SERRES AND VERNET.
Sir William Beechey related the following anecdote of Serres, the ship-painter. Serres took a picture or pictures of shipping from England to the King of France, paintedto commemorate some naval exploit of the French, and invited connoisseurs and artists to see his performance. Among the rest was the famous Vernet. Serres waited some time after Vernet had looked at the picture, till he became impatient to hear his opinion, hoping for praise, and fearing lest it should not be bestowed. “How do you like my picture, M. Vernet?” said he. “Upon my word, sir,” replied Vernet, “you paint ropes exceedingly well.” Nothing could be more satirical, or better mark the genius of the two men, than this reply. Vernet, like a man of genius, painted nature at large, and suggested her minutiæ, but never gave them in detail. Serres was incapable of any thing but detail, in which he was uncommonly accurate. Serres thought he revenged himself on Vernet by damning him for a fool that had never known how to paint a ship; which, in his sense, was true enough. He could not paint every shroud, rope, and tackle, etc., all which Serres had laboriously studied.
THE HEROIC PAINTER.
Vernet was so attached to his profession that he used to make voyages in bad weather on purpose to see the sky and ocean in picturesque perturbation. One day the storm was so violent that the ship’s crew were in great consternation. Vernet desired a sailor to bind him to the mast. When every one was crying and praying, Vernet, with his eyes now upon the lightning, and now upon the mountainous waves, continued to exclaim, “How fine this is!”
VERNET AND VOLTAIRE.
When Vernet, the celebrated painter, visited Voltaire for the first time, the author thus addressed him: “Welcome, M. Vernet! you are rising to immortality, for never were colours more brilliant or more durable than yours!” The painter replied, “My colours can never vie with your ink!” and caught the hand of Voltaire, which he was going to kiss with reverential awe. But the poet snatched it away, modestly saying, “What are you going to do? Surely if you kiss my hand, I must kiss your feet.”
PISTRUCCI’S READY INGENUITY.
The coronation medal of George IV. afforded an example worth relating of ingenuity and skill in expedients in the art of coining. When the gold proof-piece was shown to His Majesty, he approved of the obverse, which is immensely flattering, though not so much as he wished, as nothing satisfied him except Lawrence’s juvenile-looking portrait; but he immediately remarked that on the reverse proof he was not properly placed, being on a level with the allegorical figures of England, Scotland, and Ireland. This the master of the mint in despair reported to Pistrucci. What was to be done? There was not time to engrave a new die. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “I shall elevate His Majesty.” He then cut the die perpendicularly in two, just at His Majesty’s foot, slid one piece a little above the other, so as to raise that part of the platform under the throne above the other part, and continued the under line of the platform to make it even, as seen in the reverse of the published coronation medal.—Dr. Billing’s “Science of Gems.”
CHARLES TOWNLEY.
Charles Townley, born in Lancashire in 1737, resided for many years at Rome, where he devoted his attention to the collecting the remains of ancient Art. His collection being very various, he purchased two houses in Park Street, Westminster, and there formed a museum for the reception of his antiquities. His gallery of sculpture was very valuable, he being a most enthusiastic collector. Such was his ardour in the pursuit of objects of classic veneration, that it is related of him that on arriving at Syracuse, harassed and exhausted by a long journey, he would neither take rest nor food until he had visited the Fountain of Arethusa. Although a wealthy man, his mode of living was quiet and frugal in the extreme. His statues and busts he called his dead family, and in collecting their remains, and relieving his tenantry, he expended his whole fortune, and did not even keep a carriage. He died in 1805 at his museum.
THE TOWNLEY MARBLES.
The Elgin marbles, which became public property by means of public purchase, on the 1st of July, 1816, was the first unadulterated collection of ancient works of Art possessed by the nation, and the precursor of other collections of no less interest to the artist and man of letters. The Nimroud and Xanthian marbles especially. In these antiques we behold the real Art of the sculptors of remote periods; but in the Townley collection, a superficial observer cannot discover where Greek or Roman Art ceases, and the ingenuity of Joseph Nollekens commences. Tobacco juice, cement, and a few discoloured lumps of marble, furnished tips to the noses of Messalinas, Octavias, and other Romanpatrician ladies. Arms, legs, fingers, toes, nails, and sometimes whole heads, were dexterously supplied by this king of vampers, who filled his coffers at a time when the rage for purchasing modern antiques was at its height; therefore, fortunate indeed was the virtuoso whose antiques were even a fractional part genuine. Mr. Townley’s marbles were on this account far superior to many other collections. That beautiful bust of a female issuing from the petals of a flower, Mr. Townley justly considered as the gem of his gallery. During the riots caused by the insane Lord George Gordon, the mob marked out Mr. Townley’s residence in Park Street for destruction, the owner being a Roman Catholic. He secured his cabinet of gems, and casting a long and lingering look on his cherished marbles, was about to leave them to their fate, when, moved by some irresistible impulse, he took this beautiful bust in his arms, and bore it to his carriage. Fortunately for the nation the contemplated attack did not take place; Mr. Townley returned with his “wife,” as he pleasantly called the lady represented, and restored her to her companions.
