Memoranda of Art and Artists

Zoffany (Johann), R.A.

JOHANN ZOFFANY was born at Frankfort-on-the-Maine in the year 1735. He was by descent a Bohemian, but his father, who followed the profession of an architect, had settled in Germany. When a mere child, having shown considerable ability with the pencil, his father sent him to Italy, where he studied several years. He practised, on his return to Germany, as an historical and portrait painter at Coblentz on the Rhine. He arrived in England but a few years before the foundation of the Royal Academy, and was elected one of its first members in 1768. On his arrival, the extent of his finances hardly amounted to the sum of one hundred pounds. “With this,” he relates, “I commenced maccaroni, bought a suit à la mode, a gold watch, and gold-headed cane.” Thus equipped he made the acquaintance of Benjamin Wilson, a portrait painter, then residing in Great Queen Street, Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields. With this artist Zoffany engaged himself as drapery-painter, and remained with him until, tired of the monotony of his employment, he determined to try his fortune by trading on the capital of his talent on his own account. He accordingly took furnished apartments at the upper part of Tottenham Court Road, and began his practice as a Limner, by painting the portraits of his landlord and landlady, which, as a standing advertisement, were placed on either side the gate that then opened into the area before the house. Garrick, by chance, passing that way, saw these specimens, admired them, and inquired for the painter. The interview ended in his employing Zoffany to paint himself in small, and hence were produced those admired subjects in which the great actor figured,—“Sir John Brute;” Abel Drugger, in Ben Jonson’s “Alchemist;” “The Farmer’s Return,” etc. Sir Joshua Reynolds was so pleased with the painting in which Garrick is represented as Abel Drugger, that he purchased it of Zoffany for the sum of one hundred guineas. It is related that the Earl of Carlisle, conversing with Sir Joshua upon the merits of the picture, earnestly urged him to part with it. “Well, my lord,” said he, “what premium will you pay upon my purchase?” “Any sum you will name,” replied the earl. “Then it is yours, my lord, if you will pay me one hundred guineas, and add fifty as a gratuity to Mr. Zoffany.” He consented, and purchased the picture. In 1771, Zoffany painted the royal family on a large canvas, to the number of ten portraits, which has been engraved in mezzotinto by Earlom. He painted likewise two separate portraits of George III. and his Queen, which were also engraved in mezzotinto by Houston. Shortly after this, he paid a second visit to Italy, and taking a recommendation from George III. to the Grand Duke of Tuscany at Florence, he painted an interior view of the Florentine picture gallery. The hopes which he had indulged as to the result of this exertion of his talent were frustrated; for when the Queen was informed that the painter expected to be paid two thousand guineas for his picture, she showed no inclination to receive it. Some years after, the Queen purchased it off him at the greatly reduced sum of six hundred guineas. In 1774, he painted his much-admired picture of the “Life School of the Royal Academy,” in which he introduced two naked models and thirty-six portraits. This painting was also engraved in mezzotinto by Earlom. In 1781, Zoffany went to the East Indies, where he painted three of his best works. One is the “Embassy of Hyderbeck to Calcutta,” who was sent by the Vizier of Oude to Lord Cornwallis. He went with a numerous retinue by Patna to Calcutta. This picture is a rich display of Indian costume, and contains besides about one hundred figures, several elephants and horses. The scene is placed in Patna. The other two pictures are an “Indian Tiger Hunt;” and as a companion to the Embassy, a “Cock Fight,” at which there are many spectators. Zoffany returned to London with a large fortune, and died at Kew, December 16th, 1810.

THE ROYAL PICTURE.

When Zoffany began the picture of the royal family there were ten children. He made his sketch accordingly, and attending two or three times, went on finishing the figures. Various circumstances prevented him from proceeding,—his Majesty was engaged in business of more consequence; her Majesty was engaged; some of the princesses were engaged, and some of the princesses were unwell. The completion of the picture was consequently delayed, when a messenger came to inform the artist that another prince was born, and must be introduced in the picture; this was not easy, but it was accomplished with some difficulty. All this took up much time, when a second messenger arrived to announce the birth of a princess, and to acquaint him that the illustrious stranger must have a place in the canvas; this was impossible without a new arrangement: one half of the figures were therefore obliterated, in order that the grouping might be closer to make room. To do this was the business of some months, and before it was finished, a letter came from one of the maids of honour, informing the painter that there was another addition to the family, for whom a place must be found. “This,” cried the artist, “is too much; if they cannot sit with more regularity, I cannot paint with more expedition, and must give it up.”

THE “COCK FIGHT.”

The ship in which this picture left the Indies was wrecked, and the picture lost. Zoffany fortunately took his passage in another vessel. It is said he heard of the loss of his picture with the philosophy of a Stoic. Having his original sketches by him, he set to work again and made out a second picture with all the grouping, portraits of Hindoos and Gentoos, Rajahs and Nabobs, and finished a fac-simile of the first. It is said Governor Hastings, by whose commission it was originally painted, was never made acquainted with the accident and its repainting.

Miscellaneous Anecdotes, etc.

THE ROYAL ACADEMY, BURLINGTON HOUSE.

THE new rooms of the Royal Academy were erected from the designs, and under the superintendence, of Mr. Sydney Smirke, R.A., and consist of a large oblong block, parallel with Burlington House, and separated from it only by a few feet, but extending on both sides considerably beyond its frontage. The exhibition-rooms are approached by a noble staircase, with paintings by Ricci, which formed part of Burlington House. The galleries are divided into three lines or rows; five each in the north and south rows, and four in the middle. The central room is a domed octagonal sculpture saloon. Occupying the whole space westward of this is the “Great Room,” where the annual dinner takes place. Eastward of the central saloon is a lecture-hall; the remaining space eastward affords a room for water-colour drawings, and the gallery south of that for architectural drawings. All the exhibition-rooms communicate with each other. The dimensions of the apartments are as follows:—

	feet.		feet.
The Picture Gallery at top of stairs	43	by	31
Central Sculpture Saloon, diameter	43	——
Sculpture Room	43	by	32	½
North Picture Galleries, each	40	“	32	½
The Great Room	82	“	43
Water Colour Room	43	“	26
Architectural Room	40	“	31
South Picture Galleries, each	40	“	31
Hall for Distribution of Prizes, and for Lectures	55	“	43

The height of the walls in the Great Room to the top of the cornice is 27 ft., the cove occupies 11 ft., making the height to the underside of lantern 38 ft. In the lesser rooms, the height to the top of the cornice is 22 ft., and the cove occupies 9 ft. The lighting is by means of a large central skylight in each gallery, excepting the Sculpture Room, where there is a side light. The walls of the Picture Galleries are of a deep subdued red, down to a dado of black wood and walnut. The choice rested between this and “pheasant egg colour.” The fine art critic of the Times, in his article of the 1st of May, 1869, makes the following appropriate remarks on this grand and useful suite of rooms, in which it is to be hoped that the Hanging Committee will for the future be able to display the pictures to the satisfaction of the artists and the public:—“The fears, if they were genuine fears, expressed by some of the Academicians as to the result of removal from Trafalgar Square to Piccadilly can hardly have survived the private view of the Exhibition yesterday. The verdict of the select crowd which filled the stately apartments provided by the architects of the new Academy building for its annual Exhibition was unanimous. No European capital can now boast a more commodious and noble suite of rooms for its yearly display of painting and sculpture than London now possesses.”

THE FONTHILL COLLECTION.

William Beckford, Esq., one of the most remarkable men of modern times, was the son of the patriotic Alderman Beckford, who was Lord Mayor in the years 1762 and 1769, and whose noble and courageous remonstrance with George III. is engraved under the monument erected to his memory in Guildhall. Inheriting property amounting to £100,000 per annum, Mr. Beckford was enabled to indulge in the expensive amusement of building. Fonthill Abbey arose like a magic palace at his command, one tower alone employing 460 men, both by day and night, through an entire winter; the torches used by the nocturnal workmen being visible to the astonished traveller at miles distant. This celebrated mansion in a few years cost Mr. Beckford the sum of £273,000. Owing to the rapidity of the work the mortar had not time to consolidate, and a heavy gale of wind brought the great tower to the ground. Merely remarking that he should have been glad to witness the sublime fall of such a mass of materials, he gave orders for the erection of another tower, 276 feet in height; this also fell to the earth in the year 1825. Mr. Beckford was an excellent scholar, and possessed a fine taste in almost every branch of art. He collected, in the fantastic but costly Abbey, one of the finest and most extensive libraries in England; and his galleries of pictures and antiquities were almost unequalled. A Chancery suit,—that blessing to lawyers,—fattened upon his riches for some years, and it ended in the loss of a large West India property; this, added to his other expenses, rendered it necessary to sell the Abbey, with almost all its costly contents. In the year 1822, after Fonthill Abbey had been on view, and catalogues issued by Messrs. Christie and Manson, the day often fixed and as often postponed, it was at length announced as being sold by private contract to Mr. Farquhar, a gentleman who had amassed considerable property in India, for the sum of £340,000, Mr. Beckford only retaining his family pictures and a few books. After the sale, Mr. Beckford resided for some years in Portugal. Not merely a patron of art, he was also an author, and one singularly original in style. His wild and extraordinary tale, entitled “Vathek,” soon formed a portion of our classical literature. This extraordinary man died on the 25th of May, 1844, at the advanced age of 84. In the year 1823, we find the collection again in the market, its new proprietor considering the furniture, etc., wholly unsuited to so splendid a structure; the auctioneer on this occasion being Mr. Phillips, of New Bond Street, who apprised the distinguished company assembled on the first day, that the sale was one of the most important that had ever been offered to the British public. It occupied thirty-seven days, and the amount realized was rather over £80,000.

