Earl of Fife; and it is somewhat strange that it should not have been specially mentioned as the lost picture, had its identity been positively settled.

Since the publication of Mr. Snare’s pamphlet, Sir Edmund Head, in his “Handbook of the History of the Spanish and French Schools of Painting,” has expressed his disbelief in the authenticity of the picture being the long-lost portrait; adding, first, it is not in his opinion by Velasquez; secondly, it is a finished picture; and, thirdly, it represents Charles as older than twenty-three years, which was his age when at Madrid. Again, Mr. Stirling, in his “Annals of the Artists of Spain,” published in 1848, does not consider the picture proved to be that formerly at Fife House; nor does he regard it as a sketch, (“bosquexo,”) but more than three parts finished. He thinks also that Charles looks considerably older than twenty-three; and he sees “no resemblance in the style of the execution to any of the acknowledged works of Velasquez.” To both these objections, Mr. Snare replied, in a second pamphlet, wherein he opposed to their opinions the cumulative evidence of his unwearied investigations. His first pamphlet, “The History and Pedigree”—is a singularly interesting array of presumptive evidence.[15]

HAYDON’S “MOCK ELECTION.”

While Haydon was an inmate of the King’s Bench Prison, in July, 1827, a burlesque of an election was got up. “I was sitting in my own apartment,” (writes the painter,) “buried in my own reflections, melancholy, but not despairing at the darkness of my own prospects, and the unprotected condition of my wife and children, when a tumultuous and hearty laugh below brought me to my window. In spite of my own sorrow’s, I laughed out heartily when I saw the occasion.” (He sketched the grotesque scene, painted it in four months with the aid of noblemen and friends, and the advocacy of the press, in exciting the sympathy of the country.) “To the joint kindness of each,” wrote the painter, in gratitude, “I owe the peace of the last five months, without which I never could have accomplished so numerous a composition in so short a time.” The picture proved attractive as an exhibition; still better, it was purchased by King George IV. for 500l., and it was conveyed from the Egyptian-hall to St. James’s Palace. A committee of gentlemen then undertook Mr. Haydon’s affairs; and with the purchase-money of the picture, and the proceeds of the exhibition, the painter was restored to the bosom of his family. In 1828, he painted, as a companion to this picture, “The Chairing of the Members,” which was bought by Mr. Francis, of Exeter, for 300 guineas.

PORTRAITS IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

The Eastern Zoological Gallery of the British Museum has its walls decorated with an assemblage of portraits, in number upwards of one hundred, forming, probably, the largest collection of portraits in the kingdom. The execution of many of them is but indifferent; there are others which are exceedingly curious; and some are unique. Great part of them came into the Museum from having belonged to the Sloanean, Cottonian, and other collections, which now form the magnificent library; and others have been the gifts of individuals. Before the rebuilding of the Museum, many of these pictures were stowed away in the lumber-rooms and attics of the mansion; and it was principally at the suggestion of an eminent London printseller, that they were drawn from their “dark retreat,” cleaned, and the frames regilt, and hung in their present position, above the cases containing the fine zoological specimens. The Gallery itself occupies the whole of the upper story of the wing of the edifice, and has five divisions formed by pilasters, on the side walls, the ceilings being also divided into the same number of compartments, which gives an harmonious proportion to the whole it would not otherwise possess. The light comes from elevated skylights, and it may be a question whether, taken altogether, its advantages for the display of paintings are not superior to those of the National Gallery, in Trafalgar-square.

Among the portraits are those of the English Sovereigns, including Richard II., Henry V., Margaret Countess of Richmond, Edward VI., (no doubt an original,) and Elizabeth, by Zucchero. Here are likewise foreign sovereigns, British statesmen, heroes, and divines, &c., peculiarly appropriate to the place; naturalists and philosophers, mathematicians, navigators, and travellers, whose labours have contributed to enrich this national Museum.

A PAINTER OF THE DEAD.

Bacici, a Genoese painter, in the seventeenth century, had a very peculiar talent of producing exact likenesses of deceased persons he had never seen. He first drew a face at random; and afterwards, altering it in every feature, by the advice and under the inspection of those who had known the subject, he improved it into striking resemblance.

COPLEY’S PORTRAITS.

The fame of Copley as a portrait-painter is comparatively limited. I can speak (says Dr. Dibdin) but of four of his portraits from reminiscence; those of the late Earl Spencer, Lord Sidmouth, Lord Colchester, and the late Richard Heber, Esq.—the latter when a boy of eight years, in the dining-room at Hodnet Hall. These portraits, with the exception of the last, are all engraved. That of Earl Spencer, in his full robes as a Knight of the Garter, and in the prime of his manhood, now placed at the bottom of the great historical portrait gallery at Althorp, must have been a striking likeness; but, like almost all the portraits of the artist, it is too stiff and stately. The portrait of the young Heber has, I think, considerable merit on the score of art. There is a play of light and shadow, and the figure, with a fine flowing head of hair, mixes up well with its accessories. He is leaning on a cricket-bat, with a ball in one hand. The face is, to my eye, such as I could conceive the original to have been, when I first remember him a Bachelor of the Arts at Oxford, full, plump, and athletic. In short, as Dean Swift expresses it, “if you should look at him in his boyhood through the magnifying end of the glass, and in his manhood through the diminishing end, it would be impossible to spy any difference.” The contemplation of this portrait has at times produced mixed emotions of admiration, regard, and pity.

