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JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET.
MDCCCXXX.








LONDON :
PRINTED BY C. Roworth,
TEMPLE BAR.
BELL YARD,
CONTENTS
OF
VOL. II.
-º-
- PAGE
BENJAMIN WEST . . . . . . . . . . ... 1
JAMES BARRY © tº . 60
WILLIAM BLAKE . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
John OPIE . . . . .
. . . 189
George Montasp . . . . . . 222
Edward BIRD . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251
HENRY FUSELI . . . . . . . . . . . . . 269
*...* The Engraved Heads precede the respective Lives.
*:
*





LIVE S
OF
THE BRITISH PAINTER.S.
BENJAMIN WEST.
THE life of West has been written by the ingenious
author of “Annals of the Parish,” with such mi-
nuteness of research and general accuracy of in-
formation, that little may seem to be left for a new
biographer, but to re-model his narrative, correct
some dates, and add a few anecdotes. Something
more, however, is necessary. He who writes the
biography of any living person, is fettered much
even as to matters of fact—much more in his ex-
pression of feelings and opinions—and not only
was the President alive when Mr. Galt composed
his memoir, but they were intimate friends.
John West, the father of Benjamin, was of that
family settled at Long-Crendon, in Buckingham-
shire, which produced Colonel James West, the
friend and companion in arms of John Hampden.
Upon one occasion, in the course of a conversation
in Buckingham Palace, respecting his picture of
WOL. II. R
2 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
the Institution of the Garter, West happened to
make some allusion to his English descent; when
the Marquis of Buckingham, to the manifest plea-
sure of the late King, declared that the Wests of
Long-Crendon were undoubted descendants of the
Lord Delaware, renowned in the wars of Edward
the Third and the Black Prince, and that the
artist's likeness had therefore a right to a place
amongst those of the nobles and warriors in his
historical picture.
The warlike propensities of this branch of the
race had been long extinguished; in 1667 they had
embraced the peaceful tenets of the Quakers, and
emigrated to America with some other families
desirous of escaping from the contests and distrac-
tions of their native isle. John West remained be-
hind only till his education was completed at the
Quakers' Seminary at Uxbridge: he then followed
his family to Philadelphia—married Sarah Pearson,
(whose grandfather was the confidential friend of
William Penn, and aided him in founding the state
of Pennsylvania)—and settled at Springfield in
that province. One part of the marriage portion
of his wife was a negro slave, an affectionate and
faithful creature; but in his intercourse, as a mer-
chant, with Barbadoes, John West happened to
witness the cruelties to which certain unhappy
Africans were subjected, and—touched in con-
science—the worthy Quaker liberated his bonds-
man and retained him as a hired servant. Others
of the Society of Friends followed his example—
the charitable feeling spread far and wide—it was
privately taught and publicly preached, and finally
established as one of the tenets of that people,

WEST. * 3
that no person could remain a member of their
community who held a human creature in slavery.
When Mrs. West, already the mother of nine
children, was again about to be confined, she went
to hear one Edward Peckover preach in the fields
near her residence. The subject which he chose
was popular with such an audience—the corrupt
and degraded condition of the Old World—the
pure morality and flourishing establishments of
the New. The language of the preacher was ve-
hement and inflammatory. He pictured the licen-
tious manners and atheistical principles of France,
and the love of sordid gain which stained the cha-
racter of England; and declared that the day and
the hour were at hand, when those countries would
be desolated with the tempest of God's vengeance—
the mass of the atheists and money-changers swal-
lowed up—and the terrified remnant compelled to
seek refuge in happy America. The pains of pre-
mature labour came upon Mrs. West during this
terrible sermon—she shrieked out—the women
formed a circle round her, and carried her from
the field; and such was her agitation of mind,
that she had nearly expired before she reached her
own house. She continued dangerously ill for
twelve days, when, on October 10th, 1788, she was
safely delivered of her youngest son, Benjamin.
This made some impression on the mind of John
West, and as the presumption of man generally
interprets such occurrences in his own favour, he
imagined that something more than common was
indicated for the fortunes of the child. Peckover,
glad, no doubt, to find that his wild sermon instead
of rebuke brought praise, warmly supported the
B 2
4. THE BRITISH PAINTER.S.
belief of the credulous Quaker, and desired him to
watch over his son with more than ordinary so-
licitude. “For a child,” said he, “sent into the
world under such remarkable circumstances, will
assuredly prove a wonderful man.” One lucky
prediction establishes the fame of the prophet, but
there are thousands on whose future fame friends
and parents fondly reckoned, in whose favour
“remarkable circumstances” too condescended to
occur, and who remain inglorious in spite of the
StarS. -
From one, thus ushered into life by sermon and
prophecy, much was looked for. Nothing, how-
ever, happened till his seventh year, when little
Benjamin was placed with a fly-flap in his hand to
watch the sleeping infant of his eldest sister, while
his mother gathered flowers in the garden. As
he sat by the cradle, the child smiled in sleep; he
was struck with its beauty, and seeking some
paper, drew its portrait in red and black ink. His
mother returned, and snatching the paper, which
he sought to conceal, exclaimed to her daughter,
“I declare he has made a likeness of little Sally!”
She took him in her arms and kissed him fondly.
The drawing was shown to her husband, the pre-
diction of Peckover recurred to his fancy, and he
expressed his belief that the boy would become
some day very eminent. If he meant as an artist,
how this was to come to pass must have seemed,
however, not so clear: there were neither profes-
sors, paintings, nor prints, amongst the primitives
of Pennsylvania.
Yet West was born amidst circumstances not
unfavourable to the development of his powers.

WEST. 5
The benevolent fraternity of Quakers had that
simplicity of manners, and that serenity of look
which artists love; while around them the nations
of Europe had scattered their children as thick as
the trees of the forest. The gay Frenchman, the
plodding Dutchman, the energetic Englishman,
and the laborious Scot—all were there, each em-
blazoned with the peculiarities, and speaking the
peculiar language of his native soil. The wilder-
ness, too, had its picturesque tribes, who presented
a school of nature for the study of the naked figure;
and it appears that West was early aware of some
of these advantages. -
When he was some eight years old, a party of
roaming Indians paid their summer visit to Spring-
field, and were much pleased with the rude sketches
which the boy had made of birds, and fruits, and
flowers, for in such drawings many of the wild
Americans have both taste and skill. They showed
him some of their own workmanship, and taught
him how to prepare the red and yellow colours
with which they stained their weapons; to these
his mother added indigo, and thus he was pos-
sessed of the three primary colours. The Indians,
unwilling to leave such a boy in ignorance of their
other acquirements, taught him archery, in which
he became expert enough to shoot refractory birds,
which refused to come on milder terms for their
likenesses. The future President of the British
Academy, taking lessons in painting and in archery,
from a tribe of Cherokees, might be a subject
worthy of the pencil.
The wants of West increased with his know-
ledge. He could draw, and he had obtained
6 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
colours, but how to lay those colours skilfully on,
he could not well conceive. A neighbour in-
formed him that this was done with brushes formed
of camels' hair; there were no camels in America,
and he had recourse to the cat, from whose back
and tail he supplied his wants. The cat was a
favourite, and the altered condition of her fur was
imputed to disease, till the boy's confession ex-
plained the cause, much to the amusement of his
father, who nevertheless rebuked him, but more
in affection than in anger. Better help was at
hand. One Pennington, a merchant, was so much
pleased with the sketches of his cousin Benjamin,
that he sent him a box of paints and pencils, with
canvas prepared for the easel, and six engravings
by Grevling. West placed the box on a chair at
his bedside, and was unable to sleep. He rose
with the dawn, carried his canvas and colours to
the garret, hung up the engravings, prepared a
palette, and commenced copying. So completely
was he under the controul of this species of en-
chantment, that he absented himself from school,
laboured secretly and incessantly, and without in-
terruption for several days, when the anxious in-
quiries of the schoolmaster introduced his mother
to his studio, with no pleasure in her looks. But
her anger subsided as she looked upon his per-
formance. He had avoided copyism, and made
a picture composed from two of the engravings,
telling a new story, and coloured with a skill and
effect which was in her sight surprizing. “She
kissed him,” says Galt, who had the story from
the artist, “with transports of affection, and as-
sured him that she would not only intercede with

WEST. 7
*
his father to pardon him for having absented him-
self from school, but would go herself to the mas-
ter and beg that he might not be punished. Sixty-
seven years afterwards the writer of these memoirs
had the gratification to see this piece in the same
room with the sublime painting of Christ Rejected,
on which occasion the painter declared to him that
there were inventive touches of art in his first
and juvenile essay, which, with all his subsequent
knowledge and experience, he had not been able
to surpass.” A similar story is related of Ca-
nova–he visited his native place after having
risen into eminence, looked earnestly on the per-
formances of his youth, and said, sorrowfully, “I
have been malking but not climbing.”
In the ninth year of his age he accompanied his
relative Pennington to Philadelphia, and executed
a view of the banks of the river, which pleased a
painter, by name Williams, at that time residing
there. This man's works—the first specimens
of true art that the boy had seen—affected West
so much that he burst into tears. The artist was
surprized, and declared, like Peckover, that Ben-
jamin would be a remarkable man. “What books
do you read?” said Williams; “ you should read
the lives of great men.” “I read the Bible and
the Testament,” replied West; “and I know the
history of Adam, and Joseph, and Moses, and
David, and Solomon, and the Apostles.” “You
are a fine boy,” said the other, “and ought to be
encouraged. I shall send you two books, which
you will like much.” He sent him, accordingly,
Du Fresnoy and Richardson, with an invitation to
call, whenever he pleased, and see his pictures.

8 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
The books and the pictures made the love of art
overcome all other feelings, and he returned home,
resolved to become a painter. John West was
struck with the growing intelligence and expand-
ing mind of his son; his sketches and drawings
were now openly encouraged, and that he was des-
tined to be a great artist grew more and more the
opinion of the family.
One of his school-fellows allured him on a half-
holiday from trap and ball, by promising him a
ride to a neighbouring plantation. “Here is the
horse, bridled and saddled,” said his friend, “so
come, get up behind me.” “Behind you!” said
Benjamin; “I will ride behind nobody.” “Oh,
very well,” replied the other, “I will ride be-
hind you, so mount.” He mounted accordingly,
and away they rode. “This is the last ride I
shall have,” said his companion, “for some time.
To-morrow I am to be apprenticed to a tailor.”
“A tailor!” exclaimed West; “you will surely
never be a tailor ?” “Indeed but I shall,” replied
the other; “it is a good trade. What do you in-
tend to be, Benjamin’”—“A painter.” “A
painterſ what sort of trade is a painter ? I never
heard of it before.”—“A painter,” said this hum-
ble son of a Philadelphia Quaker, “is the compa-
nion of kings and emperors.” “You are surely
mad,” said the embryo tailor; “there are neither
kings nor emperors in America.”—“Aye, but
there are plenty in other parts of the world.”
“And do you really intend to be a tailor ?”—“In-
deed I do; there is nothing surer.” “Then you
may ride alone,” said the future companion of
kings and emperors, leaping down, “I will not

WEST. w 9
ride with one willing to be a tailor.” This inci-
dent, it is said, together with his skill in drawing,
which now began to be talked of, drove the school-
boys of Springfield to walls and boards, with chalk
and ochre. This was only a temporary enthusiasm,
and soon subsided; yet many of their drawings,
West afterwards said, were worthy of the stu-
dents of a regular academy. Their proficiency,
then, had surpassed his own; for even when at
Rome he was unwilling to show his drawings, con-
sidering them as imperfect and incorrect.
He was often at a loss for the proper materials
of his art; pencils, and colours, and panels were
not then included in the articles of daily demand
in Pennsylvania. A carpenter, whose name is for-
gotten, gave him three broad and beautiful pop-
lar boards, and planed them smoothly; these,
when covered with groupes in ink, chalk, and
charcoal, were purchased for a dollar each by a
neighbour of the name of Wayne; and Dr. Morris
at the same time gave him money to buy panels
and pencils for future compositions. “These
were the first public patrons of the artist,” says
Galt, “and it is at his own request that their
names are thus particularly inserted.”
That a boy who had some skill in painting lived
at Springfield began to be spoken of; and Mr.
Flower, a justice of Chester, looked at his works,
and obtained leave from his parents to take him
for a few weeks to his house. A young English
lady was governess to his daughters; she was well
acquainted with art, and was also intimate with
the Greek and Latin poets, and loved to point out
to the young artist the most picturesque passages.
10 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
He had never before heard of Greece or of Rome,
or of the heroes, philosophers, poets, painters, and
historians, whom they had produced, and he list-
ened, while the lady spoke of them, with an enthu-
siasm which, after an experience of near seventy
years in the world, he loved to live over again.
His residence here introduced him to Ross, a law-
yer of some note, who lived in the neighbouring
town of Lancaster; and Mrs. Ross, who was emi-
nently beautiful, desired to sit to West for her
portrait. The people of Lancaster had taste and
intelligence; they saw him perform his task with
much ability, and came in such crowds to sit to
the boy, that he had some trouble in meeting their
demands. Those citizens were kindly persons,
and easily pleased. A gunsmith of Lancaster, who
had a classical turn, proposed a painting of the
death of Socrates. W. had heard of Socrates,
and forthwith made a sketch which his employer
called clever: but he had now begun to feel his
deficiencies and see his difficulties. “I have
hitherto painted faces,” said West, “ and people
clothed; what am I to do with the slave who pre- .
sents the poison—he ought, I think, to be naked.”
Henry, the gunsmith, went to his shop, and re-
turned with one of his workmen, a handsome man,
and half-naked, saying, “There is your model.”
He introduced him accordingly into the picture—
which excited some attention.
West was now fifteen years old; and though
the school has been more than once spoken of,
his education up to this period had been sadly
neglected: indeed, at no period of his life had he
any claim to be called an educated man. He was

WEST. 11
the first and last President of our Academy who
found spelling a difficulty.
Dr. Smith, a gentleman of considerable classical
attainments, perceived his deficiency, and gene-
rously undertook the part of instructor; but the
Cherokee Indians seem to have been the only pre-
ceptors who went wisely to work with him. This
new master pursued a strange enough method.
“He regarded him,” says Galt, “as destined to
be a painter, and on this account did not impose
upon him those grammatical exercises of language
which are usually required from the young student
of the classics, but directed his attention to those
incidents which were likely to interest his fancy,
and furnish him, at some future period, with sub-
jects for the easel.” This might have done well
with a fairer scholar—with West, if it was desired
that his imagination should catch the life and spirit
of antiquity, he ought to have begun nearer the
beginning. It is needless to expect a strong crop,
when we have only scratched the surface of the
soil.
Whilst picking up those classical crumbs, the
youth was attacked by a fever. Every fresh aspect
of his early life had something in it remarkable and
romantic. When good medicine and good nursing
began to remove his complaint, another adversary
invaded his repose. This was a shadowy illusion,
which, like an image in a dream, was ever unsta-
ble, and changing shape as well as hue. It became
first visible in the form of a white cow, which, en-
tering at one side of the house, walked over his
bed, and vanished. A sow and a litter of pigs
succeeded. His sister thought him delirious, and
12 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
sent for a physician: but his pulse had a recover-
ing beat in it; his skin was moist and cool; his
thirst was gone, and every thing betokened con-
valescence. While the doctor stood puzzled about
a disease which had such healthy symptoms, he
was alarmed by West assuring him that he saw the
figures of several friends passing at that moment
across the roof. Conceiving these to be the pro-
fessional visions of a raving artist, he prescribed
a draught which would have brought sleep to all
the eyes of Argus, and departed. As he went, up
rose West, and discovered that all those visitations
came through a knot hole in the shutters, which
threw into the darkened room whatever forms
were passing along the street at the time. He
called in his sister, showed her the apparitions,
gliding along the ceiling, then laid his hand on
the aperture, and all vanished. On recovering
he made various experiments, which he communi-
cated to Williams; who found it to be what Butler
calls “a new-found old invention.” He produced
a London camera obscura ; and West contented
himself with the praise due to collateral ingenuity.
On returning to Springfield, his future career
became the subject of anxious deliberation. Some
of his best friends were in favour of his making
art his profession; his mother was desirous of dis-
tinction for her youngest child, and the father, in-
fluenced by the prophecy of Peckover, at length
resolved on submitting the matter to the wisdom
of the Society to which he belonged.
The Friends met—and the spirit of speech first
descended on one John Williamson. “To John
West and Sarah Pearson,” said this Western lumi-

WEST., 13
mary, “a man-child hath been born, on whom God
hath conferred some remarkable gifts of mind; and
you have all heard that, by something amounting to
inspiration, the youth has been induced to study the
art of painting. It is true that our tenets refuse to
own the utility of that art to mankind, but it seem-
eth to me that we have considered the matter too
nicely. God has bestowed on this youth a genius
for art, shall we question his wisdom ? Can we
believe that he gives such rare gifts but for a wise
and a good purpose? I see the Divine hand in
this ; we shall do well to sanction the art and en-
courage this youth.” The Quakers, persuaded by
this sagacious enthusiast, or moved by the belief
that the worldly fame which accompanies genius
would shed a new halo on their sect, acknowledged
the boy's powers upon the principle of implicit faith
—gave their unanimous consent, like the “Bre-
thren” in the Alchymist, to have their lead turned
into gold, and forthwith summoned the youth, in
whom so many hopes centered, before them.
He came and took his station in the middle of
the room—his father on his right hand, his mother
on his left, while around him flocked the whole
Quaker community. It was one of the women that
spake first; but the words of Williamson are alone
remembered. “Painting,” said he, “has been
hitherto employed to embellish life, to preserve
voluptuous images, and add to the sensual gratifi-
cations of man. For this we classed it among vain
and merely ornamental things, and excluded it from
amongst us. But this is not the principle, but the
mis-employment of painting. In wise and in pure
hands it rises in the scale of moral excellence, and

