“Connubialis amor de Mulcibre fecit Apellem.”
“Connubialis amor de Mulcibre fecit Apellem.”
Jarvis, though a wayward and eccentric man, unfortunately for himself and the world too much given to strong potations, was “a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy,” whose “gambols, songs, and flashes of merriment were wont to set the table on a roar.” He was a merry wag, and an inimitable story-teller and mimic. Some of his stories were dramatized by Dunlap, Hackett, and Matthews, the best of which is the laughable farce of Monsieur Mallet. Dunlap says, “Another story which Matthews dressed up for John Bull, originated with Jarvis. From a friend I have what I suppose to be the original scene. My friend was passing the painter’s room, when he suddenly threw up the window, and called him in, saying, ‘I have something for your criticism, that you will be pleased with.’ He entered, expecting to see a picture, or some other specimen of the fine arts, but nothing of the kind was produced—he was, however, introduced with a great deal of ceremony, to Monsieur B——, ‘celebrated for his accurate knowledge of the English language, and intimate critical acquaintance with its poetry—particularly Shakspeare.’ Mr. A——, as I shall call my friend, began to understand Jarvis’ object in calling him in. After a little preliminary conversation, Jarvis said, ‘I hope, Monsieur B——, you still retain your love of the drama?’ ‘O certainly, sir, wid my life I renounce it.’ ‘Mr. A——, did you ever hear Monsieur recite?’ ‘Never.’ ‘Your recitations from Racine, Monsieur B——, will you oblige us?’
“The polite and vain Frenchman was easily prevailed upon to roll out several long speeches, from Racine and Corneille, with much gesticulation and many a well-roundedR. This was only to introduce the main subject of entertainment. ‘Monsieur B—— is not only remarkable, as you hear, for his very extraordinary recitations from the poets of his native land, but for his perfect conquest over the difficulties of the English language, in the most difficult of all our poets—Shakspeare. He has studied Hamlet and Macbeth thoroughly—and if he would oblige us—do, ‘Monsieur B——, do give us, “To be, or not to be.”’‘Sur, the language is too difficult—I make great efforts to be sure, but still the foreigner is to be detected.’ This gentleman’s peculiarities were in extreme precision and double efforts with thethand the other shibboleths of English. The unsuspecting and vain man is soon induced to give Hamlet’s soliloquy, thethforced out as from a pop-gun, and some of the words irresistibly comic. ‘But, Monsieur B——, you are particularly great in Macbeth—that“if it were done, when it is done,” and “peep through the blanket,”—come, let us have Macbeth.’ Then followedMacbeth’s soliloquies in the same style. All this was ludicrous enough, but upon this foundation Jarvis raised a superstructure, which he carried as high as the zest with which it was received by his companions, his own feelings, or other circumstances prompted or warranted. The unfortunate Monsieur B—— was imitated and caricatured with most laugh-provoking effect; but to add to the treat, he was made not only to recite, but to comment and criticise. ‘If it were done,’ ‘peep through the blanket,’ and, ‘catch with the sursease, success,’ gave a rich field for the imaginary critic’s commentaries—then he would expose, and overthrow Voltaire’s criticisms, and give as examples of the true sublime in tragedy, the scene of the witches in Macbeth.
“‘Huen shall we thtree meet aggen?’ but, ‘mounched, and mounched, and mounched,’ was a delicious feast for the critic—and ‘rrump fed rronion,’ gave an opportunity to show that the English witch was a true John Bull, and fed upon the ‘rrump of the beef,’ ‘thither in a sieve I’ll sail and like a rat without a tail, I’ll do—I’ll do—I’ll do,’ being recited in burlesque imitation, gives an opportunity for comment and criticism, something in this manner. ‘You see not only how true to nature, but to the science of navigation all this is. If the rat had a tail, he could steer the sieve as the sailor steer his ship by the rudder; but if he have no tail, he cannot command the navigation, that is, the course of the sieve; andit will run round—and round—and round—that is what the witch say—“I’ll do—I’ll do—I’ll do!”’But how can the humor of the story-teller be represented by the writer—or how can I dispose my reader to receive a story dressed in cold black and white—in formal type—with the same hilarity which attends upon the table, and the warm and warming rosy wine? The reader has perceived the want of these magical auxiliaries in the above.”
Jarvis was equally ludicrous in his readings from Shakspeare, in imitation of the stutterer and lisper. The venerable Dr. C. S. Francis, who was intimately acquainted with the painter, says, “Dr. Syntax never with more avidity sought after the sublime and picturesque, than did Jarvis after the scenes of many-colored life; whether his subject was the author of Common Sense or the notorious Baron von Hoffman. His stories, particularly those connected with his southern tours, abounded in motley scenes and ludicrous occurrences; there was no lacking of hair-breadth escapes, whether the incidents involved the collisions of intellect, or sprung from alligators and rattlesnakes. His humor won the admiration of every hearer, and he is recognized as the master of anecdote. But he deserves to be remembered on other accounts—his corporeal intrepidity and his reckless indifference of consequences. I believe there have been not a few of the faculty who have exercised, with public advantage, their professional duties among us for a series of years, who never became as familiar with the terrific scenes of yellow fever and of malignant cholera as Jarvis did. He seemed to have a singular desire to become personally acquainted with the details connected with such occurrences; and a death-bed scene, with all its appalling circumstances, in a disorder of a formidable character, was sought after by him with the solicitude of the inquirer after fresh news. Nor was this wholly an idle curiosity. Jarvis often freely gave of his limited stores to the indigent, and he listened with a fellow feeling to the recital of the profuse liberality with which that opulent merchant of our city, the late Thomas H. Smith, supplied daily the wants of the afflicted and necessitous sufferer during the pestilence of 1832.
