Chapter IV: Part 4

Queen Elizabeth was a bitter persecutor of art; she ordered all sacred pictures in the churches to be utterly destroyed, and the walls to be white-washed, so that no memorial of them might remain. In her reign, it became fashionable to sally forth and knock pictures and images to pieces. Flaxman says, “The commands for destroying sacred paintings and sculpture prevented the artist from suffering his mind to rise to the contemplation or execution of any sublime effort, as he dreaded a prison or a stake, and reduced him to the lowest drudgery in his profession. This extraordinary check to our national art occurred at a time which offered the most essential and extraordinary assistance to its progress.” Flaxman proceeds to remark, “the civil wars completed what fanaticism had begun, and English art was so completely extinguished that foreign artists were always employed for public or private undertakings.”

Charles I. was a great lover and patron of the fine arts, and during his reign they made rapid advances in England; but the blind zeal of the Puritans dispersed his splendid gallery, and destroyed almost every vestige of art. In the Journal of the House, July 23d, 1645, it is “Ordered, that all pictures having the second person of the Trinity, be burnt.” Walpole relates that “one Blessie was hired at half-a-crown a day to break the painted windows in Croydon church.” One _Dowsing_ was employed from June 9th, 1642, to October 4th, 1644, in this _holy_ business, and by calculation it is found that he and his agents had destroyed about 4660 pictures, evidently not all glass, because when they were glass he so specified them.

“The result of this continued persecution,” says Haydon, “was the ruin of high art, for the people had not taste enough to feel any sympathy for it independently of religion, and every man who has pursued it since, who had not a private fortune, and was not supported by a pension, like West, became infallibly ruined.”

PAINTINGS EVANESCENT.

“Few works are more evanescent than paintings. Sculpture retains its freshness for twenty centuries. The Apollo and the Venus are as they were. But books are perhaps the only productions of man coeval with the human race. Sophocles and Shakspeare can be produced and reproduced forever. But how evanescent are paintings, and must necessarily be! Those of Zeuxis and Apelles are no more, and perhaps they have the same relation to Homer and Æschylus, that those of Raffaelle and Guido have to Dante and Petrarch.

“There is however, one refuge from the despondency of this contemplation. The material part, indeed, of their works must perish, but they survive in the mind of man, and the remembrances of them are transmitted from generation to generation. The poet embodies them in his creations, and the systems of philosophers are modeled to gentleness by their contemplation; opinion, that legislator, is infected with their influence; men become better and wiser; and the unseen seeds are perhaps thus sown which shall produce a plant more excellent than that from which they fell.”--_Shelley._

There is at least another _refuge_. Paintings are now rendered as permanent as books by engraving, or statuary, by mosaics. In the time of Pliny, there were Greek paintings in Rome 600 years old. There is a painting at Florence dated 886. It is also to be hoped that christianity and civilization have made such advances, that no more Goths, Vandals, Turks, and fanatics, will take pleasure in demolishing works of art as in ages past.

THE ENGLISH NATIONAL GALLERY.

“A fine gallery of pictures is a sort of illustration of Berkeley’s theory of matter and spirit. It is like a palace of thought--another universe, built of air, of shadows, of colors. Everything seems palpable to feeling as to sight: substances turn to shadows by the arch-chemic touch; shadows harden into substances; ‘the eye is made the fool of the other senses, or else worth all the rest.’ The material is in some sense embodied in the immaterial, or at least we see all things in a sort of intellectual mirror. The world of art is an enchanting deception. We discover distance in a glazed surface; a province is contained in a foot of canvass; a thin evanescent tint gives the form and pressure of rocks and trees; an inert shape has life and motion in it. Time stands still, and the dead reappear by means of this so potent art!

“What hues (those of nature mellowed by time) breathe around, as we enter! What forms are there woven into the memory! What looks, which only the answering looks of the spectator can express! What intellectual stores have been yearly poured forth from the shrine of ancient art! The works are various, but the names the same; heaps of Rembrandts frowning from their darkened walls--Rubens’ glad gorgeous groups--Titian’s more rich and rare--Claude always exquisite, sometimes beyond compare--Guido’s endless cloying sweetness--the learning of Poussin and the Caracci--and Raphael’s princely magnificence, crowning all. We read certain letters and syllables in the catalogue, and at the well-known magic sound a miracle of skill and beauty starts to view.

“Pictures are a set of chosen images, a stream of pleasant thoughts passing through the mind. It is a luxury to have the walls of our rooms hung round with them, and no less so to have such a gallery in the mind,--to con over the relics of ancient art bound up ‘within the book and volume of the brain, unmixed, (if it were possible) with baser matter.’ A life passed among pictures, in the study and love of art, is a happy, noiseless dream: or rather it is to dream and to be awake at the same time, for it has all ‘the sober certainty of waking bliss,’ with the romantic voluptuousness of a visionary and abstracted being. They are the bright consummate essence of things, and he who knows of these delights, ‘to taste and interpose them oft, is not unwise!’”--_Hazlitt._

THE NUDE FIGURE.