.14 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
displays a loftiness of sentiment and a devout dig-
nity worthy of the contemplation of Christians.
I think genius is given by God for some high
purpose. What the purpose is let us not inquire
—it will be manifest in his own good time and
way. He hath in this remote wilderness endowed
with the rich gifts of a superior spirit this youth
who has now our consent to cultivate his talents
for art—may it be demonstrated in his life and
works that the gifts of God have not been be-
stowed in vain, nor the motives of the beneficent
inspiration, which induces us to suspend the strict
operation of our tenets, prove barren of religious
or moral effect!” “At the conclusion of this ad-
dress,” says Galt, “the women rose and kissed
the young artist, and the men one by one laid
their hands on his head.”
That this scene made a strong impression on
the mind of West, we have his own assurance; he
looked upon himself as expressly dedicated to art
—and considered this release from the strict tenets
of his religious community as implying a covenant
on his part to employ his powers on subjects holy
and pure. The grave simplicity of the Quaker
continued to the last in the looks and manners of
the artist, and the moral rectitude and internal
purity of the man were diffused through all his
productions.
Being now left more to the freedom of his own
will, West deviated into a course not at all profes-
sional, but for which the accommodating eloquence
of a John Williamson might have conceived a ready
apology. He became a soldier. The Friends had
not included this among those pure and pious pur-
WEST. 15
suits, which they ascribed to the future painter of
history; they expressed, however, neither surprize
nor sorrow for this backsliding in Benjamin, nor
did they either admonish or remonstrate. He
took up a musket—inspired with his enthusiasm,
young Wayne, afterwards a distinguished officer—
and joining the troops of General Forbes, pro-
ceeded in search of the relics of that gallant army
lost in the desert by the unfortunate General
Braddock.
To West and his companions were added a se-
lect body of Indians; these again were accom-
panied by several officers of the Old Highland
Watch—the well-known forty-second, commanded
by the most anxious person of the whole detach-
ment, Major Sir Peter Halket, who had lost his
father and brother in that unhappy expedition.
Though many months had elapsed since the battle,
and though time, the fowls of the air, the beasts of
the field, and wild men more savage than they, had
done their worst, Halket was not without hopes
of finding the remains of his father and his brother,
as an Indian warrior assured him that he had seen
an elderly officer drop dead beneath a large and
remarkable tree, and a young subaltern, who has-
tened to his aid, fall mortally wounded across the
body. After a long march through the woods,
they approached the fatal valley. They were af-
fected at seeing the bones of men, who, escaping
wounded from invisible enemies, had sunk down
and expired as they leaned against the trees, and
they were shocked to see in other places the re-
liques of their countrymen mingled with the ashes
of savage bivouacks.
16 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
When they reached the principal scene of de-
struction, the Indian guide looked anxiously round,
darted into the wood, and in a few seconds raised
a shrill cry. Halket and West hastened to the
place—the Indian pointed out the tree—a circle
of soldiers was drawn round it, whilst others re-
moved the leaves of the forest which had fallen
since the fight. They found two skeletons—one
lying across the other—Halket looked at the
skulls—said faintly “It is my father ſ” and dropt
senseless in the arms of his companions. On re-
covering, he said “I know who it is by that arti-
ficial tooth.” They dug a grave in the desert,
covered the bones with a Highland plaid, and in-
terred them reverently. This scene, at once pic-
turesque and pious, made a lasting impression on
the artist's mind. After he had painted the Death
of Wolfe, he proposed the finding of the bones of
the Halkets, as an historical subject; and, de-
scribing to Lord Grosvenor the gloomy wood, the
wild Indians, the passionate grief of the son, and
the sympathy of his companions, said he conceived
it would form a picture full of dignity and senti-
ment. His lordship thought otherwise. The sub-
ject which genius chooses for itself, is, however,
in most cases, the best. The sober imagination of
West had here a twofold excitement—he had wit-
nessed the scene, and it was American—and, had
Lord Grosvenor encouraged him to embody his
conception, the result would, I doubt not, have
been a worthy companion to the Death of Wolfe.
West was called from the first and last of his
fields by a messenger announcing the dangerous
illness of his mother. He hastened home and
WEST. - 17
arrived only in time to receive the welcome of
her eyes and her mute blessing. He loved and
honoured her much—and when he was old and
gray, recalled her looks, and dwelt on her expres-
sions of fondness and of hope, with a sadness
which he wished neither to subdue nor conceal.
With the spirit of his mother, the charm seemed
to have departed from his father's house; he sel-
dom spoke of it afterwards, and soon forsook it
for Philadelphia, where he established himself as a
portrait painter in the eighteenth year of his age.
His extreme youth, the peculiar circumstances
of his history, and his undoubted merit, brought
many sitters. His prices were very low—two
guineas and a half for a head, and five guineas
for a half length;-and the money thus labori-
ously earned was treasured prudently—to secure,
at some future day, the means of travel and study.
Young as he was, he had the sagacity to see that
travel influenced the public opinion, and that study,
and long study, was necessary for him if he really
wished to excel. He knew that the master-works
of art were in other lands, and on Rome especially
he had already set his heart. So little, indeed, of
the genius of the Old World had found its way to
the New, that when the accidental capture of a
Spanish vessel had placed a St. Ignatius of the
Murillo school in the gallery of Governor Hamil-
ton, West copied it without being either aware of
its excellence, or even to what style of art it per-
tained. Dr. Smith admired so much the posture
and sentiment of the saint, that he persuaded the
young artist to paint his portrait in the same posi-
tion;–a kind of appropriation which saves time
WOL. II. C
18 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
and invention, and can give little fame. With better
taste he painted the Trial of Susanna, a work which
he loved long after to talk of and describe.
From Philadelphia, after painting the heads of
all who desired it, he went to New York; with
which place he was not at first much delighted.
Eager traffickers from all quarters thronged her
streets and quays, and the young painter was
elbowed into the shade by those

“Who darkly grub this earthly hole
º in low pursuit.”
Now and then, however, a merchant, after a suc-
cessful bargain, sat down in the joy of the moment
for his portrait; and the wandering mariner, who
found markets on the rise, and gains on the in-
crease, hung up his likeness also in the Temple of
Fortune. Though art was not in high honour,
West, nevertheless, found its pursuit profitable;
he raised his price of a half length to ten guineas;
and the spirit of amassing money seemed in a fair
way of making him its own, when a letter from
Smith recalled his thoughts to Italy.
The Italian harvest having failed, a consignment
of wheat and flour was sent from the New World
to the Old, and put under the charge of one of the
Allens of Philadelphia, who offered West a passage
to Leghorn. It happened that a New York mer-
chant, of the name of Kelly, was at that time sit-
ting to West for his portrait, and to this gentleman
the artist spoke of his intended journey, and re-
presented how much he expected a year or two of
study in Rome would improve his skill and taste.
Kelly paid him for his portrait—gave him a letter

WEST. I9
to his agents in Philadelphia, shook him by the
hand, and wished him a good voyage. Ere he
reached his native place, after an absence of eleven
months, all the arrangements for his departure had
been completed by Smith ; and when he presented
the letter of Kelly, he found that it contained an
order from that generous merchant to his agent to
pay him fifty guineas—“ a present to aid in his
equipment for Italy.” The plodding citizens of
New York rose in the painter's estimation at least
fifty per cent. Two merchants in Leghorn, Messrs.
Jackson and Rutherford, received him kindly, and,
with introductory letters to some leading men in
his pocket, he departed for Rome.
West, like most men of any imagination who
visit Rome, was always fond of describing his first
impressions. He had walked on whilst his tra-
velling companion was baiting the horses, and had
reached a rising ground which offered him a view
far and wide. The sun was newly risen, all was
calm and clear, and he saw before him a spacious
champaign bounded by green hills, and in the
midst a wilderness of noble ruins, over which
towered the nobler dome of Saint Peter's. A
broken column at his feet, which served as a mile-
stone, informed him that he was within eight thou-
sand paces of the ancient Mistress of the World,
and a sluggish boor, clad in rough goat skins,
driving his flocks to pasture amidst the ruins of
a temple, told him how far she had fallen. In
the midst of a reverie, in which he was comparing
the treacherous peasants of the Campagna with
the painted barbarians of North America, he en-
C 2
20 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
tered Rome. This was on the 10th of July, 1760,
and in the twenty-second year of his age.
When it was known that a young American had
come to study Raphael and Michael Angelo, some
curiosity was excited among the Roman virtuosi.
The first fortunate exhibiter of this Lion from the
Western wilderness was Lord Grantham; he in-
vited West to dinner, and afterwards carried him
to an evening party, where he found almost all
those persons to whom he had brought letters of
introduction. Amongst the rest was Cardinal Al-
bani, who, though old and blind, had such delicacy
of touch that he was considered supreme in all
matters of judgment regarding medals and in-
taglios. “I have the honour,” said Lord Grant-
ham, “to present a young American, who has a
letter for your Eminence, and who has come to
Italy for the purpose of studying the Fine Arts.”
The Cardinal knew so little of the New World,
that he conceived an American must needs be a
savage. “Is he black or white” said the aged
virtuoso, holding out both hands, that he might
have the satisfaction of touching at least this new
wonder. Lord Grantham smiled, and said “he
is fair—very fair.” “What as fair as I am?”
exclaimed the prelate. Now the complexion of
this churchman was a deep olive—that of West
more than commonly fair—and as they stood to-
gether the company smiled. “As fair as the Car-
dinal,” became for a while proverbial.
Others, who had the use of their eyes, seemed
to consider the young American as at most a better
kind of savage; and, accordingly, were curious to
... WEST., 21
watch him. They wished to try what effect the
Apollo, the Venus, and the works of Raphael
would have upon him, and “thirty of the most
magnificent equipages in the capital of Christen-
dom, and filled with some of the most erudite
characters in Europe,” says Galt,” conducted the
young Quaker to view the master-pieces of art.
It was agreed that the Apollo should be first sub-
mitted to his view: the statue was enclosed in a
case, and when the keeper threw open the doors,
West unconsciously exclaimed “My God—a young
Mohawk warrior!” The Italians were surprized
and mortified with the comparison of their noblest
statue to a wild savage; and West, perceiving the
unfavourable impression, proceeded to remove it.
He described the Mohawks—the natural elegance
and admirable symmetry of their persons—the
elasticity of their limbs, and their motions free and
unconstrained. “I have seen them often,” he
continued, “standing in the very attitude of this
Apollo, and pursuing with an intense eye the
arrow which they had just discharged from the
bow.” . The Italians cleared their moody brows,
and allowed that a better criticism had rarely been
pronounced. West was no longer a barbarian.
Of his claim to mix with men of genius, however,
he had as yet submitted no proof: he had indeed
shown his drawings to Mengs and to Hamilton, but
they were, as he confessed, destitute of original
merit—mor, indeed, could they be commended for
either neatness or accuracy. He waited on Lord
Grantham—“I cannot,” said he, “produce a finish-
ed sketch, like the other students, because I have
never been instructed in drawing; but I can paint
22 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
a little, and if you will do me the honour to sit for
your portrait that I may show it to Mengs, you
will do me a great kindness.” His Lordship con-
sented, the portrait was painted—and, the name
of the artist being kept secret, the picture was
placed in the gallery of Crespigni, where amateurs
and artists were invited to see it. It was known
that Lord Grantham was sitting to Mengs, and to
him some ascribed the portrait, though they thought
the colouring surpassed his other compositions.
Dance, an Englishman of sense and acuteness,
looked at it closely: “the colouring surpasses that
of Mengs,” he observed, “but the drawing is
neither so fine nor so good.” The company en-
gaged eagerly in the discussion—Crespigni seized
the proper moment, and said “It is not painted by
Mengs.” “By whom then?” they exclaimed, “for
there is no other painter in Rome capable of doing
any thing so good.” “By that young gentleman,”
said the other,-turning to West, who sat uneasy
and agitated. The English held out their hands
—the Italians ran and embraced him.
Mengs himself soon arrived—he looked at the
picture, and spoke with great kindness. “Young
man, you have no occasion to come to Rome to
learn to paint. What I therefore recommend to
you is this:—Examine every thing here worthy of
attention—making drawings of some half-dozen of
the best statues. Go to Florence and study in the
galleries—go to Bologna and study the works of
the Carracci, and then proceed to Venice and view
the productions of Tintoretti, Titian, and Paul
Veronese. When all this is accomplished, return
to Rome, paint a historical picture, exhibit it pub-
WEST. 23
licly, and then the opinion which will be expressed
of your talents will determine the line of art which
you ought to follow.” A dangerous illness inter-
posed, and for a time prevented West from follow-
ing this common but sensible counsel. The change
of scene, the presence of works of first-rate excel-
lence, and the anxiety to distinguish himself, preyed
upon him—sleep deserted his pillow, a fever fol-
lowed, and by the advice of his physicians he
returned to Leghorn, where, after a lingering sick-
mess of eleven months, he was completely cured.
Those who befriend genius when it is struggling
for distinction, befriend the world; and their names
should be held in remembrance. There is good
sense and right feeling in the reply of Mahomet
to the insinuation of the fair Ayesha, that his first
wife Cadijah was old and unlovely, and that he
had now a better in her place. “No, by Alla!—
there never was a better—she believed in me when
men despised me; she relieved my wants when I
was poor and persecuted by the world.” The
names of Smith, Hamilton, Kelly, Allen, Jackson,
Rutherford, and Lord Grantham must be dear
to all the admirers of West—they aided him in
the infancy of his fame and fortune—they cheered
him when he was drooping or desponding, and
watched over his person and his purse with the
vigilence of true friendship. The story of his
success with the portrait of Lord Grantham found
its way to Allen at Philadelphia, when he was at
dinner with Governor Hamilton. “I regard this
young man,” said the worthy merchant, “as an
honour to his country; and as he is the first that
America has sent out to cultivate the Fine Arts, he

24, THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
shall not be frustrated in his studies, for I shall
send him whatever money he may require.” “I
think with you, sir,” said Hamilton—“but you
must not have all the honour to yourself—allow
me to unite with you in the responsibility of the
credit.” Sometime afterwards, when West went
to take up ten pounds from his agents, the last of
the sum with which he had commenced his studies,
one of the partners opened a letter, and said “I
am instructed to give you unlimited credit—you
will have the goodness to ask for what sum you
please.” It is not without cause that Mr. Galt
says, “the munificence of the Medici was equalled
by these American magistrates.”
West, with recovered health and a heavier purse,
was now able to follow the counsel of Mengs;–
he visited Florence, Bologna and Venice. The
colouring of Titian was a secret into which he
strove in vain to penetrate, nor did the examina-
tion and dissection of what Italians call the “in-
ternal light” of his productions solve the mystery.
Reynolds acquired the profitable secret and kept it
to himself, and many years afterwards West ima-
gined that he had obtained it too. It is doubted
by some whether either ever mastered it com-
pletely. It is certain that they did not succeed
in using it with the good fortune of Titian, whose
colouring extinguishes all modern works as sun-
shine overwhelms candlelight. The pure primary
colours which West afterwards harmonized with the
semi-tints fall far short of the lucid splendour of
Titian—they lost by time, from which the colours
of the Italian appear to gain an increase of lustre.
Having seen all that was worth seeing, West now

WEST. 25
returned to Rome. Romance and prophecy seemed
to have marked the calm and serious Quaker for
their own—a fresh adventure was ready for him
at Rome. He was conversing in the British Cof-
fee-house with Gavin Hamilton, when an old
man, with a guitar suspended from his shoulder,
offered his services as an Improvisator bard.
“Here is an American,” said the wily Scot,
“come to study the Fine Arts in Rome—take him
for your theme—and it is a magnificent one.”
West, who never in his life conceived what a joke
meant, sat grave and steady like one of his own
sitters, while the minstrel unslung his guitar, and,
with a glance that told Hamilton he knew what to
do, burst into song. At first he was something
mystical, till he saw that his subject had a reason-
able gift of credulity, and then he tried plainer
words. “I behold,” he sung, “ in this youth an
instrument chosen by heaven to create in his native
country a taste for those arts which have elevated
the nature of man—an assurance that his land will
be the refuge of science and knowledge, when in
the old age of Europe they shall have forsaken her
shores. All things of heavenly origin move west-
ward, and Truth and Art have their periods of
light and darkness. Rejoice, O Rome, for thy
spirit immortal and undecayed now spreads to-
wards a new world, where, like the soul of man in
Paradise, it will be perfected more and more.”
On the raving of this wily mendicant, West be-
stowed both money and tears; and even in riper
years he was willing to consider this as another
prophecy.
He accompanied the Abbaté Grant to see high
26 THE BRITISH PAINTER.S.
mass performed in Saint Peter's. At the elevation
of the Host, when all were silent and kneeling, a
voice exclaimed in the accent of Scotland, “O
Lord, cast not the kirk down on them for this
abomination l’” This burst of enthusiasm, in a
strange tongue, was received by all, save the Scot-
tish priest, as a lively manifestation of Catholic
zeal—Grant was alarmed for his countryman, and
advised him to be quiet during the rest of the
ceremony, unless he desired to be torn to pieces
by the religious mob. This man had travelled to
Rome, with a fixed resolution either to convert
the Pope to Calvinism or become a martyr. He
yielded for the moment to Grant's entreaties: but
next day re-appeared in the same place, demanded
the conversion of his Holiness and the downfal of
Popery, and to his exceeding great joy was seized
by the Inquisition, and consigned to a dungeon.
The last of the princes of that unfortunate race
who sat so long, and often so worthily, on the
thrones of Scotland and England, interposed, and
sent the resolute presbyterian home in safety.
West was not so far dazzled by those romantic
occurrences as to forget his studies. He painted
a picture of Cimon and Iphigenia, and another of
Angelica and Medora; which confirmed the favour-
able opinions expressed by his friends, and opened
the way to those marks of academic approbation
usually bestowed on fortunate artists. Having
studied the great Italian masters, and acquired
much useful knowledge in the trick of colour and
composition, he had no wish to remain in Rome—
his heart was with his native land. He, however,
resolved to visit the Island of his fathers, and pre-
west. 27
pared for his journey. Of Rome he has left us
this brief and pithy memorandum: “Michael An-
gelo has not succeeded in giving a probable cha-
racter to any of his works, the Moses perhaps ex-
cepted. The works of Raphael grow daily more
interesting, natural, and noble.”
At Parma he was elected a member of the Aca-
demy—an honour which Florence and Bologna
had conferred before—and presented them with a
copy of the St. Jerome of Correggio, of such ex-
cellence that the reigning Prince desired to see the
artist. He went to court, and, to the utter confu-
sion of the attendants, appeared with his hat on.
The prince was no stranger to the character of the
Quakers, nor to the condescension of the British
law in their favour. He was, moreover, a lover
of William Penn. He received the young artist
with complacency, and dismissed him with many
expressions of regard. On reaching one of the
French frontier towns he was insulted by the
populace, who considered their manufactures as
ruined by the English. Again something like
prophecy mingles with the explanation of the ma-
gistrate who protected him. “The ignorant peo-
ple (said he) blame England, when they should
blame our own government. But the court of
France is become a band of profligates—the truly
great and good are banished from the palace;
this cannot last long. Frenchmen will one day
take a terrible revenge for the insults which they
are doomed to suffer from those who pander to the
prodigality of the court.” These words were ut-
tered twenty-four years before the Revolution.
West cannot be born, nor choose his profession,

28 THE BRITISH PAINTER.S.
nor enjoy himself in a coffee-house, nor travel
through France, without the influence or the ac-
companiment of prediction. Of French art he con-
ceived a mean opinion. It was, said he, deficient
in simplicity; an air of studied affectation was
breathed over it; and the absence of the nobler
spirit of painting was sought to be concealed by
the petty graces and brilliancy of fine finishing.
On the 20th of June, 1763, West arrived in
London: Allen, Hamilton, and Smith, his early
and stedfast friends, happened to be there; they
welcomed him with open arms, and introduced
him to many officers of note who had heard of
him in Pennsylvania. At this time he had no inten-
tion of remaining in England, nor of practising his
profession for the time that he stayed. He visited
the collections of Hampton Court, Windsor, and
Blenheim; resided some time at Reading with
Thomas West, the half-brother of his father, and
looked at the vanities of Bath in the middle of its
season. By degrees he began to love the land and
the people. He was introduced to Reynolds; and
a letter from Mengs made him acquainted with
Wilson. Intercourse with artists, and an exami-
nation of their works, awakened his ambition: he
consulted no one, but took chambers in Bedford-
street, Covent Garden, and set up his easel. When
his determination was known, his brethren in art
came round him in a body, welcomed him with
much cordiality, and encouraged him to continue
his career as an historical painter. Reynolds was
devoted to portraits; Hogarth on the brink of the
grave; Barry engaged in controversies in Rome;
Wilson neglected; Gainsborough's excellence lay

WEST. 29
in landscape; and the prudent American saw that
he had a fair field and no opponents.
As soon, therefore, as he had finished his An-
gelica and Medora, he sent it, by the advice of
Reynolds, to the exhibition, together with the
Cimon and Iphigenia, and a portrait of General
Monckton, second in command to Wolfe in the
battle of Quebec. While he was employed in
finishing those works, he had the good fortune to
be introduced to Dr. Johnson and Mr. Burke.
Johnson he admired much, and found civil and
even kind. Burke also was indulgent; but our
artist conceived there was an air of mystery about
his demeanour. West at once recognised him as
the brother of the chief of the Benedictine Monks
at Parma.
The works which West exhibited were well re-
ceived; the conception was good, and the colour-
ing clear; and his love of serious and solemn sub-
jects attracted the special notice of some of the
dignitaries of the church. He painted, for Dr.
Newton, the parting of Hector and Andromache,
—and, for the Bishop of Worcester, the Return of
the Prodigal Son. His reputation rose so much
with these productions, that Lord Rockingham
tempted him with the offer of a permanent engage-
ment, and a salary of seven hundred pounds a year,
to embellish with historical paintings his mansion
in Yorkshire. West consulted his friends concern-
ing this alluring offer—they were sensible men—
they advised him to confide in the public : and he
followed, for a time, their salutary counsel.
This successful beginning, and the promise of
full employment, induced him to resolve on remain-