Mr. Townley’s gallery, purchased for the Museum at two different periods for the sum of £28,200, paved the way for the far-famed Elgin collection.—Fine Arts Almanac.
BLUCHER TAKEN BY LIMNERS.
When the renowned Blucher visited England, he was made the lion of the day; the general desire for portraits of this famous soldier was very great, and he is described as “seated conveniently for graphic reconnaissance in his apartment at St. James’s, his meerschaum in full play, with a miniature painter taking him straight in front; a die-sinker by aright profile, a modeller the left; two crayon painters at dexter and sinister three-quarter fronts; and two other limners by a side-long glance, or a sort of enfilading, at as much of his visage as was visible from an angleau derrière.”
COST OF A PICTURE.
It is said that Marshal Soult, on being asked one day how much his best picture had cost, replied, “One monk.” The meaning of this was that the picture was given in exchange for an unfortunate monk, who had been taken prisoner during Soult’s campaign in Spain, and condemned to death.
RESUSCITATED CELEBRITIES.
The following is said by thePolytechnic Journalto have taken place at a provincial exhibition in the year 1840:—
“The exhibition rooms were crowded; many visitors paid for admission, and many claimed exemption by virtue of brush and palette. Among the latter, two fantastically dressed persons, like hunters from a neighbouring university, presented themselves.
“‘What is the number of your work?’ was the question addressed by the doorkeeper to each exhibitor. ‘Mine is two hundred and four,’ said one of the applicants.
“‘Then,’ said the unconscious functionary, referring to his catalogue, ‘you are Mr. Lorraine,—Claude Lorraine?’
“‘Mais précisement,—est ce que vous m’avez déjà connu?’
“‘I don’t exactly understand you,’ replied the other, ‘but will you enter your name in this book?’
“The name was inscribed, as requested, in a hand as singular as was the writer himself in appearance.
“The other applicant was no less a personage than Gerhard Douw, who having registered his name with all the care and finish which distinguishes him, thanked the doorkeeper in his best Leyden Dutch, and proceeded to look through the rooms.
“These were not the only distinguished persons who visited the rooms; others followed, a few of the names of whom we learn from a long critique in the local newspapers, a passage of which we quote: ‘From what we have already stated, we may consider the success of the experiment as successful beyond parallel; and such is the interest that the opening of the exhibition has created, that upon the list of signatures we find the names of many gentlemen not unknown to the world. We now may instance those of Lorraine, Douw, Holbein, Teniers, and Poussin; but propose next week to discharge more fully this part of our duty, which from the press of other matter we are now most reluctantly compelled to postpone.’”
TWO GORMANDIZERS.
Mr. Charles Townley who had noticed Nollekens at Rome, kindly continued for years to entertain him at his house, No. 7, Park Street, Westminster; and when any person spake of good eating, Mr. Nollekens always gave his friend Mr. Townley the highest credit for keeping a most excellent table. “I am sure,” said he, “to make a good dinner at his house on Sunday; but there is a little man, a great deal less than myself, who dines there, of the name of Devay, a French Abbé, who beats me out and out. He is one of the greatest gormandizers I ever met with; though, to look at him, you would declare him to be in the mostdeplorable state of starvation.” The Abbé Devay was an excellent man; he conversed and wrote in many languages; and his reading and memory were so extensive and useful, that Mr. Townley, who referred to him in his literary concerns, always called him his “walking library.” The Sunday dinners of Mr. Townley were principally for professors of the Arts; and Sir Joshua Reynolds and Zoffany generally enlivened the circle.—Smith’s “Nollekens and his Times.”
THE ARTIST ILLUSTRATED.