THE STRAWBERRY HILL COLLECTION.

Lord Orford, more familiarly known as Horace Walpole, the very finest gentleman of the last century, and the founder of the Strawberry Hill Collection, was the youngest son of the eminent minister, Sir Robert Walpole, and was born October 5th, 1717. After studying at Eton and Cambridge, he travelled; and it was while in Italy that he fostered the love of Art, and taste for elegant and antiquarian literature, which took such complete possession of him as to engross the principal part of his long life. Walpole has by some critics been designated an elegant trifler; yet if we consider that he was one of the first to turn public attention to a taste for the Arts, that he fostered the engravers in this country who became eminent in their branch of Art, that he brought from obscurity various historical memoirs of deep interest, we shall hesitate to consider him a trifler. Among English writers, Walpole is admitted to be one of the best models for lively epistolary correspondence. In a letter to Sir Horace Mann, he writes: “You know my passion for the writings of the younger Crébillon; you shall hear how I have been mortified by the discovery of the greatest meanness in him; and you will judge how one must be humbled to have one’s favourite author convicted of mere mortal mercenariness! I have desired Lady Mary to lay out thirty guineas for me with Liotard, and wished if I could to have the portraits of Crébillon and Marivaux for my cabinet. Mr. Churchill wrote me word that Liotard’s price was sixteen guineas; that Marivaux was intimate with him and would certainly sit, and that he believed he could get Crébillon to sit too. The latter, who is retired into the provinces with an English wife, was just then at Paris for a month; Mr. Churchill went to him, and told him that a gentleman in England who was making a collection of portraits of famous people, would be happy to have his, etc. Crébillon was humble, ‘unworthy,’ obliged, and sat. The picture was just finished, when, behold! he sent Mr. Churchill word that he expected to have a copy of the picture given him,—neither more nor less than asking sixteen guineas for sitting! Mr. Churchill answered that he could not tell what he should do, were it his own case; but that it was a limited commission, and he could not possibly lay out double; and was now so near his return that he could not have time to write to England and have an answer. Crébillon said, then he would keep the picture himself—it was excessively like. I am still sentimental enough to flatter myself, that a man who could beg sixteen guineas, will not give them, and so I may still have the picture.”

Walpole died on the 2nd of March, 1797. By command of the Earl of Waldegrave, the contents of Strawberry Hill were sold by auction on the 25th of April, 1842, and the proceeds of the sale, which lasted twenty-four days, amounted to £33,450 11s. 9d.

Mr. Tiffin, in his interesting little book, “Gossip about Portraits,” writes mournfully of the dispersion of this recherché collection: “What a melancholy time to the amateur was that at Strawberry Hill, in 1842, when these treasures were dispersed. In recalling that time when I wandered through these rooms looking listlessly at many objects that to the connoisseur (not only of art but of history) ‘spoke volumes.’ I began faintly to understand the worth of such collections.”

THE SALTMARSHE COLLECTION.

On the 4th, 5th, and 6th of June, 1847, was sold by auction, by Messrs. Christie and Manson, the collection of pictures, the property of Mr. Higginson, of Saltmarshe, Herefordshire. The total amount realized by the three days’ sale, reached the enormous sum of £46,695 3s. At the close of the sale it was remarked that the proceeds of the last day, £35,789 9s. was the greatest sum realized in one day on record. Though the collection was, on the whole, more remarkable for numbers than quality, it contained some good and important works. Mr. Higginson was a gentleman possessed of considerable wealth, and was in his day a rapacious accumulator of pictures. Five of them alone brought upwards of £10,000. On the first day’s sale, a fine example of Constable’s fetched 360 guineas; a Nasmyth, 44 guineas; and “A Country Ale-house,” the old hackneyed subject of George Morland, 95 guineas. On the second day, a sum of 405 guineas was obtained for a Gerhard Dow. On the third, and most important day of the sale, the late Marquis of Hertford gave the grand sum of 1000 guineas for a small female head by Greuze, one of the most distinguished artists of the modern French school. A truly important work of Claude’s fell to the same nobleman for 1400 guineas. A landscape, the joint production of P. De Koning and Lingelbach, was purchased by the late Sir Robert Peel, and we believe has just been sold to the Government by his son, the present Sir Robert. “The Holy Family, with Elizabeth and Saint John,” by Peter Paul Rubens, which was formerly in the Imperial Gallery of Vienna, and afterwards in the possession of M. Delahante, who gave 3000 guineas for it, upwards of thirty years previous to the sale, was knocked down by the auctioneer to the late Marquis of Hertford for the reduced sum of 2360 guineas.

THE STOWE COLLECTION.

The contents of Stowe, the house of the Buckingham and Chandos family, were brought to the hammer on Tuesday, the 15th of August, 1848. For full particulars of the genealogy of this old and noble family, we must, with pleasure, refer our readers to the annotated catalogue of the choicest objects of art and vertu contained in its princely mansion. The editor, Mr. Henry Rumsay Forster, evidently bestowed considerable pains on the work he took in hand; and in his “Historical Notice of Stowe,” after enumerating the visits to it of almost all the crowned heads of civilized Europe, gives some lines written by Mr. Disraeli, M.P., while a guest at Stowe in the year 1840. They are in allusion to a beautiful statuette by Cotterell, of the Duke of Wellington, which His Grace of Buckingham had purchased, and up to the time of the sale had preserved in the library.

“Not only that thy puissant arm could bind

The tyrant of a world, and, conquering Fate,

Enfranchise Europe, do I deem thee great;

But that in all thy actions I do find

Exact propriety: no gusts of mind,

Fitful but wild, but that continuous state

Of ordered impulse mariners await

In some benignant and enriching wind,—

The breath ordained of nature. Thy calm mien

Recalls old Rome, as much as thy high deed;

Duty thine only idol, and serene

When all are troubled: in the utmost need

Prescient; thy country’s servant ever seen,

Yet sovereign of thyself whate’er may speed.”

The mansion was opened for private view on the 3rd of August, 1848. The sale, ever to be remembered amongst collectors, commenced on the 15th of the same month, and terminated on the 7th October following. A sale of forty days! realizing the extraordinary sum of £75,562 4s. 6d. The sale of the library followed, and extended over twenty-four days, and produced £10,355 7s. 6d.

THE BERNAL COLLECTION.

In March and April, 1855, was dispersed by auction the valuable collection made by Mr. Ralph Bernal of articles of rare excellence, and of an age extremely rich in ornamental art, extending from the Byzantine period to that of Louis Seize. The high prices which the several articles brought are to be attributed rather to their artistic character than to their extrinsic value as historic relics. They consisted of Oriental, German, Dresden, Sèvres, Capo di Monte, and Chelsea china; portraits remarkable for their costumes; miniatures; mediæval metal-work and ecclesiastical silver; Limoges, Dresden, and Oriental enamels; carvings in ivory; Faenza and Palissy ware; armour, arms, and stained glass; Venetian and German glass, watches, clocks, and compasses, etc.

Several of the articles brought extraordinary prices. Among the most costly items were: A Sèvres cabinet, £465; a pair of Dresden candelabra, £231; a pair of vases, painted à la Watteau, 95 guineas; King Lothaire’s magic crystal, bought by Mr. Bernal for 10 guineas, and once sold in Paris for 12f., brought 225 guineas; Sir Thomas More’s candlesticks, bought by Mr. Bernal for 12 guineas, were sold for 220 guineas; the celebrated reliquaire of the King’s, 63 guineas; a metal-gilt Moresque dish, £57 15s.; a curious steel lock for a shrine, £32; St. Thomas à Becket’s reliquaire, 27½ guineas; a Limoges enamel portrait of Catherine di Medicis, 400 guineas; a Faenza plate, bought at Stowe for £4, brought £120; a circular Bernard Palissy dish, £162. Among the armour, steel gauntlets, 50 guineas a pair; a warder’s horn, £56; and a Spanish breastplate of russet steel, £155. The first three days the porcelain produced upwards of £6,000; and about 400 lots of Majolica ware, which cost Mr. Bernal 1,000 guineas, in this sale realized upwards of £7,000,—a proof of the skill of Mr. Bernal as a collector; and showing that the purchase of articles of vertu, guided by correct taste and judgment, may prove a very profitable means of investment.

Rarely has the dispersion of any assemblage of works of art realized such high prices as the first portion of Mr. Bernal’s Collection. In neither of the sales of Mr. Beckford at Fonthill, at the Strawberry Hill sale (in 1842), or at that of Stowe (in 1848), were there assembled so many choice articles as in the Bernal Collection. Fonthill, Strawberry Hill, and Stowe included many treasures of historic repute, more valuable for having been possessed by celebrated personages than for their perfection as works of art. Mr. Bernal’s Collection, however, presented higher claims; inasmuch as his judgment was acknowledged over Europe. The entire sale realized £62,680 6s. 5d.

Mr. J. R. Planché, who by request wrote a few introductory lines to the catalogue, thus speaks of his departed friend, with whom he had been associated for thirty years: “Distinguished among English antiquaries by the perfection of his taste, as well as the extent of his knowledge, the difficulty of imposing upon him was increased by the necessity of the fabrication being fine enough in form, colour, or workmanship to rival the masterpiece it simulated; to be, in fact, itself a gem of art, which it would not pay to produce as a relic of antiquity.” Mr. Bernal was for many years a member of parliament, having sat successively for Lincoln, Rochester, and Weymouth, and held the post of Chairman of Committees. In politics he was a supporter of the Grey and Melbourne ministries. He died at his house in Eaton Square, on the 25th of August, 1854.