30 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
ing in the Old Country. But he was attached to
Elizabeth Shewell, a young lady of his native land
—absence had augmented his regard, and he wished
to return to Philadelphia, marry her, and bring her
to England. He disclosed the state of his affec-
tions to his friends, Smith and Allen; those gen-
tlemen took a less romantic view of the matter,
advised the artist to stick to his easel, and ar-
ranged the whole so prudently, that the lady came
to London accompanied by a relation, whose time
was not so valuable as West's—and they were
married on the 2d of September, 1765, in the
church of St. Martin's in the Fields. As he was
a man without violent passions and something cold
and considerate, he made perhaps but an indifferent
figure as a lover; his wife, however, was kind and
obedient, and their fireside had repose and peace.
Dr. Drummond, the Archbishop of York, a dig-
nified and liberal prelate, and an admirer of paint-
ing, invited West to his table, conversed with him
on the influence of art, and on the homour which
the patronage of genius reflected on the rich, and
opening Tacitus, pointed out that fine passage
where Agrippina lands with the ashes of Germani-
cus. He caused his son to read it again and again,
commented upon it with taste and feeling, and re-
quested West to make him a painting of that sub-
ject. The artist went home; it was then late, but
before closing his eyes he formed a sketch, and
carried it early next morning to his patron, who,
glad to see that his own notions were likely to be
embodied in lasting colours, requested that the
full size work might be proceeded with. Nor
was this all—that munificent prelate proposed to
WEST. 31
raise three thousand pounds by subscription, to
enable West to relinquish likenesses and give his
whole time and talent to historical painting. Fif-
teen hundred pounds were accordingly subscribed
by himself and his friends; but the public refused
to co-operate, and the scheme was abandoned.
The Archbishop regarded the failure of this plan
as a stigma on the country; his self-love too was
offended. He disregarded alike the coldness of
the Duke of Portland and the evasions of Lord
Rockingham, to whom he communicated his scheme
—sought and obtained an audience of his Majesty,
then young and unacquainted with cares—in-
formed him that a devout American and Quaker
had painted, at his request, such a noble picture
that he was desirous to secure his talents for the
throne and the country. The King was much
interested with the story, and said, “Let me see
this young painter of your's with his Agrippina as
soon as you please.” The prelate retired to com-
municate his success to West.
Now all this happened to be overheard by one of
those officious ladies who love to untie the knots of
mysteries, and anticipate the natural disclosure of
all secrets. Away flew her ladyship to the house
of the artist—refused to disclose either her name
or condition, acquainted him with the application
of Drummond and the kindness of the King, and
retired. She was not well away till a gentleman
came from the palace to request West's attendance
with the picture of Agrippina. “His Majesty,”
said the messenger, “is a young man of great sim-
plicity and candour; sedate in his affections, scru-
pulous in forming private friendships, good from
32 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
principle, and pure from a sense of the beauty of
virtue.” Forty years intercourse, we might almost
say friendship, confirmed to the painter the accu-
racy of these words.
The King received West with easy frankness,
assisted him to place the Agrippina in a favourable
light, removed the attendants, and brought in the
Queen, to whom he presented our Quaker. He
related to her Majesty the history of the picture,
and bade her notice the simplicity of the design
and the beauty of the colouring. “There is ano-
ther noble Roman subject,” observed his Majesty,
“the departure of Regulus from Rome—would it
not make a fine picture?” “It is a magnificent
subject,” said the painter. “Then,” said the King,
“you shall paint it for me.” He turned with a
smile to the Queen, and said, “The Archbishop
made one of his sons read Tacitus to Mr. West,
and I would have read Livy to him myself—but
that part of the history which describes the de-
parture of Regulus is unfortunately lost.” He
then repeated his command that the picture should
be painted.
West was too prudent not to wish to retain the
Sovereign's good opinion—and his modesty and his
merit deserved it. The palace doors now seemed
to open of their own accord, and the domestics
attended with an obedient start to the wishes of
him whom the King delighted to honour. There
are minor matters which sometimes help a man on
to fame; and in these too he had his share; West
was a skilful skater, and in America had formed an
acquaintance on the ice with Colonel—afterwards
too well known in the colonial war as General
WEST. g 33
Howe: this friendship had dissolved with the thaw,
and was forgotten till one day the painter having
tied on his skates at the Serpentine, was astonishing
the timid practitioners of London by the rapidity
of his motions and the graceful figure which he cut.
Some one cried “ West! West!” it was Colonel
Howe. “I am glad to see you,” said he, “and not
the less so that you come in good time to vindicate
my praises of American skating.” He called to
him Lord Spencer Hamilton and some of the
Cavendishes, to whom he introduced West as one
of the Philadelphia prodigies, and requested him to
show them what was called “The Salute.” He
performed this feat so much to their satisfaction,
that they went away spreading the praises of the
American skater over London. Nor was the con-
siderate Quaker insensible to the value of such
commendations; he continued to frequent the Ser-
pentine and to gratify large crowds by cutting the
Philadelphia Salute. Many to the praise of his
skating added panegyrics on his professional skill,
and not a few, to vindicate their applause, followed
him to his easel, and sat for their portraits.
While West was painting the Departure of
Regulus, the present Royal Academy was planned.
The Society of Incorporated Artists, of which he
was a member, had grown rich by yearly exhibi-
tions, and how to lay out this money became the
subject of vehement debate. The Architects were
for a house, the Sculptors for statues, and the Paint-
ers proposed a large gallery for historical works,
while a mean and sordid member or two voted to
let it lie and grow more, for it was pleasant to see
riches accumulate. West, who happened to be a
VOL. II. ID

34 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
director, approved of none of these notions, and
with Reynolds withdrew from the association. The
newspapers of the day noticed these indecent bick-
erings, and the King, learning the cause from the
lips of West, declared that he was ready to patro-
nize any association formed on principles calculated
to advance the interests of art. A plan was pro-
posed by some of the dissenters, and submitted to
his Majesty, who corrected it, and drew up some
additional articles, with his own hand. t
Meanwhile the Incorporated Artists continued
their debates, in total ignorance that their dissenting
brethren were laying the foundation of a surer
structure than their own. Kirby, teacher of per-
spective to the King, had been chosen president:
but so secretly was all managed, that he had never
heard a whisper in the palace concerning the new
academy, and in his inaugural address from the
chair, he assured his companions that his Majesty
would not countenance the Schismatics. While
West was one day busy with his Regulus, the King
and Queen looking on, Kirby was announced, and
his Majesty having consulted his consort in Ger-
man, admitted him, and introduced him to West, to
whose person he was a stranger. He looked at
the picture, praised it warmly, and congratulated
the artist; then, turning to the King, said, “Your
Majesty never mentioned anything of this work to
me—who made the frame?—it is not made by one
of your Majesty's workman—it ought to have been
made by the royal carver and gilder.” To this
impertinence the King answered with great calm-
ness, “ Kirby, whenever you are able to paint me
such a picture as this, your friend shall make the
WEST. 35
frame.” “I hope Mr. West,” said Kirby, “that
you intend to exhibit this picture?” “ It is
painted for the palace,” said West, “ and its ex-
hibition must depend upon his Majesty's pleasure.”
“Assuredly,” said the King, “I shall be very
happy to let the work be shown to the public.”
“Then, Mr. West,” said Kirby, “you will send it
to my exhibition.” “No !” interrupted his Ma-
jesty; “it must go to my exhibition—to that of the
Royal Academy.” The President of the Associ-
ated Artists bowed with much humility and re-
tired. He did not long survive this mortification,
and his death was imputed, by the founders of the
new Academy, to jealousy of their rising establish-
ment, but by those who knew him well to a more
ordinary cause, the decay of nature. The Royal
Academy was founded, and in its first exhibition
appeared the Regulus.
A change was now to be effected in the character
of British art; hitherto historical painting had ap-
peared in a masquing habit: the actions of Eng-
lishmen seemed all to have been performed, if
costume were to be believed, by Greeks or by
Romans. West dismissed at once this pedantry,
and , estored nature and propriety in his noble
work of “ The Death of Wolfe.” The multitude
acknowledged its excellence at once. The lovers
of old art, the manufacturers of compositions called
by courtesy classical, complained of the barbarism
of boots, and buttons, and blunderbusses, and cried
out for naked warriors with bows, bucklers, and
battering rams. Lord Grosvenor, disregarding the
frowns of the amateurs, and the cold approbation
of the Academy, purchased this work, which, in
D 2
36 THE BRITISH PAINTER.S.,
spite of laced coats and cocked hats, is one of the
best of our historical pictures. The Indian war-
rior, watching the dying hero to see if he equalled
in fortitude the children of the deserts, is a fine
stroke of nature and poetry.
The King questioned West concerning the pic-
ture, and put him on his defence of this new he-
resy in art. To the curiosity of Galt we owe the
sensible answer of West. “When it was under-
stood,” said the artist, “ that I intended to paint
the characters as they had actually appeared on
the scene, the Archbishop of York called on Rey-
nolds, and asked his opinion; they both came to
my house to dissuade me from running so great a
risk. Reynolds began a very ingenious and ele-
gant dissertation on the state of the public taste
in this country, and the danger which every inno-
vation incurred of contempt and ridicule, and con-
cluded by urging me earnestly to adopt the cos-
tume of antiquity, as more becoming the greatness
of my subject than the modern garb of European
warriors. I answered that the event to be com-
memorated happened in the year 1758, in a region
of the world unknown to the Greeks and Romans,
and at a period of time when no warriors who wore
such costume existed. The subject I have to re-
present is a great battle fought and won, and the
same truth which gives law to the historian should
rule the painter. If instead of the facts of the ac-
tion I introduce fictions, how shall I be understood
by posterity ? The classic dress is certainly pic-
turesque, but by using it I shall lose in sentiment
what I gain in external grace. I want to mark
the place, the time and the people, and to do this
WEST. x 37
I must abide by truth. They went away then, and
returned again when I had the painting finished.
Reynolds seated himself before the picture, exa-
mined it with deep and minute attention for half
an hour; then rising, said to Drummond, West
has conquered—he has treated his subject as it
ought to be treated—I retract my objections. I
foresee that this picture will not only become one
of the most popular, but will occasion a revolution
in art.” “I wish,” said the King, “that I had
known all this before, for the objection has been
the means of Lord Grosvenor's getting the pic-
ture, but you shall make a copy for me.”
West had now obtained the personal confidence
of the King and the favour of the public—his com-
missions were numerous, but of course the works
for the palace had precedence. His Majesty em-
ployed him to paint the death of Epaminondas, as
a companion to that of Wolfe—the death of the
Chevalier Bayard—Cyrus liberating the family of
the King of Armenia—and Segestus and his daugh-
ter brought before Germanicus. The air of the
palace had some influence on the mind of the pru-
dent Quaker. The great Leibnitz had pointed out
the descendants of Segestus in our own royal line,
and West communicated a little of the lineaments
of the living to the images of the dead. The good
King was much pleased with the work.
It is said, that Sir Joshua Reynolds now began
to observe West's favour somewhat resentfully—
thinking that a ray or two of the royal sunshine
might in fairness have fallen upon himself. The
President was not fool enough to complain—but
his friends did so for him ; while West, too pru-
38 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
dent to carry himself loftily because of his good
fortune, enjoyed his success in secret, and conti-
nued in the outward man submissive and thankful.
To Reynolds had fallen the whole portrait depart-
ment of church and state, which lay without the
gates of the palace; while within, West reigned
triumphant. Thus they divided the British world
of art between them, while Barry and Wilson, by
toiling without distinction, were earning precarious
bread.
West was not a man to remain insensible to the
advantage of having a young, amiable, and pa-
triotic sovereign for his patron. The painter ex-
pressed his regret that the Italians had dipped
their pencils in the monkish miracles and incre-
dible legends of the church, to the almost total
neglect of their national history: the King in-
stantly bethought him of the victorious reign of
our third Edward, and of St. George's Hall in
Windsor Castle. West had a ready hand—he
sketched out the following subjects, seven of which
are from real, and one from fabulous history:
1. Edward the Third embracing the Black
Prince, after the Battle of Cressy. 2. The Instal-
lation of the Order of the Garter. 3. The Black
Prince receiving the King of France and his son
prisoners, at Poictiers. 4. St. George vanquishing
the Dragon. , 5. Queen Phillipa defeating David
of Scotland, in the Battle of Neville's Cross. 6.
Queen Phillipa interceding with Edward for the
Burgesses of Calais. 7. King Edward forcing the
passage of the Somme. 8. King Edward crown-
ing Sir Eustace de Ribaumont at Calais. These
works are very large. They were the fruit of long
WEST. 39
study and much labour, and with the exception of
the Death of Wolfe and the Battle of La Hogue,
they are the best of all the numerous works of
this artist. Their lustre is fresh and unfaded—
their colouring natural and harmonious: they pre-
sent a lively image of the times and the people;
but they are deficient in strength and variety of
character—they seize attention, but are unable to
detain it.
West, however, had the good fortune to main-
tain his influence at Windsor. When the King
grew weary of courts and camps and battles, the
observing artist took new ground, and appealed to
the religious feelings of his royal patron. He
suggested to the King a series of pictures on the
progress of revealed religion: a splendid Oratory
was projected for their reception; and half a
dozen dignitaries of the church were summoned to
consider the propriety of introducing paintings
into a place of worship. “When I reflect,” said
the King, “that the Reformation condemned reli-
gious paintings in churches, and that the Parlia-
ment in the unhappy days of Charles the First did
the same, I am fearful of introducing anything
which my people might think popish. Will you
give me your opinions on the subject?” After
some deliberation Bishop Hurd delivered, in the
name of his brethren and himself, their unanimous
opinion, that the introduction of religious paintings
into his Majesty's Chapel would in no respect what-
ever violate the laws or the usages of the Church
of England. “We have examined too,” continued
Hurd, “thirty-five subjects which the painter pro-
posed for our choice, and we feel that there is not
40 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
one of them but may be treated in a way, that
even a Quaker might contemplate with edifica:
tion.” The King conceived this to be an ironical
allusion to West, and was a little nettled. “The
Quakers,” he replied, “are a body of Christians
for whom I have a high respect. I love their
peaceful tenets and their benevolence to one ano-
ther, and, but for the obligations of birth, I would
be a Quaker.” The Bishop bowed submissively
and retired.
No subtle divine ever laboured more diligently
on controversial texts, than did our painter in
evolving his pictures out of the grand and awful
subject of revealed religion. He divided it into
Four Dispensations—the Antediluvian, the Patri-
archal, the Mosaical, and the Prophetical. They
contained in all thirty-six subjects, eighteen of
which belonged to the Old Testament, the rest to
the New. They were all sketched, and twenty-
eight were executed, for which West received in
all twenty-one thousand seven hundred and five
pounds. A work so varied, so extensive, and so
noble in its nature, was never before undertaken
by any painter. But the imagination of West was
unable to cope with such glorious themes—the
soft, the graceful, and the domestic, were more
suited to his talents. Several of the subjects too
were necessarily the same as those painted by the
great masters—the Last Supper, the Crucifixion,
and the Annunciation had been over and over
again handled by artists higher in mental stature
than West; and in the competition he had nothing
to hope, and every thing to fear. He was daring
in his undertakings—not so in his genius.
WEST. 41
During the progress of these works, he painted
many pictures of lesser importance. The King,
the Queen, the young Princes and Princesses sat
for their portraits, sometimes singly and sometimes
in groups—forming in all nine pictures, for which
West received two thousand guineas---a royal price
when we consider the charges of Reynolds and
Gainsborough at this time. They are well con-
ceived and prettily drawn, but want soul and sub-
stance, and seem the shadows of what is noble
and lovely. There is no deception—they are flat,
and the eye seems to see through both colour and
canvass: but time and frail materials may be mainly
blameable for this.
The war which broke out between Britain and
her colonies was a sore trial to the feelings of West;
his early friends and his present patrons were
involved in the bloody controversy. He was not,
according to his own account, silent; he was too
much in the palace and alone with his Majesty to
avoid some allusion to the strife; the King in-
quired anxiously respecting the resources of his
foes and the talents of their chiefs, and the artist
gave, or imagined he gave, more correct informa-
tion concerning the American leaders and their
objects, than could be acquired through official
channels. West had been long away from his
native land; his literary talents were not of an
order to allure correspondents, and with few, if
any, of the influential insurgents can it be supposed
that he was at all acquainted. But not few were
the delusions under which this amiable man lived.
How he contrived both to keep his place in the
King's opinion, and the respect of the spirits who
42 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
stirred in the American revolution, he has not told
us, but it is not difficult to guess. He was of a
nature cold and unimpassioned; his religion taught
him peace, his situation whispered prudence, and
the artist dismissed civil broils from his mind, and
addressed himself to more profitable contempla-
tions. He saw his reward in fortune, and perhaps
in fame, for those days of toil and nights of study,
in which he painted and pored over history, sacred
and profane, and he closed his eyes on all else
save elaborate outlines and the effect of light and
shade.
He was now moving in the first circles, and the
word of West was the courtly sanction in matters
of taste. His various and extensive works left
little leisure for the acquisition of extra-profes-
sional knowledge, and he probably thought that
excellence in art was enough. By dining with
divines, he had learned to skim the surface of re-
ligious knowledge, and his professional and general
society gave him hints as to what was passing in
the world of literature and fashion. He made the
little that he did know go far; and found means
to pass with men of some discernment as a silent
person of fair education, who did not wish to throw
any wisdom away. The royal favour was much;
and he had besides a certain quiet air of natural
dignity in his manner.
The death of Reynolds vacated the President's
chair, and no one then living was more worthy to
fill it than Mr. West. The fierce temper of Barry
left him no chance of the honour which his genius
merited. To the choice of the Academy the King
gave his ready sanction, and West took his place on