“We are indebted to Jarvis for probably the best, if not the only good drawing of the morbid effects of cholera on the human body while it existed here in 1832. During that season of dismay and danger our professional artists declined visiting the cholera hospitals, and were reluctant to delineate when the subject was brought to them. But it afforded a new topic for the consideration of Jarvis, and perhaps also for the better display of his anatomical attainments, he with promptitude discharged the task. When making a drawing from the lifeless and morbid organs of digestion, to one who inquired if he were not apprehensive of danger while thus employed, he put the interrogatory, ‘Pray what part of the system is affected by the cholera?’ ‘The digestive organs,’ was the reply. ‘Oh no, then,’ said Jarvis, ‘for now you see I am doubly armed—- I am furnished with two sets.’”
Jarvis resided a long time at Charleston, S. C., where his convivial qualities made him a great favorite. On one occasion, at a large dinner party, after the wine had freely circulated, banishing not only form, but discretion, some one of the company proposed that they should make up a prize to the man who would tell the greatest and most palpablelie. It was purposely arranged that Jarvis should speak last. The President began. They
“Spoke of most disastrous chances,Of moving accidents by flood and field.”
“Spoke of most disastrous chances,Of moving accidents by flood and field.”
“Spoke of most disastrous chances,Of moving accidents by flood and field.”
Lie followed lie; and as it is easy to heap absurdity upon absurdity, and extravagance on enormous exaggeration; and as easy to excite laughter and command applause, when champaigne has been enthroned in the seat of judgment, each lie was hailed with shouts of approbation and bursts of merriment. One of the company, who sat next to Jarvis, had exceeded all his competitors, and unanimous admiration seemed to ensure him the prize. Theliewas so monstrous and palpable, that it was thought wit or ingenuity could not equal it. Still, something was expected from the famous story-teller, and every eye was turned on the painter. He rose, andplacing his hand on his breast and making a low bow, gravely said, “Gentlemen, I assure you that I fully and unequivocally believe every word the last speaker has uttered.” A burst of applause followed, and the prize was adjudged to the witty artist.
Jarvis painted the portrait of Bishop Benjamin Moore, who used to relate one of his quick strokes of humor with great glee. The good Bishop, during one of the sittings, introduced the subject of religion, and asked Jarvis some questions as to his belief or practice. The painter, with an arch look, but as if intent upon catching the likeness of the sitter, waved his hand and said, “Turn your face more that way, Bishop, andshut your mouth.”
When Jarvis painted the portrait of Commodore Perry, he wished to infuse into the likeness of the hero the fire which he supposed animated him during the terrible contest on Lake Erie. During two or three sittings he tried in vain to rouse him by his lively conversation; he would soon sink into a reverie; it was evident that his thoughts were far away. The painter now had recourse to artifice. He deliberately laid down his palette and pencils, got up, and seizing a chair, swung it over his head in a menacing manner. This strange conduct instantly brought Perry to his feet, his eyes flashingfire, and every feature lit up with the desired expression. “There, that will do,” said the painter; “please sit just as you are.” The result was the admirable picture which now adorns our City Hall, representing the hero standing in his boat, with his flag in one arm, triumphantly waving his sword, as he left the dismantled St. Lawrence for the Niagara, to renew the contest, resolved to conquer or die.
Jarvis was a great wag as well as an inimitable story-teller. Whenever he met with an eccentric genius, he delighted to make him indulge in strong potations, and then engage him on his favorite hobby. On one such occasion, a gentleman who had a smattering of Zoology, declared it as his opinion, that it was possible to change the nature of animals; for instance, that by cutting off the end of dogs’ or monkeys’ tails for a few generations, they would become tailless. “That is capital logic,” said Jarvis, “I wonder that the Jews have now anytails!” The philosopher shot out of the room amidst shouts of laughter.
Jarvis could not forbear to crack a joke on the learned Dr. Mitchell, whose profundity sometimes led him to analyze cause and effect in a hyper-philosophical manner. “Can you tell,” said he one day to the learned Doctor, who was sitting for his portrait,“why white sheep eat more than black ones?” “But is it a fact?” enquired the Doctor. “Most assuredly,” said the painter, “as every farmer will tell you.” The Doctor then went on to give sundry philosophical reasons why white sheep might require more food than black ones. “Your reasons are excellent—but I think I can give you a better one. In my opinion the reason why white sheep eat more than black ones is, because there are more of them!”
Jarvis, in his more prosperous days, was always improvident and recklessly extravagant. Dunlap says, “when he went to New Orleans for the first time, (in 1833) he took Henry Inman with him. To use his own words,—‘my purse and my pockets were empty; (when he went to N. O.) I spent $3000 there in six months, and brought $3000 to New York. The next winter I did the same.’ He used to receive six sitters a day. A sitting occupied an hour. The picture was then handed to Inman, who painted upon the background and drapery under the master’s directions. Thus six portraits were finished each week.” His prices at this time were $100 for a head, and $150 for head and hands.
“Mr. Sully once told me,” says Dunlap, “that calling on Jarvis, he was shown into a room, and left to wait some minutes before he entered. He saw a book on the table amidst palette, brushes, tumblers, candlesticks, and other heterogeneous affairs, and on opening it, he found a life of Moreland. When Jarvis came into the room, Sully sat with the book in his hand. ‘Do you know why I like that book?’ said Jarvis. ‘I suppose because it is the life of a painter,’ was the reply. ‘Not merely that,’ rejoined the other, ‘but because I think he was like myself.’”What a commentary! Moreland was a man of genius, and might have shone as a bright star in the history of art, had he not degraded himself by dissipation, almost to a level with the pigs he delighted to paint. The glory of both Stuart and Jarvis is obscured by the same fatal passion. “O that men should put an enemy in their mouths, to steal away their brains! that we should, with joy, revel, pleasure, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts.”
“Jarvis,” says Dunlap, “was fond of notoriety from almost any source, and probably thought it aided him in his profession. His dress was generally unique. His long coat, trimmed with furs like a Russian prince, or a potentate from the north pole, and his two enormous dogs which accompanied him through the streets, and often carried home his market basket, must be remembered by many.”