The following is from Mr. Robert Kerr’s interesting Discourses on Fine Art Architecture.
“What is an artist? Oh, everybody knows what an artist is till you press the question, and then you find that everybody does not so clearly know. I have already defined my meaning in the term, but perhaps you have net yet felt the fulness of the definition; and illustration may be useful.
“In a lone room, damp-walled and fireless,—the midnight wind of March howling without,—cold, but not feeling it,—cheerless, comfortless, but senseless to such,—there sits, perhaps a youth, perhaps an aged man. A book lies open, and his red eyes greedily devour the thought. Or it is a picture that he muses on; perhaps a statue, a carving, a device; perhaps (although it may seem wonderful) a building. Or he writes,—ponders and writes; or draws,—ponders and draws. Or it is music that he loves,—sweet melody—soft harmony—in the still night, when grosser men have ceased their turmoil’s jarring discord. How intent he is! He forgets the world—forgets himself—forgets the cold March night—-in some strange lore! The chill of opening spring is but as the warmth of kindest, sunniest Autumn.That cheerless home of his is lost—lost in the vision of a beautiful heaven. The bleak black noon of night iswithout! within it is a brilliant daylight scene; and he is very happy! He is alone with Art,—his soul surrounded with the beautiful. He is drunk with love of Loveliness as with a drug. Sorcery-struck, the earthy of him sleeps, and the supernal self is breathing a celestial air.Heis not in the dim, damp chamber,—cold and comfortless. Earth singing a wild winter-song without,—heis far away! Fool that he is,—poor dreamer!Fool?Dreamer?Nay!”
THE DOUBLE SURPRISE.
A husband wishing to surprise a beloved wife on her birthday, came to Sully, the painter, and got him to paint his portrait “on the sly.” It was begun forthwith, and Sully was to have it carried home and put up while the wife was out. But before it was half done, the wife paid him a visit by stealth. “Pray, Mr. Sully,” said she, “could you not contrive, think you, to make a portrait of me by such a day (Sully stared), for that is my birthday, and I should like of all things to surprise my husband,” “Why,—a—a,” said Sully, seeing that she had no idea of the trick, “I do believe that I could; and if you will manage to draw your husband away the night before, I will have the picture hung up for you and all ready to receive you in the morning.” “Delightful!” said she. To work he went therefore, and so closely was he run that once or twice he had to let the husband out of one door on tiptoe, while the wife was creeping in at another on tiptoe. Well, the portraits were finished: they were very like. The night before the birthday arrived, and Sully finding both parties away, each beingdecoyed away by the other, hung them up (the pictures, not the parties) in their superb frames, just where they required to be hung. The rest of the story we may as well skip,—for who shall describe the surprise of both, when the wife got up early, and the husband got up early, both keeping their countenances to a miracle, and each feigned an excuse to lead the other into the room where the two portraits appeared side by side!—Monthly Magazine, 1826.
THE IDEAL PART OF PAINTING.
“Painting is an act that leads to infinite exertion, and the perfection of it appears difficult to be ascertained. The grandest performances of the greatest masters cannot circumscribe the limits of the art. Raphael has executed prodigious works; but yet we dare to think that he may be excelled, and this great man laboured every day of his life, with a hope to surpass himself. I am certain that had his life, which was a short one, been extended to ever so great a length, and had his progress in his art kept pace with his increasing years, the idea of perfection which he cherished would have prevented him from being satisfied with what he had, and he would always have aimed at further improvement. No one but a painter can imagine this infinite process in the art: other men consider it as confined to very narrow limits. The artist himself sees his toil expanding itself every moment into infinite extent. This art may be compared to geography; where a dot stands for a city, a sea, or a kingdom.”
In confirmation of this opinion of Charpentier on the infinite progress of the ideal part of painting, let us hear the sentiment of a painter of our own country: “I believethere never was such a race of men upon the face of the earth; never did men look and act like those we see represented in the works of Raphael, Michael Angelo, Correggio, Parmegiano, and others of the best painters; yet nature appears throughout. We rarely or never see such landscapes as those of Titian, Annibal Caracci, Salvator Rosa, Claude Lorraine, Jasper, Poussin, and Rubens; such buildings, in magnificence, as in the pictures of Paul Veronese; but yet there is nothing but what we can believe may be. Our ideas even of fruits, flowers, insects, draperies, and indeed of all visible things, and of some that are invisible, or creatures of the imagination, are raised and improved in the hands of a good painter; and the mind is thereby filled with the noblest, and therefore the most delightful images.”—See J. Richardson’s works, “Science of a Connoisseur.”