WEST. 43
the 24th of March, 1792, and delivered his inau-
gural address to an audience who much applauded
a composition which could have cost him little
thought, since it dwelt but on two topics—the ex-
cellence of British art, and the gracious benevo-
lence of his Majesty.
The new President delivered many discourses,
all more or less distinguished for plain practical
sense. He pressed upon the students the value of
knowledge and the necessity of study, and the use-
lessness of both without a corresponding aptitude
of mind and buoyancy of imagination—in other
words, genius. He advised them to give heart
and soul wholly to art, to turn aside neither to
the right nor to the left, but consider that hour
lost in which a line had not been drawn nor a
master-piece studied. “Observe,” he said, “with
the same contemplative eye the landscape, the ap-
pearance of trees, figures dispersed around, and
their aerial distance as well as lineal forms. Omit
not to observe the light and shade in consequence
of the sun's rays being intercepted by clouds or
other accidents. Let your mind be familiar with
the characteristics of the ocean; mark its calm
dignity when undisturbed by the winds, and all its
various states between that and its terrible subli-
mity when agitated by the tempest. Sketch with
attention its foaming and winding coasts, and that
awful line which separates it from the heavens.
Replenished with these stores, your imagination
will then come forth as a river collected from little
springs spreads into might and majesty. If you
aspire to excellence in your profession, you must,
like the industrious bee, survey the whole face of
44 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
nature and sip the sweet from every flower. When
thus enriched, lay up your acquisitions for future
use, and examine the great works of art to ani-
mate your feelings and to excite your emulation.
When you are thus mentally enriched, and your
hand practised to obey the powers of your will,
you will then find your pencils or your chisels as
magic wands, calling into view creations of your
own to adorn your name and country.”
In this way he laboured to stimulate his youth-
ful audience; but to awaken indifference into
energy—to add wings to those whose imagina-
tions were fit for flight, and fuel to the fire of ge-
nius, required higher powers. He had no unstu-
died felicities of phrase, little vigour of thought, or
happiness of illustration—he was cold, sensible,
and instructive; and the student, who may learn
from his pictures the way to manage a difficult
subject, and from his life the art of employing his
time, can hardly be expected to re-read his dis-
COllTSéS.
So regular were West's hours of labour, and so
carefully did he calculate his time, that to describe
one day of his life is to describe years. He rose
early—studied before breakfast—began to work on
one of his large pictures about ten—painted with
little intermission till four—washed, dressed, and
saw visitors, and having dined, recommenced his
studies anew. His works were chiefly historical;
he dealt with the dead; and the solitude of his gal-
lery was seldom invaded by the rich or the great,
clamouring for their portraits. Visitors sometimes
found their way to his inner study while he had
the pencil in his hand; he had no wish to show
WEST. . 45
off his skill to the idle, and generally sat as silent
and motionless on such occasions as one of his
own Apostles. His words were few, his manner
easy; his quakerlike sobriety seemed little ele-
vated by intercourse with nobles and waiting-gen-
tlewomen. On the Windsor pictures he expended
much study, and to render them worthy of their
place, he “trimmed,” as he told the King, “his
midnight lamp.” So closely was he imprisoned by
their composition, that his attendance at the burial
of so eminent a brother as Gainsborough was men-
tioned as something extraordinary.
It must not be supposed that he enjoyed without
envy the threefold blessing of magnificent subjects,
high prices, and kingly favour. Barry was famish-
ing, and his complaints were loud and eloquent.
Fuseli, with all his wit, learning, and imagination,
could barely live; and Opie had been taught the
severe, though common lesson, that nothing is so
unstable as the patronage of the powerful. The
very calmness and moderation with which the
King's historical painter carried himself was some-
thing provoking. He went from his gallery in
Newman-street to Windsor, and back again, with
the staid looks of one of the brethren going to,
and returning from, chapel. Of his importance at
Court, however, he was willing enough to speak,
though in a mild and meek way; and as to high
matters in general he affected somewhat of the
vague diplomatic language of official men: West
had probably no state secrets to conceal—if he
had, his conversation kept them a mystery.
When he succeeded to the President's chair, the
King wished to confer upon him the distinction of
46 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
knighthood. To lay the royal sword on the shoul-
der of a Quaker was something new, and the cu-
riosity of the courtiers was excited. The Duke
of Gloucester called on West from the King, to in-
quire if this honour would be acceptable. “No
man,” said Benjamin, “entertains a higher respect
for political honours and distinctions than myself,
but I really think I have earned greater eminence
by my pencil already than knighthood could confer
on me. The chief value of titles is to preserve
in families a respect for those principles by which
such distinctions were originally obtained—but
simple knighthood to a man who is at least as well
known as he could ever hope to be from that ho-
mour, is not a legitimate object of ambition. To
myself then your Royal Highness must perceive
the title could add no dignity, and as it would pe-
rish with myself, it could add none to my family.
But were I possessed of fortune, independent of
my profession, sufficient to enable my posterity to
maintain the rank, I think that, with my hereditary
descent and the station I occupy among artists, a
more permanent title might become a desirable
object. As it is, however, that cannot be; and I
have been thus explicit with your Royal Highness
that no misconception may exist on the subject.”
The Duke took West by the hand, and said, “You
have justified the opinion which the King has of
you; he will be delighted with your answer.”
In that answer there was certainly very little of
the Quaker. Possibly he was not without hope
that the King would confer a baronetcy, and an
income to support it, on one who, to descent from
the Lords of Delaware, could add such claims of
WEST. 47
personal importance. No farther notice, however,
was taken of the matter; he went to the palace as
usual, and as usual his reception was warm and
friendly.
From 1769 till 1801 West had uniformly re-
ceived all orders for pictures from his Majesty
in person. They had settled the subject and price
between them without the intervention of others,
and, in addition to his one thousand pounds a year
paid on account, he had received whatever more,
and it was not much, might be due upon the pic-
tures actually painted. A great change was near.
A mental cloud fell upon the King, and the artist
was the first to be made sensible that the sceptre
was departed from his hand. The doors of the
palace, which heretofore had opened spontaneously
like those of Milton's Paradise, no longer flew wide
at his approach, but turned on their hinges grating
and reluctantly. What this might mean he was
informed by Mr. Wyatt, the royal architect, who
called and said, he was authorized to inform him
that the pictures painting for the Chapel at Wind-
sor must be suspended till further orders. “This
extraordinary proceeding (says Galt) rendered the
studies of the best part of the artist's life useless,
and deprived him of that honourable provision, the
fruit of his talents and industry, on which he had
counted for the repose of his declining years. For
some time it affected him deeply, and he was at a
loss what steps to take. At last, however, on
reflecting on the marked friendship and favour
which the King had always shown him, he ad-
dressed to his Majesty a letter, of which the fol-
lowing is a copy of the rough draught, being the

48 THE BRITISH PAINTERs.
only one preserved.” After mentioning the mes-
sage to suspend the paintings for the Chapel, it
proceeds—
“Since 1797 I have finished three pictures,
begun several others, and composed the remainder
of the subjects for the Chapel, on the progress of
Revealed Religion. Those are subjects so replete
with dignity of character and expression, as de-
manded the historian, the commentator, and the
accomplished painter to bring them into view.
Your Majesty's gracious commands for my pencil
on that extensive subject stimulated my humble
abilities, and I commenced the work with zeal and
enthusiasm. Animated by your commands, I burnt
my midnight lamp to attain that polish which marks
my scriptural pictures. Your Majesty's zeal for
religion and love of the elegant arts are known
over the civilized world, and your protection of my
pencil had given it celebrity, and made mankind
anxiously look for the completion of the great work
on Revealed Religion. In the station which I fill
in the Academy I have been zealous in promoting
merit; ingenious artists have received my ready
aid, and my galleries and my purse have been
opened to their studies and their distresses. The
breath of envy or the whisper of detraction never
defiled my lips, nor the want of morality my cha-
racter; and your Majesty's virtues and those of
her Majesty, have been the theme of my admiration
for many years.
“I feel with great concern the suspension of the
work on Revealed Religion—if it is meant to be
permanent, myself and the fine arts have much to
lament. To me it will be ruinous, and it will damp
WEST. 49
the hope of patronage in the more refined depart-
ments of painting. I have this consolation, that in
the thirty-five years during which my pencil has
been honoured with your commands, a great body
of historical and scriptural works have been placed
in the churches and palaces of the kingdom. Their
professional claims may be humble, but similar
works have not been executed before by any of
your Majesty's subjects. And this I will assert,
that your commands and patronage were not laid
on a lazy or an ungrateful man, or an undutiful
subject.”
To this letter, written on the 26th of September,
1801, and carried to the court by Wyatt, West
received no answer. On his Majesty's recovery,
he sought and obtained a private audience. The
King had not been made acquainted with the order
for suspending the works, nor had he received the
letter. “Go on with your work, West,” said the
King kindly, “go on with the pictures, and I will
take care of you.” He shook him by the hand,
and dismissed him. “And this,” says Galt, “was
the last interview he was permitted to have with
his early and constant, and to him truly royal,
patron. But he continued to execute the pictures,
and, in the usual quarterly payments, received his
£1000 per annum till his Majesty's final superan-
nuation; when, without any intimation whatever, on
calling to receive it, he was told it had been stopt,
and that the paintings for the Chapel, of Revealed
Religion, had been suspended. He submitted in
silence—he neither remonstrated nor complained.”
The story of his dismissal from court was spread
WOL. II, E
50 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
abroad with many aggravations; and the malevo-
lence of enemies which his success had created—
there are always such reptiles—was gratified by
the circulation of papers detailing an account of the
prices which the fortunate painter had received for
his works from the King. The hand which had
drawn up this injurious document neglected to state
that the sum of thirty-four thousand one hundred
and eighty-seven pounds was earned in the course
of thirty-three laborious years: and the public,
looking only to the sum at the bottom of the page,
imagined that West must have amassed a fortune.
This notion was dispelled by an accurate statement
of work done and money received, with day and
date, signed with the artist's name, and accompa-
nied by a formal declaration of its truth; a needless
addition, for all who knew any thing of West, knew
him to be one of the most honourable of men. ..
Whilst suffering under the neglect of the court,
the peace of Amiens opened the continent, and
thither West went, to see with his own eyes the
splendid works of the pencil and chisel, which
Buonaparte had assembled in the Louvre. The
President of the British Academy was not to be
overlooked by the wily politicians who surrounded
the future emperor. Minister after minister, and
artist after artist, from the accomplished Talleyrand
and the subtle Fouché to the enthusiastic Dénon
and the ferocious David, gathered around him, and
talked, with unbounded love, of historical painting
and of its influence on mankind. In a series of
entertainments, in which wine and flattery were
poured out abundantly, the enemies of his country

WEST. 51
succeeded in persuading the simple Benjamin that
they were the most philanthropic of all nations, and
their master the kindest and worthiest of men.
Filled with these fine notions, West one day
came up to Mr. Fox and Sir Francis Baring, as
they were strolling about the Louvre, and haran-
gued them on the sublime and benevolent views of
Napoleon, who only conquered kingdoms out of
love for liberty, and collected pictures in the towns
which he stormed, “to furnish models of study for
artists of all nations.” He concluded by pointing
out the propriety, even in a mercantile point of
view of encouraging to a seven-fold extent the
higher departments of art in England. The pro-
spect of commercial advantages pleased Baring,
and Fox said with much frankness, and with that
sincerity which lasts at least for the moment, “I
have been rocked in the cradle of politics, and
never before was so much struck with the advan-
tages, even in a political bearing, of the Fine Arts,
to the prosperity as well as to the renown of a
kingdom; and I do assure you, Mr. West, if ever
I have it in my power to influence our government
to promote the Arts, the conversation which we
have had to-day shall not be forgotten.” They
parted, and West returned to England.
Old age was now coming on him; but his grey
hairs were denied the repose which a life of virtue
and labour deserved. He took it into his head
that he was looked upon coldly by the govern-
ment for his admiration of Buonaparte; and as-
sailed in the Academy by an opposition strong in
numbers and in eloquence, in which Shee distin-
guished himself, he was induced to retire from the
E 2
52 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
President's chair, and Wyatt was elected in his
stead. This distinction the court architect had
merited by no works which could be weighed in
the balance with the worst of his predecessor's ;
and West persuaded himself that his own splendid
reception in France had been the root of all the
evil. He certainly had a very lofty notion of him-
self, and his account of the stir which he excited
in Paris, marks a mind amiably but extravagantly
vain. “Wherever I went,” he said, “men looked
at me, and ministers and people of influence in the
state were constantly in my company. I was one
day in the Louvre—all eyes were upon me; and
I could not help observing to Charles Fox, niho
happened to be malking nith me, how strong was
the love of art, and admiration of its professors,
in France.” This trait of simplicity will never be
surpassed.
In a short time, however, the Academy became
weary of Wyatt, displaced him, and restored the
painter, by a vote which may be called unanimous;
since there was only one dissenting member—sup-
posed to be Fuseli—who put in the name of Mrs.
Moser for President. Ladies were at that period
permitted to be members, and the jester no doubt
meant to insinuate that a shrewd old woman was a
fit rival for West. -
The restored President now endeavoured to
form a national association for the encouragement
of works of dignity and importance, and was
cheered with the assurance of ministerial if not
royal patronage. But many of those who coun-
tenanced the design were cautious and timid men,
deficient in that lofty enthusiasm necessary for
WEST., 53
success in grand undertakings, and whose souls
were not large enough to conceive and consum-
mate a plan worthy of the rank and genius of a
nation. The times, too, were unfavourable: Eng-
lishmen had in those days need enough to think of
other matters than paintings and statues. Mr.
Pitt, who had really seemed disposed to lend his
aid to this new association, soon died. Mr. Fox,
who succeeded him, declared, “As soon as I am
firmly seated in the saddle, I shall redeem the pro-
mise I made in the Louvre”—but he also was soon
lost to his country. The pistol of an assassin pre-
vented Perceval from taking into consideration a
third memorial, which West had drawn up, and
the President at last relinquished the project in
despair.” -
West was now sixty-four years old—a life
blameless and temperate had kept his strength
unimpaired, and he had still the same composed
and determined mind by which he was distin-
guished in his youth. He had also unbounded
confidence in his own powers, and since the illness
of his royal friend had closed the doors of the pa-
lace against him, he resolved to try once more his
fortune with the public. He accordingly com-
menced painting a series of Scriptural subjects
upon a large scale: and the first which appeared
was that of “Christ healing the Sick.” The his-
tory of this picture deserves to be told. The
Quakers of Philadelphia requested West to aid
them in erecting an hospital for the sick in his na-
* The British Institution was formed out of the wreck of
West's magnificent plan.
54 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
tive town—he told them his circumstances scarcely
admitted of his being generous, but he would aid
them after his own way, and paint them a picture,
if they would provide a place to receive it in their
new building. They were pleased with this, and
“Christ healing the Sick” was painted for Phila-
delphia. When exhibited in London, the crush
to see it was very great—the praise it obtained was
high—and the British Institution offered him three
thousand guineas for the work: West accepted the
offer, for he was far from being rich,--but on con-
dition that he should be allowed to make a copy,
with alterations, for his native place. He did so ;
and when the copy went to America, the profits
arising from its exhibition enabled the committee
of the hospital to enlarge the building and receive
more patients. -
The success of this piece impressed West with
the belief that his genius appeared to most advan-
tage in pictures of large dimensions, and that royal
commissions had hitherto interposed between him
and fortune. His mind, from long contemplation,
was familiar with subjects of gigantic proportions;
and he had soon sketched out several, and finished
some. But the little snug and comfortable houses
of England could not contain this colossal pro-
geny; the doors of our churches are generally
opened to art with reluctance—our palaces had
already admitted more of the President's works
than, perhaps, were welcome ; and the owners of
our galleries were unwilling to make room for such
enormous pieces on Scripture subjects. There
was no market for the manufacture. Few were
tempted to become purchasers, though many were

WEST., 55
it.
edified with the “Descent of the Holy Ghost on
Christ at the Jordan,” ten feet by fourteen—“The
Crucifixion,” sixteen feet by twenty-eight—“The
Ascension,” twelve feet by eighteen—and “The
Inspiration of St. Peter,” of corresponding extent.
As old age benumbed his faculties, and began to
freeze up the well-spring of original thought, the
daring intrepidity of the man seemed but to grow
and augment. Immense pictures, embracing topics
which would have alarmed loftier spirits, came
crowding thick upon his fancy, and he was the
only person who appeared insensible that such
were too weighty for his handling.
Domestic sorrow, mingled with professional dis-
appointment. Elizabeth Shewell—for more than
fifty years his kind and tender companion—died
on the 6th of December, 1817, and West, seventy-
nine years old, felt that he was soon to follow.
His wife and he had loved each other some sixty
years—had seen their children's children—and the
world had no compensation to offer. He began
to sink, and though still to be found at his easel,
his hand had lost its early alacrity. It was evi-
dent that all this was to cease soon; that he was
suffering a slow, and a general, and easy decay.
The venerable old man sat in his study among his
favourite pictures, a breathing image of piety and
contentment, awaiting calmly the hour of his dis-
solution. Without any fixed complaint, his men-
tal faculties unimpaired, his cheerfulness une-
clipsed, and with looks serene and benevolent, he
expired 11th March, 1820, in the eighty-second
year of his age. He was buried beside Reynolds;
Opie, and Barry, in St. Paul's Cathedral. The

56 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
*
pall was borne by noblemen, ambassadors, and
academicians; his two sons and grandson were
chief mourners; and sixty coaches brought up the
splendid procession. -
Benjamin West was in person above the middle
size, of a fair complexion, and firmly and com-
pactly built. His serene brow betokened command
of temper, whilst his eyes, sparkling and vivacious,
promised lively remarks and pointed sayings, in
which he by no means abounded. Intercourse
with courts and with the world, which changes so
many, made no change in his sedate sobriety of
sentiment and happy propriety of manner, the re-
sults of a devout domestic education. His kind-
ness to young artists was great—his liberality
seriously impaired his income—he never seemed
weary of giving advice—intrusion never disturbed
his temper—nor could the tediousness of the dull
ever render him either impatient or peevish. He
was indeed friendly to all—and particularly kind
to two artists who have since risen to high dis-
tinction—Chantrey and Martin. For the former
he obtained the statue of Washington, erected at
Boston; and to the latter he willingly disclosed
the secrets of his profession, and cheered him by
his approbation. Whatever he knew in art he rea-
dily imparted—he was always happy to think that
art was advancing, and no mean jealousy of other
men's good fortune ever invaded his repose. His
vanity was amusing and amiable—and his belief—
prominent in every page of the narrative which he
dictated to his friend Mr. Galt—that preaching
and prophecy had predestined him to play a great
part before mankind, and be an example to all
†
*
WEST., 57
pºſity. did no one any harm, and himself some
As his life was long and laborious, his produc-
tions are very numerous. He painted and sketched
in oil upwards of four hundred pictures, mostly of
an historical and religious nature, and he left more
than two hundred original drawings in his port-
folio. His works were supposed by himself, and
for a time by others, to be in the true spirit of the
great masters, and he composed them with the
serious ambition and hope of illustrating Scripture
and rendering Gospel truth more impressive. No
subject seemed to him too lofty for his pencil; he
considered himself worthy to follow the sublimest
flights of the prophets, and dared to limn the efful-
gence of God's glory and the terrors of the Day
of Judgment. The mere list of his works makes
us shudder at human presumption—Moses receiv-
ing the Law on Sinai–the Descent of the Holy
Ghost on the Saviour in the Jordan—the Opening
of the Seventh Seal in the Revelations—Saint Mi-
chael and his Angels casting out the Great Dragon
—the mighty Angel with one foot on sea and the
other on earth—the Resurrection l—and there are
many others of the same class With such mag-
nificence and sublimity who but a Michael Angelo
could cope 2
In all his works the human form was exhibited
in conformity to academic precepts—his figures
were arranged with skill—the colouring was va-
ried and often harmonious—the eye rested pleased
on the performance, and the artist seemed, to the
ordinary spectator, to have done his task like one
of the highest of the sons of genius. But below all
58 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
•
this splendour there was little of the true vitality
—there was a monotony, too, of human character—
the groupings were unlike the happy and careless
combinations of nature, and the figures frequently
seemed distributed over the canvass by line and
measure, like trees in a plantation. He wanted
fire and imagination to be the true restorer of
that grand style, which bewildered Barry, and
was talked of by Reynolds. Some of his works—
cold, formal, bloodless, and passionless—may re-
mind the spectator of the sublime vision of the
Valley of dry bones, when the flesh and skin had
come upon the skeletons, and before the breath
of God had informed them with life and feeling.
Though such is the general impression, which
the works of West make, it cannot be denied that
many are distinguished by great excellence. In
his Death on the Pale Horse, and more particu-
larly in the sketch of that picture, he has more
than approached the masters and princes of the
calling. It is, indeed, irresistibly fearful to see
the triumphant march of the terrific Phantom, and
the dissolution of all that earth is proud of beneath
his tread. War and peace, sorrow and joy, youth
and age, all who love and all who hate, seem pla-
net-struck. The Death of Wolfe, too, is natural
and noble, and the Indian chief, like the Oneyda
warrior of Campbell,
A stoic of the woods, a man without a tear,
was a happy thought. The Battle of La Hogue
I have heard praised as the best historic picture
of the British school, by one not likely to be mis-
taken, and who would not say what he did not
west. * 59
feel. Many of his single figures, also, are of a
high order. There is a natural grace in the looks
of some of his women, which few painters have
ever excelled.
West was injured by early success—he obtained
his fame too easily—it was not purchased by long
study and many trials—and he rashly imagined
himself capable of anything. But the coldness of
his imagination nipt the blossoms of history. It
is the province of art to elevate the subject in the
spirit of its nature—and brooding over the whole
with the feeling of a poet, awaken the scene into
vivid life and heroic beauty; but such mastery
rarely waited upon the ambition of this amiable
and upright man. W

( 60 )
JAMES BARRY.
JAMES BARRY was born in Cork, on the 11th of
October, 1741. His mother's maiden name was
Juliana Roerden; her ancestors had lost large
estates in the county Cork, through rebellions and
revolutions; “and his father, whose name was
John,” says one of his biographers, “had no oc-
casion to blush at his pedigree, if it be true, that
he was of a collateral branch of the family, which
has been honoured with the Earldom of Barry-
more.” Whatever his remote ancestors were, we
are certain that John Barry was bred a builder;
that his want of success drove him to the sea; that,
for many years, he commanded a vessel which
traded between the Cove of Cork and England;
and that he was fortunate in none of his pursuits.
Of the early education of James Barry we have
but an imperfect account; but it must have been
watched over with no common care, for, in after-
life, when learning was wanted, no one found him
deficient. When very young his father took him
to sea; but to be pent up in a floating prison—
to see the same monotonous scene setting upon
him at night, and opening upon him every day,
and to drudge and become familiar with the severe
duties of a mariner's life, were not for one on whose
mind art had already dawned. In the first place


- - - - - -------
J.A. M. E. S. B.A.R. R.Y.