“BONAPARTE REVIEWING THE CONSULAR GUARD.”

In the year 1800, M. Masquerier had occasion to go to Paris on family matters. Like a sensible man, who made all his pursuits available to the purposes of his profession, he conceived the happy thought of obtaining permission to make a portrait of Bonaparte, (then First Consul,) and afterwards portraits of his generals the whole of which were concentrated in one grand picture, of the size of life, and exhibited in this country as “Bonaparte Reviewing the Consular Guard.” It appears that Masquerier, through the interest of a friend acquainted with Josephine, got permission to be present at the Tuilleries, where he saw Bonaparte in the grey great-coat, which has since been so well-known throughout Europe. Masquerier remarked that Bonaparte’s appearance in this costume was so different from all portraits which he had seen, that he resolved to fix him in his sketch-book in this identical surtout, the French thinking that the portrait of a great man must necessarily be tricked out in finery. He sketched him just as he saw him, and carried him to England; placing him upon a grey horse, his usual charger, and surrounding him with his staff. The picture told in all respects. The Prince Regent (afterwards George IV.) and Tallien, then in London on his return from Egypt, were among the twenty-five or thirty-thousand visitors who went to see it. Tallien left in the exhibition-room the following testimony to the likeness of the First Consul:—

“J’ai vu le portrait du General Buonaparte fait par M. Masquerier, et je l’ai trouvÉ tres resemblant.” Tallien, Londres, ce 24 Mars, 1801.”

There is a print of this picture, which is scarce. The original was afterwards sold, to be taken to America. Masquerier netted about 1000l. by this speculation, but the remuneration did not overpay the toil. Such was the reaction, from incessant application and anxiety, that the artist was confined to his room several weeks afterwards.

LAWRENCE’S PORTRAIT OF CURRAN.

One of Lawrence’s most remarkable male portraits is that of Curran: under mean and harsh features, a genius of the highest order lay concealed, like a sweet kernel in a rough husk; and so little of the true man did Lawrence perceive in his first sittings, that he almost laid down his palette in despair, in the belief that he could make nothing but a common or vulgar work. The parting hour came, and with it the great Irishman burst out in all his strength. He discoursed on art, on poetry, on Ireland; his eyes flashed, and his colour heightened; and his rough and swarthy visage seemed, in the sight of the astonished painter, to come fully within his own notions of manly beauty. “I never saw you till now,” said the artist, in his softest tone of voice; “you have sat to me in a mask; do give me a sitting of Curran, the orator.” Curran complied, and a fine portrait, with genius on its brow, was the consequence.

Allan Cunningham, whose Memoir of Lawrence we quote, states how he gradually raised his prices for portraits as he advanced to fame. In 1802, his charge for a three-quarter size was thirty guineas; for a half-length, sixty guineas; and for a whole-length, one hundred and twenty guineas. In 1806, the three-quarters rose to fifty guineas; and the whole length to two hundred. In 1808, he rose the smallest size to eighty guineas, and the largest to three hundred and twenty guineas; and in 1810, when the death of Hoppner swept all rivalry out of the way, he increased the price of the heads to one hundred, and the full-lengths to four hundred guineas. He knew—none better—that the opulent loved to possess what was rare, and beyond the means of poorer men to purchase; and the growing crowds of his sitters told him that his advance in price had not been ill received.

OPIE AND NORTHCOTE.

It was the lot of Northcote to live long in something like a state of opposition to Opie. They were both engaged in historical pictures, by the same adventurous alderman, (Boydell,) and acquitted themselves in a way which, with many, left themselves in a balance. In after life, when Opie had ceased to be in any one’s way, Northcote would recal, without any bitterness, their days of rivalry. “Opie,” said he to Hazlitt, “was a man of sense and observation: he paid me the compliment of saying, that we should have been the best of friends in the world if we had not been rivals. I think he had more feeling than I had; perhaps, because I had most vanity. We sometimes got into foolish altercations. I recollect, once in particular, at a banker’s in the City, we took up the whole of dinner-time with a ridiculous controversy about Milton and Shakspeare. I am sure neither of us had the least notion which was right; and when I was heartily ashamed of it, a foolish citizen added to my confusion by saying, ‘Lor! what I would give to hear two such men as you talk every day!’ On another occasion, when on his way to Devonport, Opie parted with him where the road branches off for Cornwall. He said to those who were on the coach with him, ‘That’s Opie, the painter.’ ‘Is it, indeed!’ they all cried, and upbraiding Northcote for not informing them sooner. Upon this, he contrived, by way of experiment, to try the influence of his own name; but his fame had not reached the enlightened ‘outsides;’ and the painter confessed he felt mortified.”—Cunningham.

ORIGIN OF KIT-KAT PICTURES.