SATAN AT A PREMIUM.
Vandermyne, the Dutch painter, was taken into Yorkshire by a Mr. Aislesby, to paint him some pictures; but he committed such excesses that he was at length turned out of doors. Under these circumstances he went to a draper at York, where he had frequently been with his patron, and took goods for clothing on credit; and as in conversation he discovered that the draper had saved a few hundred pounds, he persuaded him to part with it, promising him five per cent.: then getting a tailor recommended to make the clothes, he afterwards decamped in a hurry. It was some months before Mr. Aislesby had occasion to go to York; and when he called on the draper, the latter ventured to ask after the gentleman, when the other exclaimed he had turned the rascal out of doors for his drunkenness anddissolute conduct. On this an explanation took place, and the man was advised to get a picture for his money, as the painter was no farther off than Scarborough. The advice was followed, and he found the artist, who, after a bottle, painted before he left him a large head ofSatan after the Fall. This picture was exhibited gratis at the draper’s house at York, and by the company it attracted amply repaid him. The poor tailor, who lived opposite, and had made the clothes, being mortified at the other’s success, determined to walk over to Scarborough to see if he also could get a picture. On being introduced to the artist, he begged with many bows and scrapes that as the artist had painted a picture for his neighbour that was likely to make his fortune, he would likewise paint one for him; and as his account was not so great as the other’s, he observed that he could not expect so large a one; but added, if he would be so good as to paint hima little devil, he should be much obliged. The whim took; he got a small picture and returned to York, where both pictures were exhibited with greatéclat. He died in Moorfields, 1783, aged 68.
LOVE OF THE PICTURESQUE.
A white partridge having been captured in Shropshire, and being a great curiosity, it was sent to Pugh with instructions to paint its portrait. Pugh, who was a tolerably good painter, was no sportsman, and painted a large oak with the white partridge perched on one of the branches. When told that partridges always sat on the ground, he said, “That might be; but it looks so much more picturesque to have a landscape in the background; and I can’t alter it, for an extraordinary bird ought to have an extraordinary situation; it exalts him above his fellows.”
THE DUTCH PAINTER AND HIS CUSTOMERS.
“I vork in my studio one day, ven one gentleman wid delunettescome in, make one, two, tree bow, very profound, and say, ‘Gut morgen, meinheer!’ I make one, two, tree profound bow, and say de same. Den de gentleman look at all my picture very slow and deliberate; den he say, ‘Dat is goot; dat is beautiful; dat is vondrous fine.’ Den, he say at last, ‘Sare, vil you permit me to bring my friend de Baron von A—— to see your fine vork?’ I say, ‘Sare, you vil do me von favour.’ Den he make tree more bow more profound dan before, and he go vay. De next day he bring his friend de Baron, and dey two make six bow all very profound, and dey say dat all is very beautiful; and den de Baron say, ‘Sare, vil you let me bring my friend de Count von A—— to see dese so fine vork?’ and den dey make der bow once again, and go vay, and I see dem no more. Dat vas von German gentleman.
“Anoder day, von little gentleman came in wid von skip, and say, ‘Bon jour, monsieur! charmé de faire vôtre connaissance.’ He take up hislorgnette, and he look at my first picture, and he say, ‘Ah, very vell, sare! dat is von very fine morsel!’ Den he pass quick to anoder, and he say, ‘Sare, dis is truly admirable; after dis beautiful nature is vort notting;’ and so in two minute and a half he get trough dem all. Den he twirl his cane, and stick out his chin, and say, ‘Sare, I make you my compliment; you have one great talent for de landscape; I shall have de honour to recommend you to all my friend;au revoir, monsieur;’ but I see him never again. He vas von French gentleman.