BARRY, • * 61
he ran away, and was with difficulty found and
brought back; and secondly, instead of handing
ropes and adjusting sails, it was his pleasure to
make sketches of the coast along which he sailed,
or to draw groups and single figures upon the deck,
to the amusement of the sailors and the vexation
of his father. It was idle to contend against the
determined disposition of this wilful boy; his
father sent him back to his mother, and he re-
sumed his books and crayons. In the happier
moments of his manhood he has been heard to
allude jocularly to his marine apprenticeship.
Painting was the natural rather than the acci-
dental direction of his mind—he sketched and drew
at an earlier age than his sister, who long survived
him, could name. When the father returned and
saw his son's colossal outlines in black and red
chalk, on walls, floors, and furniture, the rough
sailor spoke with great bitterness, and said, the
boy had abandoned a trade which produced daily
bread, for wild and unprofitable nonsense. He
sought shelter behind his mother's chair, who pro-
tected him, and encouraged him in his pursuits.
On leaving the sea he was sent to school—
where his quickness of parts, and his stubborn and
solitary disposition attracted notice. During the
hours of leisure he read or drew. Whole mights,
his sister said, were taken from sleep; he spent
all his pocket money on pencils and candles; and
when, alarmed for his health, the servants, in ar-
ranging his room, secreted his candles, he would
not allow them to go there any more, but locked
the door and made the bed for himself. His
bed became hard and uncomfortable—his mother
62 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
wished to render it softer, and to introduce order
into his apartment—but he resisted her also; even
in these early days he exhibited a spirit intracta-
ble and capricious, and declared his love for those
ascetic and self-denying habits which assume the
name of virtues in the legends of the Romish
church.
He sometimes, however, mingled in school-boy
amusements; and on one of those occasions, wish-
ing to conceal himself from his companions in the
favourite game called “Hide and Seek,” he en-
tered a ruinous house in an obscure lane, which
had neither doors nor windows, and was said to be
haunted. On running up the half-rotten stairs.
and entering an upper room, he saw two old and
withered figures sitting in rags and wretchedness
beside a handful of expiring embers, tearing each
other's faces, and accompanying every tug with
grimaces which demons might have envied. They
heeded him not, but tore away, and he retired,
making, he said, two reflections on what he had
seen—“That man is malicious in proportion as he
is impotent,” and “that age and want add to their
inherent miseries evils all their own.” The moral
inference which he seeks to draw from this sad
scene is unjust to human nature. The evils, in-
deed, of weakness and want are not little; they
are an ill-matched pair, though often seen together;
but weakness of body is frequently accompanied
by great benevolence of mind, and there is a phi-
losophic or devout spirit of endurance in those af-
flicted with poverty and old age, which Barry might
have discovered wherever he went on the earth.
But from his earliest years he indulged in curious
BARRY. 63
opinions, and affected singularity of dress—as those
often do who are resolved to become noticed for
something. He sought the company only of the
old and the educated—listened to all they said—
showed anxiety after knowledge—and wore a
garb so coarse and so plain, that it seemed as if
he were suffering under a rule of religious mor-
tification. His school-fellows considered his learn-
ing so extraordinary, that, in letters yet extant,
they speak of him as a prodigy of knowledge,
from whom they were accustomed to receive opi-
nions as from a master. t -
His mother, a zealous Catholic, and whose af-
fection for the old faith was increased by a sense
of the loss of family wealth and importance, exer-
cised a strong and a lasting influence over him.
His father, a Protestant, committed all domestic
matters to his wife, and probably thought of doc-
trinal disputes with the lightness of a sailor: she,
in her turn, committed her son to the care and
conversation of two Catholic priests, who, to learn-
ing, added the zeal which thirsts for proselytes—
and that enthusiasm which, directed with prudence
against the youthful and the imaginative, is sure
to triumph. He was artfully involved in the
mazes of religious controversy, and had to seek
his way out in the company of those who coveted
his conversion—other temptations were held out,
of notice and preferment, and he was soon hailed
as a stray sheep won back to the fold. A report
was diligently circulated that his learning and
talents were to be dedicated to the service of the
suffering church; but as soon as he had openly

64 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
committed himself as a Catholic, his nomination to
the priesthood was heard of no more. -
To the Romish church he was much attached
in youth, but his residence in Rome made him
waver not a little. There he saw more than he
wished to have seen, and was about to seek refuge
from superstition in infidelity, when he was saved,
as he always acknowledged, by a book sent to him
by Edmund Burke. The work which did this
good deed was that precious one—“Butler's Ana-
logy of Religion, natural and revealed, to the con-
stitution and course of nature.” In after-life he
rewarded the author by placing him high amongst
those divines whom he admitted into his paint-
ing of Elysium. But he was far too ardent and
unbalanced to remain steady at the wholesome
point of belief where Bishop Butler had left him.
He became, as life advanced and vexations thick-
ened, a blind and bigoted follower of the creed
of Rome, and somewhat stern and uncharitable
towards those who differed from him in matters
of faith: but we are anticipating.
When he was some twelve or fifteen years old—
tradition is no accurate observer of dates—a book-
seller in Cork had such confidence in his powers,
that he employed him to make the designs—some
add the etchings—for a small volume of tales
which he was publishing. Of these, if they ever
existed, no account is given, and the book has
been sought for in vain; nor, indeed, is there any
precise information to be had concerning the sub-
jects which employed his boyish pencil: he pro-
bably retained his sketches till ripening judgment
BAR.R.Y. 65
condemned them, and then committed to the fire
those witnesses of an undisciplined hand and an
ill-regulated fancy. Having no one to guide him
in art as he had to mislead him in religion, he had
to grope his own way to excellence, and attain it
as he best might. We know that ere he left Cork,
he had painted in oil colour, “Eneas escaping
from the burning of Troy,”—“A dead Christ,”—
“Susanna and the Elders,”—“Daniel in the Lions'
Den,”—and “Abraham's Sacrifice;” but whether
these were copies or original compositions it is not
mentioned. Such subjects are frequently chosen
by young and presumptuous men, who imagine
that it is grand and daring to single out a sublime
or splendid scene from history or poetry—they
have yet to learn, and they will soon discover it,
that a lofty subject requires to be nobly handled.
Those early attempts of Barry were long after-
wards to be seen on the walls of his father's
house. - -
His name had not yet been heard of beyond
Cork; it was soon to be known in remote parts,
and received with a favour which must have fallen
on Barry like a shower upon a summer drought.
There is a tradition in the Irish Church concern-
ing the conversion of a king of Cashel by the
eloquence of St. Patrick. The barbarian prince,
when the apostle concluded his exhortation, called
loudly to be baptized, and such was the hurry of
the one, and the fortitude of the other, that though
the Saint, implanting his iron-shod crozier in the
ground, struck it unwittingly through the royal
convert's foot, he uttered not one murmur, nor
yet moved a muscle, but conceiving it to be a part
WOL. II, F
66 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
of the ceremony, stood and was baptized. “The
moment of baptism,” says Dr. Fryer, “rendered
so critical and awful by the circumstances of the
king's foot being pierced with the spear, is that
which Mr. Barry chose for the display of his art;
and few stories, it is presumed, have been selected
with greater felicity, or with greater scope for the
skill and ingenuity of the artist. The heroic pa-
tience of the king, the devotional abstraction of
the saint, and the mixed emotions of the specta-
tors, form a combined and comprehensive model
of imitation, and convey a suitable idea of the ge-
nius of one, who, self-instructed, and at nineteen,
conceived the execution of so grand a design.”
With this work in his hand, Barry went to Dub-
lin, and placed it among the paintings collecting
for exhibition by the Society for the Encourage-
ment of Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce. He
was at this time utterly unfriended and unknown,
coarsely clad, and with something of the stamp of
one enduring poverty upon him. The picture was
exhibited and admired; but so little was such a
work expected from a native artist, that when the
name of the painter was demanded, and he stept
modestly forward, no one would believe him—his
brow glowed, he burst into tears, and hurried out
of the room. All this was observed by Edmund
Burke, one of the greatest and best-hearted of all
the sons of genius. He sought the young artist
out, commended and encouraged him, laid down
the natural rules of composition, and directed his
attention to what was pure and poetical. One of
those incidents which biographers love to relate,
and the world indulgently believes, is said to have

BARRY's * : 67
happened at the very first interview between those
two youthful adventurers. They had plunged into
controversy in the first hour of their friendship,
and Barry, in aid of his argument, quoted a passage
from the Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful, then
published without the author's name. Burke re-
fused to bow to the authority of a performance
which he called slight and unsubstantial, and the
fiery Barry exclaimed, “Do you call that a slight
and unsubstantial work which is conceived in the
spirit of nature and truth—is written with such
elegance, and strewn all over with the richness of
poetic fancy? I could not afford to buy the work,
Sir, and transcribed it every word with my own
hand.” Burke smiled, and acknowledged himself
the author. “Are you, by God!” exclaimed Barry,
embracing him, and holding out the copy which he
had made of the work. Such is the story. Burke
was well known to be the author, and enjoyed the
reputation, of the Essay, before his name was at-
tached to it; and if Barry had taken the trouble
to transcribe the work, it does not seem likely that
he should have carried the copy in his pocket.
Still, we must not too rashly apply to such a per-
son, the rules by which we are entitled to judge in
matters concerning the ordinary brethren of the
ItaCé.
He continued to reside for some time in Dub-
lin. The way to fame, and perhaps fortune, lay
open before him, Burke had praised his works,
and assured him of his protection, and he had only
to walk circumspectly, and act with prudence, to
become an honour to his native land. Dr. Sleigh,
of Cork, an early and benevolent friend, congratu-
- - F 2

68 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
lating him on having met with that countenance
in Dublin which he had sought and merited in vain
in his native city, counselled a journey to Rome,
and the study of Spenser, Shakespeare, and Mil-
ton. This was not lost on Barry. “To Dr. Sleigh,”
he used to say, “I am indebted for whatever edu-
cation and fortune and fame I may have in the
world.” Sudden success unsettled him for a time;
the fame of his work brought a crowd of those un-
safe companions who clap their hands at the sight
of a new favourite of fortune, and flutter about the
prodigy like moths round a candle. In their com-
pany he sometimes forgot himself; he was sen-
sible of the folly, and on his way home from a
deep carouse, determined on immediate amend-
ment. This fit of repentance found him at the
side of the Lifty; he stood and upbraided his own
easiness of temper, and cursed the money in his
pocket as a fiend that had tempted him to the
tavern. He threw his purse into the river, ran
home, and resumed his interrupted studies. He
afterwards related this to an outspoken friend.
“Ah Barry ! man,” said he, “you threw away
your luck—you never had either gold or good
temper to spare afterwards.”
In his twenty-third year he went to London, on
the invitation of Burke, who introduced him to
Athenian Stuart, whose talk confirmed him in his
love of the ancients, and to Sir Joshua Reynolds,
in whose works he studied delicacy of style, pro-
priety of character, and force of light and shade.
“If I should chance to have genius, or any thing
else,” he observes, in a letter to Dr. Sleigh, “it is
so much the better; but my hopes are grounded

BARRY. 69
upon an unwearied intense application, of which
I am not sparing. At present I have little to
show that I value; my work is all under ground,
digging and laying foundations, which, with God's
assistance, I may hereafter find the use of. I
every day centre more and more upon the art; I
give myself totally to it: and, except honour and
conscience, am determined to renounce everything
else. Though this may appear enthusiastic, or
rather extravagant, it is really the state of my
mind.” Nothing great can ever be accomplished
without enthusiasm ; but it requires to be a little
better regulated than poor Barry's. For the most
part his motions of other men's talents were at this
early period equally decided and just. “The
colouring of Wilson is very masterly,” he ob-
serves, in one of his letters, “his style of design
is more grand, more consistent, and more poetical
than any other person's amongst us.” His admi-
ration, however, was not always so well placed;
he praised the Achilles and Patroclus of Hamilton,
for which he was rebuked by some of the elder
brethren of the brush. He gave them a tasting of
his spirit in two or three sarcastic sentences, in
which he vindicated his right to freedom of opi-
nion. They shrugged their shoulders, looked on
one another, were irritated, and were silenced.
Barry pursued his studies in London for a year.
The presence and the society of Burke awed down
the natural sharpness of his temper, and in his
company he began to practise the courtesies of
polished life, and appeared in a dress becoming
the station to which he aspired. He had already
determined to be a historical painter. The true
70 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
nature of that style could never, in the opinion of
Reynolds, be ascertained, without a visit to the
Sistine Chapel; but such a pilgrimage could not
be accomplished by one so poor as Barry, and he
was in despair—when Burke generously inter-
posed, fitted him out for his journey, and settled
an annual pension upon him during the period of
probationary study.
On his way through France, he admired and
copied the Alexander drinking the Potion, by La
Sueur, and visited the Academy of St. Luke, on
which he remarks to Burke, “I don't like an aca-
demy; it is a thing, which, wherever it is founded,
will, I think, bring the arts into contempt, and,
consequently, to destruction. We have two of
them here; there are such mobs of blackguards
go every night to acquire a trade there, as is
enough to shock any one who has the least regard
for the art. People send their children to make
them painters and statuaries, without learning or
genius, or indeed any thing else, only because it is
less expensive than making them peruquiers or
shoemakers.” With better sense, he continues,
“ drawing and modelling in the academy, with
the assistance of a master, is not likely to mislead
any one, and must be useful to men of real ge-
nius.” . He was so much charmed with the peo-
ple and the scenery of Burgundy, that he stopped
at an inn and wrote to Burke; “We may talk as
much as we please about cultivation and plenty;
but I must honestly confess I never before saw
any thing, but the faint glimmerings of it, com-
pared with this land, where nature seems ambi-
tious of doing every thing for herself. The peo-

BAR.R.Y. 71
ple, who are extremely numerous, are, for the
most part, amply employed in the gathering and
storing of fruits. Methinks, without any great
poetic license, it is somewhat probable, when
Bacchus made his rounds of the earth, that his
head-quarters must have been in one of the val-
lies of Burgundy, where, on every side, mountain.
peeps over mountain, and appears clothed in the
varied hues of the vine, interspersed with sheep
and corn. This, and the crowds of busy con-
tented people, who cover the whole face of the
country, make a strong but melancholy contrast
to a miserable isle which I cannot help thinking of
sometimes—you will not be at a loss to know that
I mean Ireland.”
At Rome, Barry found letters awaiting him,
containing the agreeable assurance that his Alex-
ander and the Potion, which he had presented to
Burke, was pronounced by Reynolds correct in
drawing, and in expression just and noble. In the
lustre of colouring Barry never excelled, and the
President was silent concerning that matter; he
counselled, however, the constant study of Michael
Angelo; to the Sistine Chapel the young painter
hastened accordingly; and the following are some
of his observations. “The deep knowledge of
the ancients in anatomy, is, I think, as observable
in the Apollo and the Antinous, as it is in the
Laocoon and the Torso, whose flesh is of a more
rigid texture: and the disappearing of the muscles
as the figure approaches the delicate, is the con-
sequence of as certain observations and principles
as their introduction would be in a figure of a dif-
ferent character. The knowledge, freedom and
72 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
greatness of style in drawing, are, I think, the
only part of the character of Michael Angelo
which has been well understood. It has been, and
is every day observed, that notwithstanding the
number of figures in the Last Judgment, there is
but one character of body placed in a vast diver-
sity of attitudes, the model of which is said to
have been his porter. It is not so literally the
case, though I believe he might have intended it,
in conformity to a prevailing opinion that at the
Resurrection all bodies will be of the same age and
character. I do not think the expression of counte-
nance, either in him or Raphael, indicate in a very
clear and particular manner, the intentions and
state of mind of the persons to whom this counte-
nance is given.”
His letters, his conversation, his skill in draw-
ing, his enthusiasm and poetic imagination, had
raised high expectations in the minds of English
friends. They thought with satisfaction of the
rich opportunities now before him, and of the use
such a man must make of them—but unfortunately
controversy was his chief delight; and of this he
soon found enough to satisfy a whole academy.
It happened that Rome, at this period, was visited
by one of those gentlemen who, with a little in-
come, a little learning, a little knowledge of art
and a full capacity for speech, wander from gal-
lery to gallery, delivering opinions upon works of
genius with a confidence which passes with the
world for the offspring of refined taste and pro-
found knowledge. Against this person the Irish
impetuosity of Barry precipitated him at once.
“As he is a man of great civility,” thus he writes