In Shire-lane, Temple Bar, is said to have originated the famous Kit-Kat Club, which consisted of thirty-nine distinguished noblemen and gentlemen zealously attached to the protestant succession of the house of Hanover. The club is supposed to have been named from Christopher Kat, a pastry-cook, who kept the house where the members dined; and who excelled in making mutton-pies, which were always in the bill of fare, these pies being called kit-kats. Jacob Tonson, the bookseller, was secretary to the club. “You have heard of the Kit-Kat Club,” says Pope to Spencer. Sir Richard Steele, Addison, Congreve, Garth, Vanburgh, Manwaring, Stepney, and Walpole, belonged to it.

Tonson, whilst secretary, caused the club meetings to be transferred to a house belonging to himself at Barn Elms, and built a handsome room for the accommodation of the members. The portrait of each member was painted by Sir Godfrey Kneller; but, the apartment not being sufficiently large to receive half-length pictures, a shorter canvas was adopted; and hence the technical term of kit-kat size. Garth wrote the verses for the toasting-glass of this club, which, as they are preserved in his works, have immortalized four of the reigning beauties at the commencement of the last century—Lady Carlisle, Lady Essex, Lady Hyde, and Lady Wharton.

In 1817, the club-room was standing, and was the property of Mr. Hoare, the London banker. Sir Richard Phillips visited it at this date, when it was sadly in decay. It was 18 feet high, and 40 feet long, by 20 wide. The mouldings and ornaments were in the most superb fashion of the last century; but the whole was falling to pieces from the effects of dry-rot. There was the faded cloth-hanging of the walls, whose red colour once set off the famous portraits of the club that hung around it. Their marks and sizes were still visible, and the numbers and names remained as written in chalk for the guidance of the hanger! “Thus,” says Sir Richard, “was I, as it were, by these still legible names, brought into personal contact with Addison, and Steele, and Congreve, and Garth, and Dryden, and with many hereditary nobles, remembered only because they were patrons of those natural nobles!—I read their names aloud!—I invoked their departed spirits!—I was appalled by the echo of my own voice! The holes in the floor, the forests of cobwebs in the windows, and a swallow’s nest in the corner of the ceiling, proclaimed that I was viewing a vision of the dreamers of a past age—that I saw realized before me the speaking vanities of the anxious career of man! The blood of the reader of sensibility will thrill as mine thrilled! It was feeling without volition, and therefore incapable of analysis!”

Not long after this the club-room was united to a barn, to form a riding-house. The kit-kat pictures were painted early in the eighteenth century, and about the year 1710, were brought to this spot; but the club-room was not built till ten or fifteen years afterwards. The paintings were forty-two in number, and were presented by the members to the elder Tonson, who died in 1736. He left them to his great nephew, also an eminent bookseller, who died in 1767. They were then removed from the building at Barn-Elms, to the house of his brother, at Water-Oakley, near Windsor; and on his death, to the house of Mr. Baker, of Hertingfordbury, where they were splendidly lodged, and in fine preservation. We are not aware if the collection has been dispersed.

COPLEY’S LARGE PICTURE.

Copley, the father of Lord Lyndhurst, painted a vast picture of the Relief afforded to the Crew of the Enemy’s Gun-boats on their taking fire at the Siege of Gibraltar. The painting was immense, and it was managed by means of a roller, so that any portion of it, at any time, might be easily seen or executed. The artist himself was raised on a platform. The picture was at length completed, and a most signal mark of royal favour was granted the painter, by his receiving permission to erect a tent in the Green Park for its exhibition. It attracted thousands. Beneath the principal subjects, in small, was painted Lord Howe’s relief of the garrison of Gibraltar; and the portraits of Lords Heathfield and Howe, (heads only,) occupied each one side of this smaller subject.

When Copley’s magnificent picture, afterwards hung up in the Egyptian darkness of the Council-room in Guildhall, was first exhibited, Dr. Dibdin one day placed himself in front of it, and was sketching the portrait of Lord Heathfield with a pencil on the last blank page of the catalogue, when some one to his right exclaimed, “Pretty well, but you give too much nose.” The Doctor turned round—it was the artist himself, who smiled, and commended his efforts.

SIR ROBERT KERR PORTER’S PANORAMA.

Mr. (subsequently Sir) Robert Kerr Porter, at the age of nineteen produced a performance at once inconceivable and unparalleled—the panorama of the Storming and Capture of Seringapatam. It was not the very first thing of its kind, because there had been a panorama of London exhibited in Leicester Fields by Mr. Barker; but it was the very first thing of its kind, if artist-like attainments be considered. The learned, (says Dr. Dibdin,) were amazed, and the unlearned were enraptured. I can never forget its impression upon my own mind. It was a thing dropt from the clouds—all fire, energy, intelligence, and animation. You looked a second time; the figures moved, and were commingled in hot and bloody fight. You saw the flash of the cannon, the glitter of the bayonet, the gleam of the falchion. You longed to be leaping from crag to crag with Sir David Baird, who is hallooing the men on to victory! Then again, you seemed to be listening to the groans of the wounded and the dying—and more than one female was carried out swooning. The oriental dress, the jewelled turban, the curved and ponderous scimitar—these were among the prime objects of favouritism with Sir Robert’s pencil: and he touched and treated them to the very spirit and letter of the truth. The colouring, too, was good and sound throughout. The accessories were strikingly characteristic—rock, earth, and water, had its peculiar and happy touch; and the accompaniments about the sally-port, half choked up with the bodies of the dead, made you look on with a shuddering awe, and retreat as you shuddered. The public poured in by hundreds and by thousands for even a transient gaze—for such a sight was altogether as marvellous as it was novel. You carried it home, and did nothing but think of it, talk of it, and dream of it. And all this by a young man of nineteen.