It is not generally known that this celebrated engineer was in his early life a practical painter.—From the age of 17 to 21, he painted portraits and landscapes in Philadelphia. In his 22d year, hewent to England to prosecute his studies under West, who received him with great kindness, and was so much pleased with his genius and amiable qualities, that he took him into his own house, as a member of his family. After leaving West, he seems to have made painting his chief employment for a livelihood for several years, though at this time, his mind was occupied with various great projects connected with engineering. In 1797, he went to Paris in prosecution of these projects, and to fill his empty coffers, he projected the first panorama ever exhibited in that city. He was a true lover of art, too, and endeavored to induce the citizens of Philadelphia to get up a subscription to purchase some of West’s choicest pictures, which then could have been bought very cheap, as the commencement of a gallery in that city.
Robert Fulton, after years of toil, anxiety, and ridicule, thus writes to his friend, Joel Barlow, immediately after his first steam-boat voyage from New York to Albany and back:
“New York, August 2, 1807.“My dear Friend—My steam-boat voyage to Albany and back, has turned out rather more favorably than I had calculated. The distance from New York to Albany is 150 miles; I ran it up in thirty-two hours, and down in thirty hours; the latter is five miles an hour. I had a light breeze against me the whole way, goings and coming, so that no use was made of my sails, and the voyage has been performed wholly by the power of the steam engine. I overtook many sloops and schooners, beating to windward, and passed them as if they had been at anchor.“The power of propelling boats by steam, is now fully proved. The morning I left New York, there were not, perhaps, thirty persons, who believed that the boat would move one mile an hour, or be of the least utility; and while we were putting off from the wharf, which was crowded with spectators, I heard a number of sarcastic remarks. This is the way, you know, in which ignorant men compliment what they call philosophers and projectors.“Having employed much time, money, and zeal, in accomplishing this work, it gives me, as it will you, great pleasure, to see it so fully answer my expectations. It will give a quick and cheap conveyance to merchandize on the Mississippi, Missouri, and other great rivers, which are now laying open their treasures to the enterprise of our countrymen. Although the prospect of personal emolument has been some inducement to me, yet I feel infinitely more pleasure in reflecting on the immense advantages my country will derive from the invention.”
“New York, August 2, 1807.
“My dear Friend—My steam-boat voyage to Albany and back, has turned out rather more favorably than I had calculated. The distance from New York to Albany is 150 miles; I ran it up in thirty-two hours, and down in thirty hours; the latter is five miles an hour. I had a light breeze against me the whole way, goings and coming, so that no use was made of my sails, and the voyage has been performed wholly by the power of the steam engine. I overtook many sloops and schooners, beating to windward, and passed them as if they had been at anchor.
“The power of propelling boats by steam, is now fully proved. The morning I left New York, there were not, perhaps, thirty persons, who believed that the boat would move one mile an hour, or be of the least utility; and while we were putting off from the wharf, which was crowded with spectators, I heard a number of sarcastic remarks. This is the way, you know, in which ignorant men compliment what they call philosophers and projectors.
“Having employed much time, money, and zeal, in accomplishing this work, it gives me, as it will you, great pleasure, to see it so fully answer my expectations. It will give a quick and cheap conveyance to merchandize on the Mississippi, Missouri, and other great rivers, which are now laying open their treasures to the enterprise of our countrymen. Although the prospect of personal emolument has been some inducement to me, yet I feel infinitely more pleasure in reflecting on the immense advantages my country will derive from the invention.”
This preëminent portrait painter was born at Narragansett, Rhode Island, in 1756. He received hisfirst instruction from a Scotch painter at Newport, named Alexander, who was so much pleased with his talents and lively disposition, that he took him with him on his return to Scotland. His friend dying soon after, the youth found himself pennyless in a strange country, but undismayed, he resolved to return home, and found himself obliged to work his passage before the mast. He had already made considerable progress in art, and on his return commenced portrait painting, although without meeting much encouragement. He was in Boston at the time of the Battle of Lexington, but immediately left that city and went to New York, where he painted the portrait of his grandmother from memory, though she had been dead about ten years, which is said to have been a capital likeness, and gained him some business. About this time he painted his own portrait, the only one he ever took of himself, to the excellence of which his friend Dr. Waterhouse bears ample testimony. He says, “it was painted in his freest manner, and with a Rubens’ hat,” and in another place, that “Stuart in his best days, said he need not be ashamed of it.”
Not meeting with any adequate encouragement, and the country being in a deplorable state, in the midst of the Revolution, Stuart set sail for London in 1778, at the age of twenty-two, to try his fortunes in that city. He was a wayward and eccentricgenius, proud as Lucifer withal; and on his arrival in that metropolis, he found himself full of poverty, enthusiasm, and hope,—often a painter’s only capital. He expected to have found Waterhouse, who would have helped him with his advice, and purse if necessary, but he had gone to Edinburg. Instead of going directly to West, as he should have done, he wandered about the “dreary solitude” of London, as Johnson used to characterize the busy hum of that crowded city to the poverty-stricken sons of genius, till he had expended his last dollar.
Stuart had a great taste for music, which he had cultivated, and was an accomplished musician. One day, as he was passing a church in Foster-Lane, hearing the sound of an organ, he stepped in, and ascertaining that the vestry were testing the candidates for the post of organist, he asked if he might try. Being told that he could, he did so, and succeeded in getting the place, with a salary of thirty guineas a year!
During all this time, for some unknown reason, Stuart never sought the acquaintance of West, but the moment that excellent man heard of the young painter and his circumstances, he immediately sent a messenger to him with money to relieve his necessities, and invited him to call at his studio. “Suchwas Stuart’s first introduction,” says Dunlap, “to the man from whose instruction he derived the most important advantages from that time forward; whose character he always justly appreciated, but whose example he could not, or would not follow.” Stuart himself says, “On application to West to receive me as a pupil, I was welcomed with true benevolence, encouraged and taken into the family, and nothing could exceed the attentions of the great artist to me—they were paternal.” He was twenty-four years old when he entered the studio of West. Before he left the roof of his benefactor and teacher, he painted a full-length portrait of him, which elicited general admiration. It was exhibited at the Royal Academy, and the young painter paid frequent visits to the exhibition rooms. It happened that one day, as he stood near the picture, surrounded by artists and students (for he had fine wit, and was an inimitable story-teller), West came in and joined the group. He praised the picture, and addressing himself to his pupil, said, “you have done well, Stuart, very well; now all you have to do is to go home and do better.” Stuart always expressed the obligations he was under to that distinguished artist. When West saw that he was fitted for the field, prepared for and capable of contending with the best portrait painters, he advised him to commence his professional career, and pointed out to him the way to fame and fortune. But Stuart did not follow this wise counsel, preferring to indulge hisown wayward fancy. He had a noble, generous, and disinterested heart, but he was eccentric, improvident, and extravagant, and consequently he was always in necessitous circumstances.