*
-
BARRY. 73
to Burke, “I never would have thought of con-
tradicting him, had I not seen clearly into the
drift and tendency of his frequent hints of the
incapacity of the people at Rome, and that a
mod from him would set his dependents to tear
up and trample on every thing we hold sacred.
Reynolds could not draw—his colouring was white,
was blue, was red, was every thing that would
damn him; he stole what he had, and mangled
what he stole. Gainsborough's landscapes were
mere nosegays; and West, who was so much the
fashion, afforded a convincing proof that drawing
was not sought after, and that a true idea of art
was wanting.” -
To confute such a sweeping censure as this,
Barry could bring knowledge and sense; but he
was deficient in that courtesy and graciousness of
manner which takes the sting out of contradiction.
He was vehement, and he was incensed: nor did
he seek to conceal his indignation; the conse-
quences are clearly described by his own pen:-
“I had no sooner attempted to excuse our artists
from these aspersions—but I was immediately
pointed out as a person who, not coinciding with
the designs of the dealers, might be dangerous in
the company of English cavaliers, where it was
necessary every now and then to run into the
praises of an indifferent antique head, with a
modern body and legs cobbled to it, or of an old
picture, which they christen in the name of this or
that master, and which has no other merit but that
—as nothing is visible, nothing can be objected to
it. As the English have much money to lay out
in virtù, and as they have perhaps a greater pas-
74 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
sion for the ancients than they have, generally
speaking, judgment to distinguish among them,
those in whose hands they fall here, and to whom
their commissions are sent, take care to provide
heads with bodies and legs, and vice versa. Frag-
ments of all the gods are jumbled together, legs
and heads of fairies and graces, till a monster is
produced. Though for the most part intrigue and
mercenary ways are prevalent here, truth is never
without a witness.”
All this was honest, intrepid, and imprudent.
His fame was yet to make, and his character was
much in those men's power, and he was made to
feel it. Sly old antiquarians cunningly inveigled
him into conversation, and exhibited him to the
English travellers as, heated with controversy, he
threw his sarcasms, right and left, among all who
sold and all who purchased busts without heads
and daubings of the dark masters. This consumed
his time, took his attention from study, and invaded
that tranquillity of mind which is so necessary for
all noble pursuits. In the midst of these distrac-
tions, a long and friendly letter from Sir Joshua
Reynolds sought to reclaim him from disputation,
and bind him heartily to Michael Angelo and Ra-
phael. “If you should not relish their works at
first,” said the President, “which may probably
be the case, as they have none of those qualities
which are captivating at first sight, never cease
looking till you find something like inspiration
come over you, till you think every other painter
insipid in comparison, and to be admired only for
petty excellencies.”
Barry failed to discover in the compositions of
BARRY, 75
these illustrious masters the entire proportion, and
grace, and simplicity, of the Grecian sculpture,
He was too ardent in his nature to keep this be-
lief to himself; he preached this unheard-of he-
resy in Rome, with the fervour of a devotee; and
thus unbosomed himself to Burke. “I see,” he
said, “in no part of Raphael's works any figure
that I may call truly and correctly beautiful, like
the Antinous, or the Venus of Medici—or any
that is truly good, like the bust of Alexander—
or sublime, like the Apollo. As to the Torso, the
Laocoon, and such like characters, he appears not
at all qualified to succeed in them. As to his
cartoons and his pictures in the Vatican, they may
be more expressive of the passions, and may be
more correct in a mediocrity of character—a little
more than that which comes into any of those
works, or even into his Transfiguration. Michael
Angelo appears still less near the standard than
Raphael. He is infinitely above Raphael in know-
ledge and correctness, yet his ostentation and show
of this, and Raphael's art of concealing—with
choice of subject and pleasing well-wrought dra-
peries—his want of it, bring them nearly to a
level, at least with the bulk of mankind; yet I
rather believe fewer people have attained Michael
Angelo's merits than Raphael's, though no one
has come near Raphael upon the whole.”
Barry loved simple beauty of form. Reynolds
admired the splendid effects of light and shade.
The former saw and worshipped in the marbles of
Greece a severe and dignified grandeur, all attained
without startling attitudes or violent motion : the
latter discovered the perfection of art in the pro-
76 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
fuse draperies, imposing effects, and quiet grace
of Angelo and Raphael. These two men were
in their natures essentially dissimilar, and looked
upon the works of the great masters with very
different eyes. How Sir Joshua received the ac-
count of Barry's heresy concerning Michael Angelo
we are not informed, but we gather from a letter,
addressed to him soon afterwards, that Barry was
unwilling to be suspected of coldness or indiffer-
ence concerning the glories of the Sistine Chapel.
But poor Barry was an indifferent dissembler: his
raptures were felt to be artificial : the President
shrugged his shoulders, as was his custom, and
never advised him more.
In the third year of his residence in Rome, he
made an excursion to Naples. “At Nitri, a mi-
serable little town in the Neapolitan territory,” he
says in one of his letters, “are monuments which
gave me heartfelt pleasure. One is a piece of raw
hide, a little broader than the sole of the foot, tied
on in the manner of the ancient sandal. I bought
a pair of them, which I will put on, to show you
the villainy of our cursed Gothic shoes, which, by
the line which the termination of the upper leather
makes upon the stocking, cuts off the foot from
the leg, and loses that fine idea of one limb which
is kept up in this vestige of a sandal. Another
monument is the manner of tying up the hair of the
women. I gave one of them money—made draw-
ings of it—loosed it, and made drawings again—
so that I know everything about it, and shall be of
great use to the ladies when I come home. Blessed
be the poverty of this people, and long may it
continue to their posterity ſ it has preserved to
BARRY. .77
them, though in a state of ignorance, the elegant
notions of their forefathers: it has kept it out of
their power to flaunt about after the deliriums and
new-fangled whims of fashionable people in great
cities; and you shall not be able in your Londons,
your Parises and Romes, to cull me out such an
object as one of these women standing near a
fountain, with her sweet antique-formed vase on
her head. At Naples also is to be seen the same
way of tying up the hair as in many bustos—the
cloth which lies across it in other heads of anti-
quity, and the reta, net or cap, inclosing all; and
even without quitting the vulgar women of Naples,
I will show you amongst them all the different
head-dresses of the Nine Muses. I find the love
of antiquity growing upon me every day.”
After a brief interval, fatigued with studying
from the antique, with discovering resemblances
between the dresses of the Italian rustics and the
classic costume of Attica, and with gazing on Ti-
tian, whom he at this time preferred to all painters
of these latter days—Barry once more sought
amusement in disputes with fellow artists, and in
hostile bickerings with wandering virtuosi and
pedestrian picture dealers. Burke had long been
sensible of this grievous infirmity in his friend's
temper, and in a series of eloquent and affectionate
letters, endeavoured to soothe down his rugged
spirit, and sugar over the bitterness of his nature.
It was all in vain. “You have given,” thus writes
Burke, “a strong, and, I fancy, a very faithful
picture of the dealers in taste with you. It is
very right that you should know and remark their
little arts; but as fraud will intermeddle in every
78. THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
transaction of life, where we cannot oppose our-
selves to it with effect, it is by no means our duty
or our interest to make ourselves uneasy, or mul-
tiply enemies on account of it. ... In particular,
you may be assured that the traffic in antiquity,
and all the enthusiasm, folly, or fraud, which may
be in it, never did, nor ever can, hurt the merit
of living artists: quite the contrary, in my opinion;
for I have ever observed that whatever it be that
turns the minds of men to any thing relative to
the arts, brings artists more and more into credit
and repute; and though now and then the mere
broker and dealer in such things runs away with
a great deal of the profit, yet in the end ingenious
men will find themselves gainers by the disposi-
tions which are mourished and diffused in the world
by such pursuits. I praise exceedingly your re-
solution of going on well with those whose prac-
tices you cannot altogether approve—there is no
living in this norld upon any other terms.”
If Barry ever formed the resolution of living
on terms of peace with these men of virtù, his
intractable temper soon broke it. He was now,
by his own account, become so fastidious in his
taste that even Titian could no longer please him
-—he looked with scorn upon all works below his
own air-drawn standard of excellence, and re-
garded, and addressed, with sarcastic displeasure
all “whose gods were not his gods.” It was his
misfortune that he uniformly fancied himself the
conqueror in these uncivil debates: hence a grow-
ing belief that the time must come when there
would be a reaction of popular feeling in favour
of one who had braved martyrdom in the cause
BARRY. 79
of honesty in picture dealing. He acknowledged,
meantime, the influence of his enemies in that
sensitive part, the pocket, and said they had made
his profession unprofitable—which he lamented,
not on his own account, but for the sake of his
benevolent friend, Burke. “It has been a real
grief to me,” he writes to his patron, “that I could
not contribute to lighten the expenses your good-
mature and generosity have led you into for me.
I have nothing to say on my own behalf, but that
I shall carry myself so, both as a man and an artist,
as never to bring a blush on your face on my ac-
count.” He imagines, however, that the uncivility
of his opponents had done him some service, by
confirming him in the resolution of playing a high
game in art, and he even attributes to their malice
the great progress he is making in his studies.
“I saw from the beginning that I was hated—
and hated for the very dispositions I relied upon
to recommend me. I saw every avenue shut up
from me by their power and industry, except the
glorious one of my profession, so I went seriously
to work and left to them the cavaliers and the
wasting away of their time, in dressing up phan-
toms and distorted macaronies in my name.”
It must be confessed that Barry looked upon
life with strange eyes. “Out of the nettle danger
he loved to pluck the flower safety.” By living at
dagger's drawing with his brethren, he avoided the
expense, he said, of treats and taverns; and to their
satiric comments upon his colouring, he owed, he
declared, his knowledge of the merits of Titian |
Having unconsciously done him these favours, his
enemies commenced an attack upon him person-
80 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
ally. “This,” he says, with a smile, “was more
in their power, for though the body and the soul
of a picture will discover themselves on the slight-
est glance, yet you know it could not be the same
with such a pock-pitted hard-featured little fellow
as I am . . . . . so that I shall be surprised if you
have not been frightened with the terrible accounts
given of me.” The answer of Mr. Burke to all this
is marked by his uncommon qualities of head and
heart—it shows intimate knowledge of the world
and its ways, and a perfect appreciation of the
failings and excellencies of the singular person to
whom it is addressed. The date is London, 16th
September, 1769.
“As to reports, my dear Barry, concerning
your conduct and behaviour, you may be very
sure they would have no kind of influence here;
for none of us are of such a make as to trust to
any one's report for the character of a person
whom we ourselves know. Until very lately I
have never heard any thing of your proceedings
from others; and when I did, it was much less
than I had known from myself—that you had
been upon ill terms with the artists and virtuosi
of Rome, without much mention of cause or con-
sequence. If you have improved these unfortu-
nate quarrels to your advancement in your art,
you have turned a very disagreeable circumstance
to a very capital advantage. However you may
have succeeded in this uncommon attempt, permit
me to suggest to you, with that friendly liberty
which you have always had the goodness to bear
from me, that you cannot possibly always have
the same success, either with regard to your for-

BARRY, 81
tune or your reputation. Depend upon it that
you will find the same competitions, the same jea-
lousies, the same arts and cabals, the emulations
of interest and of fame, and the same agitations
and passions here that you have experienced in
Italy; and if they have the same effect on your
temper, they will have just the same effects on
your interest; and be your merit what it will, you
will never be allowed to paint a picture. It will be
the same at London as at Rome, and the same in
Paris as in London: for the world is pretty nearly
alike in all its parts: nay, though perhaps it would
be a little inconvenient to me, I had a thousand
times rather you should fix your residence in
Rome than here, as I should not then have the
mortification of seeing with my own eyes, a genius
of the first rank, lost to the world, himself and his
friends, as I certainly must, if you do not assume a
manner of acting and thinking here totally different
from what your letters from Rome have described
to me. That you had just subjects of indignation
always, and of anger often, I do noways doubt;
who can live in the world without some trial of
his patience 2 But believe me, my dear Barry,
that the arms with which the ill-dispositions of
the world are to be combated, and the qualities by
which it is to be reconciled to us, and we recon-
ciled to it, are moderation, gentleness, a little in-
dulgence to others, and a great deal of distrust of
ourselves; which are not qualities of a mean spirit,
as some may possibly think them, but virtues of a
great and noble kind, and such as dignify our
nature as much as they contribute to our repose
and fortune; for nothing can be so unworthy of a
WOL. II. G.
82 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
well-composed soul as to pass away life in bicker-
ings and litigations; in snarling and scuffling with
every one about us. Again and again, my dear
Barry, we must be at peace with our species, if
not for their sakes, yet very much for our own.”
The conclusion of this memorable letter seems
dictated by a species of inspiration, which, look-
ing mournfully and prophetically forward, ex-
pressed in a few, clear, and eloquent words, the
disastrous career of the object of all this solici-
tude.
“Think what my feelings must be, from my
unfeigned regard for you, and from my wishes
that your talents might be of use, when I see what
the inevitable consequences must be of your per-
severing in what has hitherto been your course
ever since I knew you, and which you will permit
me to trace out to you beforehand. You will
come here: you will observe what the artists are
doing: and you will sometimes speak disappro-
bation in plain words, and sometimes in no less
expressive silence: by degrees you will produce
some of your own works. They will be variously
criticised: you will defend them: you will abuse
those who have attacked you : expostulations,
discussions, letters, possibly challenges, will go
forward—you will shun your brethren—they will
shun you. In the mean time gentlemen will
avoid your friendship, for fear of being engaged
in your quarrels: you will fall into distress, which
will only aggravate your disposition for further
quarrels: you will be obliged, for maintenance,
to do any thing for any body : your very talents
will depart for want of hope and encouragement,
BARRY. 83
and you will go out of the world fretted, disap-
pointed, and ruined. Nothing but my real regard
for you could induce me to set these considera-
tions in this light before you. Remember, we are
born to serve and to adorn our country, and not
to contend with our fellow citizens—and that, in
particular, your business is to paint, and not to
dispute.”
It really appears that Barry imagined himself
all this while one of the meekest beings that ever
studied the antique. The fear of some and the
hatred of others, he imputed to any cause save his
own headlong impetuosity of temper; nay, he ac-
tually seems to have supposed that his scornful
sallies and sarcastic criticisms would be received
with thankfulness, since they sprung from nothing
but zeal for the benefit of art. From the first day
of his appearance in Rome, he took the station of
a judge, and delivered opinions with the intrepidity
of one grown gray in study and in fame. All this
in a young man of three or four and twenty, who
could not as yet appeal to the excellence of his
own works as his warrant, was not likely to be
received with gratitude, particularly by a prover-
bially thinskinned and irritable tribe. Yet he
never conceived he was to blame, and wrote down
art as largely his debtor for candour and boldness.
He defied the world, but he defended himself to
Burke. “Your friendship is, I think, as visible
in the warm picture you have drawn of my con-
tentious disposition, as in any other part of your
generous conduct towards me; but then shall I
assure you that I am not that censorious inspector
and publisher of the defects of other artists? No;
G 2
84 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
you know me better, notwithstanding what you
have said, and I know, whether from my vanity or
my virtue, if I have any, you will never meet with
an artist more warm and just to the merit of his
brethren, or more inclined to overlook their defi-
ciencies than I am.”
A charge of a graver nature than infirmity of
temper, after having long been whispered about in
professional coteries has lately been set forth in
Mr. Smith's Life of Nollekens. “Barry, the his-
torical painter,” says this writer, “who was ex-
tremely intimate with Nollekens at Rome, took the
liberty one night, when they were about to leave
the English Coffee-house, to exchange hats with
him. Barry's hat was edged with lace, and Nol-
lekens' was a very shabby plain one. Upon his
returning the hat next morning, he was requested
by Nollekens to let him know why he left him his
gold-laced hat. “Why, to tell you the truth, my
dear Joey,' answered Barry, ‘ I fully expected
assassination last night, and I was to have been
known by my gold-laced hat.” This villainous
transaction, which might have proved fatal to Nol-
lekens, I have often heard him relate, and he
generally added, ‘It’s what the Old Bailey people
would call a true bill against Jem.’”
Such is Smith's story; and it is well known to
many that Nollekens often related it—but never-
theless we must receive it with distrust and sus-
picion. Barry was fierce, sullen, and sarcastic,
but I cannot believe him capable of an atrocity.
At all events he was not a fool—and that he should
put the life of an innocent man in jeopardy at night
to save his own, and in the morning acknowledge

BARRY, 85
his guilt so gaily to his intended victim, appears
incredible. The story must have originated in
some practical joke—some betting speculation,
perhaps, upon the well-known weakness of Nolle-
kens. No one who knew Barry could believe him
guilty of conduct at once so base and so absurd ;
and indeed the sculptor appears to have sufficiently
refuted the serious interpretation of his own story,
by promoting the interests and defending the cause
of Barry in the Royal Academy, when all others
had forsaken him.
Barry had now remained five years in Rome.
He had examined, and studied, and copied those
works on which the world had set the seal of ap-
probation. Nor had he laboured for subsistence,
for the munificence of Burke and his brothers had
placed him above want; he was requested to draw
upon them for such sums as he might require be-
yond his stated allowance of fifty pounds a year.
He had, in short, laid in an ample stock of know-
ledge; and was now about to return to England,
to carry his acquirements into practice. Some-
thing like misgivings from time to time came
across his mind; he had doubts of final success,
and even fears, now and then, that he might have,
after all mistaken the proper course of study, and
bowed to unprofitable gods. “O, I could be
happy,” he very movingly says, “on my going
home, to find some corner where I could sit down
in the middle of my studies, books, and casts after
the antique, to paint this work and others, where
I might have models of nature when necessary,
bread and soup, and a coat to cover me! I
86 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
should care not what became of my work when it
was done; but I reflect with horror upon such a
fellow as I am, and with such a kind of art, in
London, with house rent to pay, duns to follow
me, and employers to look for. Had I studied
art in a manner more accommodated to the na-
tion, there would be no dread of this.”
On the 22d of April, 1770, he left Rome, and
proceeded to examine the principal galleries which
lay in his way home. His memorandums are nu-
merous, and all marked by his peculiarity of cha-
racter, and idolatry of the antique. The Venus
and Apollo had blinded him to all other excel-
lence. “I am arrived,” said he, “at that un-
lucky pass, that nothing will go down with me
but perfection, at least in some one of the grand
essentials of a picture. In Turin I saw the Royal
Collection of Pictures; but, except one or two by
Guido, which I did not like, all the rest are Fle-
mish and Dutch. Rubens, Rembrandt, Vandyke,
Teniers, and Saalken, are without the pales of my
church; and though I will not condemn them, yet
I must hold no intercourse with them. God help
you, Barry, said I, where is the use of your hair-
breadth niceties and your antiques? Behold the
handwriting upon the wall against you. In the
country to which you are going, pictures of lemon-
peels, oysters, and tricks of colour, are in as much
request as they are here.” There were moods,
nevertheless, in which he felt the difficulty of
judging wisely of a work of genius, and he spoke
truly when he said, “One painter is a very im-
proper person to give an account of another that
BARRY. 87
is out of the pale of his school; they must think
of one-another as the Catholics and Calvinists do
—all without-doors is damnation.” -
He reached Milan. He was unnoticed and un-
known; his enemies were far behind; and he
seemed in a fair way of returning to London to
tranquillity and peace. But even here controversy
fell in his way, and he embraced it. The Me-
dusa's head of Leonardi da Vinci—with its gloomy
brow, watery eyes, and looks full of agony—had
gained that eminent painter a place in Barry's
esteem, and he went to pay a visit to his cele-
brated Last Supper. His own account of what
followed is too characteristic to be omitted, and
too dramatic to be abridged.
“When I came into the Reffetorio I found a
scaffold erected, which on ascending I saw one
half of the picture covered by a great cloth: on
examining the other part that was uncovered, I
found the skin of colour which composed the
picture to be all cracked into little squares of
about the eighteenth of an inch over, which were
for the most part in their edges loosened from the
wall and curling up : however, nothing was mate-
rially lost. I saw that the picture had been for-
merly repaired in some few places; yet as this
was not much, and as the other parts were un-
touched, there was nothing to complain of The
wonderful truth and variety of the expressions, so
well described by Vassari and Rubens, and the
admirable finesse of finish and relievo taken notice
of by Armineni, were still remaining. Whilst I
was examining this part of the picture, two gen-
tlemen came upon the scaffold, and drew aside the
88 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
cloth which covered the other half, which, to my
great horror and astonishment, was repainted.
One of those men was at great pains to show the
vast improvements the picture was receiving by
this repainting; but the repainting and the dis-
course so kindled my indignation, that I was no
longer master of myself. “What, Sir,’ said I, ‘is
it possible you do not perceive how this painter—
if I can call him painter—has destroyed the pic-
ture in every part on which he has laid his stupid
hands? Do not you see that this head is distorted
and out of drawing, that there is no longer signifi-
cance or expression in it, that all his colouring is
crude and wants accord? Do, sir, open your
eyes, and compare it with the other half of the
picture, which he has not as yet buried under his
cursed colours.’ He answered me, that this was
only a dead colour, and the painter was to go over
it a second time. “O, confusion l’ said I, ‘so
much the worse. If he has thus lost his way
whilst he was immediately going over the lines
and colours of Leonardi's work, what will become
of him when he has no longer any guide, and is
left blind and abandoned to his own ignorance?”
And turning myself to two friars of the convent,
who stood by, “Fathers,’ said I, ‘this picture and
the painter of it have suffered much by the igno-
rance of your order. It was whitewashed over
some years ago; it has been again hurt in washing
off the white; and now you have got a beast to
paint another picture upon it, who knows no more
of the matter than you do yourselves. There was
no occasion for thus covering it over with new
colours: it might easily be secured in those parts