Miss Jane Porter, Sir Robert’s sister, wrote for Dr. Dibdin a very interesting narrative of this extraordinary work.

“It was two hundred and odd feet long,” says Miss Porter; “the proportioned height I have now forgotten. But I remember, when I first saw the vast expense of vacant canvas stretched along, or rather in a semicircle, against the wall of the great room in the Lyceum, where he painted it, I was terrified at the daring of his undertaking. I could not conceive that he could cover that immense space with the subject he intended, under a year’s time at least, but—and it is indeed marvellous!—he did it in SIX WEEKS! But he worked on it every day (except Sundays) during those weeks, from sunrise until dark. It was finished during the time the committees of the Royal Academy were sitting at Somerset House, respecting the hanging of the pictures there for that year’s exhibition; therefore it must have been towards the latter end of April. No artist had seen the painting of Seringapatam during its progress; but when it was completed, my brother invited his revered old friend, Mr. West, (the then President of the Royal Academy,) to come and look at the picture, and give him his opinion of it, ere it should be opened to the public view. * * * Mr. West went over from the Lyceum, on the morning on which he had called to see my brother and his finished painting, to Somerset House, where the Committee had been awaiting his presence above an hour. ‘What has detained our President so long?’ inquired Sir Thomas Lawrence of him, on his entrance. ‘A wonder!’ returned he, ‘a wonder of the world!—I never saw anything like it!—a picture of two hundred feet dimensions, painted by that boy Kerr Porter, in six weeks! and as admirably done as it could have been by the best historical painter amongst us in as many months!’ You, my dear Sir, need no description of this picture; you saw it; and at the time of its exhibition you also must have heard of, and probably also saw, some of the affecting effects the truth of its pictorial war-tale had on many of the female spectators.

“After its exhibition closed, it was deposited, packed upon a roller, in a friend’s warehouse. Thence, some circumstances caused it to be removed successively to other places of supposed similar security, but in one of which I believe it finally perished by the accidental burning down of the premises. The original sketches of this ‘noble and stupendous effort of art,’ as you so truly call it, are now in my own possession; and you may believe I value them as the apple of my eye. I must not forget to mention, with regard to Seringapatam, that had our British government, at the time of my brother’s ardour for these paintings, possessed a building large enough for the purpose, he would have presented his country with that picture, and three others on British historical subjects, to form a perpetual exhibition for the benefit of its military and naval hospitals. Mr. Pitt lamented to him the impossibility then, of commanding such a building; so the project fell to the ground. The last of these intended four pictures was that of ‘The Battle of Agincourt,’ which my brother afterwards presented to the city of London, where it was hung up in the Egyptian Hall of the Mansion House. Some alterations in the room occasioned its being taken down for a temporary purpose; but it never saw the light again until last year, when (after above a dozen years oblivion in—nobody knew where), it was accidentally found in one of the vaulted chambers under Guildhall. When disentombed, it was hastily spread out against one of the walls of the great hall itself, and announced, in the newspapers, as a picture of unknown antiquity, of some also unknown but evidently distinguished artist; and most probably it had been deposited in those vaults for security, at the great fire of London, and had remained there, unsuspected, ever since! The hall was thronged, day after day, to see it; and Sir Martin Shee told me, that so great was the mysterious valuation the discovery had put on it, that he heard he had been quoted as having passed his opinion on it, that ‘it was a picture worth £15,000!’ Without proper safeguards behind the canvas, a long exposure on the wall would have injured the picture; and it was taken down again before I came to London, after having heard of the discovery of the ‘Agincourt’—for I immediately recognised what, and whose, the picture was—and hastened to inform the present gentlemen of the city corporation accordingly.”

Such is the affectionate narrative from the pen of the youthful painter’s sister.

ZOFFANI AND GEORGE III.

Zoffani was employed by George III. to paint a scene from Reynolds’s Speculation, in which Quick, Munden, and Miss Wallis were introduced. The King called at the artist’s to see the work in progress; and at last it was done, “all but the coat.” The picture, however, was not sent to the palace, and the King repeated his visit. Zoffani, with some embarrassment, said, “It is all done but the goat.” “Don’t tell me,” said the impatient monarch; “this is always the way. You said it was done all but the coat the last time I was here.” “I said the goat, and please your Majesty,” replied the artist. “Ay!” rejoined the King; “the goat or the coat, I care not which you call it; I say I will not have the picture,” and was about to leave the room, when Zoffani, in agony, repeated, “It is the goat that is not finished,” pointing to a picture of a goat that hung up in a frame, as an ornament to the scene at the theatre. The King laughed heartily at the blunder, and waited patiently till “the goat” was finished.

THE TRUE FORNARINA.