“I used often to provoke my good old master,” said Stuart to Dunlap, “though, heaven knows, without intending it. You remember the color closet at the bottom of his painting-room. One day, Trumbull and I came into his room, and little suspecting that he was within hearing, I began to lecture on his pictures, and particularly upon one then on his easel. I was a giddy, foolish fellow then. He had begun a portrait of a child, and he had a way of making curly hair by a flourish of his brush, thus, like a figure of three. “Here, Trumbull,” said I, “do you want to learn how to paint hair? There it is, my boy! Our master figures out a head of hair like a sum in arithmetic. Let us see—we may tell how many guineas he is to have for this head by simple addition,—three and three make six, and three are nine, and three are twelve—” How much the sum would have amounted to, I can’t tell, for just then in stalked the master, with palette-knife and palette, and put to flight my calculations. “Very well, Mr. Stuart”—he alwaysmisteredme when he was angry, as a man’s wife calls himmy dear, when she wishes him to the d——l,—“Very well, Mr. Stuart! very well indeed!” You maybelieve that I looked foolish enough, and he gave me a pretty sharp lecture, without my making any reply. But when the head was finished, there were nofigures of three in the hair.”
“Mr. West,” says Stuart, “treated me very cavalierly on one occasion: but I had my revenge. My old master, who was always called upon to paint a portrait of his majesty for every governor-general sent out to India, received an order for one for Lord ——. He was busily employed upon one of histen-acrepictures, in company with prophets and apostles, and thought he could turn over the king to me. He could never paint a portrait.
“‘Stuart,’ said he, ‘it is a pity to make his majesty sit again for his picture; there is the portrait of him that you painted; let me have it for Lord ——. I will retouch it, and it will do well enough.’ ‘Well enough!very pretty,’ thought I; ‘you might be civil, when you ask a favor.’ So Ithought; but Isaid, ‘Very well, sir.’ So the picture was carried down to his room, and at it he went. I saw he was puzzled. He worked at it all that day. The next morning, ‘Stuart,’ says he, ‘have you got your palette set?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Well, you can soon set another; let me have it; I can’t satisfy myself with that head.’
“I gave him my palette, and he worked the greater part of that day. In the afternoon I went into his room, and he was hard at it. I saw that he had got up to the knees in mud. ‘Stuart,’ says he, ‘Idon’t know how it is, but you have a way of managing your tints unlike everybody else. Here, take the palette, and finish the head.’ ‘I can’t, sir,’ ‘You can’t?’ ‘I can’t indeed, sir, as it is; but let it stand till to-morrow morning and get dry, and I will go over it with all my heart.’ The picture was to go away the day after the morrow; so he made me promise to do it early next morning.
He never came down into the painting room until about ten o’clock, I went into his room bright and early, and by half past nine I had finished the head. That done,Rafe(Raphael West, the master’s son) and I began to fence; I with my maul-stick, and he with his father’s. I had just driven Rafe up to the wall, with his back to one of his father’s best pictures, when the old gentleman, as neat as a lad of wax, with his hair powdered, his white silk stockings and yellow morocco slippers, popped into the room, looking as if he had stepped out of a band-box. We had made so much noise that we did not hear him come down the gallery, or open the door. ‘There, you dog,’ says I to Rafe, ‘there I have you, and nothing but your back-groundrelievesyou.’
“The old gentleman could not help smiling at my technical joke, but soon, looking very stern, ‘Mr. Stuart,’ says he, ‘is this the way you use me?’ ‘Why! what’s the matter, sir? I have neither hurt the boy nor the background.’ ‘Sir, when you knew I had promised that the picture of his majesty should be finished to-day, ready to be sent away to-morrow, thus to be neglecting me and your promise! How can you answer it to me or to yourself?’
“‘Sir,’ said I, ‘do not condemn me without examining the easel. I have finished the picture: please to look at it.’ He did so, complimented me highly, and I had ample revenge for his, ‘It will do well enough.’”
Trumbull, speaking of Stuart as he knew him in London, says, “He was a much better scholar than I had supposed he was. He once undertook to paint my portrait, and I sat every day for a week, and then he left off without finishing it, saying, ‘he could make nothing of my d——d sallow face.’ But during the time, in his conversation, I observed that he had not only read, but remembered what he had read. In speaking of the character of man, he said, ‘Linnæus is right; Plato and Diogenes call man a biped without feathers; that’s a shallow definition. Franklin’s is better—a tool-making animal; but Linnæus’ is the best—homo, animal mendax, rapax, pugnax.’”
Stuart thus explains how he came to adopt a custom, which, when practicable, commends itself to others. “Lord St. Vincent, the Duke of Northumberland, and Colonel Barre, came unexpectedly into my room, one morning after my setting up an independent easel, and explained the object of their visit. They understood that I was under pecuniary embarrassment, and offered me assistance, which I declined. They then said they would sit for their portraits; of course I was ready to serve them. They then advised that I should make it a rule that half the price must be paid at the first sitting. They insisted on setting the example, and I followed the practice, ever after this delicate mode of their showing their friendship.”