SALE OF DANIEL O’CONNELLS LIBRARY, PRINTS,
PICTURES, ETC., IN MAY, 1849.

The last day’s sale is thus described by the Freeman’s Journal:—“The auction on Monday concluded the sale of the standard works, and at its close all were disposed of save some few insignificant lots for which no bidders could be found. A large number of miscellaneous works of small value were sold in lots at very trifling prices. One lot, including a number of loose pamphlets and tracts, many of them bearing O’Connell’s autograph and notes, sold for £2. The sales of the preceding day were varied. A number of the Irish and Scottish Art Union prints sold at prices varying from 2s. to 3s. each. A fine proof copy of the well-known print, ‘Cross Purposes,’ brought a guinea. A copy of the now scarce print of ‘Henry Grattan’ fetched (after some spirited bidding) one guinea, Landseer’s ‘Angler’s Daughter’ (engraving), 10s. 6d. ‘The Volunteers in College Green’ was then put up. This engraving, now scarce, was keenly competed for; it brought £1 10s. A paltry landscape painting in oil, ‘The Meeting of the Waters,’ brought 7s. An engraving of Carlo Dolce’s ‘Salvator Mundi’ fetched 6s. A little portrait of that little man, Lord John Russell, was then put up for competition; but, amongst a sale-room full of gentry and citizens, not a solitary bidder was found willing to hazard the risk of even by chance becoming the possessor of this work of art. The accomplished salesman displayed the portrait in every possible light, and solicited an initiatory movement towards setting Lord John a-going, by infinitesimal beginnings in specie; but non eundum erat. It was no use; in vain was the noble lord’s eidolon turned towards each group of by-standers,—in vain did Mr. Jones insinuate ‘Any advance?’ ‘Sixpence for it?’ ‘Eightpence did you say, sir?’ said the indefatigable Mr. Jones (to an old gentleman with a white hat). ‘No, sir, I didn’t; nor fourpence,’ replied the gentleman, angrily. ‘Oh, I beg pardon; well then, fourpence. Any advance?’ Alas! no; not a solitary bidder. Even the Liffey Street picture-brokers looked angrily at this useless and protracted inquiry as to whether there was any advance with regard to Lord John. Finally, the lot was withdrawn. The next lot was a small and handsomely framed portrait in oils of O’Connell. It seemed a tolerably clever copy of the well-known medium size engraving of the original. This picture was put up at a low figure, but was warmly competed for, and was knocked down at £1 10s. A large oil painting of the ‘Madonna and Child,’ not of very high merit, sold for £1. Two engravings, large size,—one, ‘The Trial of Charles I.,’ the other, ‘The Trial of Lord Strafford’—sold at 30s. each. Several other pictures, engravings, and statuettes were sold at very low prices. A splendid Norman steel cross-bow, with appurtenances complete, sold for £1 8s. The sales closed with some miscellaneous articles, none of which brought beyond average prices. The library, altogether, was certainly not such, either in the number of the volumes or their description, as might be supposed to form the collection of O’Connell; and as to the prices obtained, they were, as we have before remarked, not beyond the intrinsic value of each lot, apart from all associations connected with them.”

HOLBEIN.

Holbein, the painter, once engaged with his landlord to paint the outside of his house. The landlord found that the painter left his work very frequently to amuse himself elsewhere, and determined to keep a constant eye upon him. Holbein, anxious to get rid of his suspicious taskmaster, ingeniously contrived to absent himself at the very time when the landlord fancied he was quietly seated on the scaffold, by painting two legs apparently descending from his seat; and which so completely deceived the man, that he never thought of ascertaining whether the rest of the body was in its place.

PALLADIO (ANDREW).

Andrew Palladio, the celebrated architect, was born in 1518, at Vicenza, in Lombardy. He learnt the principles of his art from Trissino; after which he studied at Rome, and on his return to Lombardy constructed a number of noble edifices. He was employed in various parts of Italy, particularly at Venice, where he built the palace Foscari. His treatise on Architecture was printed at Venice in 1570, folio; and again at London in 1715, in 3 vols. folio. In 1730, Lord Burlington published some of this architect’s designs, in one volume folio. Palladio used to relate an anecdote of an artist who dedicated the different apartments in a gentleman’s house to several moral virtues, as Chastity, Temperance, and Honesty; so that each guest might be appointed to the room sacred to his favourite virtue. The rich and young widow would be lodged in “Chastity,” the alderman in “Temperance,” and the prime minister in “Honesty,” etc. Palladio died in the year 1580. A monument was erected to his memory at Vicenza, in 1845, the Count G. Velo having bequeathed 100,000 livres for that purpose. It is thus described in The Builder in 1846:—

“The statue of Palladio stands on a pedestal, two storeys in height, with a genius by his side in the act of crowning him. Seated on the first story of the pedestal, against the angles of the upper portion, which is less in size than the lower, are two allegorical figures, one representing Vicenza with a wreath in her left hand, and looking up with pride at the artist; the other Architecture, depicting the history of the art on a scroll, by a representation of a primitive hut, and the Pantheon. Between these two figures on the upper part of the pedestal, is sculptured in bas-relief the baths of Caracalla, to express that it was by the study of the antique monuments that Palladio formed himself.

“At the foot of the whole is a sarcophagus, in imitation of that of Agrippa, containing the remains of the artist.

“The monument stands within an octagon chapel in the new public cemetery of the city, and is the work of M. Fabris, a sculptor of Vicenza. The material is Carrara marble.”

JACQUES CALLOT’S ETCHINGS.

“Etching is the writing by which the artist conveys his thoughts. With etching he can allow himself every liberty of touch and fantasy. Etching does not freeze his inspiration by its slow progress: it has all the qualities of a steed at full gallop. Callot, who was so varied, so original, so capricious, so fertile, and so ready, is the greatest master of the art of etching.

“The works of Callot consist of nearly sixteen hundred plates, including those of Israel. We must pass with the rapidity of a bird upon the wing almost all his small religious subjects. Callot, without fantasy, is not himself; it is plain that he grows tired with works where patience is required. The subjects in which he revels in all the luxury, in all the splendour, in all the originality, of his talent, are ‘The Temptation of Saint Anthony,’ ‘The Fair della Madonna Imprunetta,’ ‘The Tortures,’ ‘The Massacre of the Innocents,’ ‘The Misfortunes and Horrors of War,’ and tatterdemalions of every form and every kind, from the hectoring bully to the beggar enveloped in his rags.

“He etched with marvellous facility, having finished on more than one occasion a plate in a single day. His magic hand, and his imagination so rich and so quick, often accomplished a feat of this description in playing, as it were. It often happened,—as, for instance, in his ‘Livre des Caprices’ (Book of Caprices), and in his fantastic and grotesque works,—to let his hand follow its own course. While chatting with his friends, he would give utterance to some joke at the same time that he made a stroke, and was himself lost in wonder at having produced a figure. His graver, too, was so fertile in resources, that in all his numerous creations he never repeated himself. He was, however, an artist who treated his art seriously, and who studied incessantly, full of his task, and fond of the glimmer of the midnight lamp. He had the passion of creating tatterdemalions, bullies, and mountebanks, as other men have the passion of play. Whenever he sat up to work, he used to tell his friends that he was going to pass the night in the bosom of his family.”

Jacques Callot was born 1593, and died March, 1635.—Philosophers and Actresses.

THE FEMALE FACE.

Felibien, an eminent French writer of the early part of the 17th century, thus describes his beau ideal of the female ace:—

“The head should be well rounded, and look rather inclining to small than large. The forehead white, smooth, and open: not with the hair growing down too deep upon it, neither flat nor prominent, but like the head, well rounded, and rather small in proportion than large. The hair either bright, black, or brown; not thin, but full and waving, and if it falls in moderate curls the better; the black is particularly useful for setting off the whiteness of the neck and skin. The eyes black, chestnut, or blue, clear, bright, and lively, and rather large in proportion than small. The eyebrows well divided, rather full than thin; semicircular, and broader in the middle than at the ends, of a neat turn, but not formal. The cheeks should not be wide; they should have a degree of plumpness, with the red and white finely blended together, and should look firm and soft. The ear should be rather small than large, well-folded, and with an agreeable tinge of red. The nose should be placed so as to divide the face into two equal parts, of a moderate size, straight, and well squared; though sometimes a little rising in the nose, which is but just perceivable, may give it a very graceful look. The mouth should be small, and the lips not of equal thickness; they should be well turned, small rather than gross, soft even to the eye, and with a living red in them. A truly pretty mouth is like a red rose-bud that is beginning to blow. The teeth should be middle-sized, white, well-ranged, and even. The chin of a moderate size, white, soft, and agreeably rounded. The skin in general should be white, properly tinged with red, with an apparent softness, and a look of thriving health in it.”