In the year 1644, Cosmo, the son of Ferdinand II. de Medici, undertook a journey, an account of which was written at the time by Philipe Pizzichi, his travelling chaplain. This work was published at Florence, in 1829. It contains some curious notices of persons and things, and, among others, what will interest every lover of the fine arts. Speaking of Verona, the diarist mentions the Curtoni Gallery of Paintings, in which “the picture most worthy of attention is the Lady of Raffaello, so carefully finished by himself, and so well preserved, that it surpasses every other.” The editor of these travels has satisfactorily shown that Raffaello’s lady here described is the true Fornarina; so that of the three likenesses of her said to be executed by this eminent artist, the genuine one is the Veronese, belonging to the Curtoni Gallery, then the property of a Lady Cavalini Brenzoni, who obtained it by inheritance.

HOGARTH AND BISHOP HOADLY.

Upon pulling down the Bishop’s palace at Chelsea, many years ago, a singular discovery was made. In a small room near the north front were found, on the plaster of the walls, nine figures as large as life, three men and six women, drawn in outline, with black chalk, in a bold and animated style. Of these correct copies have been published. They display much of the manner of Hogarth, who, it is well known, lived on intimate terms with Bishop Hoadly, and frequently visited his lordship at this palace; and it is supposed that these figures apply to some incident in the Bishop’s family, or to some scene in a play. His lordship’s partiality for the drama is well known. His brother, who resided in Chelsea, at Cremorne House, wrote one of the best comedies in the English language—The Provoked Husband.

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS’S PALETTE.

Mr. Cribb, of King-street, Covent Garden, has (1848), in his collection of memorials of men of genius, a palette which belonged to Sir Joshua Reynolds. It descended to Mr. Cribb from his father, who received it from Sir Joshua’s niece, the Marchioness of Thomond. It is of plain mahogany, and measures 11 inches by 7 inches, oblong in form, with a sort of loop handle.

Cunningham tells us that Sir Joshua’s sitters’ chair moved on castors, and stood above the floor a foot and a half. He held his palettes by a handle, and the sticks of his brushes were 18 inches long. The following memoranda are dated 1755:—“For painting the flesh, black, blue-black, white, lake, carmine, orpiment, yellow ochre, ultramarine, and varnish. To lay the palette: first lay, carmine and white in different degrees; second lay, orpiment and white ditto; third lay, blue-black and white ditto. The first sitting, for expedition, make a mixture as like the sitter’s complexion as you can.”

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS’ BENEVOLENCE.

Sir Joshua once hearing of a young artist who had become embarrassed by an injudicious marriage, and was on the point of being arrested, immediately hurried to his residence, to inquire into the case. The unfortunate artist told the melancholy particulars of his situation; adding, that £40 would enable him to compound with his creditors. After some further conversation, Sir Joshua took his leave, telling the distressed painter he would do something for him. When bidding him adieu at the door, Sir Joshua took him by the hand, and, after squeezing it cordially, hurried off with a benevolent triumph in his heart—while the astonished and relieved artist found in his hand a banknote for £100!

A TRIUMPH OF PAINTING.

The anecdotes of the dog which menaced a goat depicted by the faithful pencil of Glover, and of the macaw, which, with beak and wings, attacked the portrait of a female servant painted by Northcote, are well known. Two family portraits, painted by Mr. J. P. Knight, were one day sent home, when they were instantly recognised with great joy by a spaniel which had been a favourite with the originals. On being taken into the room, and perceiving the canvas thus stamped with identity even to illusion, the faithful dog endeavoured, by every demonstration of affection, to attract the notice of her former friends; and was with difficulty withheld by one of the bystanders from leaping upon them, and overwhelming them with her caresses. This interesting recognition continued for many minutes, and was repeated on the next and following days; until finding, doubtless, that the scent was wanting, poor “Flossy” slunk away abashed, in evident mortification that her well-known playfellows were so regardless of her proffered kindness. Yet, turning upon them both alternately many a wistful look, she seemed unwilling to be convinced, even by experience, that she had thus mistaken the shadow for the substance.

MORLAND AT KENSAL-GREEN.

The Plough public-house at Kensal-green, on the road to Harrow, was a favourite resort of George Morland. Here this errant son of genius was wont to indulge in deep potations. He lodged hard by, and was frequently in company with Ward, the painter, whose example of moral steadiness was exhibited to him in vain. While at Kensal-green, Morland fell in love with Miss Ward, a young lady of beauty and modesty, and soon afterwards married her; she was the sister of his friend, the painter; and to make the family union stronger, Ward sued for the hand of Maria Morland, and in about a month after his sister’s marriage, obtained it.

Morland’s courtship and honeymoon drew him from the orgies at the Plough, but on returning to the metropolis, he betook himself to his former habits. Yet, with all his dissipation, Morland was not indolent; as is attested by four thousand pictures, most of them of great merit, which he painted during a life of forty years.

Among Morland’s portraits is one which has become of peculiar historical interest: it is a small whole-length of William the Fourth when a midshipman. The sailor-prince is looking wistfully upon the sea, which he loved far dearer than the cumbrous splendour of a crown.

ORIGIN OF THE TAPESTRY IN THE OLD HOUSE OF LORDS.