“It is difficult to discover any settled rules of propriety in the different modes of dress, as all ages and nations have fluctuated with regard to their notions and fashions in this matter. The Greek statues of the Laocoön, Apollo, Meleager, Hercules; the Fighting and Dying Gladiator, and the Venus de Medicis, though altogether without drapery, yet surely there is nothing in them offensive to modesty, nothing immoral: on the contrary, looking on these figures, the mind of the spectator is taken up with the surprising beauty or sublimity of the personage, his great strength, vigorous and manly character; or those pains and agonies that so feelingly discover themselves throughout the whole work. It is not in showing or concealing the form that modesty or the want of it depends; _that_ rises entirely from the choice and intentions of the artist himself. The Greeks and other great designers came into this practice (of representing the figure undraped) in order to show in its full extent the idea of character they meant to establish. If it was beauty, they show it to you in all the limbs; if strength, the same; and the agonies of the Laocoön are as discernible in his foot as in his face. This pure and naked nature speaks a universal language, which is understood and valued in all times and countries, where the Grecian dress, language, and manners are neither regarded or known. It is worth observing also that many of the fair sex do sometimes betray themselves by their over-delicacy (which is the want of all true delicacy) in this respect. But I am ashamed to be obliged to combat such silly affectations; they are beneath men who have either head or heart; they are unworthy of women who have either education or simplicity of manner; they would disgrace even waiting-maids and sentimental milliners-.”--_Barry._

“There is no more potent antidote to low sensuality than the adoration of beauty. All the higher arts of design are essentially chaste, without respect of the object. They purify the thoughts, as tragedy, according to Aristotle, purifies the passions. Their accidental effects are not worth consideration. There are souls to whom even a vestal is not holy.”--_A. W. von Schlegel._

DIFFERENT SCHOOLS OF PAINTING COMPARED.

“The painters of the Roman school were the best designers, and had more of the antique taste in their works than any of the others, but generally they were not good colorists. Those of Florence were good designers, and had a kind of greatness, but it was not antique. The Venetian and Lombard schools had excellent colorists, and a certain grace, but entirely modern, especially those of Venice; but their drawing was generally incorrect, and their knowledge in history and the antique very little. And the Bolognese school of the Caracci is a sort of composition of the others; even Annibal himself possessed not any part of painting in the perfection which is to be seen in those from whom his manner is composed, though, to make amends, he possessed more parts than perhaps any other master, and all in a very high degree. The works of those of the German school have a dryness and ungraceful stiffness, not unlike what is seen amongst the old Florentines. The Flemings were good colorists, and imitated nature as they conceived it--that is, instead of raising nature, they fell below it, though not so much as the Germans, nor in the same manner. Rubens himself lived and died a Fleming, though he would fain have been an Italian; but his imitators have caricatured his manner--that is, they have been more Rubens in his defects than he himself was, but without his excellencies. The French, excepting some few of them (N. Poussin, Le Sueur, Sebastian Bourdon), as they have not the German stiffness nor the Flemish ungracefulness, neither have they the Italian solidity; and in their airs of heads and manners they are easily distinguished from the antique, how much soever they may have endeavored to imitate it.”--_Richardson._

THE OLD MASTERS.

“The duration and stability of the fame of the old masters of painting is sufficient to evince that it has not been suspended upon the slender thread of fashion and caprice, but bound to the human heart by every chord of sympathetic approbation.”--_Sir J. Reynolds._

PRICES OF GALLERIES.

The prices given for the three great collections of paintings sold in England within the last century, may perhaps not be uninteresting. The Houghton gallery, of two hundred and thirty-two pictures, collected by Sir Robert Walpole, was sold to the Empress Catharine of Russia for £43,500. The Orleans gallery of two hundred and ninety-six pictures was sold in London, in 1798, for £43,555; and the Angerstein collection of thirty-eight pictures was bought by the British government, in 1823, for £57,000. This last purchase was the commencement of the English National Gallery.

LOVE MAKES A PAINTER.

Quintin Matsys, called the Blacksmith of Antwerp, was bred up to the trade of a blacksmith or farrier, which business he followed till he was twenty years of age, when, according to Lampsonius, his love for a blue-eyed lass, whose cruel father, an artist, refused her hand to any one but a painter, caused him to abandon his devotion to Vulcan, and inspired him with the ambition to become a worshipper at the shrine of the Muses. He possessed uncommon talents and genius, applied himself with great assiduity, and in a short time produced pictures that gave promise of the highest excellence, and gained him the fair hand for which he sighed. The inscription on the monument erected to his memory in the Cathedral of Notre Dame, at Antwerp, records in a few expressive words the singular story of his life:

“_Connubialis amor de Mulcibre fecit Apellem._”

JOHN WESLEY JARVIS.

Jarvis, though a wayward and eccentric man, unfortunately for himself and the world too much given to strong potations, was “a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy,” whose “gambols, songs, and flashes of merriment were wont to set the table on a roar.” He was a merry wag, and an inimitable story-teller and mimic. Some of his stories were dramatized by Dunlap, Hackett, and Matthews, the best of which is the laughable farce of Monsieur Mallet. Dunlap says, “Another story which Matthews dressed up for John Bull, originated with Jarvis. From a friend I have what I suppose to be the original scene. My friend was passing the painter’s room, when he suddenly threw up the window, and called him in, saying, ‘I have something for your criticism, that you will be pleased with.’ He entered, expecting to see a picture, or some other specimen of the fine arts, but nothing of the kind was produced--he was, however, introduced with a great deal of ceremony, to Monsieur B----, ‘celebrated for his accurate knowledge of the English language, and intimate critical acquaintance with its poetry--particularly Shakspeare.’ Mr. A----, as I shall call my friend, began to understand Jarvis’ object in calling him in. After a little preliminary conversation, Jarvis said, ‘I hope, Monsieur B----, you still retain your love of the drama?’ ‘O certainly, sir, wid my life I renounce it.’ ‘Mr. A----, did you ever hear Monsieur recite?’ ‘Never.’ ‘Your recitations from Racine, Monsieur B----, will you oblige us?’

