Fuseli (Henry), R.A.
HENRY FUSELI was a native of Zurich, and came to England at an early age, being undecided whether to make Literature or Art his study. He happened to take some of his drawings to Sir Joshua Reynolds, and requested the great painter to give his candid opinion upon their execution. The President was so struck with the power of conception displayed in them, that after attentively viewing them, he said, “Young man, were I the author of these drawings, and offered ten thousand a year not to practise as an artist, I would reject it with contempt.” This opinion, so flattering, decided him. In 1798, on the opening of his Milton Gallery, he fully satisfied all who might previously have had misgivings, by a rare display of lofty imagination, blended with extensive intellectual acquirements. All were agreed upon his marvellous genius as displayed in that exhibition. Among his masterly works in the Shakspeare Gallery, his “Ghost of Hamlet’s Father” was, perhaps, the grandest. Mr. Fuseli enjoyed the friendship of the most distinguished literati of the age. His townsman, Lavater, entertained a very high opinion of him before ever he discovered his genius by his after career. On leaving his native town to begin life, Lavater put into his hand a small piece of paper, beautifully framed, on which was written, “Do but the tenth part of what you can do.” “Hang that up in your bed-room,” said Lavater, “and I know what will be the result.” Mr. Fuseli enjoyed excellent health, no doubt the result of his habitual temperance; whether in town or country, summer or winter, he was seldom in bed after five o’clock. He died in the year 1825, at the ripe old age of 84, and his remains were interred in St. Paul’s cathedral.
HIS CAT.
It is related of the famous Fuseli, that he had a very imperfect sympathy for the harmless domestic cat. One day he was heard roaring at the top of his voice, “Same, Same, why the devil don’t you come?” The affectionate Mrs. F., who was in an adjoining room, rushed out, and catching sight of her husband’s agonized features, asked in dismay, “What do you want of Sam, my dear Henry?” The only reply to which was, “Oh! d—— your dear Henry; send up Same.” On hastening to his assistance, the professor was found sprawling on his back, and pointing to the great doors of his painting room. It was found that he had a few minutes before gone there to take out a large picture to paint upon, when a couple of cats that had crawled through the roof rushed out and confronted him, thus causing all the disturbance. The man for whom he had called so vigorously by the name of “Same,” was Samuel Stronger, his model, who found his patron as white as a ghost.
HIS GAITERS.
It was not unusual for Fuseli to walk into the students’ room, with his gaiters in his hand. He would put them on just before the Academy closed for the night. One night, in his hurry to begin, he forgot the gaiters, or rather mislaid them. A long-continued grumbling announced to the students present that something was wrong. One of the students, less careful than the others, began to titter; this caught the professor’s ears, who bounced out of the room, exclaiming, “Oh! you are all a set of teeves; you have stolen my gaiters!” The merriment had not subsided, when, reappearing with the missing articles in his hand, and assuming as bland a smile as he could command, he apologetically added, “Oh, no! I was the teef myself. It was I who stole the gaiters!”
THE DRAMA.
Fuseli was a profound scholar in the works of Shakspeare, so much so that he had the various passages of the plays at his fingers’ ends. As an illustration, the following incident occurred at a dinner table, at which many were present. Sitting beside Fuseli was a very garrulous, shallow young man, who several times misquoted the great dramatist. After receiving blunder upon blunder with an audible growl, he addressed the young gentleman with, “Where’s that to be found?”
“In Titus Andronicus, where the black, as you recollect, says—”
“No, saar, I do not recollect; I do not think it is in Taitus Andronicus at all.”
“Macbeth, perhaps,” ventured the quoter.
“No, no; it is not in Maac-beath.”
“In Hamlet.”
“No, nor in Haamlet, saar.”
“Well, then, I do not recollect where it is,” admitted the speaker. To which Fuseli added, “Perhaps you do not know, but it is in Otello, saar,” much to the diversion of the assembled guests.
NOISY STUDENTS.
Hearing a violent noise in the studio, and inquiring the cause, he was answered by one of the porters, “It’s only those fellows, the students, sir.” “Fellows!” exclaimed Fuseli; “I would have you to know, sir, those fellows may one day become Academicians.” The noise increasing, he opened the door with, “You are a den of wild beasts.” Munro, who was one of the students, bowed, and said, “And Fuseli is our keeper.”
THE YORKSHIREMAN.
Discoursing one day upon the merits of Phocion, the Athenian, a gentleman gravely put the question, “Pray, sir, who was Mr. Phocion?” Fuseli as gravely answered, “From your dialect, sir, I presume you are from Yorkshire; and, if so, I wonder you do not recollect Mr. Phocion’s name, as he was Member for your county in the Long Parliament!”
RICHARDSON’S NOVELS.
A gentleman speaking one day in the presence of Fuseli, of books, remarked, “No one now reads the works of Richardson.” “Do they not?” said the painter, “then by G— they ought. If people are tired of old novels, I should be glad to know your criterion of books. If Richardson is old, Homer is obsolete. Clarissa to me is pathetic; I never read it without crying like a child.”
CLASSICAL ATTAINMENTS.
Haydon, in his lectures on painting, observes: “In general literature, what is called polite literature, Fuseli was highly accomplished. He perhaps knew as much of Homer as any man; but he was not a deep classic; he could puzzle Dr. Burney by a question, but he was more puzzled if Dr. Burney questioned him. Porson spoke lightly of his knowledge of Greek, but in comparison with Porson, a man might know little and yet know a great deal; a friend once asked him to construe a difficult passage in the chorus in the Agamemnon of Æschylus—he cursed all choruses, and said he never read them! But his power of acquiring, idiomatically, a living language was certainly extraordinary; six weeks, he said, was enough for him to speak any language; yet though his tendency to literature gave him in society the power of being very amusing, I think it my duty to caution the young men present; he, for an artist, allowed literature to take too predominant a part in his practice, and sunk too much the painter in the critic.”