Part 13
“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 is _without_! 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. _He_ is not in the dim, damp chamber,--cold and comfortless. Earth singing a wild winter-song without,--_he_ is far away! Fool that he is,--poor dreamer! _Fool?_ _Dreamer?_ NAY!”
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_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 being decoyed 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.
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_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 believe there 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.”_
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_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 and dissolute 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 of _Satan 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 him _a 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 great _éclat_. He died in Moorfields, 1783, aged 68.
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_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 de _lunettes_ come 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 his _lorgnette_, 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.”
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_PAINTING A SKY._
The following amusing anecdote is given in a volume of the _Polytechnic Journal_:--
“_S’entr’aider_ is 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, to PAINT A SKY is 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’s _painting 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-known _studio_, the girl hastily exclaimed,--
“‘O pray,--please sir, don’t go up; it’s not safe,--he’s _painting 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 time to 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’s _painting a sky_,--pa’s _painting 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.’”
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_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 is a 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 of _skys_ that I found was in Poland.” “In Poland, sir?” said Philips. “Yes, in Poland; for there are Sobie_sky_, Poniatow_sky_, Sarbrun_sky_, Jablon_sky_, Podebra_sky_, and many more _skys_, sir, than are to be found anywhere else.”
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_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’s grounds 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.
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_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.”
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_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 the _understanding_ or _memory_.”
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_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.”
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_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._
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_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 use such action, to utter such speeches, as he conceived their situation and character would demand. And when he was employed on the picture of the _Martyrdom 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.
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_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.’
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 a Connoisseur.” “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?’”
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_THE CONNOISSEUR TAKEN IN._