Henry Cornelius Vroom, the Dutchman, having painted a number of devout subjects, started for Spain to sell them; but was cast away upon a small island near the coast of Portugal. The painter and some of the crew were relieved by monks, who lived among the rocks, and they conducted them to Lisbon, where Vroom was engaged by a picture-dealer to paint the storm he had just escaped. In this picture he succeeded so well, that the Portuguese dealer continued to employ him. He improved so much in sea-pieces that he saved money, returned home, and applied himself exclusively to that class of painting. He then lived at Haerlem, where he was employed to design the suite of tapestry representing the Defeat of the Spanish Armada, which hung for many years upon the walls of the House of Lords, at Westminster. It had been bespoken by Lord Howard of Effingham, the Lord High Admiral of the English Fleet, which engaged the Armada; it was sold by him to James the First. It consisted originally of ten compartments, forming separate pictures, each of which was surrounded by a wrought border, including the portraits of the officers who held command in the English fleet. This tapestry was woven, according to Sandrart, by Francis Spiering: it was destroyed in the fire which consumed the two Houses of Parliament, in 1834. Fortunately, engravings from these hangings were executed by Mr. John Pine, and published in 1739, with illustrations from charters, medals, &c.

MELANCHOLY OF PAINTERS.

The following summary of the fortunes of painters is at once curious and interesting:—

“One must confess that if the poets were an order of beings of too great sensibility for this world, the painters laboured still more under this malady of genius. Zoppo, a sculptor, having accidentally broken the chef d’oeuvre of his efforts, destroyed himself. Chendi poisoned himself, because he was only moderately applauded for the decorations of a tournament. Louis Caracci died of mortification because he could not set right a foot in a fresco, the wrong position of which he did not perceive till the scaffolding was taken away. Cavedone lost his talent from grief at his son’s death, and begged his bread from want of commissions. Schidone, inspired with the passion of play, died of despair to have lost all in one night. There was one who languished, and was no more from seeing the perfection of Raphael. Torrigini, to avoid death at the hands of the Spanish Inquisition, put an end to himself, having broken to pieces his own statue of the Virgin, an avaricious hidalgo, who had ordered it, higgling at the price. Bandinelli died, losing a commission for a statue; Daniel de Volterra, from anxiety to finish a monument to Henry IV. of France. Cellini frequently became unwell in the course of his studies, from the excitement of his feelings. When one sums up the history of painters with the furious and bloody passions of a Spagnoletto, and Caravaggio, Tempeste, and Calabrese, one must suppose all their sensibilities much stronger than those of the rest of mankind.”

THE CHANDOS PORTRAIT OF SHAKSPEARE.

This far-famed picture, believed to be the only genuine portrait of the poet, was bought at the sale at Stowe, in the autumn of 1848, by the Earl of Ellesmere, for 355 guineas. Its history, as stated in the AthenÆum shortly after the period of the sale, is as follows:—“The Duke of Chandos obtained it by marriage with the daughter and heiress of a Mr. Nicholl, of Minchenden House, Southgate; Mr. Nicholl obtained it from a Mr. Robert Keck, of the Inner Temple, who gave (the first and best) Mrs. Barry, the actress, as Oldys tells us, forty guineas for it. Mrs. Barry had it from Betterton, and Betterton had it from Sir William Davenant, who was a professed admirer of Shakspeare, and not unwilling to be thought his son. Davenant was born in 1605, and died in 1668; and Betterton, (as every reader of Pepys will recollect,) was the great actor, belonging to the Duke’s Theatre, of which Davenant was the patentee. The elder brother of Davenant, (Parson Robert,) had been heard to relate, as Aubrey informs us, that Shakspeare had often kissed Sir William when a boy.

“Davenant lived quite near enough to Shakspeare’s time to have obtained a genuine portrait of the poet whom he admired—in an age, too, when the Shakspeare mania was not so strong as it is now. There is no doubt that this was the portrait which Davenant believed to be like Shakspeare, and which Kneller, before 1692, copied and presented to glorious John Dryden, who repaid the painter with one of the best of his admirable epistles.

“The Chandos Shakspeare is a small portrait on canvas, 22 inches long by 18 broad. The face is thoughtful, the eyes are expressive, and the hair is of a brown black. The dress is black, with a white turnover collar, the strings of which are loose. There is a small gold ring in the left ear. We have had an opportunity of inspecting it both before and after the sale, and in the very best light, and have no hesitation in saying that the copies we have seen of it are very far from like. It agrees in many respects—the short nose especially—with the Stratford bust, and is not more unlike the engraving before the first folio—or the Gerard Johnson bust on the Stratford monument—than Raeburn’s Sir Walter Scott is unlike Sir Thomas Lawrence’s—or West’s Lord Byron unlike the better known portrait by Phillips. It has evidently been touched upon; the yellow oval that surrounds it has a look of Kneller’s age.”

The opinion of the writer in the AthenÆum is, that the Chandos picture is not the original for which Shakspeare sat, but a copy made for Sir William Davenant from some known and acknowledged portrait of the poet.

COSTUME OF REYNOLDS’S PORTRAITS.