“Anoder day, I hear von loud rap wid von stick at my door, and ven I say, ‘Come in,’ von gentleman valks forward,very stiff, and nod his head, but take never his hat off. He say, ‘May I see your picture?’ I bow and say, ‘Wid pleasure, sare.’ He no answer, but look at von a long time, and say not a vord. Den he look at anoder, and say notting. Den he go to anoder, and look, and say, ‘Vat is de price of dis?’ I say, ‘Forty louis, sare.’ He say notting, but go to de next, and look von long time; and at last he say, ‘Vat is de price of dis?’ Den I say, ‘Sare, it is sixty louis.’ Den he say, ‘Can you give me pen and ink?’ and ven I give it, he sat down, and he say, ‘Vat is your name, sare?’ Den I give him my card, and he write one order on Torlonia for sixty louis; he gave me de order wid his card, and he say, ‘Dat picture is mine; dat is my address; send it home; good morning.’ And so he make one more stiff nod and valk avay. Dis vas von English gentleman.”
PAINTING A SKY.
The following amusing anecdote is given in a volume of thePolytechnic Journal:—
“S’entr’aideris not uncommon in the English School, where points of departure from an artist’s ordinary habits of work create a feeling of diffidence; but it rarely occurs that the two names attach to the work. Sometimes the commonest objects create intense difficulty when an artist is fastidious and jealous of all foreign assistance; for instance, toPAINT A SKYis the halting point of one of our artists who is in the enjoyment of a certain degree of celebrity. This, his foible, became known to us through a mutual acquaintance, who, calling one day at his house, had the door opened to him by a female domestic, whose eyes were red with weeping.
“‘Is Mr. —— at home?’
“‘Yes, sir, but—but—he’spainting a sky, sir;’ and up went the apron to her eyes as she began to whine anew.
“It struck the visitor that something must be ‘out of joint.’ As he was hurrying to the well-knownstudio, the girl hastily exclaimed,—
“‘O pray,—please sir, don’t go up; it’s not safe,—he’spainting a sky, and he doesn’t see nobody on sky-days.’
“This expostulation had its effect. ‘Well, well,’ said the other, ‘if Mr. —— has given orders not to be interrupted, make my compliments, and say I will call in the evening.’
“The evening came and the daylight went, and the would-be visitor addressed himself again to the painter’s knocker, under the impression that there was then certainly not light enough for ‘painting a sky.’
“The door was opened as before, and the applicant was about, unhesitatingly, to proceed to his friend’s studio, when he was again encountered by the servant’s deprecating accents.
“‘What! not to be seen yet?’
“‘Oh no, sir; master’s skying away like a madman. He’ll be the death of us all.’
“It was ultimately agreed that the visitor should wait a little in a lower room, as the artist’s usual hour of relaxation from professional employment was already past. The room into which he was shown was immediately below the studio, and he took up a book, but from the noise overhead he found it impossible to read. The painter was pacing up and down in precipitate and violent action, and from the noise and sound of splinters, heavy objects of furniture were undoubtedly smashed; lighter ones seemed to be kicked about with the fury and increased power of a maniac; the door, too, was slammed with fearful violence, and from timeto time the shivered glass of the windows fell upon the pavement.
“The visitor became alarmed. He was rushing upstairs, when he was met by a young child who was wailing and lamenting aloud, as if he had been severely beaten.
“‘What can be the reason of all this?’ demanded our friend.
“‘Oh! Pa’spainting a sky,—pa’spainting a sky,’ was all, in his excessive grief, the boy could utter. While yet condoling with the child, another, younger, rushed downstairs with a rapidity sufficient to endanger its neck,—the cry as before, ‘Pa’s painting a sky.’
“The second child was followed by Mrs. ——, who apologised for the prevailing confusion; ‘but,’ added she, ‘this is so often the case when Mr. —— has to paint a sky, that it is my most fervent prayer he may never paint another.’
“The tears stood in the good lady’s eyes; and scarcely had she finished speaking when an unlucky dog was hurled from above, filling the house with his shrill and piteous howlings; and, lastly, the cat descended with a like precipitation. Our friend, despairing of meeting the artist in a rational state, now took his hat, his departure, and a resolution to visit him some other day when his employment was not ‘painting a sky.’”
VARIETY OF SKIES.
Ambrose Philips, the poet, was, in his conversation, solemn and pompous. At a coffee-house he was once discoursing upon pictures, and pitying the painters who in their historical pieces always drew the same sort of sky. “They should travel,” said he, “and then they will see that there isa different sky in every country,—in England, France, Italy, and so forth.” “Your remark is just,” said a grave old gentleman who sat by: “I have been a traveller, and can testify what you observe is true; but the greatest variety ofskysthat I found was in Poland.” “In Poland, sir?” said Philips. “Yes, in Poland; for there are Sobiesky, Poniatowsky, Sarbrunsky, Jablonsky, Podebrasky, and many moreskys, sir, than are to be found anywhere else.”