Stuart read men’s characters at a glance, and always engaged his sitters on some interesting topic of conversation, and while their features were thus lit up, he transferred them to his canvass, with the magic of his pencil. Hence his portraits are full of animation, truth, and nature. This trait is well illustrated by the following anecdote. Lord Mulgrave employed him to paint his brother, General Phipps, who was going out to India. When the portrait was finished, and the general had sailed, the Earl called for the picture, and on examining it, he seemed disturbed, and said, “This picture looks strange, sir; how is it? I think I see insanity in that face!” “I painted your brother as I saw him,” replied the painter. The first account Lord Mulgrave had of his brother was, that insanity, unknown and unapprehended by any of his friends, had driven him to commit suicide. WashingtonAllston, in his eulogium on Stuart, says, “The narratives and anecdotes with which his knowledge of men and the world had stored his memory, and which he often gave with great beauty and dramatic effect, were not unfrequently employed by Mr. Stuart in a way, and with an address peculiar to himself. From this store it was his custom to draw largely, while occupied with his sitters, apparently for their amusement; but his object was rather, by thus banishing all restraint, to call forth, if possible, some involuntary traits of natural character. It was this which enabled him to animate his canvass, not with the appearance of mere general life, but with that peculiar, distinctive life which separates the humblest individual from his kind. He seemed to dive into the thoughts of men—for they were made to rise and speak on the surface.”
Dr. Waterhouse relates the following anecdote of Stuart. He was traveling one day in an English stage-coach, with some gentlemen who were all strangers, and at first rather taciturn, but he soon engaged them in the most animated conversation. At length they arrived at their place of destination, and stopped at an inn to dine. “His companions,” says the Doctor, “were very desirous to knowwhoandwhathe was, for whatever Dr. Franklin may have said a half century ago about the question-asking propensity of his countrymen, I never noticedso much of that kind of traveling curiosity in New England as in Britain. To the round-about inquiries to find out his calling or profession, Stuart answered with a grave face and serious tone,
“‘I sometimes dress gentlemen’s and ladies’ hair’ (at that time, the high craped, pomatumed hair was all the fashion).
“‘You are a hair-dresser, then?’
“‘What,’ said he, ‘do I look like a barber?’
“‘I beg your pardon, sir, but I inferred it from what you said. If I mistook you, I may take the liberty to ask you what you are then?’
“‘Why, I sometimes brush a gentleman’s coat or hat, and sometimes adjust a cravat.’
“‘O, you are a valet, then, to some nobleman?’
“‘A valet! Indeed sir, I am not. I am not a servant. To be sure, I make coats and waistcoats for gentlemen.’
“‘O, you are a tailor?’
“‘A tailor! Do I look like a tailor? I assure you, I never handled a goose, other than a roasted one.’
By this time they were all in a roar.
“‘What are you, then?’ said one.
“‘I’ll tell you,’ said Stuart. ‘Be assured, all I have told you is literally true. I dress hair, brush hats and coats, adjust a cravat, and make coats, waistcoats, and breeches, and likewise boots and shoes, at your service.’
“‘O, ho! a boot and shoemaker after all!’
“Guess again, gentlemen. I never handled boot or shoe, but for my own feet and legs; yet all I told you is true.’
“‘We may as well give up guessing.’
“‘Well then, I will tell you, upon my honor as a gentleman, mybona fideprofession. I get my bread by making faces.’
He then screwed his countenance, and twisted the lineaments of his visage in a manner such as Samuel Foote or Charles Matthews might have envied. His companions, after loud peals of laughter, each took credit to himself for having suspected that the gentleman belonged to the theatre, and they all knew he must be a comedian by profession, when, to their utter astonishment, he assured them he was never on the stage, and very rarely saw the inside of a playhouse, or any similar place of amusement. They all now looked at each other in utter amazement. Before parting, Stuart said to his companions,—
“‘Gentlemen, you will find that all I have said of various employments is comprised in these few words:I am a portrait painter!If you will call at John Palmer’s, York Buildings, London, I shall be ready and willing to brush you a coat or hat, dress your haira la mode, supply you, if in need, with a wig of any fashion or dimensions, accommodate you boots or shoes, give you ruffles or cravat, and make faces for you.’”
Stanley, in his edition of Bryan’s Dictionary of Painters and Engravers says, “He rose into eminence, and his claims were acknowledged, even in the life time of Sir Joshua Reynolds. His high reputation as a portrait painter, as well in Ireland as in England, introduced him to a large acquaintance among the higher circles of society, and he was in the road of realizing a large fortune, had he not returned to America.”
“The Duke of Rutland,” says Dunlap, who had the story from the artist himself, “invited Stuart to his house in Dublin. Stuart got money enough together somehow to pay his passage to Ireland; but when he got there, he found that the duke had died the day before. If anybody else had gone there, the duke would have been just as sure to live, for something extraordinary must happen to Stuart, of course. He soon got into the debtors’ prison again; but he was a star still. He would not let people give him money. Rich people and nobleswouldbe painted by him, and they had to go to jail to find the painter. There he held his court; flashing equipages of lords and ladies came dashing up to prison, while their exquisite proprietors waited for their first sitting. He began the pictures of a great many nobles and men of wealth and fashion, received half price at the first sitting, and left theirIrish lordships imprisoned in effigy. Having thus liberatedhimself, and there being no law that would justify the jailor in holding half-finished peers in prison, the painter fulfilled his engagements, more at his ease, in his own house, and in the bosom of his own family; and it is probable the Irish gentlemen laughed heartily at the trick, and willingly paid the remainder of the price.”
Miss Stuart, the daughter of the painter, says, “he arrived in Dublin in 1788, and notwithstanding the loss of his friendly inviter, he met with great success, painted most of the nobility, and lived in a good deal of splendor. The love of his own country, his admiration of General Washington, and the very great desire he had to paint his portrait, was hisonlyinducement to turn his back on his good fortunes in Europe.” Accordingly, in 1793, he embarked for New York, where he took up his abode for some months, and painted the portraits of Sir John Temple, John Jay, Gen. Clarkson, John R. Murray, Colonel Giles, and other persons of distinction.