Sir Joshua Reynolds has done more than any one else to vindicate the art of portrait-painting as indigenous to our country—he has started it afresh from its lethargy and recovered it from its errors—placed himself at once above all his countrymen who had preceded him, and has remained above all who have followed. Like Holbein and Vandyke, Sir Joshua put his stamp upon the times; or rather, like a true artist and philosopher, he took that aggregate impression which the times gave. Each has doubtless given his sitters a character of his own; but this is not our argument. Each has also made his sitters what the costume of the time contributed to make them. If Vandyke’s women are dignified and lofty, it is his doing, for he was dignified and lofty in all his compositions; if they are also childish and trivial, it is the accident of the costume; for he was never either in his other pictures. If Reynolds’s sitters are all simple, earnest, and sober, it is because he was the artist, for he was so in all he touched; if they are also stately, refined, and intellectual, it was the effect of the costume, for he was not so in his other conceptions. For instance, Lady St. Asaph, with her infant, lolling on a couch, in a loose tumbled dress, with her feet doubled under her, is sober and respectable looking—in spite of dress and position. Mrs. Hope, in an enormous cabbage of a cap, with her hair over her eyes, is blowsy and vulgar in spite of Reynolds.

To our view, the average costume of Sir Joshua was excessively beautiful. We go through a gallery of his portraits with feelings of intense satisfaction, that there should have been a race of women who could dress so decorously, so intellectually, and withal so becomingly. Not a bit of the costume appeals to any of the baser instincts. There is nothing to catch the vulgar, or fix the vicious. All is pure, noble, serene, benevolent. They seem as if they would care for nothing we could offer them, if our deepest reverence were not with it. We stand before them like Satan before Eve, “stupidly good,” ready to abjure all the fallacies of the Fathers, all the maxims of the moderns—ready to eat our own words if they disapproved them—careless what may have been the name or fame, family or fortune, of such lofty and lovely creatures—yea, careless of their very beauty, for the soul that shines through it. And then to think that they are all dead!—Quarterly Review.

SIGN PAINTERS IN THEIR PRIME.

Before the change that took place in the general appearance of London, soon after the accession of George III., the universal use of signs, not only for taverns and ale-houses, but also for tradesmen, furnished no small employment for the inferior rank of painters, and sometimes even for the superior professors. Cotton painted several good ones; but among the most celebrated practitioners in this branch, was a person of the name of Lamb, who possessed a considerable degree of ability. His pencil was bold and masterly, well adapted to the subjects on which it was generally employed. Mr. Wale, who was one of the founders of the Royal Academy, and appointed the first Professor of Perspective in that institution, also painted some signs; the principal one was a full-length of Shakspeare, about five feet high, which was executed for and displayed before the door of a public-house at the corner of Little Russel Street, Drury Lane. It was enclosed in a sumptuously carved gilt frame, and suspended by rich iron-work. But this splendid object of popular attraction did not stand long before it was taken down, in consequence of an Act of Parliament that was passed for paving, and removing the signs and other obstructions from, the streets of London. Such was the total change of fashion, and the consequent disuse of signs, that this representation of the immortal bard was sold for a trifle to a broker, at whose door it stood for several years, until it was totally destroyed by the weather and other accidents.

A BRIBE REPENTED.

The Duchess of Kingston was very anxious to be received by some crowned head, as the only means of relief from the disgrace fixed upon her by her trial and conviction for bigamy. The Court of Russia was chosen, where pictures were sent as presents, not only to the Sovereign, but to the most powerful of the nobles. Count Tchernicheff was represented to the Duchess as an exalted character, to whom she ought, in policy, to pay her especial devoirs. Feeling the force of the observation, she sent him two paintings. The Duchess was no judge of pictures, and a total stranger to the value of these pieces, which were originals by Raphael and Claude Lorraine. The Count was soon apprised of this, and, on the arrival of the Duchess at St. Petersburg, he waited on her Grace, and professed his gratitude for the present, at the same time assuring the Duchess that the pictures were estimated at a value in Russian money equal to ten thousand pounds sterling. The Duchess could with the utmost difficulty conceal her chagrin. She told the Count “that she had other pictures, which she should consider it an honour if he would accept; that the two paintings in his possession were particularly the favourites of her departed lord; but that the Count was extremely kind in permitting them to occupy a place in his palace, until her mansion was properly prepared.” This palpable hint was not taken.

PRACTICAL JOKES OF SWARTZ.

J. Swartz, a distinguished German painter, having engaged to execute a roof-piece in a public townhall, and to paint by the day, grew exceedingly negligent; so that the magistrates and overseers of the work were frequently obliged to hunt him out of the tavern. Seeing he could not drink in quiet, he one morning stuffed a pair of stockings and shoes corresponding with those that he wore, hung them down betwixt his staging where he sat to work, removed them a little once or twice a-day, and took them down at noon and night; and by means of this deception he drank without the least disturbance a whole fortnight together, the innkeeper being in the plot. The officers came in twice a-day to look at him; and, seeing a pair of legs hanging down, suspected nothing, but greatly extolled their convert Swartz as the most laborious and conscientious painter in the world.