“The polite and vain Frenchman was easily prevailed upon to roll out several long speeches, from Racine and Corneille, with much gesticulation and many a well-rounded _R_. This was only to introduce the main subject of entertainment. ‘Monsieur B---- is not only remarkable, as you hear, for his very extraordinary recitations from the poets of his native land, but for his perfect conquest over the difficulties of the English language, in the most difficult of all our poets--Shakspeare. He has studied Hamlet and Macbeth thoroughly--and if he would oblige us--do, ‘Monsieur B----, do give us, “To be, or not to be.”’ ‘Sur, the language is too difficult--I make great efforts to be sure, but still the foreigner is to be detected.’ This gentleman’s peculiarities were in extreme precision and double efforts with the _th_ and the other shibboleths of English. The unsuspecting and vain man is soon induced to give Hamlet’s soliloquy, the _th_ forced out as from a pop-gun, and some of the words irresistibly comic. ‘But, Monsieur B----, you are particularly great in Macbeth--_that_ “if it were done, when it is done,” and “peep through the blanket,”--come, let us have Macbeth.’ Then followed Macbeth’s soliloquies in the same style. All this was ludicrous enough, but upon this foundation Jarvis raised a superstructure, which he carried as high as the zest with which it was received by his companions, his own feelings, or other circumstances prompted or warranted. The unfortunate Monsieur B---- was imitated and caricatured with most laugh-provoking effect; but to add to the treat, he was made not only to recite, but to comment and criticise. ‘If it were done,’ ‘peep through the blanket,’ and, ‘catch with the sursease, success,’ gave a rich field for the imaginary critic’s commentaries--then he would expose, and overthrow Voltaire’s criticisms, and give as examples of the true sublime in tragedy, the scene of the witches in Macbeth.

“‘Huen shall we thtree meet aggen?’ but, ‘mounched, and mounched, and mounched,’ was a delicious feast for the critic--and ‘rrump fed rronion,’ gave an opportunity to show that the English witch was a true John Bull, and fed upon the ‘rrump of the beef,’ ‘thither in a sieve I’ll sail and like a rat without a tail, I’ll do--I’ll do--I’ll do,’ being recited in burlesque imitation, gives an opportunity for comment and criticism, something in this manner. ‘You see not only how true to nature, but to the science of navigation all this is. If the rat had a tail, he could steer the sieve as the sailor steer his ship by the rudder; but if he have no tail, he cannot command the navigation, that is, the course of the sieve; and it will run round--and round--and round--that is what the witch say--“I’ll do--I’ll do--I’ll do!”’ But how can the humor of the story-teller be represented by the writer--or how can I dispose my reader to receive a story dressed in cold black and white--in formal type--with the same hilarity which attends upon the table, and the warm and warming rosy wine? The reader has perceived the want of these magical auxiliaries in the above.”

Jarvis was equally ludicrous in his readings from Shakspeare, in imitation of the stutterer and lisper. The venerable Dr. C. S. Francis, who was intimately acquainted with the painter, says, “Dr. Syntax never with more avidity sought after the sublime and picturesque, than did Jarvis after the scenes of many-colored life; whether his subject was the author of Common Sense or the notorious Baron von Hoffman. His stories, particularly those connected with his southern tours, abounded in motley scenes and ludicrous occurrences; there was no lacking of hair-breadth escapes, whether the incidents involved the collisions of intellect, or sprung from alligators and rattlesnakes. His humor won the admiration of every hearer, and he is recognized as the master of anecdote. But he deserves to be remembered on other accounts--his corporeal intrepidity and his reckless indifference of consequences. I believe there have been not a few of the faculty who have exercised, with public advantage, their professional duties among us for a series of years, who never became as familiar with the terrific scenes of yellow fever and of malignant cholera as Jarvis did. He seemed to have a singular desire to become personally acquainted with the details connected with such occurrences; and a death-bed scene, with all its appalling circumstances, in a disorder of a formidable character, was sought after by him with the solicitude of the inquirer after fresh news. Nor was this wholly an idle curiosity. Jarvis often freely gave of his limited stores to the indigent, and he listened with a fellow feeling to the recital of the profuse liberality with which that opulent merchant of our city, the late Thomas H. Smith, supplied daily the wants of the afflicted and necessitous sufferer during the pestilence of 1832.

“We are indebted to Jarvis for probably the best, if not the only good drawing of the morbid effects of cholera on the human body while it existed here in 1832. During that season of dismay and danger our professional artists declined visiting the cholera hospitals, and were reluctant to delineate when the subject was brought to them. But it afforded a new topic for the consideration of Jarvis, and perhaps also for the better display of his anatomical attainments, he with promptitude discharged the task. When making a drawing from the lifeless and morbid organs of digestion, to one who inquired if he were not apprehensive of danger while thus employed, he put the interrogatory, ‘Pray what part of the system is affected by the cholera?’ ‘The digestive organs,’ was the reply. ‘Oh no, then,’ said Jarvis, ‘for now you see I am doubly armed--- I am furnished with two sets.’”

THE BIGGEST LIE.

Jarvis resided a long time at Charleston, S. C., where his convivial qualities made him a great favorite. On one occasion, at a large dinner party, after the wine had freely circulated, banishing not only form, but discretion, some one of the company proposed that they should make up a prize to the man who would tell the greatest and most palpable _lie_. It was purposely arranged that Jarvis should speak last. The President began. They

“Spoke of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field.”