In 1794, Stuart proceeded to Philadelphia, for the purpose of painting a portrait of Washington, who received him courteously. He used to say that when he entered the room where Washington was, he felt embarrassed, and that it was the first timein his life he had ever felt awed in the presence of a fellowman. Washington was then standing on the highest eminence of earthly glory, and the gaze of the world was steadily fixed upon the man, whom Botta terms “the Father of Freedom.” To leave to posterity a faithful portrait of the Father of his country, had become the most earnest wish of Stuart’s life. This he accomplished, but not at the first time; he was not satisfied with the expression, and destroyed the picture. The President sat again, and he produced that head which embodies not only the features but the soul of Washington, from which he painted all his other portraits of that great man. This picture is now in the Boston Atheneum.
After the removal of Congress to Washington, Stuart followed, and resided there till 1806, when he went to Boston, and passed there the rest of his days. He painted a great many portraits, which are scattered all over the country. The last work he ever painted was a head of the elder John Quincy Adams. He began it a full-length: but he was an old man, and only lived to complete the head, which is considered one of his best likenesses, and shows that the powers of his mind and the magic of his pencil continued brilliant to the last. The picture was finished by that eminent and highly gifted artist, Thomas Sully, who would not touch the head, as he said, “he would have thought it little less than sacrilege.” He died in 1828, in the seventy-fifth year of his age.
As a painter of heads, Stuart stands almost unrivalled in any age or country; beyond this he made no pretensions, and indeed bestowed very little care or labor. He used to express his contempt for fine finishing of the extremities, or rich and elegant accessories, which he used to say was “work for girls.” Whether these were his real sentiments, or affectation, it is difficult to determine. He was, however, totally deficient in that academic education which is necessary to success in the highest branch of the art—historical painting. He had genius enough to have distinguished himself in any branch, but he could not, or would not, brook the necessary toil.
Stuart never had patience to undergo the drudgery necessary to become a skillful draughtsman. His kind instructor, Mr. West, urged upon him its importance and necessity, and advised him to frequent the Royal Academy for this purpose, which he neglected to do. Trumbull relates that Fuseli, on being shown some of his drawings, observed in his usual sarcastic manner, “young man, if this is the best you can do, you had better go and make shoes.”
Stuart was an inveterate punster. Mr. Allston, calling on him a short time before his death, asked him how he was. “Ah!” said he, drawing up his pantaloons, and showing his emaciated leg, which in his youth had been his pride, “you can judge how much I amout of drawing.”
Stuart was an inordinate snuff-taker. He used to jocosely apologize for the habit, by saying that “he was born in a snuff-mill,” which was literally true, for his father was a manufacturer of snuff. He said, “a pinch of snuff had a wonderful effect upon a man’s spirits.” An old sea captain once observed to him, “you see, sir, I have always a nostril in reserve. When the right becomes callous after a few weeks’ usage, I apply for comfort to the left, which having had time to regain its sense of feeling, enjoys theblackguardtill the right comes to its senses.” “Thank you,” said Stuart, “it’s a great discovery. Strange that I should not have made it myself, when I have been voyaging all my life in these channels.”
Stuart always maintained that a likeness depended more on thenose, than any other feature, and in proof of his theory, he would put his thumb under his own large and flexible proboscis, and turning itup, exclaim, “who would know my portrait with such a nose as this?” Therefore, he is said to have generally painted a likeness, beforeputting inthe eyes. On one occasion, a pert young coxcomb, who was sitting for his portrait, stole a glance at the canvass and exclaimed, “why, it has no eyes!” Stuart coolly observed, “It is not nine days old yet,” referring of course to the time when apuppyfirst opens its eyes.
A portrait was once returned to Stuart with the grievous complaint, that the muslin of the cravat was too coarsely executed. Stuart indignantly observed to a friend, “I am determined to glue a piece of muslin of the finest texture on the part that offends theirexquisitejudgment, and send it back again.” A lady once sat to him dressed in the extreme of fashion, loaded with jewelry and gewgaws, besides an abundance of hair powder and rouge. Stuart, beinghard upfor cash, consented to “raise a monument to her folly.” After the picture was completed, he observed to a friend, “There is what I have all my life been endeavoring to avoid,—vanity and bad taste.”
A gentleman of note employed Stuart to paint his own portrait and that of his wife, who, when he married her, was a very rich widow, but a very ordinary looking person. The husband was handsome, and of a noble figure, and the painterhit himoff, to admiration. Not so with the lady; he flattered her as much as he could without destroying the likeness, but the husband was not satisfied, expressed his dissatisfaction in polite terms, and requested him to try again. He did so, without any better success. The husband now began to fret, when the painter losing his patience, jumped up, laid down his palette, took a huge pinch of snuff, and stalking rapidly up and down the room, exclaimed, “What a d—d business is this of a portrait painter—zounds, you bring apotato, and expect him to paint you a peach.”
Stuart, it is said, never signed but one picture in his life, and that was his own portrait, before mentioned, on which he wroteGilbert Charles Stuart. Dr. Waterhouse says, “his parents named him after his father, and Charles the Pretender, but Stuart soon dropt the Charles, as he was a staunch republican. When asked why he did not sign his pictures, he replied, “I mark them all over.”
In the early part of Stuart’s career as a portrait painter in London, he had for his attendant a wild boy, the son of a poor widow, who spent half his time in frolicking with a fine Newfoundland dog belonging to his master. The boy and dog were inseparable companions, and when Tom went on anerrand, Towzer must accompany him. Tom was a terrible truant, and played so many tricks upon Stuart, that he again and again threatened to discharge him. One day, out of all patience at his long absence, he posted off to his mother, in a rage, to dismiss him. The old woman, perceiving a tempest,began first, and told a pitiful story, how his dog had upset her mutton pie, broke the dish, greased the floor, and devoured the meat. “I am glad of it; you encourage the rascal to come here, and here I will send him.” An idea struck Stuart, and he consented to keep Tom, on condition that she kept his visit a profound secret. When the boy returned, he found his master at his easel, and being roundly lectured, he told a story that had no relation to his mother, Towzer, or the pie. “Very well,” said the painter, “bring in dinner, I shall know all about it by-and-by.” Stuart sat down to his dinner, and Towzer took his accustomed place by his side, while Tom stood in attendance. “Well, Towzer, your mouth don’t water for your share; where have you been?” and he put his ear to the dog’s mouth, “I thought so, with Tom’s mother, ha!” “Bow-wow.” “And have you had your dinner?” “Bow.” “I thought so; what have you been eating? Put your mouth nearer, sir. Mutton-pie; very pretty. So you and Tom have eaten Mrs. Jenkins’ mutton-pie, have you?” “Bow-wow.” “He lies, sir,” exclaimed Tom, in amazement, “I didn’t touch it; he broke mother’s dish,and eat all the mutton!” From that time, Tom concluded that the devil must be in the dog or the painter, and that he had no chance for successful lying.