LONDON IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

Sir William Davenant gives a true though ludicrous picture of the habitations of London in his day:—

“Sure,” says the angry critic, “your ancestors contrived your narrow streets in the days of wheelbarrows, before the greater engines, carts, were invented. Is your climate so hot that as you walk you need umbrellas of tiles to intercept the sun? Or are your shambles so empty that you are afraid to take in fresh air, lest it should sharpen your stomachs? Oh, the goodly landscape of Old Fish Street, which, had it not the ill-luck to be crooked, was narrow enough to be your founder’s perspective; and where the garrets (perhaps not for want of architecture, but through abundance of amity) are so made that opposite neighbours may shake hands without stirring from home. Is unanimity of inhabitants in wise cities better expressed than by their coherence and uniformity of buildings, where the street begins, continues, and ends in a like stature and shape? But yours, as if they were raised in a general insurrection, where every man hath a separate design, and differ in all things that can make distinction. There stands one that aims to be a palace, and next another that professes to be a hovel; here a giant, there a dwarf; here slender, there broad; and all most especially different in their faces, size, and bulk. I was about to defy any Londoner who dares pretend there is so much ingenious correspondence in this city, as that he can show me one house like another. Yet your old houses seem to be reverend and formal, being compared to the fantastical works of the moderns, which have more ovals, niches, and angles than are in your custards; and inclosed in pasteboard walls like those of malicious Turks, who, because themselves are not immortal, and cannot for ever dwell where they build, therefore will not be at the charge to provide such lastingness as may entertain their children out of the rain; so slight, so prettily gaudy, that if they could move they would pass for pageants. It is your custom, where men vary after the mode of their habits, to turn the nation fantastical; but where streets continually change fashion you should make haste to chain up the city, for it is certainly mad.”

TARDIF, THE FRENCH CONNOISSEUR.

Among the connoisseurs of pictures who were celebrated in France towards the end of the seventeenth century, we must place in the first rank Tardif, formerly an engineer, but subsequently secretary to the Marshal de Boufflers. He was the friend of Largillière, Watteau, Audran, and, above all, of Gillot. He was renowned for the justness of his criticisms. When a picture was finished, no one dared to deliver his opinion openly on it, until it had undergone Tardif’s inspection; his opinion was, so to say, the last touch of the artist’s brush. Watteau himself, who used to laugh at criticism, once said on laying down his brush before a fête galante, still wet, “That picture is a perfect wonder! If Tardif were here, I would sign it.” Tardif possessed, in the Rue Gît-le-Cœur, one of the first cabinets of pictures in Paris. The Marshal de Boufflers, who knew his secretary’s passion, used every year to make him a present of the work of some celebrated painter as a new year’s gift. Tardif, too, had managed to raise sufficient from his patrimonial fortune to buy pictures from his friends, the living artists, and of his friends the dead ones. His cabinet was so celebrated that the Duke of Orleans went one day to see it with Nocé: this completely turned Tardif’s head. However, if he had only been subject to this noble kind of madness, which is a proof of a sublime aspiration towards the poetry of the beautiful, the worthy creature might have lived comfortably till his death. But he, too, was afflicted with the melancholy madness of money for money; he allowed himself to be fleeced under Law’s system: in other terms, he lost in that great revolution of French fortunes all he possessed, save his pictures.

It was necessary for him to live, however. Any one else would have got rid of his chefs-d’œuvre: Tardif only got rid of his servants. “Go, my friends,” said he; “the world is before you. Go where my money is gone. At present, I can only keep those who do not want to eat; my pictures will keep me company.” Tardif was already old, the passions of life had no more influence upon his heart; all that he needed was a little sunshine in his cabinet for him to live contented. He died in Paris, May, 1728.—Philosophers and Actresses.

PAUL POTTER’S STUDIES OF NATURE.

When Fergusson, the author of the famous treatise on perspective, was asked what copies he had followed in forming his style, he answered, “The examples of great nature;” and added, “I always found nature so powerful, that to copy her was easy.” All who have attained greatness in the practice of art have followed the same course of study, but none more successfully than our own Edwin Landseer, who first learned to draw animals in the fields around Primrose Hill; and Paul Potter, his great prototype, who acquired his first knowledge of art in the bright green meadows of the Low Countries. Of the value set by the latter painter on this mode of study, we have a striking proof in the picture in which he represents himself making his first sketch. This great painter was born in 1625, at Enkhuysen, in the province of Holland. His works, which have become equally rare and valuable, are peculiarly distinguished by the effects of his sun rays upon his landscapes and cattle, in producing which he has distanced all competitors. His paintings are deemed very valuable. For one small picture in the collection of the late Marquis of Westminster, that nobleman gave 9000 guineas. Potter died in 1654.

FIDELITY IN PORTRAIT PAINTING.

It is not always well to paint the whole truth; and although sincerity is extremely praiseworthy, we can scarcely approve the somewhat brutal frankness of an old French artist, who, while taking the portrait of a lady whose face was slightly broken out, took considerable trouble to reproduce all the pimples that he saw before him. “My dear sir,” said the lady, “you are not aware what you are about; you are painting my pimples; they are merely accidental; they make no part of my face.” “Bon, bon, madame,” replied he, “if you hadn’t these you would have others.”

CLAYTON MORDAUNT CRACHERODE.

Clayton Mordaunt Cracherode was born in 1729, took his degree at Oxford in 1753, and though he entered into orders, he never would accept Church preferment, but continued to follow his peculiar taste for antiquities, which an easy competence enabled him to do. His collection of coins and prints was most various and extensive. The whole he bequeathed to the British Museum, of which institution he was a trustee. He is thus described by one intimately acquainted with him:—“Well do I remember his mild, benevolent countenance, his sleek black suit, and his snow-white wig! He was a perfect woman-hater; retraced his steps when, in coming down stairs, he met one of the housemaids, and walked out of the room when a female entered. He was a man of the most regular habits, and of a sedentary disposition. He possessed a fine estate in Hertfordshire, and had never ventured to go so far as to look at it. He often observed that the extent of his journeys had been to Clapham and Richmond. For forty years of his life, when not prevented by indisposition, he daily went to his bookseller and printseller, Elmsley and Paine, and every Saturday he repaired to Mudge’s, to regulate his watch.” He died in 1799.

BARRY’S CONTEMPT FOR PORTRAIT PAINTING.

“Folks,” complained Barry, “come with a sessarara at the knocker of my street door and disturb my repose to ask my price as a limner. ‘I’m not a limb of that fraternity of flatterers,’ I answer; ‘go, get ye gone to the man in Leicester Fields’ [meaning Sir Joshua Reynolds]. Pshaw! the vain coxcombs! what could I see in their vacant countenances worthy of my art? The spalpeens! Such blockhead visages to be transmitted to future generations! O keep me, ye gods, clear from that offence! To be sure, and you’ll not seduce James Barry to prostitute his pencil, palette, and pigments, to such vile purposes!”

BARRY’S ECCENTRICITY.

The eccentricity of Barry is thus spoken of in Daye’s “Essays on Painting:”—“He carries his ideas of independence to such an extravagant length as always to pay for his dinner at whatever table he sits down. A year or two ago he dined with Paul Sandby, and laid down eighteenpence for his dinner, but, on recollection, paid another sixpence, for his additional quantity of grog. This instance is by no means singular. His character may be further illustrated. One evening, at Somerset Place, Peters said, on coming in, ‘How do you do, Mr. Barry? I hope you are well.’ On which he grumbled out, ‘Oh! I don’t believe a word of it.’ With all his oddities, he is, unquestionably, a man of uncommon intellect; every one must be benefited by his conversation, for, as Dr. Wolcot has justly observed, ‘Go where he will, he always leaves a pearl behind him.’”—Barry was born in 1741, and died in 1806.

THE ROYAL PRISONER.

Joseph Goupy, an ingenious artist, was born at Nevers, in France, and painted landscapes much in the style of Salvator Rosa. He was in great favour with Frederic, Prince of Wales, and frequently attended at Leicester House to draw such designs as his Royal Highness chose to dictate. One morning, on his arrival, the prince said, “Come, Goupy, sit down and paint me a picture on such a subject.” But Goupy, perceiving Prince George, afterwards George III., standing as a prisoner behind a chair, took the liberty humbly to represent to his royal patron how impossible it was for him to sit down to execute his commands with spirit, while the Prince was standing, and under his royal displeasure. “Come out then, George,” said the good-natured prince; “Goupy has released you.” When Goupy was eighty-four, and very poor, he had a mad woman to nurse and maintain, who had been the object of his delight when young; he therefore put himself in the King’s way at Kensington, where he lived. One morning the King saw him, and stopped the coach, saying, “How do you do, Goupy?” asking him also if he had sufficient to live upon. “Little enough, indeed,” answered Goupy; “and as I once took your Majesty out of prison, I hope you will not let me go into one.” His Majesty was graciously pleased to order him a guinea a week for the remainder of his life, which, however, was very brief. He died in 1763.

ATHENIAN STUART.

Goupy, the subject of the above anecdote, was in his time considered the most eminent of fan painters. So fashionable was fan painting at that time, that the family of Athenian Stuart placed him as a pupil with that artist, conceiving that by doing so they had made his fortune. Stuart’s genius, however, in a short time soared to the pinnacle of fame by flying to Athens for those inestimable treasures which will immortalize his name, notwithstanding Hogarth’s satire upon the publication of his first volume; for, indeed, we have not now a student who speaks of Stuart without the honourable prefix of “Athenian” to his name.

PRUDHON AND CANOVA.

While residing at Rome, Prudhon found a friend in Canova, his friendship with whom was the most beautiful, the most noble, the most holy event in his life; in it was included everything, even to self-sacrifice. It consoled Prudhon for his misfortunes in love. “There are three men here,” said Canova to him one day, “of whom I am jealous.” “I know and love you alone,” replied Prudhon. “But me alone?” answered Canova; “do you not also love Raffaelle, and Leonardo da Vinci, and Correggio? You pass all your time with them, you listen to them, you confide to them your dreams, you go from one to the other, and you are never tired of admiring what they produce.” And this was true, for Prudhon was indefatigable in his study of these three masters, whom he sometimes called the Graces. But Correggio was the master whom he loved most. If Prudhon had listened to Canova, he would have spent his life at Rome; but in spite of all his friend’s entreaties, he left, though with a promise soon to return. They never beheld each other again, but they were faithful in their friendship: faithful to such a point that they both died at the same time, as if to meet above. Peter Paul Prudhon (named after Rubens) was born in 1758, and died in 1823.