Lie followed lie; and as it is easy to heap absurdity upon absurdity, and extravagance on enormous exaggeration; and as easy to excite laughter and command applause, when champaigne has been enthroned in the seat of judgment, each lie was hailed with shouts of approbation and bursts of merriment. One of the company, who sat next to Jarvis, had exceeded all his competitors, and unanimous admiration seemed to ensure him the prize. The _lie_ was so monstrous and palpable, that it was thought wit or ingenuity could not equal it. Still, something was expected from the famous story-teller, and every eye was turned on the painter. He rose, and placing his hand on his breast and making a low bow, gravely said, “Gentlemen, I assure you that I fully and unequivocally believe every word the last speaker has uttered.” A burst of applause followed, and the prize was adjudged to the witty artist.

JARVIS AND BISHOP MOORE.

Jarvis painted the portrait of Bishop Benjamin Moore, who used to relate one of his quick strokes of humor with great glee. The good Bishop, during one of the sittings, introduced the subject of religion, and asked Jarvis some questions as to his belief or practice. The painter, with an arch look, but as if intent upon catching the likeness of the sitter, waved his hand and said, “Turn your face more that way, Bishop, and _shut your mouth_.”

JARVIS AND COMMODORE PERRY.

When Jarvis painted the portrait of Commodore Perry, he wished to infuse into the likeness of the hero the fire which he supposed animated him during the terrible contest on Lake Erie. During two or three sittings he tried in vain to rouse him by his lively conversation; he would soon sink into a reverie; it was evident that his thoughts were far away. The painter now had recourse to artifice. He deliberately laid down his palette and pencils, got up, and seizing a chair, swung it over his head in a menacing manner. This strange conduct instantly brought Perry to his feet, his eyes flashing fire, and every feature lit up with the desired expression. “There, that will do,” said the painter; “please sit just as you are.” The result was the admirable picture which now adorns our City Hall, representing the hero standing in his boat, with his flag in one arm, triumphantly waving his sword, as he left the dismantled St. Lawrence for the Niagara, to renew the contest, resolved to conquer or die.

JARVIS AND THE PHILOSOPHER.

Jarvis was a great wag as well as an inimitable story-teller. Whenever he met with an eccentric genius, he delighted to make him indulge in strong potations, and then engage him on his favorite hobby. On one such occasion, a gentleman who had a smattering of Zoology, declared it as his opinion, that it was possible to change the nature of animals; for instance, that by cutting off the end of dogs’ or monkeys’ tails for a few generations, they would become tailless. “That is capital logic,” said Jarvis, “I wonder that the Jews have now any _tails_!” The philosopher shot out of the room amidst shouts of laughter.

JARVIS AND DR. MITCHELL.

Jarvis could not forbear to crack a joke on the learned Dr. Mitchell, whose profundity sometimes led him to analyze cause and effect in a hyper-philosophical manner. “Can you tell,” said he one day to the learned Doctor, who was sitting for his portrait, “why white sheep eat more than black ones?” “But is it a fact?” enquired the Doctor. “Most assuredly,” said the painter, “as every farmer will tell you.” The Doctor then went on to give sundry philosophical reasons why white sheep might require more food than black ones. “Your reasons are excellent--but I think I can give you a better one. In my opinion the reason why white sheep eat more than black ones is, because there are more of them!”

JARVIS’ HABITS.

Jarvis, in his more prosperous days, was always improvident and recklessly extravagant. Dunlap says, “when he went to New Orleans for the first time, (in 1833) he took Henry Inman with him. To use his own words,--‘my purse and my pockets were empty; (when he went to N. O.) I spent $3000 there in six months, and brought $3000 to New York. The next winter I did the same.’ He used to receive six sitters a day. A sitting occupied an hour. The picture was then handed to Inman, who painted upon the background and drapery under the master’s directions. Thus six portraits were finished each week.” His prices at this time were $100 for a head, and $150 for head and hands.

“Mr. Sully once told me,” says Dunlap, “that calling on Jarvis, he was shown into a room, and left to wait some minutes before he entered. He saw a book on the table amidst palette, brushes, tumblers, candlesticks, and other heterogeneous affairs, and on opening it, he found a life of Moreland. When Jarvis came into the room, Sully sat with the book in his hand. ‘Do you know why I like that book?’ said Jarvis. ‘I suppose because it is the life of a painter,’ was the reply. ‘Not merely that,’ rejoined the other, ‘but because I think he was like myself.’” What a commentary! Moreland was a man of genius, and might have shone as a bright star in the history of art, had he not degraded himself by dissipation, almost to a level with the pigs he delighted to paint. The glory of both Stuart and Jarvis is obscured by the same fatal passion. “O that men should put an enemy in their mouths, to steal away their brains! that we should, with joy, revel, pleasure, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts.”

“Jarvis,” says Dunlap, “was fond of notoriety from almost any source, and probably thought it aided him in his profession. His dress was generally unique. His long coat, trimmed with furs like a Russian prince, or a potentate from the north pole, and his two enormous dogs which accompanied him through the streets, and often carried home his market basket, must be remembered by many.”

ROBERT FULTON.