SLANG OF ARTISTS.
The conversation of artists, when it has reference to their profession, is usually patched up with phrases peculiar to themselves, and which may not be improperly called Slang of Art. This jargon, when heard by persons unacquainted with its application, is apt to lead to awkward mistakes. A laughable instance of this kind once occurred. A party of artists were travelling in a stage-coach, in which, besides themselves, a sedate venerable lady was the only passenger. The conversation among the artists ran as follows:—“How playful those clouds are!” “That group to the left is sweetly composed, though perhaps a little too solid and rocky for the others.” “I have seen nothing of L——’s lately. I think he is clever.” “He makes all his flesh too chalky.” “You must allow, however, that he is very successful with his ladies.” The old lady began to exhibit symptoms of uneasiness, and at the close of each observation cast an anxious and inquiring look at the speaker. Her companions, however, unconscious of the surprise they were exciting (for she entertained doubts as to their sanity), went on in the same style. She heard them, to her increasing dismay, talk of a farm-house coming out from the neighbouring trees, and of a gentleman’sgrounds wanting repose. At length they approached an old village church. A great many observations were made about the keeping, etc., of the scene, which the old woman bore with tolerable equanimity; but at last one of the party exclaimed, in a kind of enthusiasm, “See how well the woman in the red cloak carries off the tower.” The lady screamed to the coachman to stop, paid him his fare, although advanced only half way on her journey, and expressed her thankfulness for having escaped alive from such a set of madmen.
A PICTURE DEALER’S KNOWLEDGE OF GEOGRAPHY.
About sixty years back a picture dealer, selling his pictures by an exhibition at the Town Hall of Doncaster, had, among other performances, the following subject, according to his catalogue:—“‘A View in Italy,’ by Caracci, with a figure of John the Baptist baptizing in the river Jordan.”
ON STUDY OF ANTIQUITIES.
Much false wit and unjust strictures have been made on lovers of the olden time, as if they were all alike nugatory and tiresome. Many antiquaries have proved men of great sense and ingenuity. Let two modern ones plead the cause of antiquarianism,—the poets Gray and T. Warton. Cervantes has well described foolish and useless researches into antiquity: “Say no more, sir,” says Sancho, “for in good faith if I fall to questioning and answering, I shall not have done between this and to-morrow morning; for foolish questions and ridiculous answers I need not be obliged to any of my neighbours.” “Sancho,” quoth Don Quixote,“you have said more than you are aware of; for some there are who tire themselves with examining into and explaining things, which, after they are known and explained, signify not a farthing to theunderstandingormemory.”
THE RESERVE.
A gentleman showing his friend his curiosities, pictures, etc., in his gallery, on the other praising them all very much, he gave him a choice of any one of them as a present. The stranger fixed his election upon a tablet, in which the Ten Commandments were written in letters of gold. “You must excuse me there,” replied the gentleman; “those I am bound to keep.”
GALLANTRY OF ANTIQUARIES.
“Their Venus must be old, and want a nose.”—Foote.
Antiquaries are by no means apt to pay great attention to the fair sex; among those who have set themselves most warmly against that elegant part of the creation, must be reckoned Antony à Wood, whose diary affords some instances of his dislike, so grotesque that they claim attention.
Page 167. “He (Sir Thomas Clayton), and his family, most of them womankind (which before were looked upon, if resident in the college, as a scandal and abomination thereto), being no sooner settled, etc., etc., the warden’s garden must be altered, new trees planted, etc., etc. All which, though unnecessary, yet the poor college must pay for them; and all this to please a woman!”
Page 168. “Frivolous expenses to pleasure his proud lady.”
Page 173. “Yet the warden, by the motion of his lady, did put the college to unnecessary charges, and very frivolous expenses: among which were a very large looking-glass, for her to see her ugly face and body to the middle, and perhaps lower.”
Page 252. “Cold entertainment, cold reception, cold clownish woman.”
Page 257. “Dr. Bathurst took his place of Vice-Chancellor, a man of good parts, and able to do good things, but he has a wife that scorns that he should be in print. A scornful woman! Scorns that he was Dean of Wells! No need of marrying such a woman, who is so conceited that she thinks herself fit to govern a college or a university.”