REVOLUTION AN ENEMY TO ART.

On Prudhon’s return to France his mother was dead, and his wife, as usual, was not very conjugal. France had ceased to be a kingdom, and had not yet become a country. It was the year 1789, and the first rumours of the Revolution swept over the land like some wind foretelling the coming storm. It was the hour of exit for the Arts. Prudhon, who was always resigned, showed his resignation in this instance as well. After embracing his wife and children he set out for Paris, believing that at every epoch, even during a revolution, Paris was the best place for a man to succeed. He reached that city with scanty means, and took up his quarters in an hotel which we will dignify by calling it furnished. He intended to lodge there until he could take a studio; but he got nothing to do, and consequently nothing to eat. He could not continue this mode of life very long, and therefore, although proud and very misanthropical, he determined on applying to the celebrated painters of that period. These may almost be summed up as consisting of Greuze, David, and Girodet. He waited upon Greuze, who was from the same province as himself. “Do you possess talent?” said Greuze to him. “Yes,” replied Prudhon naïvely. “All the worse,” continued Greuze. “A family and talent! that is more than you need to die in want. What the deuce have you to do with talent at a period when we no longer have a heaven, nor a devil, nor a king, nor a court, nor poor, nor rich? I, who address you, am, as you know, as good a painter as most men; and yet just look at my ruffles!” On saying this, Greuze, who was a perfect dandy, and excessively fantastic in his dress, showed Prudhon a pair of ragged ruffles. “If you did not possess talent,” he continued, “the evil would not be so great,—you might daub in portraits for the first comer.” “Did I not say that I had a family?” interrupted Prudhon. “I will paint sign-boards if it is necessary. I will turn mechanic as long as it pleases Heaven I shall be one.” True to his word, Prudhon set up a shop. He painted miniatures; he designed headings for letters, for concert tickets, and for bills. He ornamented visiting cards and sweatmeat boxes. “I undertake,” said he with a melancholy smile, “all that appertains to my business.”

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, painted to 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 Roman patrician 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 a right 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 angle au 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 the Polytechnic Journal to 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 most deplorable 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 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!”

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.

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.”

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.

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.”

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.’”

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 Sobiesky, Poniatowsky, Sarbrunsky, Jablonsky, Podebrasky, and many more skys, 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’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.

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 the understanding or memory.”

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 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.

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?’”

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 in paintings.”

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 lost themselves 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 of Richard III., who is known to have handled the pencil. It then became the property of Joseph Taylor, the poet’s Hamlet, 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.

THE FELTON PORTRAIT OF SHAKSPEARE.

The following is the advertisement of the sale of this celebrated portrait, which took place at Christie’s Rooms on the 30th April 1870:—

MESSRS. CHRISTIE, MANSON, & WOODS, respectfully give notice that they will SELL by AUCTION, at their great Rooms, King Street, St. James’s Square, on Saturday, April 30th, at 3 o’clock, the FELTON PORTRAIT of SHAKSPEARE. This celebrated picture forms part of an estate in course of administration under orders of the Court of Chancery. It is generally supposed to be the portrait from which Droeshout engraved his plate, the first portrait published of Shakspeare, and has the reputation of Ben Jonson’s testimony of its resemblance to the immortal bard,—‘This figure, that thou here seest put, it was for gentle Shakspeare cut; wherein the graver had a strife with nature, to out-doo the life: O, could he but have drawn his wit as well in brasse, as he hath hit his face; the print would then surpass all that was ever writ in brasse.’ The picture is painted on wood, life-size, little more than the countenance remaining. On the back is an inscription in old writing, ‘Gu. Shakspeare, 1597.—R. B.’; presumed to be Richard Burbage, a well-known player and artist, contemporary with Shakspeare, and to whom report has always given the honour of painting the only portrait for which Shakspeare sat.”

The picture had but few admirers, and realized only fifty pounds.

PARISIAN CARICATURISTS.

In March, 1851, a singular circumstance occurred in Paris, namely, the conviction and sentencing of Charles Vernier, the caricaturist on the Charivari, to a fine of 100 francs and two months’ imprisonment. His crime was designing a head of the Constitution. M. Léon Faucher and other politicians were shooting arrows at this wonderful mark. The President was handing them the arrows. Underneath was written, “Who upsets it completely shall be my minister.” M. Leopold Pannier, the editor, was condemned to pay 2000 francs fine, and suffer six months’ imprisonment. The passion of the French for political ferment must be extraordinary to require such severity exercised towards the press and the arts, added to an extensive system of espionage, which appears to pervade every society of every grade throughout France. Where “Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity,” are upon every lip, we find French citizens amerced and imprisoned for an offence which in England, monarchical England, is allowed to pass unnoticed. Our caricaturists, had they been in France, would have been pillaged of every farthing, and rotted in a felon’s gaol, for producing merely a tithe of the bold, political hits at royalty, the ministry, and the political events of the French war, during the reigns of George III. and George IV. The most biting caricatures were thrown off by thousands within a stone’s throw of the palace of St. James’s, and wet impressions taken to the King, whose good nature was above making war upon Art, even if his knowledge of the English character, and the experience of many years—from the days of Sir Robert Walpole—had not shown him that disappointment, or even public spleen, is harmlessly dissipated by a laugh and a stinging article from some journal,—the true safety-valve for the expression of public hatred to political partisans or measures.—Almanac of the Fine Arts.

ITALIAN POTTERY AND GLASS-MAKING.

The early celebrity of Italian pottery is attested by the French word for earthenware,—faïence,—which is only a corruption of the name of the Italian town, Faenza; and its flourishing condition in past ages is shown by the works now so eagerly sought for, in which the genius of Italian art is displayed. But the present commercial importance of this branch of industry in Italy does not equal the historical interest that belongs to it. Production is limited, not exceeding the value of 3,200,000 francs in porcelain and earthenware of all kinds; while the value of importations from foreign countries amounts to a somewhat larger sum, One porcelain manufactory, that of Doccia, near Florence, seems to deserve special notice, This establishment, the property of the Marquis Ginovi, is chiefly remarkable for the successful imitations which it produces of old majolica. The total annual value of the articles made in it is estimated at about 320,000 francs. The introduction of the art of glass-making into modern Europe is due to the Venetians, who, until comparatively late times, enjoyed an undisputed superiority in it. They discovered the means of rendering glass colourless by the employment of manganese. They had the monopoly of mirrors, the silvering of which was a secret long kept from other countries, But the mirrors of Venice have now lost their reputation, the manufacturers of this place being unable to produce plates equal in dimensions to those made by their foreign competitors. Glass beads became at an early period an important article of trade with Africa and the East. They are still made in considerable quantities for exportation. Venetian enamels have always been famous, and among the peculiar productions of this place may be reckoned the beautiful composition called Aventurine, the secret of which is said to be in the possession of a single manufacturer. Some articles, such as beads, are made to a certain extent in the city of Venice itself; but the great glass works are to be found at Murano, one of the islands of the lagoon. This little island, which had at one time 30,000 inhabitants, formerly enjoyed a sort of local independence, with distinct laws and institutions. It had a wealthy nobility of its own, whose names were inscribed in a separate golden book. Its privileges have disappeared, its population and riches have declined, but its industrial establishments are still active, and show signs of prosperity. Before the fall of the old Venetian republic, the glassmakers constituted a close corporation with exclusive privileges. The trade was thrown open in 1806 under the government of the then kingdom of Italy, and a period of keen competition and low prices ensued, until the year 1848, when the conditions of the trade were regulated by an agreement among the manufacturers. The number of persons employed in glass-making at Murano and Venice is 5000, of whom one-third are men, and two-thirds women and children. The highest wages are, for men, 12 francs; for women, 1 franc 50 centimes; the lowest for men, 2 francs, and for women, 75 centimes. The annual cost of the substances employed in the manufacture is estimated at between 6,000,000 and 7,000,000 francs, and that of the fuel consumed at 600,000 francs. The gross receipts obtained come to little more than double this aggregate amount. The principal markets for Venetian glass are in France, England, Germany, and, above all, in the East, where there is a constant demand for the beads and other articles known by the denomination of “conterie.” The above facts are taken from the interesting report by Mr. Herries, published in a recently issued series of consular reports.—Pall Mall Gazette.

THE PORTLAND VASE.

The Portland Vase is a beautiful cinerary urn of transparent dark blue glass, found about the middle of the sixteenth century, in a marble sarcophagus near Rome. It was at first deposited in the Barberini Palace at Rome (and hence often called the “Barberini Vase”): it then became (1770) the property, by purchase, of Sir William Hamilton, from whose possession it passed into that of the Duchess of Portland. In 1810, the Duke of Portland, one of the trustees of the British Museum, allowed it to be placed in that institution, retaining his right over it as his own property. In 1845, William Lloyd dashed this valuable relic to pieces with a stone. Owing to the defective state of the law, only a slight punishment could be inflicted; but an act was immediately passed making such an offence punishable with imprisonment for two years; and one, two, or three public or private whippings. The pieces of the fractured vase were carefully gathered up, and afterwards united in a very complete manner, and thus repaired. It still exists in the Museum, but is not shown to the public.

A LOST ART.