It is not generally known that this celebrated engineer was in his early life a practical painter.--From the age of 17 to 21, he painted portraits and landscapes in Philadelphia. In his 22d year, he went to England to prosecute his studies under West, who received him with great kindness, and was so much pleased with his genius and amiable qualities, that he took him into his own house, as a member of his family. After leaving West, he seems to have made painting his chief employment for a livelihood for several years, though at this time, his mind was occupied with various great projects connected with engineering. In 1797, he went to Paris in prosecution of these projects, and to fill his empty coffers, he projected the first panorama ever exhibited in that city. He was a true lover of art, too, and endeavored to induce the citizens of Philadelphia to get up a subscription to purchase some of West’s choicest pictures, which then could have been bought very cheap, as the commencement of a gallery in that city.

AN EXALTED MIND AND A TRUE PATRIOT.

Robert Fulton, after years of toil, anxiety, and ridicule, thus writes to his friend, Joel Barlow, immediately after his first steam-boat voyage from New York to Albany and back:

“New York, August 2, 1807.

“MY DEAR FRIEND--My steam-boat voyage to Albany and back, has
turned out rather more favorably than I had calculated. The
distance from New York to Albany is 150 miles; I ran it up in
thirty-two hours, and down in thirty hours; the latter is five
miles an hour. I had a light breeze against me the whole way,
goings and coming, so that no use was made of my sails, and the
voyage has been performed wholly by the power of the steam engine.
I overtook many sloops and schooners, beating to windward, and
passed them as if they had been at anchor.

“The power of propelling boats by steam, is now fully proved. The
morning I left New York, there were not, perhaps, thirty persons,
who believed that the boat would move one mile an hour, or be of
the least utility; and while we were putting off from the wharf,
which was crowded with spectators, I heard a number of sarcastic
remarks. This is the way, you know, in which ignorant men
compliment what they call philosophers and projectors.

“Having employed much time, money, and zeal, in accomplishing this
work, it gives me, as it will you, great pleasure, to see it so
fully answer my expectations. It will give a quick and cheap
conveyance to merchandize on the Mississippi, Missouri, and other
great rivers, which are now laying open their treasures to the
enterprise of our countrymen. Although the prospect of personal
emolument has been some inducement to me, yet I feel infinitely
more pleasure in reflecting on the immense advantages my country
will derive from the invention.”

GILBERT CHARLES STUART.

This preëminent portrait painter was born at Narragansett, Rhode Island, in 1756. He received his first instruction from a Scotch painter at Newport, named Alexander, who was so much pleased with his talents and lively disposition, that he took him with him on his return to Scotland. His friend dying soon after, the youth found himself pennyless in a strange country, but undismayed, he resolved to return home, and found himself obliged to work his passage before the mast. He had already made considerable progress in art, and on his return commenced portrait painting, although without meeting much encouragement. He was in Boston at the time of the Battle of Lexington, but immediately left that city and went to New York, where he painted the portrait of his grandmother from memory, though she had been dead about ten years, which is said to have been a capital likeness, and gained him some business. About this time he painted his own portrait, the only one he ever took of himself, to the excellence of which his friend Dr. Waterhouse bears ample testimony. He says, “it was painted in his freest manner, and with a Rubens’ hat,” and in another place, that “Stuart in his best days, said he need not be ashamed of it.”

STUART GOES TO LONDON.

Not meeting with any adequate encouragement, and the country being in a deplorable state, in the midst of the Revolution, Stuart set sail for London in 1778, at the age of twenty-two, to try his fortunes in that city. He was a wayward and eccentric genius, proud as Lucifer withal; and on his arrival in that metropolis, he found himself full of poverty, enthusiasm, and hope,--often a painter’s only capital. He expected to have found Waterhouse, who would have helped him with his advice, and purse if necessary, but he had gone to Edinburg. Instead of going directly to West, as he should have done, he wandered about the “dreary solitude” of London, as Johnson used to characterize the busy hum of that crowded city to the poverty-stricken sons of genius, till he had expended his last dollar.

STUART AN ORGANIST.

Stuart had a great taste for music, which he had cultivated, and was an accomplished musician. One day, as he was passing a church in Foster-Lane, hearing the sound of an organ, he stepped in, and ascertaining that the vestry were testing the candidates for the post of organist, he asked if he might try. Being told that he could, he did so, and succeeded in getting the place, with a salary of thirty guineas a year!

STUART’S INTRODUCTION TO WEST.

During all this time, for some unknown reason, Stuart never sought the acquaintance of West, but the moment that excellent man heard of the young painter and his circumstances, he immediately sent a messenger to him with money to relieve his necessities, and invited him to call at his studio. “Such was Stuart’s first introduction,” says Dunlap, “to the man from whose instruction he derived the most important advantages from that time forward; whose character he always justly appreciated, but whose example he could not, or would not follow.” Stuart himself says, “On application to West to receive me as a pupil, I was welcomed with true benevolence, encouraged and taken into the family, and nothing could exceed the attentions of the great artist to me--they were paternal.” He was twenty-four years old when he entered the studio of West. Before he left the roof of his benefactor and teacher, he painted a full-length portrait of him, which elicited general admiration. It was exhibited at the Royal Academy, and the young painter paid frequent visits to the exhibition rooms. It happened that one day, as he stood near the picture, surrounded by artists and students (for he had fine wit, and was an inimitable story-teller), West came in and joined the group. He praised the picture, and addressing himself to his pupil, said, “you have done well, Stuart, very well; now all you have to do is to go home and do better.” Stuart always expressed the obligations he was under to that distinguished artist. When West saw that he was fitted for the field, prepared for and capable of contending with the best portrait painters, he advised him to commence his professional career, and pointed out to him the way to fame and fortune. But Stuart did not follow this wise counsel, preferring to indulge his own wayward fancy. He had a noble, generous, and disinterested heart, but he was eccentric, improvident, and extravagant, and consequently he was always in necessitous circumstances.