This famous temple, according to Vitruvius, was designed and commenced by Ctesiphon, a Cretan architect of great eminence. It was two hundred years in building, and was accounted one of the seven wonders of the world. The gods having designated the spot, according to tradition, every nation of Asia Minor contributed to its completion, with the most fervent zeal. It was ornamented with one hundred and twenty-seven columns of Parian marble, of the Ionic order, sixty feet high, thirty-seven of which were the gifts of as many kings, and were exquisitely wrought. This great temple was finished by Demetrius and Paonius of Ephesus. It was afterwards burned by Erostratus, in order to immortalize his name. It was subsequently rebuilt, but was finally destroyed totally by the barbarians, in the third or fourth century.
The most famous work of Ctesilas was the Dying Gladiator, which has received the highest commendations from both ancient and modern writers. It was long preserved at Rome, in the Chigi palace, but was taken to Paris with the Laocoön and otherantiques, in 1796. These works were restored by the allies, in 1815. Ctesilas flourished about B. C. 432, was a cotemporary of Phidias, and with him and others competed for the prize offered for six statues of the temple of Diana at Ephesus; the first was awarded to Polycletus, the second to Phidias, and the third to Ctesilas. He also distinguished himself by a number of other works, among which were a statue of Pericles, and a Wounded Amazon.
It was not until the second Punic war that the Romans acquired a taste for the arts and elegancies of life: for though in the first war with Carthage, they had conquered Sicily (which in the old Roman geography made a part of Greece), and were masters of several cities in the eastern part of Italy, (which were inhabited by Grecian colonies, and adorned with pictures and statues in which the Greeks excelled all the world,) they had hitherto looked on them with so careless an eye, that they were not touched with their beauty. This insensibility long remained, either from the grossness of their minds, or from superstition, or (what is more likely) from a political dread that their martial spirit and natural roughness might be destroyed by Grecian art and elegance. When Fabius Maximus, in the second Punic war, captured Tarentum, he found it full of riches, and adorned with pictures and statues, particularly with some fine colossal figures of the godsfighting against the rebel giants: Fabius ordered that the money and plate should be sent to Rome, but that the statues and pictures should be left behind. The Secretary, struck with the size and noble air of the statues, asked whether they too were to be left with the rest? “Yes,” replied he, “leave their angry gods to the Tarentines; we will have nothing to do with them.”
We may judge to what extent the love of the arts prevailed in Rome, by a speech of Cato the Censor, in the Senate, about seventeen years after the taking of Syracuse. In vain did Cato exclaim against the pernicious taste, and its demoralizing effects; the Roman generals, in their several conquests, seem to have striven who should bring away the most statues and pictures to adorn their triumphs and the city of Rome. Flaminius from Greece, and more particularly Æmilius from Macedonia, brought a very great number of vases and statues. Not many years after, Scipio Africanus destroyed Carthage, and transferred to Rome the chief ornaments of that city. The same year, Mummius sacked Corinth, one of the principal repositories of the finest works of art. Having but little taste himself, he took the surest method not to be mistaken, for he carried off all that came in his way, and in such quantities, that he alone is said to have filled Rome with pictures and statues. Sylla,besides many others, made vast additions to them afterwards, by the taking of Athens, and by his conquests in Asia.
The Venus de Medici is placed in the tribune of the Florentine gallery, between two other Venuses, the Celestial and the Victorious. “If you observe them well,” says Spence, “you will find as much difference between her air, and that of the celestial Venus, as there is between Titian’s wife as a Venus, and as a Madonna, in the same room.”
The effects of the pencil are sometimes wonderful. It is said that Alexander trembled and grew pale on seeing a picture of Palamedes betrayed to death by his friends. It doubtless brought to his mind a stinging remembrance of his treatment of Aristonicus.
Portia could bear with an unshaken constancy her last separation from Brutus; but when she saw, a few hours after, a picture of the Parting of Hector and Andromache, she burst into a flood of tears. Full as seemed her cup of sorrow, the painter suggested new ideas of grief, or impressed more strongly her own.
An Athenian courtezan, in the midst of a riotous banquet with her lovers, accidentally cast her eyeon the portrait of a philosopher that hung opposite to her seat; the happy character of temperance and virtue struck her with so lively an image of her own unworthiness, that she instantly quitted the room, and retiring home, became ever after an example of temperance, as she had before been of debauchery.
Pausias, an eminent Greek painter, was a native of Sicyon, and flourished about B. C. 450. His most famous picture was one representing the Sacrifice of an Ox, which, according to Pliny, decorated the Hall of Pompey in his time. Pausanias mentions two of his paintings at Epidaurus—the one a Cupid with a lyre in his hand; and the other a figure of Methe, or Drunkenness, drinking out of a glass vessel, through which his face is seen. These pictures were held in the highest estimation by the Sicyonians, but they were compelled to give them up to M. Scaurus, who took them to Rome.
Pausias fell in love with a beautiful damsel, a native of his own city, called Glycera, who gained a livelihood by making garlands of flowers, and wreaths of roses. Her skill in this art induced Pausias, in a loving rivalry, to attempt to compete with her, and he ultimately became an inimitable flower painter. A portrait of Glycera with a garland of flowers, called Stephanopolis, or the Garland Twiner, was reckoned his masterpiece. So great was the fame of it, that Lucius Lucullus gave for a copy, at Athens, two talents, or about two thousand dollars.