The most remarkable Chinese porcelain is the Kiasing, or azure pressed; the secret of its manufacture has been lost, but the specimens which are preserved are of inestimable value. The art was that of tracing figures on the china, which are invisible until the vessel is filled with liquid. The porcelain is of the very thinnest description,—almost as thin as an egg-shell. It is said that the application in tracing these figures is internal, and not by external painting, as in ordinary manufacture; and that after such tracing was made, and when it was perfectly dry, a very thin covering or coating was laid over it of the same paste of which the vessel had been formed, and thus the painting lay between two coatings of chinaware. When the internal coating became sufficiently dry, they oiled it over, and shortly after placed it in a mould and scraped the exterior of the vessel as thin as possible, without penetrating to the painting, and then baked it in the oven. It is evident that if such be the mode that was adopted, it would require the nicest dexterity and patient care, for which the Chinese are remarkable; but, although they constantly endeavour to recover the exact method, their trials have been hitherto unavailing.—Sirr’s “China and the Chinese.”

FANS.

Old English and French fans are both scarce and costly; in 1865 a collection of old French fans, painted by Boucher and Watteau, was sold by Messrs. Foster at prices varying from £6 to £30 each; the set of fourteen fans fetching as much as £195. Recently, three old French fans were sold by Messrs. Christie and Manson for the large sum of 55 guineas.

An Exhibition of Fans on loan took place at the South Kensington Museum in May, 1870, a collection both curious and interesting; the objects of the promoters being to encourage a taste for fans of elegant and artistic designs, and to promote the employment of female artists in their manufacture. Much has been done by Mr. Cole and his able co-adjutors to foster a correct taste, and enable those who follow Art, as a means of livelihood, to obtain true artistic instruction. The number of fans in the collection consisted of over five hundred, many being works of high Art; and it was astonishing to see what little effect time had had on these little frail and perishable articles of luxury.

Her Majesty the Queen, the Empress of the French, the Comtesse de Chambrun, and Lady Wyatt, alone contributed over one hundred and fifty, all of exquisite design and workmanship.

Mr. Samuel Redgrave, in his Introduction to the Catalogue, says, “The present Exhibition is part of the scheme of the Department of Science and Art for the Art Instruction of Women. To promote this object, the Department offered prizes in competition for fans painted by the students in the Female Schools of Art in 1868, and again in 1869.” Her Majesty the Queen, the Baroness Meyer de Rothschild, Lady Cornelia Guest, and the Society of Arts also offered prizes for competition at the International Exhibition of the present year (1871), which have produced many designs of great merit.

The use of the fan has been traced back to very ancient times. They are evidently of Eastern origin, and are absolutely necessary in the East, to temper in some degree the fierce heat of the sun. But from tropical regions they found their way at an early date into Europe, and were in use at Rome at least as early as the second century before Christ, when they are mentioned by Terence in one of his comedies. One of the oldest fans preserved to the present day is that of Theodelinda, a queen of Lombardy, who lived in the latter part of the sixth century. It is preserved at Monza, the ancient capital of the kingdom of Lombardy, and is made of purple vellum, embellished with gold and silver.

The fan has served a variety of purposes besides its natural use of producing a cool breeze. Spanish ladies, who are accustomed to attend bull-fights, carry with them fans containing a programme of the entertainment, and adorned with portraits both of the bulls and the fighters. In Japan they serve many uses, from being a rod in the hands of the schoolmaster, to a receptacle for alms in those of the beggar. The fan has been largely used, too, in religious ceremonies. In the middle ages it was customary to wave a fan over the elements of the Sacrament. Fans of this description were attached to long handles, often elaborately worked in gold and silver. On great occasions, when the Pope is carried in state through the streets of Rome, he is preceded by large fans made of peacock feathers, and said to be copies of ancient fans used in the temple of Jupiter. And in the Greek Church, when a deacon is ordained, a fan is given to him, part of his duty being to keep off flies and other insects from the superior priests when celebrating the Sacrament. The custom is carried out in all parts of Russia, though, as has been observed, the office must, in that climate, be a sinecure, at least for great part of the year.

In the middle ages, fans were made of feathers, and their chief ornamentation was in the handles, which were made of gold, silver, or ivory, and often set with precious stones. The beautiful wife of Rubens is represented in portraiture as carrying in her hand a single feather.

The French have long been famous for their fans, and the manufacture was introduced so early, that a company of fan-workers was established at Paris in the sixteenth century. In 1683, Louis XIV. formed them into a special guild. In his and the two following reigns, fans were of such universal use that no toilet was considered complete without one. They were made of perfumed leather or paper, and decorated by Watteau, Boucher, and other artists, the handle being often elaborately carved and adorned with jewels. At the present day, the making of fans is an important branch of industry at Paris to the extent of £100,000 yearly; one manufacturer employing, it is said, upwards of two thousand hands, some of his fans being most tastefully decorated by the best artists in Paris, the price of a single fan reaching as high a sum as £1000.

The fan was probably introduced into England early in the sixteenth century. Stow indeed says that “masks, muffs, fans, and false hair for women were devised in Italy, and brought to England from France in 1572, that being the year of the Huguenot massacre, and of the supremacy in France of Catherine de Medici and her Italian followers.” Fans were, however, in use at least as early as the reign of Henry VIII., when they were carried by young gentlemen, sometimes on horseback. When ladies walked out, their fans were carried by servants. They consisted of a tuft of feathers set on the end of a handle or stick, and had much the appearance of powder puffs. The most costly were of ostrich feathers, and looking-glasses were often placed in the broad part above the handle, which was elaborately decorated.

The fan was received into great favour by Queen Elizabeth, who, notwithstanding her great ability in managing the affairs of the State, and her haughty and imperious temper, was singularly susceptible to flattery, and bestowed great care on her personal adornment. Many instances are on record of her courtiers trying to ingratiate themselves with her by the present of a fan. Amongst them the great sailor, Sir Francis Drake, gave her a fan of white and red feathers, with a gold handle embellished with pearls and diamonds. Her favourite, the Earl of Leicester, also presented her with a fan. It was made of white feathers with a gold handle set with pearls, emeralds, rubies, and diamonds, and a device of “a lion ramping, with a white bear muzzled at his foot,” in token of his own complete subjection to his royal mistress, his cognizance being a bear. At Elizabeth’s death, her wardrobe was found to contain an immense quantity of clothing and finery of all descriptions, including as many as twenty-seven fans.

In her reign a fan was deemed an essential part of a lady’s dress, and the handle was often made of gold, silver, or ivory, of curious and expensive workmanship. In a comedy written about this time occurs the passage, “She hath a fan, with a short silver handle about the length of a barber’s syringe;” and a little later, in 1649, Sir William Davenant says, in Love and Honour, “All your plate, Vaso, is the silver handle of your own prisoner’s fan.” Shakspeare, too, repeatedly mentions the fan, as, for instance, in the following passage in Romeo and Juliet, the scene of which is in Italy:—

“Nurse.—My fan, Peter.”

“Mercutio.—Prythee, do good Peter, to hide her face, for the fan’s the fairer of the two.”

And again, in the same play, showing the custom of carrying the fan before ladies:—

“Nurse.—Peter, take my fan, and go before.”

Most writers on costume consider that folding-fans, similar to those used in modern times, were introduced into England, probably from France, in the reign of James I. Fan-painting soon became a distinct profession, but we hear little of the folding-fan during the time of the Stuarts. The small feather-fan still kept its place as full-dress, as is shown by a print of the wife of Sir Henry Garway, who was Lord Mayor of London in 1640, She is represented as holding in her hand a fan similar to those used in the reign of Elizabeth.

By the early part of the eighteenth century the fan seems to have become an object of general use, and to have given considerable employment to painters, engravers, and makers. The manufacture, indeed, became so important that in 1709 the company of fan-makers, which is still in existence, was incorporated by letters patent from Queen Anne. The fraternity was governed by a master, two wardens, and twenty assistants; but they have never had either a hall or livery. The age of Queen Anne produced many distinguished writers, both in prose and verse; and, as we might expect, the fan did not escape their observation. It is mentioned both by Addison and Pope, but more particularly by Gay, who published, in 1714, a poem entitled “The Fan,” where he says:—

“The fan shall flutter in all female hands,

And various fashions learn from various lands.

For this shall elephants their ivory shed,

And polished sticks the waving engine spread,

His clouded mail the tortoise shall resign,

And round the rivet pearly circles shine.

On this shall Indians all their art employ,

And with bright colours stain the gaudy toy;

Their paint shall here in wildest fancies flow—

Their dress, their customs, their religion show.

So shall the British fair their minds improve,

And on the fan to distant climates rove.”

Doubtless, the most reasonable deduction to be arrived at is, that the fan has its origin in necessity; and in itself, trivial as it may appear, is perhaps of an importance few would conceive. It is not only an ornament to an élégante for the purpose, it is said, of flirting and coquetry, but serves as an instrument to chastise a lap-dog or a puppy.

From the Spectator of June 27, 1711, it appears that it was no easy matter for a lady to learn the necessary tactics and manœuvres of the fan, which, correctly acquired, no doubt formed one of the “accomplishments” of that age. They are thus described:—“Handle your fan; unfurl your fan; discharge your fan; ground your fan; recover your fan; flutter your fan. By the right observation of these few plain words of command, a woman of a tolerable genius, that will apply herself diligently to her exercise for the space of but one half-year, shall be able to give her fan all the graces that can possibly enter into that modish machine.” Directions are also given for the several evolutions, but the last, “Flutter your fan,” was undoubtedly by far the most important.

Among the many subjects devised for fans about this period is a painted one of Bartholomew Fair, temp. 1721, representing a view of Lee and Harper’s great booth, Faux, the conjuror, etc. They included also subjects from the Beggars’ Opera, and the famous works of Hogarth were called into request for the same purpose. Fans at this time were of such proportions as to give many opportunities to caricaturists and writers to make them the object of their ridicule and wit:—

“Say, Jenny, why that monstrous fan?