STUART AND WEST.

“I used often to provoke my good old master,” said Stuart to Dunlap, “though, heaven knows, without intending it. You remember the color closet at the bottom of his painting-room. One day, Trumbull and I came into his room, and little suspecting that he was within hearing, I began to lecture on his pictures, and particularly upon one then on his easel. I was a giddy, foolish fellow then. He had begun a portrait of a child, and he had a way of making curly hair by a flourish of his brush, thus, like a figure of three. “Here, Trumbull,” said I, “do you want to learn how to paint hair? There it is, my boy! Our master figures out a head of hair like a sum in arithmetic. Let us see--we may tell how many guineas he is to have for this head by simple addition,--three and three make six, and three are nine, and three are twelve--” How much the sum would have amounted to, I can’t tell, for just then in stalked the master, with palette-knife and palette, and put to flight my calculations. “Very well, Mr. Stuart”--he always _mistered_ me when he was angry, as a man’s wife calls him _my dear_, when she wishes him to the d----l,--“Very well, Mr. Stuart! very well indeed!” You may believe that I looked foolish enough, and he gave me a pretty sharp lecture, without my making any reply. But when the head was finished, there were no _figures of three in the hair_.”

“Mr. West,” says Stuart, “treated me very cavalierly on one occasion: but I had my revenge. My old master, who was always called upon to paint a portrait of his majesty for every governor-general sent out to India, received an order for one for Lord ----. He was busily employed upon one of his _ten-acre_ pictures, in company with prophets and apostles, and thought he could turn over the king to me. He could never paint a portrait.

“‘Stuart,’ said he, ‘it is a pity to make his majesty sit again for his picture; there is the portrait of him that you painted; let me have it for Lord ----. I will retouch it, and it will do well enough.’ ‘_Well enough!_ very pretty,’ thought I; ‘you might be civil, when you ask a favor.’ So I _thought_; but I _said_, ‘Very well, sir.’ So the picture was carried down to his room, and at it he went. I saw he was puzzled. He worked at it all that day. The next morning, ‘Stuart,’ says he, ‘have you got your palette set?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Well, you can soon set another; let me have it; I can’t satisfy myself with that head.’

“I gave him my palette, and he worked the greater part of that day. In the afternoon I went into his room, and he was hard at it. I saw that he had got up to the knees in mud. ‘Stuart,’ says he, ‘I don’t know how it is, but you have a way of managing your tints unlike everybody else. Here, take the palette, and finish the head.’ ‘I can’t, sir,’ ‘You can’t?’ ‘I can’t indeed, sir, as it is; but let it stand till to-morrow morning and get dry, and I will go over it with all my heart.’ The picture was to go away the day after the morrow; so he made me promise to do it early next morning.

He never came down into the painting room until about ten o’clock, I went into his room bright and early, and by half past nine I had finished the head. That done, _Rafe_ (Raphael West, the master’s son) and I began to fence; I with my maul-stick, and he with his father’s. I had just driven Rafe up to the wall, with his back to one of his father’s best pictures, when the old gentleman, as neat as a lad of wax, with his hair powdered, his white silk stockings and yellow morocco slippers, popped into the room, looking as if he had stepped out of a band-box. We had made so much noise that we did not hear him come down the gallery, or open the door. ‘There, you dog,’ says I to Rafe, ‘there I have you, and nothing but your back-ground _relieves_ you.’

“The old gentleman could not help smiling at my technical joke, but soon, looking very stern, ‘Mr. Stuart,’ says he, ‘is this the way you use me?’ ‘Why! what’s the matter, sir? I have neither hurt the boy nor the background.’ ‘Sir, when you knew I had promised that the picture of his majesty should be finished to-day, ready to be sent away to-morrow, thus to be neglecting me and your promise! How can you answer it to me or to yourself?’

“‘Sir,’ said I, ‘do not condemn me without examining the easel. I have finished the picture: please to look at it.’ He did so, complimented me highly, and I had ample revenge for his, ‘It will do well enough.’”

STUART’S SCHOLARSHIP.

Trumbull, speaking of Stuart as he knew him in London, says, “He was a much better scholar than I had supposed he was. He once undertook to paint my portrait, and I sat every day for a week, and then he left off without finishing it, saying, ‘he could make nothing of my d----d sallow face.’ But during the time, in his conversation, I observed that he had not only read, but remembered what he had read. In speaking of the character of man, he said, ‘Linnæus is right; Plato and Diogenes call man a biped without feathers; that’s a shallow definition. Franklin’s is better--a tool-making animal; but Linnæus’ is the best--homo, animal mendax, rapax, pugnax.’”

STUART’S RULE OF THE PAYMENT OF HALF PRICE AT THE FIRST SITTING.

Stuart thus explains how he came to adopt a custom, which, when practicable, commends itself to others. “Lord St. Vincent, the Duke of Northumberland, and Colonel Barre, came unexpectedly into my room, one morning after my setting up an independent easel, and explained the object of their visit. They understood that I was under pecuniary embarrassment, and offered me assistance, which I declined. They then said they would sit for their portraits; of course I was ready to serve them. They then advised that I should make it a rule that half the price must be paid at the first sitting. They insisted on setting the example, and I followed the practice, ever after this delicate mode of their showing their friendship.”