Swartz had once finished an admirable picture of our Saviour’s Passion, on a large scale, and in oil colours. A certain Cardinal was so well pleased with it, that he resolved to bring the Pope to see it. Swartz knew the day, and, determined to put a trick on the Pope and the Cardinal, painted over the oil, in fine water-colours, the twelve disciples at supper, but all together by the ears, like the LapithÆ and the Centaurs. At the time appointed, the Pope and Cardinal came to see the picture. Swartz conducted them to the room where it hung. They stood amazed, and thought the painter mad. At length the Cardinal said, “Idiot, dost thou call this a Passion?” “Certainly I do,” said Swartz. “But,” replied the Cardinal, “show me the picture I saw when here last.” “This is it,” said Swartz, “for I have no other finished in the house.” The Cardinal angrily denied that it was the same. Swartz, unwilling or afraid to carry the joke further, requested that they would retire a few minutes out of his room. No sooner had they done so, than Swartz, with a sponge and warm water, obliterated the whole of the water-colour coating; then, re-introducing the Pope and the Cardinal, he presented them with a most beautiful picture of the Passion. They stood astonished, and thought Swartz a necromancer. At last the painter explained the mystery; and then, as the old chroniclers say, “they knew not which most to admire, his work or his wit.”

AN ENCOURAGEMENT TO FRANKNESS.

Richardson, in his anecdotes of painting, tells the following:—“Some years ago, a gentleman came to me to invite me to his house. ‘I have,’ said he, ‘a picture of Rubens, and it is a rare good one. Little H—— the other day came to see it, and says it is a copy. If any one says so again, I’ll break his head. Pray, Mr. Richardson, will you do me the favour to come and give me your real opinion of it?’”

THE END.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Southey’s Life of John Bunyan.

[2] In his Comic Miscellanies.

[3] Supported by the following note, written by Dr. Parr, in his copy of “The Letters of Junius:”—“The writer of ‘Junius’ was Mr. Lloyd, secretary to George Grenville, and brother to Philip Lloyd, Dean of Norwich. This will one day or other be generally acknowledged.—S. P.”

[4] Personal Recollections of the late Daniel O’Connell, M.P. By William J. O’N. Daunt.

[5] See, also, an ensuing page, 120.

[6] Johnson, by the way, had a strange nervous feeling, which made him uneasy if he had not touched every post between the Mitre Tavern and his own lodgings.

[7] The house has been destroyed many years.

[8] “The Dyotts,” notes Croker, “are a respectable and wealthy family, still residing near Lichfield. The royalist who shot Lord Brooke when assaulting St. Chad’s Cathedral, in Lichfield, on St. Chad’s Day, was a Mr. Dyott.”

[9] “I have seen,” says a Correspondent of the Inverness Courier, “a copy of the second edition of Burns’s ‘Poems,’ with the blanks filled up, and numerous alterations made in the poet’s handwriting: one instance, not the most delicate, but perhaps the most amusing and characteristic will suffice. After describing the gambols of his ‘Twa Dogs,’ their historian refers to their sitting down in coarse and rustic terms. This, of course, did not suit the poet’s Edinburgh patrons, and he altered it to the following:—

’Till tired at last, and doucer grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down.’

Still this did not please his fancy; he tried again, and hit it off in the simple, perfect form in which it now stands:—

‘Until wi’ daffin weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down.’”

[10] Campbell’s alterations were, generally, decided improvements; but in one instance he failed lamentably. The noble peroration of Lochiel is familiar to most readers:—

“Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,
With his back to the field and his feet to the foe;
And leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.”

In the quarto edition of Gertrude of Wyoming, when the poet collected and reprinted his minor pieces, this lofty sentiment was thus stultified:—

“Shall victor exult in the battle’s acclaim,
Or look to yon heaven from the death-bed of fame.”

The original passage, however, was wisely restored in the subsequent editions.

[11] Abridged from “Practical Essays on the Fine Arts,” by John Burnet, F.R.S., an acute and amusing work.

[12] See Haydon’s graphic letter in Brownlow’s “Memoranda; or, Chronicles of the Foundling Hospital.”

[13] Peg Woffington was for some time President of the Club; and often, after she had been portraying on the stage

“The fair resemblance of a martyr queen,”

she was to be seen in the Club-room, with a pot of porter in her hand, and crying out, “Confusion to all order! let liberty thrive!”

[14] The Germans are great admirers of English art, and a picture by Wilkie has long graced the Gallery of Munich.

[15] There hangs in the Long or Zoological Gallery of the British Museum a portrait of Charles I., when Prince of Wales. The artist by whom this picture was executed is unknown. Neither in the features, nor in the thoughtful expression of countenance, does it resemble the portraits taken in his maturer age: the melancholy which Vandyke has thrown into the celebrated picture of the King, at Windsor Castle, is here wanting; yet this portrait is known to have been amongst those that were sold by order of the Commissioners of the Commonwealth, from the collection at Whitehall.

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
just by by chance=> just by chance {pg I,98}
snm of four hundred=> sum of four hundred {pg I,110}
had a great gout=> had a great goÛt {pg I,124}
proved his downfal=> proved his downfall {pg II,88}
have no hesitatation=> have no hesitation {pg II,126}

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