What purpose does thy bosom move?

Is it to save us or trepan?

Is it to cure or quicken love?

If worn in pity’s gentle cause,

Beneath, unseen, you mean to lie;

I know a thousand eyes it draws,

Which else, perhaps, had wandered by.”

Mrs. Abington, a celebrated actress, was considered an adept at flirting a fan; and being possessed of the highest refinement of taste in dress, her judgment and opinion were often solicited by ladies of rank.

“Pray, ladies, copy Abington;

Observe the breeding in her air;—

There’s nothing of the actress there.

Assume the fashion, if you can,

And catch the graces of her fan.”

In the Westminster Journal of February 23rd, 1751, a writer proposed a tax on fan mounts, which, he considered, would produce a revenue of £30,000 per annum.

In the following year an advertisement appeared in the Daily Advertiser from employés in the fan trade, thanking the Company of Fanmakers for their efforts to abolish the importation of fans, and their endeavours, by asserting the superiority of home-made fans over those of foreign manufacture, to gain the patronage of the ladies, and the consequent relief of the distressed members of the trade, who, through the extensive imports of foreign-made fans, were prevented from obtaining employment.

In the year 1753 the journeyman fanmakers presented the Dowager Princess of Wales with an elegant fan, which they represented to be far superior to Indian fans. In the same year a correspondent of Sylvanus Urban published complaints of snuff-taking by both sexes at church; the ladies also giving grave offence by the use of the fan mounts which he saw displayed by a row of ladies while kneeling at the Communion Table. Among the subjects were:—“Meeting of Isaac and Rebekah,” “Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife,” “Darby and Joan,” “Vauxhall Gardens,” “The Judgment of Paris,” “Harlequin, Pierrot, and Columbine,” “The Prodigal Son,” scenes from the “Rake’s Progress,” etc.

During the latter part of the last and the beginning of the present century, fans seem to have ceased to be a necessary accompaniment to a lady’s toilet, although they are still to be seen at balls and theatres, and of some utility, perhaps, judging from a print in which a lady and gentleman are represented sitting by each other, the gentleman “fluttering the fan,”—

“The suit obtained, they tread the mazy round;

At length fatigued, a seat’s convenient found.

Harry, assiduous, plies the glittering fan,

And proves himself a very nice young man.”

THE TRIALS OF A PORTRAIT PAINTER.

Who can conceive the troubles attendant upon the daily labour of a face painter? Hoppner once remarked to a young painter, “I’ll tell you what, sir: when you have to paint a portrait, particularly of a woman, make it handsome enough,—your sitter or her friends will find the likeness. Never you forget that.”

An Italian painter, on taking the portrait of a lady, perceived that when he was working at her mouth she was twisting her features in order to render it smaller, and put her lips into the most extreme contraction. “Do not trouble yourself so much, madam,” exclaimed the limner; “for, if you choose, I will draw you without any mouth at all.” It is needless to repeat here all the tales that have been told of the difficulties of a face painter. The following anecdotes will show to what extent of vanity and folly those people are subject who, though wishing to hand down to posterity their own portrait or that of some member of their family, are entirely ignorant of the simplest rules of Art; and, consequently, give considerable trouble and anxiety to the artist. For instance, how often in our exhibitions do we find a portrait painted of a citizen in the dress of a military man, or a naval officer in the costume of a Roman general in a toga, with bare arms! Most must be drawn in the manner of ancient Greece or Rome, instead of their proper habits; the sitter having his head so full of antiquity that everything must be according to the ancient taste.

“The grandest commission,” remarks an artist, “that ever blessed my hopes was a series of family portraits,—father, mother, a daughter just simpering into womanhood, and three as noisy, ugly, wiry-looking lads as any one would wish to hear, and be anxious not to see. All were progressing with great satisfaction to the affectionate family until, in an unlucky moment, I strengthened the shadow under the nose of Mr. Jones. In a moment all was uproar, one and all declaring that ‘Father never takes snuff, because mother thinks it a nasty, filthy habit.’ Out, therefore, came the shadow, and of course in, therefore, went the nose. The only objection made to Mrs. Jones’s ‘likeness’ was, that it did ‘not look at you;’ but how the deuce it ever should I could never find out, for the original was wholly incapable of bringing both eyes to bear upon any given object at one and the same time. The portraits of the juvenile male Joneses were, as their mother fondly expressed herself, ‘the very mottle of them;’ ‘but, sir,’ said she, ‘there is one thing I wish you to alter, I don’t like the eyes at all. I have been married to Jones these twenty years, and, as you see, have been a fruitful wife to him; I have, besides these, two babbies at home, and I do assure you, sir, and Jones knows it, I never had a child born in all our marriage days that had a speck in its eye. Please, sir, to oblige me by putting them out.’ With a groan I submitted, and painting out the lights I had, as I thought, properly introduced into the eyes, sent home the portraits of the young Joneses, every one as blind as a bat. I should not forget, that when I requested to know whether Miss Adeliza would be painted in a high or a low dress, her mother confidentially whispered to me that it was to be a low one, but I must mind and let the portrait be ‘partic’lar modest about the neck,’ as it was for a gentleman.”

Another story which he relates is of a rough, honest-hearted naval captain. “All that I did vastly pleased him, until, when nearly finishing the picture, I had begun to throw an incidental shadow across the lower part of the figure. The gallant gentleman saw in a glass that stood opposite what I was about to do, and rushing from his seat, seized my hand, crying out, ‘Avast there, young gentleman, what are you about? Who the devil ever saw an officer on the quarter-deck with his breeches in that mess? No, no, that won’t do.’ I submitted to my fate, and sent home the portrait with a pair of unpronounceables of unexceptionable whiteness.”

SEDDON’S PICTURE OF “JERUSALEM.”

On the 23rd November, 1856, the gifted young artist, Thomas Seddon, died at Cairo on his way to the Holy Land. He was buried with all due solemnity in the same small cemetery whither he had, two years before, followed the remains of Mr. Nicholson (a traveller whom he accidentally met on his first journey to the East), and which he has touchingly described in a letter written at that time. A marble slab, surmounted by a simple, plain cross, with the following inscription at its foot,

“To me to live is Christ, and to die is gain,”

marks the spot where his remains rest. On the slab itself is engraved,

“THOMAS SEDDON, Artist,

Who died at Cairo, the 23rd of November, 1856.”

To which is added a verse from one of his favourite hymns,

“Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee,

Whose God was thy Ransom, thy Guardian, thy Guide;

He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee,—

And death had no sting, for the Saviour hath died.”

A short time after the melancholy news of his death had arrived in England, some of his artist friends met together at the house of Ford Maddox Brown, Esq., for the purpose of considering what steps they could take to testify their respect for his memory, and their admiration of his works, which they felt deserved some public notice. They afterwards invited the co-operation of other gentlemen who had been acquainted with him and appreciated his efforts, and convened a meeting at the house of W. Holman Hunt, Esq., which was numerously attended. Professor Donaldson, John Ruskin, Esq., and others addressed those present, Mr. Ruskin, remarking, “that the position which Mr. Seddon occupied as an artist appears to deserve some public recognition quite other than could be generally granted to genius, however great, which had been occupied only in previously beaten paths. Mr. Seddon’s works are the first which represent a truly historic landscape art; that is to say, they are the first landscapes uniting perfect artistical skill with topographical accuracy; being directed, with stern self-restraint, to no other purpose than that of giving to persons who cannot travel, trustworthy knowledge of the scenes which ought to be most interesting to them. Whatever degrees of truth may have been attained or attempted by previous artists have been more or less subordinate to pictorial or dramatic effect.” At this meeting a committee was formed, and Mr. W. M. Rossetti appointed honorary secretary, “for the purpose of raising a subscription for the purchase of the oil picture of ‘Jerusalem,’ painted by the late Mr. Thomas Seddon, from his widow, for the sum of four hundred guineas, and to offer it to the National Gallery.”

The efforts of the committee were most successful. The Society of Arts kindly lent their spacious rooms for the exhibition of his works, which were collected for the purpose, and visited by a large number of persons. Mr. Ruskin again came forward, and delivered a most able address on the subject at a conversazione held for the purpose; and the result of these generous efforts was that a sum of nearly £600 was raised by public subscription. With this the committee purchased his picture of “Jerusalem,” as they had proposed, and offered it to the Trustees of the National Gallery, by whom it was accepted; and it is now at the South Kensington Museum. The balance of the subscription, after paying the contingent expenses, was presented to Mrs. Thomas Seddon, as a testimony of the recognition by the public of the merits of her husband.—Memoir and Letters of Thomas Seddon, by his Brother.

We cannot conclude this interesting account of the late Thomas Seddon, without introducing the following eloquent appeal made at the meeting of the Society of Arts already referred to, by that powerful writer on Art, John Ruskin:— “Whether they would further the noble cause of truth in Art, while they gave honour to a good and a great man, and consolation to those who loved him; or whether they would add one more to the victories of oblivion, and suffer this picture, wrought in the stormy desert of Aceldama, which was the last of his labours, to be also the type of their reward: whether they would suffer the thorn and the thistle to choke the seed that he had sown, and the sand of the desert to sweep over his forgotten grave.”

A GREAT PICTURE AND ITS VICISSITUDES.