STUART’S POWERS OF PERCEPTION.

Stuart read men’s characters at a glance, and always engaged his sitters on some interesting topic of conversation, and while their features were thus lit up, he transferred them to his canvass, with the magic of his pencil. Hence his portraits are full of animation, truth, and nature. This trait is well illustrated by the following anecdote. Lord Mulgrave employed him to paint his brother, General Phipps, who was going out to India. When the portrait was finished, and the general had sailed, the Earl called for the picture, and on examining it, he seemed disturbed, and said, “This picture looks strange, sir; how is it? I think I see insanity in that face!” “I painted your brother as I saw him,” replied the painter. The first account Lord Mulgrave had of his brother was, that insanity, unknown and unapprehended by any of his friends, had driven him to commit suicide. Washington Allston, in his eulogium on Stuart, says, “The narratives and anecdotes with which his knowledge of men and the world had stored his memory, and which he often gave with great beauty and dramatic effect, were not unfrequently employed by Mr. Stuart in a way, and with an address peculiar to himself. From this store it was his custom to draw largely, while occupied with his sitters, apparently for their amusement; but his object was rather, by thus banishing all restraint, to call forth, if possible, some involuntary traits of natural character. It was this which enabled him to animate his canvass, not with the appearance of mere general life, but with that peculiar, distinctive life which separates the humblest individual from his kind. He seemed to dive into the thoughts of men--for they were made to rise and speak on the surface.”

STUART’S CONVERSATIONAL POWERS.

Dr. Waterhouse relates the following anecdote of Stuart. He was traveling one day in an English stage-coach, with some gentlemen who were all strangers, and at first rather taciturn, but he soon engaged them in the most animated conversation. At length they arrived at their place of destination, and stopped at an inn to dine. “His companions,” says the Doctor, “were very desirous to know _who_ and _what_ he was, for whatever Dr. Franklin may have said a half century ago about the question-asking propensity of his countrymen, I never noticed so much of that kind of traveling curiosity in New England as in Britain. To the round-about inquiries to find out his calling or profession, Stuart answered with a grave face and serious tone,

“‘I sometimes dress gentlemen’s and ladies’ hair’ (at that time, the high craped, pomatumed hair was all the fashion).

“‘You are a hair-dresser, then?’

“‘What,’ said he, ‘do I look like a barber?’

“‘I beg your pardon, sir, but I inferred it from what you said. If I mistook you, I may take the liberty to ask you what you are then?’

“‘Why, I sometimes brush a gentleman’s coat or hat, and sometimes adjust a cravat.’

“‘O, you are a valet, then, to some nobleman?’

“‘A valet! Indeed sir, I am not. I am not a servant. To be sure, I make coats and waistcoats for gentlemen.’

“‘O, you are a tailor?’

“‘A tailor! Do I look like a tailor? I assure you, I never handled a goose, other than a roasted one.’

By this time they were all in a roar.

“‘What are you, then?’ said one.

“‘I’ll tell you,’ said Stuart. ‘Be assured, all I have told you is literally true. I dress hair, brush hats and coats, adjust a cravat, and make coats, waistcoats, and breeches, and likewise boots and shoes, at your service.’

“‘O, ho! a boot and shoemaker after all!’

“Guess again, gentlemen. I never handled boot or shoe, but for my own feet and legs; yet all I told you is true.’

“‘We may as well give up guessing.’

“‘Well then, I will tell you, upon my honor as a gentleman, my _bona fide_ profession. I get my bread by making faces.’

He then screwed his countenance, and twisted the lineaments of his visage in a manner such as Samuel Foote or Charles Matthews might have envied. His companions, after loud peals of laughter, each took credit to himself for having suspected that the gentleman belonged to the theatre, and they all knew he must be a comedian by profession, when, to their utter astonishment, he assured them he was never on the stage, and very rarely saw the inside of a playhouse, or any similar place of amusement. They all now looked at each other in utter amazement. Before parting, Stuart said to his companions,--

“‘Gentlemen, you will find that all I have said of various employments is comprised in these few words: _I am a portrait painter!_ If you will call at John Palmer’s, York Buildings, London, I shall be ready and willing to brush you a coat or hat, dress your hair _a la mode_, supply you, if in need, with a wig of any fashion or dimensions, accommodate you boots or shoes, give you ruffles or cravat, and make faces for you.’”

STUART’S SUCCESS IN EUROPE.

Stanley, in his edition of Bryan’s Dictionary of Painters and Engravers says, “He rose into eminence, and his claims were acknowledged, even in the life time of Sir Joshua Reynolds. His high reputation as a portrait painter, as well in Ireland as in England, introduced him to a large acquaintance among the higher circles of society, and he was in the road of realizing a large fortune, had he not returned to America.”

STUART IN IRELAND.

“The Duke of Rutland,” says Dunlap, who had the story from the artist himself, “invited Stuart to his house in Dublin. Stuart got money enough together somehow to pay his passage to Ireland; but when he got there, he found that the duke had died the day before. If anybody else had gone there, the duke would have been just as sure to live, for something extraordinary must happen to Stuart, of course. He soon got into the debtors’ prison again; but he was a star still. He would not let people give him money. Rich people and nobles _would_ be painted by him, and they had to go to jail to find the painter. There he held his court; flashing equipages of lords and ladies came dashing up to prison, while their exquisite proprietors waited for their first sitting. He began the pictures of a great many nobles and men of wealth and fashion, received half price at the first sitting, and left their Irish lordships imprisoned in effigy. Having thus liberated _himself_, and there being no law that would justify the jailor in holding half-finished peers in prison, the painter fulfilled his engagements, more at his ease, in his own house, and in the bosom of his own family; and it is probable the Irish gentlemen laughed heartily at the trick, and willingly paid the remainder of the price.”