The learned Selden has left no good example to antiquaries, in point of gallantry. “It is reason,” says he, “a man that will have a wife should be at the charge of her trinkets, and pay all the scores she sets on him. He that will keep a monkey, it is fit he should pay for the glasses he breaks.”—European Magazine.
POETS AND PAINTERS.
The visible emotions that poets are subject to, during the ardour of composition, are not to be ridiculed as grimaces, for they certainly assist to put the fancy in motion. Nor are they to be considered as the struggles of the mind against its own want of fertility; they often proceed from the powers being under very animated exertion. Quintilian compares these agitations to the lashing of a lion’s tail, bestowed on his own back to excite and prepare himself for a combat. Dominichino used to act the parts of the personages he was about to represent by his pencil; to usesuch action, to utter such speeches, as he conceived their situation and character would demand. And when he was employed on the picture of theMartyrdom of St. Andrew, Caracci, coming into his room, surprised him in one of these assumed characters. His voice thundered, and his attitude was fierce and threatening; he was then preparing to paint the figure of a soldier menacing the saint. When this fit of enthusiasm had subsided, Caracci ran to embrace this great painter, and declared that he should consider him from that time his master, and that he had that day caught from him the true method of designing expression.
FREEDOM OF OPINION.
Sir Martin Archer Shee, in his “Rhymes on Art,” remarks:—“There is no enjoying a picture in peace while the proprietor is expatiating on its beauties. All pleasure is destroyed, all improvement prevented, when—
‘The connoisseur his cabinet displays,And levies heavy penalties of praise;Exacts your admiration without end,Watches your eye, nor waits till you commend.’
‘The connoisseur his cabinet displays,And levies heavy penalties of praise;Exacts your admiration without end,Watches your eye, nor waits till you commend.’
‘The connoisseur his cabinet displays,And levies heavy penalties of praise;Exacts your admiration without end,Watches your eye, nor waits till you commend.’
‘The connoisseur his cabinet displays,
And levies heavy penalties of praise;
Exacts your admiration without end,
Watches your eye, nor waits till you commend.’
Neither politeness nor prudence will allow you to dissent, however erroneous you may think his remarks, or misplaced his panegyric; for, in the present day, when old pictures bear a price so extraordinary, to hint a doubt of the various and often incompatible merits which the owner of the celebrated work chooses to ascribe to it, seems not only an insult but an injury, since it tends to depreciate his property, as well as to disparage his taste.” An amusing instance of this difficulty of forming an independent opinion is given in Richardson’s “Discourses on the Science of aConnoisseur.” “Some years since, a very honest gentleman (a rough man) came to me, and amongst other discourse, with abundance of civility invited me to his house. ‘I have,’ said he, ‘a picture by Rubens; ’tis a rare good one. Mr. —— came t’other day to see it, and says ’tis a copy. G—d d—n him, if any one says that picture is a copy, I’ll break his head! Pray, Mr. Richardson, will you come, and give me your opinion of it?’”
THE CONNOISSEUR TAKEN IN.
One day, at an exhibition in Brussels, there was a gentleman very finely dressed, who seemed uncommonly attentive to every picture, and condemned, like a modern critic,ad libitum. Coming at last over against a highly-finished piece of fruit and flowers, with insects placed upon some of the leaves, he lifted up his right hand, and applied his eye-glass, which was set in silver, and curiously chased round the rim; on the little finger of the other hand, which held the catalogue, he had an antique, set round with rich brilliants. After he had pored over the picture for some time, he exclaimed, “Oh, horribly handled!—the colouring is execrable. Was this thing done for a fly? never was anything half so wretched. A fly! nothing was ever more out of nature.”—This speech brought a group of listeners about him: he then pointed to that part of the picture where this insect was executed in so abominable a manner; on the approach of his finger, the ill-done reptile flew away, for it happened to be a real fly.
NO CONNOISSEUR.
Lord Chesterfield happened to be at a rout in France, where Voltaire was one of the guests. Chesterfield seemed to be gazing about the brilliant circle of ladies, when Voltaire thus accosted him: “My lord, I know you are a judge; which are more beautiful, the English or French ladies?”—“Upon my word,” replied his lordship, with his usual presence of mind, “I am no connoisseur inpaintings.”
THE UNCOURTLY MEDALIST.