One of the noblest paintings of the modern school is Lawrence’s “Hamlet Apostrophizing the Skull,” in the churchyard scene, as represented by the famous tragedian, John Kemble. It is a full-length, life-size, and was painted in 1801. Cunningham justly describes it as a work of the highest order,—sad, thoughtful, melancholy; with looks conversing with death and the grave; a perfect image of the great dramatist. About the year 1812, this celebrated picture was exhibited, and for sale, at the European Museum, King Street, St. James’s, London. Mr. Robert Ashby, the engraver, of Lombard Street, on visiting the gallery was surprised to see so fine a specimen of modern art so situated, and inquired of the keeper as to the circumstance which led to its degradation, from whom he learnt that Mr. Maddocks, M.P., had previously purchased it with the intention of placing it as an altar-piece in a church which he had recently erected in a village called Tre Madoc, in Wales; but the bishop of the diocese having expressed his disapproval of its being placed in the church, the purpose of Mr. Maddocks was defeated, and he sent the picture for sale as above. The price demanded was two hundred guineas, which Mr. Ashby agreed to give: at the same time observing that if any other purchaser offered during the time of the gallery remaining open, he would relinquish his right; his motive being solely to prevent the picture being returned unsold. The result was that Mr. Ashby became the purchaser at the price stated, and retained it in his possession for a time; when the artist, Mr. Lawrence (afterwards Sir Thomas) wrote to him (Mr. A.), inquiring whether he would part with the picture, he (Mr. L.) being desirous of obtaining it for the then Marquis of Abercorn, who had designed to place it in the saloon at his seat at Stanmore. Mr. Ashby immediately consented to the re-sale, at the same sum which he had paid, much gratified at the prospect of its being so suitably placed. Here another interruption occurred; the Marquis of Abercorn died, and with him the project of removing the “Hamlet” to Stanmore. From this time it remained in the possession of Mr. Lawrence, until he obtained the patronage of George IV., who displayed his liberality and fine taste by purchasing it for one thousand guineas. William IV., in 1836, presented the painting to the National Gallery, whence it has since been transferred to a distinguished place in the South Kensington Museum.

THE FRESCOES IN THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.

“Mr. Herbert is, we think, the first painter who has divested the sacred legislator of adventitious solemnity and conventional marks of power, and substituted for them the worn countenance and wasted frame of a chief who leads an army through the desert, and confers upon them laws destined to maintain a moral dominion over all the generations of mankind.

“One reason why Mr. Herbert’s picture is so worthy of its fame, is, that the painter never grudged labour or loss upon it. In 1850 he was commissioned to paint nine frescoes in the Peers’ Robing Room at the price of £9000. For several years before he had been earning nearly £2000 a year, yet he was willing to give up nine years to work for about half the sum. When he found that the fresco process was imperfect, he unhesitatingly obliterated his work, and began it anew in the water-glass method. He was to have received £2000 for the ‘Moses,’ but the commission appointed in 1864 recommended that the price should be raised to £5000. The same sum is to be paid to Mr. Maclise for the ‘Death of Nelson,’ and, of course, for the ‘Meeting at La Belle Alliance.’ It is plain that when the thought of decorating the Houses of Parliament with frescoes was first entertained, no great expense was anticipated. Mr. Dyce said he understood that in Munich Professor Schnorr was paid at the rate of £500 a year, which would be equal to £700 in this country, and had to pay his assistants. For this sum Mr. Dyce thought the services of the chief English artists might be commanded, ‘those at least who are engaged in subjects of fancy. The services of those who paint portraits would not be obtained at that sum; but I believe it is taking a high average to state the income of the more respectable artists of this country at £500 a year.’ Accordingly, the first frescoes in the House of Lords were ordered at the rate of £400 for the cartoon, and £400 for the fresco. Mr. Dyce was to paint the ‘Legend of King Arthur’ in the Queen’s Robing Room, and to receive £800 a year for six years. The eight compartments in the Peers’ and Commons’ corridors were to have been painted in oil, and £500 was to have been paid for the first picture, and £450 for each of the remainder. But when frescoes were substituted, the remuneration for each was raised to £600.

“The prices paid are not extravagant, though of course somewhat higher than those paid in Germany. It is well known that King Louis always bought in the cheapest market. Count Raczynski states that Hess received £3700 for his frescoes in the chapel of All Saints, and £5000 for those in the basilica of St. Boniface. For the Nibelungen halls in the Palace, Schnorr, according to the same authority, was paid £2600; for his frescoes from Walther von de Vogelweide in the Queen’s first Ante-chamber, Gassen received £360; Folz for the Burger Room, £460; Kaulbach for the Throne Room, £300, and for the Sleeping Chamber, £666; Hess for the Theocritus Room, £600; and Moriz von Schwind for the Tieck Room, £240. Contrast with these figures the price paid to Kaulbach for his paintings in the New Museum at Berlin—£37,500, with an allowance of £3,750 for materials.”—Edinburgh Review, January, 1866.

THE RIDING MASTER AND THE ELGIN MARBLES.

Shortly after the Elgin Marbles were thrown open to the public indiscriminately, a gentlemanly-looking person was observed to stand in the middle of the gallery on one spot for upwards of an hour, changing his attitude only by turning himself round. At last he left the room, but in the course of two hours he again took his former station, attended by about a dozen young gentlemen; and there to them he made nearly the following observations:—“See, gentlemen, look at the riders all round the room,” alluding to the Friezes; “see how they sit; see with what ease and elegance they ride! I never saw such men in my life; they have no saddles, no stirrups; they must have leaped upon their horses in grand style. You will do well to study the position of these noble fellows; stay here this morning instead of riding with me, and I am sure you will seat yourselves better to-morrow.” I need hardly tell the reader that this person was a riding-master, and that after he had been so astonished at the sculptor’s riders, he brought all his pupils to whom he was that morning to have given lessons at his riding-school.—Smith’s “Nollekens and his Times.”

A HALLOWED SPOT.

I had intended to prolong my route to the western corner of the Green (Kew), but in passing St. Anne’s Chapel, I found the pew-openers engaged in wiping the pews and washing the aisles. I knew that child of genius, Gainsborough, the painter, lay interred here, and, desirous of paying my homage to his grave, I inquired for the spot. As is usual in regard to this class of people, they could give me no information; yet one of them fancied she had heard such a name before. I was therefore obliged to wait while the sexton or clerk was fetched, and in the interim I walked into the chapel. I was in truth well repaid for the time it cost me; for I never saw anything prettier, except Lord le Despencer’s exquisite structure at West Wycombe. As the royal family usually attend here when they reside at Kew, it is superbly fitted up, and the architecture is in the best taste. Several marble monuments of singular beauty adorn the walls, but the record of a man of genius absorbed every attraction of ordinary rank and title. It was a marble slab to the memory of Meyer, the painter, with lines by the poet Hayley.

JEREMIAH MEYER, R.A.,
Painter in Miniature and Enamel to
His Majesty George III.,
Died January 19th, 1789.

Meyer! in thy works the world will ever see

How great the loss of Art in losing thee;

But Love and Sorrow find the words too weak,

Nature’s keen sufferings on thy death to speak;

Through all her duties, what a heart was thine.

In thy cold dust what spirit used to shine;

Fancy, and truth, and gaiety, and zeal,

What most we love in life, and, losing, feel,

Age after age may not one artist yield

Equal to thee, in Painting’s ample field:

And ne’er shall sorrowing Earth to Heaven commend

A fonder parent, or a firmer friend.

William Hayley, 1789.

From hence I strolled into the vestry, when the clerk or sexton’s assistant made his appearance; and on the south side of the churchyard he brought me to the tomb of Gainsborough. “Ah, friend!” said I, “this is a hallowed spot,—here lies one of Britain’s favoured sons, whose genius has assisted in exalting her among the nations of the earth.” “Perhaps it was so,” said the man; “but we know nothing about the people buried, except to keep up their monuments, if the family pay; and, perhaps, sir, you belong to this family; if so, I’ll tell you how much is due.” “Yes, truly, friend,” said I, “I am one of the great family bound to preserve the monument of Gainsborough; but if you take me for one of his relatives, you are mistaken,” “Perhaps, sir, you may be of the family, but were not included in the will, therefore are not obligated.” I could not now avoid looking with scorn at the fellow; but, as the spot claimed better feelings, I gave him a trifle for his trouble, and mildly told him I would not detain him. The monument being a plain one, and making no palpable appeal to vulgar admiration, was disregarded by these people. It did not fall in the way, of the untaught, on this otherwise polite spot, to know that they have among them the remains of the first painter of our national school in fancy-pictures, and one of the first in the classes of landscape and portraits; a man who recommended himself as much by his superiority, as by his genius; as much by the mode in which his genius was developed, as by the perfection of his works; and as much by his amiable private character, as by his eminence in the chief of Fancy’s Arts. The following are the words engraven on the stone:—

THOMAS GAINSBOROUGH, Esq.,
died Aug. 2, 1788.
Also the body of
GAINSBOROUGH DUPONT, Esq.,
who died Jan. 20, 1797,
aged 42 years.
Also, Mrs. MARGARET GAINSBOROUGH,
wife of the above
Thomas Gainsborough, Esq.,
who died Dec. 17, 1798,
in the 72nd year of her age.

A little to the eastward lie the remains of another illustrious son of Art, the modest Zoffany, whose Florence Gallery, portraits of the Royal Family, and other pictures, will always raise him among the highest class of painters. He long resided on this Green, and like Michael Angelo, Titian, and our own West, produced masterpieces at four-score. The words on the monument are—

Sacred to the Memory
of JOHN ZOFFANY, R.A.,
who died Nov. 11, 1810,
aged 87 years.

Abridged from Sir R. Phillips’s “London to Kew.”

Field & Tuer,
50, Leadenhall Street,
London, E.C.