BARRY. 89
that are loosening from the wall, and it would
stand probably as long as your order will.’ The
friar told me that he did not understand those
matters, and that he spoke but very little Italian—-
that he was Irish, and that it was by order of the
Count de Firmian, who was secretary of state, that
this picture was repainted. ‘Indeed, then, coun-
tryman,’ said I, ‘ the world will be very little
obliged to Count de Firmian: it were to be
wished, and it will be for the honour and interest
of your convent if you can prevail upon the Count
to spare at least what is remaining of the picture,
and take down the scaffold immediately.’”
Of his five years' occupation abroad, a very
general account must be rendered. Much of his
time was consumed in this sort of warfare; a little
was given to a very ingenious inquiry into the
origin of Gothic architecture, and to the collection
of those historical materials which he afterwards
used in his refutation of Winkelmann; but many
hours, doubtless, were devoted to the proper ob-
jects of his professional study. His ardent spirit
enabled him to master much in a little while ; and
he seems to have examined all that was worth exa-
mination with care and attention. He observed,
however, no method in his studies: his hours of
attending the galleries were dictated by chance;
and his mode of copying, by means of a delineator,
enabled him to store away the works he liked at
a cheap rate; his brethren called it mechanical and
unartist-like—they might have added that he was
stealing rather than acquiring. The hand of a
master may trace by a mechanical process—that
of a student must work, if it is to work to pur-
90 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
pose, by the unaided eye. Barry outlined all the
fine antique statues in this manner. The only
copies in oil which he made were some few which
he sent to Burke, and the only original pictures
which he painted were the Adam and Eve and the
Philoctetes. He was, at this time, as slow and
fastidious in his art, as rash and precipitate in his
temper.
On his arrival in England, he was warmly wel-
comed by Burke; and the first picture which he
exhibited was not unworthy of one who aspired to
revive the faded lustre of historic painting. He
measured himself at once with the most lovely of
all Grecian productions, and painted Venus rising
out of the sea. This picture is allowed, by friends
and foes, to be an exquisite one: but he painted
it in vain; it excited no lively sympathy—no fresh
emotion; the subject had been exhausted by
sculptors and painters—by loftier minds and hap-
pier hands. It was received with cold approbation.
Having shown his skill in the graceful and lovely,
he desired next to grapple with what is called the
grand style, and painted his Jupiter and Juno—a
work better conceived than executed, exhibiting
much majesty of outline, and no little deficiency
in colour. But what were Jupiter and Juno to
the public of 1773? The great artists of Greece
and Italy wrought in the spirit of their age and
country; they sought at home for subjects of
high character, yet familiarly known. But the
heathen gods on Barry's canvass appealed to no
popular sympathy—to no national belief—to no
living superstition: the mob marvelled what they
meant, and the learned had little to say.
BARRY. 91
Some kind and clever friend perceived this pub-
lic apathy, and endeavoured to supply a stimulus
in the Morning Post. He classed the “Jupiter
and Juno” with the high historical works, and
claimed for Barry a large portion of the genius
necessary for elevating British art. Of the great
artists of Italy he says justly, “Poetry warmed
their imagination; history informed them of facts,
and philosophy taught them causes; they felt the
uses derived from these studies, and knew that a
more thorough knowledge only enables a man to
think more justly. Possessed of great natural
powers, and having thus cultivated them, they did
not fearfully hesitate and observe only through the
medium of another man's prejudices, but boldly
and independently exerted their own faculties—
they made use of their own eyes to see—their own
imaginations to conceive with, and were regulated
by their own informed judgments—and fixed upon
a ground so firm, their works were sublime, just,
and original.” But those great painters did one
thing and Barry did another. They, like the
Greeks before them, set their imaginations to work
upon subjects for which there was a market—Reli-
gion called Art to her aid, and the most eloquent
of Romish divines never illustrated her legends
with the spirit and grandeur of this auxiliary. To
this view of the subject, Barry obstinately shut his
eyes, and fared accordingly. Those who disliked
his “Jupiter and Juno,” dwelt upon incorrect
drawing and defective colouring. In a work ap-
pealing more directly to the public feeling, a work
of half the talent would have obtained high praise.
The “Adam and Eve,” which he painted in Italy

92 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
and finished in London, could not be objected to
on these grounds. But the subject, simple as it
seems, exacts more from art than art can readily
bestow. To imagine two beings new created and
pure, and fresh from the hand of the Almighty fa-
shioner, requires the “faculty divine” of a Milton;
and to embody in lineament and colours this more
than mortal vision, would ask the hand of a Ra-
phael. It was the misfortune of Barry to choose
subjects of surpassing beauty, where success was
the most difficult, and failure sure to be the most
injurious.
We may guess how he felt on this somewhat
cold reception of works which he had more than
insinuated would bring back the antique art of his-
toric painting amongst us. We know what he did
—he left Olympus and the bowers of Eden, and
painted the “Death of Wolfe in the battle of Que-
bec.” While he was busy with this picture, the
whisper spread that he had seen the error of his
ways, and, in short, forsaken classic severity of
character, and poetic freedom of costume, for the
actual faces and dresses of the day. It was at
length finished and exhibited. A combat of naked
men astonished the multitude, who knew all the
regiments engaged, and the cut of their regi-
mentals. . It was neither a poetic interpretation
of the fight, nor an historical illustration, but a
sort of mixture of both, hastily conceived and in-
differently executed, and only redeemed from
contempt by the sentiment of heroism, which
triumphed in the looks of the expiring General.
In subjects of a poetic nature, fancy may clothe
as she pleases her own progeny; but in historic

BARRY. 93
productions, the time and the people must be ex-
pressed. The soldiers of George II. might as well
have been represented fighting those of Louis XV.
on elephants' backs, as in the nakedness of the La-
pithae. Barry, who had shortly before been elected
an Associate of the Royal Academy, was so much
offended with the way in which this picture was
hung or talked about by his brethren, that he
never sent another work to their exhibition.
Poverty was now a sore enemy to his peace—
the munificence of Burke maintained him at Rome,
but now the means of life were to be raised by his
pencil, and on nothing that his pencil produced had
patronage as yet smiled. His parents, with whom
his correspondence seems to have been but casual,
were not in a condition to render him assistance.
Dr. Sleigh, his early friend, was dead. The un-
gainliness of his manners, the caustic sharpness of
his remarks, and his sudden resentments repelled
those who were willing to serve him. He listened
to the good counsel of Burke with growing impa-
tience—nor was he long in making even that friend
of friends feel the fierceness of his nature.
He had always professed a strong aversion to
portrait painting: some ascribed this to envy of
Reynolds, others to his own want of skill in that
line of art; and Dr. Brocklesby, wishing to break
the spell, requested Burke to sit to Barry. Barry
agreed; but he had his own peculiar notions of
the etiquette to be observed in a painter's studio,
and moreover was in a mood approaching to ill
humour with Burke for his intimacy with Rey-
nolds. Burke called repeatedly to commence the
sittings for his portrait, but pre-engagements were
94 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
pleaded, and a day's notice was demanded—more
as a matter of form, it would seem, than of neces-
sity. His patience failed him, and he wrote the
following letter:—“It has been very unfortunate
for me that my time is so regularly occupied that
I can never with certainty tell beforehand when
I shall be disengaged. I waited on you exactly
at half an hour after eleven, and had the pleasure
of finding you at home; but, as usual, so em-
ployed as not to permit you to undertake this dis-
agreeable business. I have troubled you with this
letter, as I think it necessary to make an excuse
for so frequent and importunate intrusion. Much
as it might flatter my vanity to be painted by so
eminent an artist, I assure you that, knowing I
had no title to that honour, it was only in compli-
ance with the desire often repeated of our common
friend, that I have been so troublesome.” e
It is to the honour of Barry that this letter
touched him deeply. He disliked, indeed, its air
of distant courtesy and its ironical tone, but Burke
had been kind when friends were few and much
needed, and he was unwilling to lose him, as well
he might. “What am I to understand from all
this,” was his answer, “surely there must be
something in your mind, what is it? I should be
glad to know in its full extent, and permit me to
say that I ought not to be left in ignorance of any
matter that is likely to make a breach between us.
As to Dr. Brocklesby's picture, it is a miserable
subject to be made the ground of a quarrel with
me. I will paint it, as I always was earnestly in-
clined to do, when I can get a sitting upon the
terms that are granted to all other painters. I
BARRY. 95
only begged the notice of a day beforehand, and
you well know that much more is required by
others, and from the very nature of the thing it
must be evident that business cannot be carried on
without it.”
The reader may be curious to learn how such
controversies are carried on between a touchy
artist and a fastidious sitter. Burke again wrote
to assure Barry that he had no wish to offend him,
nor was it from any vanity that he desired to be
painted, but merely to oblige Dr. Brocklesby.
He had sat for his portrait five times—twice in
little, and three times in large, and had always
gone to the easel without giving previous notice.
“A picture of me,” he observed, “is now painting
for Mr. Thrale, by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and in
this manner, and in this only. I will not presume
to say that the condescension of some men forms
a rule for others. I know that extraordinary ci-
vility cannot be claimed as a matter of strict jus-
tice. In that view, possibly, you may be right.
It is not for me to dispute with you. I have ever
looked up with reverence to merit of all kinds,
and have learned to yield submission even to the
caprices of men of parts. I shall certainly obey
your commands, and send you regular notice when-
ever I am able.”
This idle and uncalled-for debate terminated
creditably for both—in reconciliation and renewal
of friendship. Barry was ashamed of his obsti-
macy, and Burke relented towards one whom the
world was not using according to his merits. The
portrait, which caused the “ angry parlé,” was
finished soon afterwards, and was considered a
96 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
good likeness, and a skilful work. In this lucra-
tive line of art, he might, no doubt, have obtained
distinction, if he could have surmounted his re-
luctance to commence limner of the population at
large. But the poetic feeling of Barry refused all
sympathy with sordid looks and vulgar costume,
and he was content to starve in the service of that
Muse, who,
“With rapt soul sitting in her eyes,”
desired him to be daring, and to think only of
lofty themes.
His next cabinet pictures—Mercury inventing
the Lyre, and Narcissus admiring himself in the
Water—were much admired among the imagina-
tive. The latter owed its existence to a conversa-
tion with his illustrious friend, during the sittings
of his portrait. “On what works of fancy are you
employed now?” said Burke. “On this little
slight thing,” said Barry, holding up the picture,
“it is young Mercury inventing the Lyre. The god,
you know, found a tortoise shell at break of day
on the sea-shore, and fashioned it into a fine in-
strument of music.” “I know the story,” replied
Burke, “such were the fruits of early rising—he
is an industrious deity, and an example to man.
I will give you a companion to it. Narcissus
wasting time looking at himself in the fountain—
an image of idleness and vanity.” The Narcissus
was painted, thrown aside, and lost—the Mercury
is a sweet and classic production—perhaps one
of the happiest of the painter's works. The god
stands on the sea-shore, with the shell of a tor-
toise in his hand, listening to the sound which
BARRY. 97
one of its extended fibres has emitted to the touch
of his finger. The future instrument dawns upon
his mind—and Cupid, inspired with the same
thought, presents him with an additional string,
which he has plucked from his bow.
The thoughts of Barry dwelt ever on magnifi-
cent undertakings, and he imagined that grandeur
and sublimity resided only in scenes of vast ex-
tent. He believed too that the Reformed as well
as the Romish Church required the aid of art to
illustrate its tenets, and animate its devotees—a
dream in which the painters of the British school
have persisted for a century. He heard, there-
fore, with undissembled joy, of the proposal to
embellish the cathedral of Saint Paul, with paint-
ings of a scriptural nature, corresponding in dimen-
sions with its dome and its panels, and he hastened
to offer his services, with the hope of seeing the
splendour of the Sistine rivalked in London. He
thus writes concerning it to the Duke of Richmond.
“The Dean and Chapter have agreed to leave the
ornamenting of St. Paul's to the Academy, and
it now rests with us to give permission to such
painters as we shall think qualified to execute his-
torical pictures of a certain size, I believe from
fifteen to twenty feet high. We also intend to set
up a monument there—Pope is mentioned—the
sculptor is to be paid by subscription, and a bene-
fit from the playhouse. I proposed this matter to
the academy about a year since, a little after my
being admitted an associate, and I had long set
my heart upon it, as the only means for establish-
ing a solid manly taste for real art, in place of our
contemptible passion for the daubing of inconse-
WOL. II. H

98 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
6
quential things, portraits of dogs, landscapes, &c.
—things which, the mind, which is the soul of art,
having no concern in them, have hitherto served to
disgrace us over all Europe.” It is in his own
house that the Englishman has set up the images
which he loves to worship. The annual multi-
tudes of paintings, all of a social and domestic
character, which the Academy exhibits, are to be
viewed with respect, since they bear witness to
the general cultivation of home-bred happiness;
but Barry regarded all such compositions as no
better than unblushing indications of insular stu-
pidity. He resolved to lend no countenance to
this domestic heresy in art, and determined to
endure every privation in the exaltation of his
profession. “I have taken great pains,” he said,
“to fashion myself for this kind of Quixotism:
to this end I have contracted and simplified my
cravings and wants, and brought them into a ver
narrow compass.” There is no doubt but he would
have enjoyed all the luxury of privation, had he
painted a few twenty-feet square pictures for the
cathedral of St. Paul’s, since they were to be done
at the proper cost, not of the church, but of the
Academicians. The subject which Barry selected,
was the Jews rejecting Christ when Pilate intreated
his release—he probably made no progress in the
sketch, and allowed the picture to lie embodied in
his imagination till the sanction of the hierarchy
should let his pencil loose.
The obstinacy of the Bishop of London, to
which we have already alluded, made all this en-
thusiasm vain; and great and stormy was Barry's
indignation.

BARRY. 99
While the project concerning St. Paul's was yet
in suspense, he found time to execute his Chiron
and Achilles, a work of classical beauty and sim-
plicity — which was purchased by Mr. Palmer
at the singular rate of twenty guineas per figure.
This mechanical mode of calculation seems to
have been the artist's own invention, for in a
letter to the Duke of Richmond, concerning a
picture which his grace had commissioned, there
occurs the following characteristic passage. “My
finances are pretty low at present, therefore, if
your grace should think proper to send me any
part of the price of the picture, it would come
very opportunely. I count upon six figures in it,
and I had twenty guineas a figure for the picture
I sold to Mr. Palmer, of Chiron and Achilles.”
The answer of the nobleman is in keeping with
Barry's letter. “If I recollect right,” said his
grace, “ the picture of Stratonice has but four
capital figures in it, the other two being only com-
panions; however, I do not mean to value the
picture by the number of figures. On the other
side of this paper I send you a draft on my banker
for a hundred guineas, which I should hope you
will think a sufficient price for the picture; but
if you do not, I will immediately send you another
draft for twenty more.” How this controversy
eoncluded, I can find no account—probably un-
favourably for the pocket of the painter.
When the Bishop of London at length rejected
the offer of the Royal Academy, it occurred to the
Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufac-
tures, and Commerce, that they might avail them-
selves of this spirit of liberality, and have their
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100 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
rooms at the Adelphi covered by the surplus
talent of the land, free of all expense. The pas-
sions of the painters, like those of the poet, seemed
raging like so many devils to get vent in historic
composition, and Valentine Green, the Secretary
of the Society, was authorized to open the doors
of the great rooms of the Adelphi for their accom-
modation: but ere this happened the Academy
had taken another view of the matter, and they
refused the offer. Barry, whose hopes had been
raised high, was deeply grieved at this second dis-
appointment; he imagined that he saw in it the
extinction of all his dreams, and that the grand
historic style had bowed its supremacy for ever
before that domestic idol, portraiture. Having
failed in painting the nation into a love of the
historic art, he resolved to make a last effort, and,
if possible, write them into it: — and hence his
“Inquiry into the Real and Imaginary Obstruc-
tions to the Progress of Art in England.”
A work of this sort had been long in his fancy.
It was suggested while he was at Rome by the
ignorant taunts of foreigners, that the genius of
the British isles was too cold for works of fine
imagination. Talent had been set down in the
strange theories of Montesquieu and Winkelmann
as the product of latitude, and the ardent fancy
and delicacy of feeling which went to the compo-
sition of noble works, were compared to vines,
which, producing rich large and luscious clusters
in the sunny vales of France and Italy, yield only
small, sour, and starveling bunches in the cold
moist climate of England. The Inquiry of Barry
had a twofold purpose: the refutation of these
º © & º
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..
BARRY. t 101
visionaries, and a vindication of his own theory,
that art, before it could be honourable to England,
required to devote itself fully to historic compo-
SItion.
His answer to Winkelmann was triumphant, if
the victory which common-sense obtains over ab-
surdity can be called a triumph. He refused all
help from scientific reasoning, and proved, by the
evidence of history, that whatever influence the
sun might have on the fruits of the earth, the
rise, the glory, and degradation of nations had
come from moral causes, in which neither climate
nor season had any share. In Greece the warmth
of the sun was ever the same, and the recurrence
of the seasons also; corn, wine, and oil, all excel-
lent in their kinds, had been produced during all
periods, and are now produced, yet the fine arts
are extinguished, and national capacity gone. If
Greece had her day of glory, the same had hap-
pened to modern Italy—her long line of illustrious
artists had come to an end; yet the land yielded
as richly as ever its annual crop of fruit. Having
crushed the principle on which this exclusive sys-
tem of genius is founded, he handled with indignant
vigour the insulting inference that the capacity of
England was unequal to high art. He claimed
superiority for the British in works of mental
grandeur and loftiness of imagination, and pointed
out Spenser, and Shakespeare, and Milton, as
abounding in the finest pictures, and in the noblest
and loveliest images of beauty.
Of a work, which may be considered as the first
literary production of the Royal Academy, the
offspring of a mind full of knowledge, and ani-