“One day,” says the Duchess d’Orleans in her letters, “Mareschal de Villars came to see me. As he was esteemed a connoisseur in medals, and wished to examine my collection, I sent for Baudelot, a worthy man who takes care of them for me, and bade him show them to the mareschal. Baudelot is no courtier, is utterly ignorant of the tales of the day, and of consequence knows nothing of M. de Villars’ domestic uneasiness. He began with acquainting the mareschal that he had written a dissertation to prove a certain antique horned bust, was not meant for Jupiter Ammon, but for Pan. ‘Ah, sir,’ said he next, ‘this is one of our most curious coins. It is the triumph of Cornificius; he has all sorts of horns; he has the horns of Jove and of Faunus. Observe him, sir: he, like you, was a great general.’”——“I would fain,” says the duchess, “have turned the conversation, but Baudelot persisted in it, till all the company were forced to leave the room, that they might indulge their propensity to laugh; nor was it without difficulty that, after Villars was gone, I could convince my medalist of his impropriety in talking of horns before so celebrated a cuckold.”—European Magazine.
CONNOISSEURS.
To form a judgment of pictures, it seems reasonable, no doubt, that the connoisseur should be acquainted with the original subjects. Yet how many persons, who have scarcely seen more of nature than the Parks and Kensington Gardens, give their opinions of the beautiful landscapes of the Poussins and Claude, and venture their criticism on their faults! This fact brings to remembrance a story of a gentleman from the Heralds’ College, who was much disappointed on the view of the lions in the Tower, as he found them so very different from what he had used to delineate them,—rampant, couchant, etc., at the college.
OLD BOOKS.
The purchasers of these rare commodities, if they are not irreclaimable antiquaries, have little reason to defend their very unaccountable propensities to dust and bookworms. An author is scarce, either because in course of time the edition has been sold, and by neglect and accidents lost to the public, and no one has thought it worth while to reprint it; or because the edition was very expensive, and in the first place consisted of few copies. If mere antiquity and scarceness are the grounds on which these very curious purchasers proceed, we might expect, provided they were well gilt and in good condition, they would seek their wives among the venerable and scarce specimens of ancient maidens and widows.
EXTRA LOVE OF ANTIQUITY.
It may with truth be observed that those who have lostthemselves in the study of antiquities seem to have dropped their connection with the world around them, and, like ghosts, to hover round the tombs of their deceased friends, which they honour in proportion to the remoteness of their decease. Lord Monboddo, the metaphysician, a great admirer of the ancients, has professed this taste of “time-honoured” connections in the most ample and singular manner. Speaking of Greek and Latin Dictionaries, his lordship says, “I reckon such dictionary-makers, by whose industry we are enabled to live in the ancient world, one of the greatest blessings which we enjoy in this.”
HOW TO BE A CONNOISSEUR.
A lady, to whom a painter had promised the best picture in his collection, knew not which to take, and hit upon this stratagem:—She sent a person to the painter, who was from home, to tell him that his house was on fire. “Take care of my Cleopatra,” exclaimed the artist. The next day the lady sent for the Cleopatra.
THE CHANDOS PORTRAIT OF SHAKSPEARE.
The history of this very interesting and renowned portrait is as follows. It is presumed to be the work of Richard Burbage, the first actor ofRichard III., who is known to have handled the pencil. It then became the property of Joseph Taylor, the poet’sHamlet, who, dying about the year 1653, left it by will to Sir William Davenant, the poet, who was born 1605, and died 1668. He was a professed admirer of Shakspeare; and his elder brother (Parson Robert) had been heard to relate, as Aubrey informs us,that Shakspeare had often kissed Sir William when a boy. At the death of Sir William Davenant, in 1668, it was bought by Betterton, the great actor, belonging to the Duke’s Theatre, of which Davenant was the patentee; and when he died, Mr. Robert Keck, of the Inner Temple, gave Mrs. Barry, the actress, who had it from Betterton, forty guineas for it. From Mr. Keck it passed to Mr. Nicol, of Minchenden House, Southgate, whose only daughter and heiress, Mary, married James, Marquess of Carnarvon, afterwards Duke of Chandos, from whom it descended in right of his second wife, Anna Eliza, to the late Duke of Buckingham and Chandos. It 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. In the left ear is a small gold ring. It fetched, at the Duke of Buckingham’s sale at Stowe, in September, 1848, the princely sum of 355 guineas. The Earl of Ellesmere was the purchaser, and it now forms part of the grand collection of pictures at Bridgwater House, in the Green Park.