The most famous of his works was the picture of Ialysus and his Dog, which occupied him seven years. The dog, represented as panting and foaming at the mouth, was greatly admired; and it is related that Protogenes was for a long time unable to represent the foam in the manner he wished, till at length he threw his sponge in a fury at the mouth, and produced the very effect he desired! The fame of this painting was so great, that, according to Pliny, Demetrius Poliorcetes, when besieging Rhodes, did not assault that part of the city where Protogenes lived, lest he should destroy the picture. His studio was situated without the walls, where, to the astonishment of the besiegers, he continued to paint with perfect tranquillity. This coming to the ears of Demetrius, he ordered the artist to be brought to his tent, and demanded how he could persist in the quiet exercise of his profession, when surrounded by enemies? Protogenes replied that he did not consider himself in any danger, convinced that a great prince like Demetrius did not make war against the Arts, but against the Rhodians.
This great painter was a native of Ephesus, but became a citizen of Athens, where he flourished about B. C. 390. He raised the art to a much higher degree of perfection than it had before attained. Comparing his three great predecessors with each other, he rejected their errors, and adopted their excellencies. The classic invention of Polygnotus, the magic tones of Apollodorus, and the exquisite design of Zeuxis, are said to have been united in the works of Parrhasius. He reduced to theory the practice of former artists, and all cotemporary and subsequent painters adopted his standard of heroic and divine proportions; hence he was called theLegislator of Painting.
One of the most celebrated works of Parrhasius was his Demos, or an allegorical picture of the Athenians. Pliny says that “it represented and expressed equally all the good as well as the bad qualities of the Athenians at the same time; one might trace the changeable, the irritable, the kind, the unjust, the forgiving, the vain-glorious, the proud, the humble, the fierce, the timid.” There has been considerable dispute among critics whether this picture was a composition of one or several figures. Supposing it to have been a single figure, Pliny’s description is absurd and ridiculous, for it is impossible to represent all the passions in a single figure.It does not seem, however, that Parrhasius usually introduced many figures into his compositions. Pliny mentions as among his principal works, a Theseus; a Telephus; an Achilles; an Agamemnon; an Æneas; two famous pictures of Hoplites, or heavily armed warriors, one in action, the other in repose; a Naval Commander in his armor; Ulysses feigning insanity; Castor and Pollux; Bacchus and Virtue; a Cretan nurse with an Infant in her arms; and many others, apparently composed of one, two, or at most three figures.
Parrhasius was equally celebrated for his small, or cabinet pictures of libidinous subjects; hence he was called thePornograph. His famous picture of Archigallus, the priest of Cybele, mentioned by Pliny, is supposed to have been of this description. Also the Meleager and Atalanta mentioned by Suetonius. This picture was bequeathed to Tiberius, on the condition that if he were offended with the subject, he should receive in its stead one million sesterces (about forty thousand dollars). The Emperor not only preferred the picture, but had it hung up in his own chamber, where the Archigallus, valued at six hundred thousand sesterces, was also preserved.
Seneca relates that Parrhasius, when about to paint a picture of Prometheus Chained, crucified anold Olynthian captive, to serve as a model, that he might be able to portray correctly the agonies of Prometheus while the Vulture preyed upon his vitals. This story is doubtless a fiction, as it is found nowhere but in the Controversies. Olynthus was taken by Philip of Macedon, B. C. 347, about forty years subsequent to the latest accounts of Parrhasius.
This great artist was well aware of his powers, but the applause which he received, added to a naturally vain and conceited disposition, so completely carried him away, that Pliny terms him “the most insolent and the most arrogant of artists.” He assumed the title ofThe Elegant, styled himself thePrince of Painters, wrote an epigram upon himself, in which he proclaimed his birth, and declared that he had carried the art to perfection. He clothed himself in purple, and wore a wreath of gold on his head; and when he appeared on public occasions, particularly at the Olympic games, he changed his robes several times a day. He went so far as to pretend that he was descended from Apollo, one of whose surnames wasParrhasius, and even to dedicate his own portrait as Mercury in a temple, and thus received the adoration of the multitude.
About B. C. 550, there died at Corinth a marriageable virgin; and her nurse, according to thecustom of the times, placed on her tomb a basket containing those viands most agreeable to her when alive, covering them with a tile, for better preservation. This basket was unintentionally placed over the root of an acanthus, the spring leaves and stems of which growing up, covered it in so elegant a manner as to attract the notice of Callimachus, who, struck with the idea and novelty of the figure, modelled from it the Corinthian capital, thus giving a remarkable proof of the intimate connection between Art, and Nature—the source of all true art—and producing that exquisitely graceful design which for twenty-four centuries has charmed the civilized world.
Pliny relates a pleasing and highly poetic anecdote of the invention of sculpture. Dibutades, the fair daughter of a celebrated potter of Sicyon, contrived a private meeting with her lover, on the eve of a long separation. After a repetition of vows of constancy, and a stay prolonged to a very late hour, the youth fell fast asleep. The fair nymph, whose imagination was on the alert, observing that her admirer’s profile was strongly reflected on the wall by the light of a lamp, eagerly snatched up a piece of charcoal, and, inspired by love, traced the outline, that she might have the image of her lover before her during his absence. Her father, when he chanced to see the sketch,struck with its correctness, determined to preserve it, if possible, as a memento of such a remarkable circumstance. With this view, he formed a kind of clay model from it, and baked it; which, being the first essay of the kind, was preserved in the public repository of Corinth, even to the fatal day of its destruction by that enemy to the arts, Mummius Achaicus.
Praxiteles, one of the most eminent Grecian sculptors, was cotemporary with Euphranor, and flourished, according to Pliny, in the one hundred and fourth Olympiad, or B. C. 360. The place of his birth is not mentioned. He lived in the period immediately subsequent to the age of Phidias, but his genius took a different course from that style of elevation and sublimity which distinguishes the Æschylus of Sculpture. Praxiteles was the founder of a new school. His style was eminently distinguished for softness, delicacy, and high finish; and he was fond of representing whatsoever in nature appeared gentle, tender, and lovely. Consequently his favorite subjects were the soft and delicate forms of females and children, rather than the masculine forms of athletes, warriors, and heroes.