STUART’S RETURN TO AMERICA.

Miss Stuart, the daughter of the painter, says, “he arrived in Dublin in 1788, and notwithstanding the loss of his friendly inviter, he met with great success, painted most of the nobility, and lived in a good deal of splendor. The love of his own country, his admiration of General Washington, and the very great desire he had to paint his portrait, was his _only_ inducement to turn his back on his good fortunes in Europe.” Accordingly, in 1793, he embarked for New York, where he took up his abode for some months, and painted the portraits of Sir John Temple, John Jay, Gen. Clarkson, John R. Murray, Colonel Giles, and other persons of distinction.

STUART AND WASHINGTON.

In 1794, Stuart proceeded to Philadelphia, for the purpose of painting a portrait of Washington, who received him courteously. He used to say that when he entered the room where Washington was, he felt embarrassed, and that it was the first time in his life he had ever felt awed in the presence of a fellowman. Washington was then standing on the highest eminence of earthly glory, and the gaze of the world was steadily fixed upon the man, whom Botta terms “the Father of Freedom.” To leave to posterity a faithful portrait of the Father of his country, had become the most earnest wish of Stuart’s life. This he accomplished, but not at the first time; he was not satisfied with the expression, and destroyed the picture. The President sat again, and he produced that head which embodies not only the features but the soul of Washington, from which he painted all his other portraits of that great man. This picture is now in the Boston Atheneum.

STUART’S LAST PICTURE.

After the removal of Congress to Washington, Stuart followed, and resided there till 1806, when he went to Boston, and passed there the rest of his days. He painted a great many portraits, which are scattered all over the country. The last work he ever painted was a head of the elder John Quincy Adams. He began it a full-length: but he was an old man, and only lived to complete the head, which is considered one of his best likenesses, and shows that the powers of his mind and the magic of his pencil continued brilliant to the last. The picture was finished by that eminent and highly gifted artist, Thomas Sully, who would not touch the head, as he said, “he would have thought it little less than sacrilege.” He died in 1828, in the seventy-fifth year of his age.

STUART’S REPUTATION.

As a painter of heads, Stuart stands almost unrivalled in any age or country; beyond this he made no pretensions, and indeed bestowed very little care or labor. He used to express his contempt for fine finishing of the extremities, or rich and elegant accessories, which he used to say was “work for girls.” Whether these were his real sentiments, or affectation, it is difficult to determine. He was, however, totally deficient in that academic education which is necessary to success in the highest branch of the art--historical painting. He had genius enough to have distinguished himself in any branch, but he could not, or would not, brook the necessary toil.

STUART’S DRAWING.

Stuart never had patience to undergo the drudgery necessary to become a skillful draughtsman. His kind instructor, Mr. West, urged upon him its importance and necessity, and advised him to frequent the Royal Academy for this purpose, which he neglected to do. Trumbull relates that Fuseli, on being shown some of his drawings, observed in his usual sarcastic manner, “young man, if this is the best you can do, you had better go and make shoes.”

STUART A PUNSTER.

Stuart was an inveterate punster. Mr. Allston, calling on him a short time before his death, asked him how he was. “Ah!” said he, drawing up his pantaloons, and showing his emaciated leg, which in his youth had been his pride, “you can judge how much I am _out of drawing_.”

STUART BORN IN A SNUFF-MILL.

Stuart was an inordinate snuff-taker. He used to jocosely apologize for the habit, by saying that “he was born in a snuff-mill,” which was literally true, for his father was a manufacturer of snuff. He said, “a pinch of snuff had a wonderful effect upon a man’s spirits.” An old sea captain once observed to him, “you see, sir, I have always a nostril in reserve. When the right becomes callous after a few weeks’ usage, I apply for comfort to the left, which having had time to regain its sense of feeling, enjoys the _blackguard_ till the right comes to its senses.” “Thank you,” said Stuart, “it’s a great discovery. Strange that I should not have made it myself, when I have been voyaging all my life in these channels.”

STUART’S NOSE.

Stuart always maintained that a likeness depended more on the _nose_, than any other feature, and in proof of his theory, he would put his thumb under his own large and flexible proboscis, and turning it up, exclaim, “who would know my portrait with such a nose as this?” Therefore, he is said to have generally painted a likeness, before _putting in_ the eyes. On one occasion, a pert young coxcomb, who was sitting for his portrait, stole a glance at the canvass and exclaimed, “why, it has no eyes!” Stuart coolly observed, “It is not nine days old yet,” referring of course to the time when a _puppy_ first opens its eyes.

STUART’S SITTERS.

A portrait was once returned to Stuart with the grievous complaint, that the muslin of the cravat was too coarsely executed. Stuart indignantly observed to a friend, “I am determined to glue a piece of muslin of the finest texture on the part that offends their _exquisite_ judgment, and send it back again.” A lady once sat to him dressed in the extreme of fashion, loaded with jewelry and gewgaws, besides an abundance of hair powder and rouge. Stuart, being _hard up_ for cash, consented to “raise a monument to her folly.” After the picture was completed, he observed to a friend, “There is what I have all my life been endeavoring to avoid,--vanity and bad taste.”