102 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
mated by more than common enthusiasm, it may
be proper to transcribe some specimens. “It is
a misfortune, (says Barry,) never entirely to be
retrieved, that painting was not suffered to grow
up amongst us at the same time with poetry and
the other arts and sciences, whilst the genius of
the nation was yet forming its character in strength,
beauty, and refinement: it would have received a
strength and a polish, and it would, in its turn,
have given to our poetry a greater perfection in
one of its master-features, in which, Milton and
Spenser excepted, it is rather somewhat defective.
But the nation is now formed, and perhaps more
than formed, and there is cause to fear that it may
be too late to expect the last degree of perfection
in the arts, from what we are now likely to pro-
duce in an age when, perhaps, frothy affectations,
and modish, corrupt, silly opinions of foreign as
well as of domestic growth, have but too generally
taken place of that masculine vigour and purity of
taste so necessary both for the artist and for his
employer. Let us suppose ever so many fortu-
nate circumstances to concur in leading an artist
into such a tract of study, among old stones and
old canvas, as that he may be able to assimilate the
pure, rigid, beautiful, simple taste of the Greeks
and the old Italians with his own substance and
observations on nature; yet afterwards, if he should
unfortunately happen to find that the era of those
qualities has either not arrived, or is long since
passed away, amongst the people who are, gene-
rally speaking, to be his employers, and that they
have but little of that grandeur of idea and ele-
vation of mind which will encourage him in the
BARRY. 103
pursuit of extraordinary things, what is he to do?
His great advantages over meaner artists will in-
fallibly lie by, mouldering away through disease,
and he must content himself with a contest of lit-
tle value, mere matters of execution.”
He laments, like a greater man, that he has
come an hour too late, and fallen on evil and ig-
norant times, when common transcripts of nature
and fine colours were triumphing over historic art;
and he imputes the discouragement of native works
of genius to the admiration of all that is of foreign
growth—to the ignorant enthusiasm of the rich,
who, while pouring out their money and their praise
on the rubbish and offal of the easel, devoutly be-
lieved they were buying and worshipping Raphael,
Titian, and Correggio. His words are strong, and
near the truth. “Artful men, both at home and
abroad, have not failed to avail themselves of this
passion for ancient art, as it afforded a fine cover-
let for imposition—for vending in the names of
those great masters, the old copies, imitations, and
studies of all the obscure artists that have been
working in Italy, Flanders, and other places for
two hundred years past. These things are to be
had in great plenty, and may be, as I have often
known at Rome, baptized ‘first thoughts,’ ‘second
thoughts, with alterations,’ ‘duplicates,’ and what
not. It would be endless to give an account of all
the various ways in which our antiquaries and pic-
ture-dealers, both at home and abroad, carry on
the business of imposition. The Pope and the
States of Venice, and other Italian communities,
have set their seals upon all pictures worth keep-
ing, and not one can be moved by means of either
104 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
persuasion or bribery. This ill-fated country of
ours is therefore crammed with nothing but rub-
bish from abroad, and our artists at home must
necessarily, to avoid risking the displeasure of
their patrons, favour this mockery and cheat put
upon them. The absurd abuse of our love of art
is the disgrace of our country and age ; it has
long lain like a dead weight upon the loins of na-
tional improvement.”
The audacious honesty of this eminent man con-
spired against his success in art: he talked and
wrote down the impressions of his pencil. Hav-
ing satirized the great dry-nurses of British art,
whose cold and ungenial bosoms froze infant ex-
cellence to death, he thus handles the living pain-
ters themselves. “There are, to be sure, but few
artists whose personal interests happen to be em-
barked in the same bottom with the dignity of the
art, and consequently with the interests of the
public; but there are a few ; and as for the many,
who have no part in this exertion of superior art,
they ought in conscience to content themselves
with the greater profits which in this commercial
country must ever follow the practice of the lower
branches, especially as they cannot expect to keep
up for ever the false weight and importance which
they have assumed in consequence of those greater
gettings. It is therefore to be hoped that they
will no longer find it practicable to play the part
of the dog in the manger as they have hitherto
done; for indeed a great many of the blocks and
impediments thrown in the way of superior art,
have been owing to the secret workings and ma-
chinations of those interested men.” -
BARRY, 105
All this added new enemies to the old; nor am
I sure that Barry's limited theory of excellence in
art is at all just. Scenes of historic or religious
grandeur ought no more to retain the exclusive
monopoly of the pencil, than of the pen. The
poetry of the nation has given an echo to every
cord of feeling. The love of woman, and the
courage of man, look hardly less beautiful in the
minstrel's humble song, than in the loftiest epic.
We grow satiated with the clangor of the trumpet,
and long for the breathing of the lute; and were
the whole earth planted with roses of Sharon and
lillies of the valley, such is the desire of human
nature for wariety that we would grow weary of
walking amidst perfume, and sigh for the thistle
and the daisy, the harebell and the heather. The
monotony which the artist recommends, though a
monotony of excellence, would tire us at last.
We would long for humbler things—for scenes in
which all could sympathize—for fireside looks and
familiar faces.
Having disposed of all inferior painters, cunning
connoisseurs and tricky antiquarians, he turned to
the religion of the land, with some bitterness.
“Where religion,” says he, “is affirmative and
extended, it gives a loose and an enthusiasm to
man's fancy, which throws a spirit into the air
and manners, and stamps a diversity, life-quick-
ness, sensibility, and expressive significance, over
every thing they do. In another place, religion is
more negative and contented: being formed in di-
rect opposition to the first, its measures are regu-
lated accordingly: much pains are taken to root
out and remove every thing that gives wing to
106 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
the imagination, and so to regulate the outward
man by a torpid inanimate composure, gravity
and indifference, that it may attend to nothing
but the mere acts of necessity, every thing else
being reputed idle and vain. Men so formed had
as few words as buttons; the tongue spoke almost
without moving the lips; and the circumstances
of a murder were related with as little emotion
as an ordinary mercantile transaction. Some
kinds of religion appear to be the graves of art,
of genius, of sensibility, and of all the finer and
more spiritual parts of the human faculties: other
religions have been the nurse and the mother of
them; they have embraced all the arts: poetry,
painting, music, architecture, and every effort of
ingenuity were employed in giving a force and a
furtherance to their views.”
Barry looked upon the Pope as a President, and
upon the Romish church as the Queen of Acade-
mies. To an ardent proselyte of the Catholic
system, painting appeared a lawful auxiliary; and
as an artist he was willing to believe it a most
efficient one: but he spoke like a painter, though
he spoke with much knowledge, for he had con-
sidered every subject which art either aids or
adorns.
Dissertations on the fine arts were uncommon;
popular affection had not been so fully awakened
as to enable the multitude to understand and feel
the importance of this memorable work. It had
the repulsive aspect of a controversial treatise;
and was coldly received by all, save a coterie of
artists and antiquarians, who were stung by its
satiric energy. I am afraid I must impute to this
BAR. R.Y. 107
production, in some degree at least, the ultimate
estrangement of his best and greatest friend. It
was no longer “My dear Barry” and your “faith-
ful friend, Edmund Burke:” correspondence was
carried on through the frosty medium of the third
person, and there was now no overflowing warmth
either of affection or advice. A sort of diplomatic
civility took the place of kindness; and Barry
had to learn the melancholy task of addressing an
old and tried friend in the language of mere ac-
quaintance. To continue on intimate terms with
one so fierce of nature, it was necessary to become
his partizan: he expected those who loved him
should share his griefs, and resent whatever he
thought worthy of resentment. To become Bar-
ry's friend, was like being a second in a duel of
old, when both principals and seconds drew their
swords and fought the quarrel out. Into disputes
with a rich and influential body of men, Burke
was likely to be slow in precipitating himself: he
felt that his friend Reynolds was a sufferer from
the pen and tongue of Barry, and he was glad to
retire to such a distance as gave him the power to
remain neuter in these unhappy contests. Inter-
course, both personally and by letter, continued
between them: it never more resumed the affec-
tionate cordiality of earlier years.
A gradual change had taken place both in the
person and the temper of Barry. He neglected
his dress, lived sullenly and alone, and held inter-
course with few of those men who influence the
fame and fortune of artists. He seemed ever in
a reverie, out of which he was unwilling to be
roused. The history of his life is the tale of
108 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
splendid works contemplated and seldom begun—
of theories of art, exhibiting the confidence of ge-
nius and learning—and of a constant warfare,
waged against a coterie of connoisseurs, artists
and antiquarians, who ruled the realm of taste.
The high distinction which he claimed, as follower
of the grand style, rendered it necessary, he ima-
gined, that he should vindicate his title. To think
and to act were matters of the same moment with
one so enthusiastic. He determined to offer his
pencil to the Society of Arts; and applied for
permission to adorn their great room with a series
of historical paintings, all from his own hand, and
wholly at his own expense. When he made this
magnificent offer, he had but sixteen shillings in
his pocket, and was aware that, if it were ac-
cepted, he must have to steal time from sleep
to supply him with the means of life. He was
willing to lie hard, live mean, and dress coarsely,
with the hope of being heard of hereafter : he
was truly one of those ardent spirits who hunger
and thirst after distinction, and whom the narrow
and the sordid reproach, as idle dreamers and
fantastic enthusiasts. “I thought myself bound
(he says) in duty to the country, to art, and to my
own character, to try whether my abilities would
enable me to exhibit the proof as well as the argu-
ment.” The Society gave prompt permission: he
stipulated for nothing but the free exercise of his
own judgment, free admission at all times to his
undertaking, and that the necessary models should
be provided for him without expense.
He had now “ample room and verge enough” to
exhaust his powers of imagination, and exhibit

BARRY. 109
all his knowledge and skill. The subject which he
selected for illustration was Human Improvement
–presenting a succession of varied pictures of
society. He divided the whole into six compart-
ments. “We begin,” said the artist, describing
his own conceptions, “with man in a savage state,
full of inconvenience, imperfection and misery,
and we follow him through several gradations of
eulture and happiness, which, after our probation-
ary state here, are finally attended with beatitude
or misery. The first is the story of Orpheus; the
second, a Harvest-home or Thanksgiving to Ceres
and Bacchus: the third the Victors at Olympia;
the fourth, Navigation, or the Triumph of the
Thames; the fifth, the Distribution of Premiums
in the Society of Arts; and the sixth, Elysium,
or the State of final Retribution. Three of these
subjects are poetical; the others historical.” He
commenced these works in 1777, and finished them
in 1783. A short description may not be unac-
ceptable. -
The first picture represents Orpheus as the
founder of Grecian civilization, uniting in one cha-
racter the legislator, divine, philosopher, poet, and
musician. He stands in a wild and savage coun-
try; surrounded by people as uncultivated as their
soil, to whom, as messenger of the gods, he is
pouring out his song of instruction, accompanied
by the music of the lyre. The hearers of this ce-
lestial delegate are armed with clubs, and clad in
the skins of wild beasts; they have courage and
strength, by which they subdue lions and tigers:
but they want wisdom for their own protection
and for that of their offspring. In illustration of
110 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
this, a matron is seen, at a little distance from the
door of her hut, milking a goat, while her children
are about to become the prey of a lion; two horses
are run down by a tiger; and a damsel, carrying
a dead fawn, leans on the shoulder of her male
companion. “I wished to glance,” said, the
painter, “at a matter often observed by travellers,
which is, that the value and estimation of women
increase according to the growth and cultivation:
of society, and that amongst savage nations they
are in a condition little better than the beasts of
burden.” In the distance, Ceres descends on the
world; and by the side of Orpheus lie paper, an
egg, a bound lamb, and materials for sacrifice.
The second piece exhibits a dance of youths
and maidens round the terminal figure of Pan.
On one side appears the father of the harvest
feast, with a white staff or rustic sceptre in his
hand, accompanied by his wife; on the other is a
group of peasants, carousing amid rakes and
ploughs, and fruits and flowers; while behind the
whole, two oxen are seen drawing a load of corn
to the threshing-floor. Ceres, Bacchus and Pan
overlook from the clouds this scene of innocent
festivity. A farm-house, with all its in-door and
out-door economy is there. Love, too, and mar-
riage mingle in the scene: children abound; rustic
games are not forgotten; and aged men repose on
the ground, applauding sports in which they can
no longer participate.
The third picture, the crowning of the victors
in the Olympian games, shows the judges seated
on a throne, bearing the likenesses of Solon,
Lycurgus, and other legislators, and trophies of
BARRY. II 1
Salamis, Marathon, and Thermopylae. Before
them pass the victors crowned; people are crowd-
ing to look on them. The heroes, poets, sages,
and philosophers of Greece are present. Pindar
leads the chorus: Hiero, of Syracuse, follows in
his chariot: Diagoras, the Rhodian, is borne round
the stadium on the shoulders of his victorious
sons: Pericles is seen speaking to Cimon; while
$ocrates, Anaxagoras and Euripides listen, and
Aristophanes laughs and scoffs.
The fourth piece descends to modern times, and
the scene is laid at home. The Thames triumphs
in the presence of Drake, Raleigh, Cabot, and
Cooke. Mercury, as Commerce, accompanies
them; and Nereids are carrying articles of manu-
facture and industry. Some of these demi-celes-
tial porters are more sportive than laborious, and
others still more wanton than sportive. As music
is connected closely with all matters of joy and
triumph, Burney, the composer, accompanies Drake
and Raleigh, and cheers them with his instrument.
The fifth picture is a meeting of the members
of the Society of Arts, discoursing on the manu-
factures, commerce and liberal pursuits of the
country, and distributing the annual premiums.
It is an assemblage of the chief promoters of the
institution, male and female, with the gratuitous
addition of Johnson and Burke.
The sixth picture is a view of Elysium. Mental
Culture conducts to Piety and Virtue, and Piety
and Virtue are rewarded by Immortal Happiness.
In a picture forty-two feet long, the artist had
room for the admission of many of the great and
the good of all nations. Greece and Rome, France,
112 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
Italy, and England, supplied him largely; and he
has endeavoured to bring together the chief of
their distinguished sons in one connected group,
over which a splendour is shed from between the
wings of angels. -
Those who have examined these extraordinary
works will hardly dispute that the artist grap-
pled with a subject too varied, complicated and
profound for the pencil. The moral grandeur of
the undertaking, and the historical associations
which it awakened, together with the room which
it afforded for the display of imagination, imposed
upon the ardent and indiscriminating Barry, and
he probably began
With desperate charcoal round the darken'd walls
of the Adelphi, -- in the belief that the subject
would unfold and brighten upon him by degrees. .
But the sunrise of knowledge, and the full day of
art and science, involved discoveries and inven-
tions which painting could not well find shape nor
colour to express. The fault of the work lies in
the subject: he that runs cannot read, and he who
reads cannot always understand. The description,
by Barry's own pen, opens the secret somewhat:
without it these six pictures, instead of presenting
one continual story—simple in conception and un-
embarrassed in detail—would appear like so many
splendid riddles. The grand style (which our
artist thought to revive) is the simplest of all, and
can be comprehended without comment.
That Jonas Hanway left a guinea instead of a
shilling, for his admission to see the Adelphi pic-
tures—that Johnson beheld “a grasp of mind in

BARRY. 113
them which he could find no where else”—and that
Townley declared they were “composed upon the
true principles of the best paintings,” are sayings
and doings sufficiently notorious, and which have
had and will have their weight with the world.
Nay, Lord Aldborough wrote to the artist such
praise as I am half afraid to transcribe. “When
I return to town, I shall again and again visit
these unequalled performances; they will stand
the comparison of the past and the test of future
ages, for originality of design, instruction, colour-
ing, energy and disposition of figure, and judgment
and success in the invention and execution. You
have taken in all the perfections, combined all the
qualities of Raphael, Titian, Guido, and the most
celebrated artists of the Grecian and Roman
schools; and your literary works prove that you
possess all the liberal arts as well as painting;
and reflect equal honour on the age we live in, as
shame on this country for the want of due encou-
ragement. My house and fortune are at your
service till your fortune equal your abilities.” I
know not what answer was returned to this splen-
did offer.
On those six pictures Barry spent six years—
instead of three, which he had originally contem-
plated — a miscalculation that involved him in
many difficulties, out of which he strove to extri-
cate himself by uncommon frugality, self-denial,
and labour during the periods he should have re-
served for repose. He gave his day to the Adelphi,
and much of his might to hurried drawings and
hasty engravings, by the profits of which he sus-
tained life. “He has recorded some of his prints,”
WOL. II, I
114 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
says Dr. Fryer. “as done at this time—such as
his Job, Birth of Venus, head of Lord Chatham,
King Lear. Many lighter things, were done at the
pressure of the moment, and never owned.” Dur-
ing the progress of the work he began to perceive,
and perhaps to feel, the approaches of want; and
to keep this adversary of genius at bay, he applied
to Sir George Savile—a leading member of the
Society of Arts—to communicate his situation to
his brethren, and by a small subscription enable
him to exist till he had finished the undertaking.
The appeal was in vain. Nay, he experienced
some difficulty in obtaining that allowance for mo-
dels and colours for which he had expressly stipu-
lated, and was subjected to the official insolence
of the acting secretary. The Society afterwards
reflected, that it would be injurious to allow a man
to starve whom they might have to bury, and they
accordingly kept his soul and body together—first,
by two donations of fifty guineas each, and the
gift of a gold medal, and, lastly, two hundred gui-
neas at the conclusion of the work.
That Barry was very proud of his performance
may be easily believed. “It will be exceedingly
hard,” he says, in his celebrated letter to the Di-
lettanti Society, “if the benefit of the laws should
be withheld from the painter of such a work as
that on Human Culture; which, for public interest
and ethical utility of subject—for the castigated
purity of Grecian design—for beauty, grace, vi-
gorous effect and execution—stands so success-
fully in the view and neighbourhood of the so justly
celebrated Orleans collection.” There were many
to smile at the absurdities of some parts of the Six

BARRY. 115
Pictures, who could not feel the depth of mind
which sought to unite them into one harmonious
whole. To see the River Thames carried by
Tritons, and Dr. Burney in the costume of the
year 1778 playing a tune to Drake and Raleigh,
excited laughter. “I am by no means pleased,”
said a Dowager, putting her fan before her face,
“ to see good Dr. Burney with a parcel of naked
girls dabbling in a horse pond.” A young lady
from the north, of great beauty and wit, went to
take a look at the painter's Elysium. She looked
earnestly for a while, and said to Mr. Barry,
“The ladies have not yet arrived in this Paradise
of yours.” “O, but they have, madam,” said the
painter, with a smile; “they reached Elysium
some time ago; but I could find no place so fit
for creatures so bright and beautiful as behind
yon very luminous cloud—they are there, and very
happy, I assure you.”
As a relief from the toil of this extensive work,
he took up his pen, and in a long and able de-
scription and dissertation maintained the excel-
lence both of the subject he had chosen, and the
way in which he had handled it. This perform-
ance, amidst all its knowledge and eloquence, has
a strong infusion of bitter feeling; the allusions
to those who grow rich and important in pursuing
the more sordid branches of art, are frequent and
sharp. “Mr. Barry's exhibition,” writes Dr.
Johnson, “was opened the same day, and a book
was published to recommend it, which, if you
read, you will find decorated with some satirical
strictures of Sir Joshua Reynolds and others.
I have not escaped. You must think with some
I 2
116 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
esteem of Barry for the comprehension of his de-
sign.” These sarcasms of Barry produced a letter
bearing in every line the mental impress of Ed-
mund Burke; it was universally ascribed to his
pen, though to this moment unacknowledged.
The imagination, the vigour of thought, the va-
ried knowledge and skill of hand which the six
pictures display, are at the outset admitted; and
then the critic quits the canvas to fall sharply upon
the dissertation. Barry had spoken with levity or
irreverence of the art of portrait-painting; he had
drawn a distinction between the poetic and the
merely imitative, which separated them as far as
the south is from the north. Burke urges the
propriety of uniting both in historic composition,
thus:
“Without the power of combining and abstract-
ing, the most accurate knowledge of forms and
colours will produce only uninteresting trifles;
but without any accurate knowledge of forms and
colours, the most happy power of combining and
abstracting will be absolutely useless; for there is
no faculty of the mind which can bring its energy
into effect, unless the memory be stored with ideas
for it to work upon. These ideas are the materials
of invention, which is only a power of combining
and abstracting, and which, without such mate-
rials, would be in the same state as a painter with-
out canvas, boards, and colours. Experience is
the only means of acquiring ideas of any kind,
and continued observation and study upon one
class of objects the only way of rendering them
accurate. The painter who wishes to make his
picture what fine pictures must be—nature ele-



BARRY. 117,
wated and improved—must first of all gain a per-
fect knowledge of nature as it is. Before he en-
deavours, like Lysippus, to make men as they
ought to be, he must know how to render them as
they are ; he must acquire an accurate knowledge
of all parts of their body and countenance. To
know anatomy will be of little use, unless physio-
logy and physiognomy are joined with it, so that
the artist may know what peculiar combinations
and proportions of feature constitute different cha-
racters, and what effect the passions and affections
of the mind have upon those features. This is a
science which all the theorists in the world can-
not teach, and which can only be acquired by ob-
servation, practice, and attention. It is not by
copying antique statues, or by giving a loose to
the imagination in what are called poetical com-
positions, that artists will be enabled to produce
works of real merit, but by a laborious and accu-
rate investigation of nature upon the principles ob-
served by the Greeks—first, to make themselves
thoroughly acquainted with the common forms of
nature, and then, by selecting and combining, to
form compositions according to their own elevated
conceptions. This is the principle of true poetry,
as well as of painting and sculpture.”
The ease and elegance with which these import-
ant truths are expressed will be felt by many who
are not perhaps aware that it was the theory, as it
was the practice of Barry, to extract all that is
noble in art from all that is elevated in nature.
The shafts of his satire were directed against the
regular manufacturers of portraits: but he nowhere
insinuates that imagination may fly its own free
118 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
flight, or that poetic art is anything else than puri-
fied nature. He endeavours to distinguish be-
tween painters who can counterfeit only such faces
as live before them, and those of the higher order,
described so well by Sir Philip Sydney, “who,
having no law but wit, bestow that in colours upon
you which is fittest for the eye to see—as the con-
stant, though lamenting look of Lucretia, when she
punished in herself another's fault; wherein he
painteth not Lucretia—whom he never saw—but
painteth the outward beauty of such a virtue.” It
was the fashion of the day to claim the honours of
historical art for portraiture, and Burke's letter
could not be unacceptable to Reynolds, whose
practice the Dissertation of Barry was obviously
designed to impeach.
Penny, professor of painting, dying in 1782,
Barry was elected in his place; and as this eleva-
tion happened during the intensest period of his
labour upon the Six Pictures, he was unable for
nearly two years to prepare a proper course of
Lectures—the man who had to work ten hours
a-day for fame, and four hours for bread, was not
likely to have much time to spare for works of
advice or instruction. Reynolds, as President,
made some allusion to this unseemly delay on the
part of the new Professor: he was answered with
great asperity by the imprudent Barry. “If I had
no more to do in the course of my Lectures than
produce such poor mistaken stuff as your Dis-
courses, I should soon have them ready for read-
ing.” It is reported that these intemperate words
were uttered with his fist clenched, and in a pos-
ture of menace.
BARRY. 119
At length, on the second day of March, 1784,
he delivered his first Lecture on painting. Much
was looked for from his knowledge and talents;
and the audience was very numerous and very at-
tentive. Barry's manner was eager, his utterance
impressive; and, on the whole, expectation was
not disappointed.
Of these Lectures he delivered six—they em-
brace all that is included in the word Art, and dis-
cuss with abundance of boldness the threefold
mystery of conception, composition, and colour.
They are the echo of his letters and of his conver-
sation, their one great object being to impress on
the minds of the students the utter vanity of all
art below the historical. As literary compositions
they exhibit neither strict propriety of expression,
nor perfect developement of thought; but these
defects are far more than atoned for by an earnest
feeling for whatever is noble in art, and that readi-
ness of illustration, which can only arise from
extensive and matured knowledge, and rapid ap-
prehension. They are, throughout, deformed by
sarcastic allusions to modern works and living
artists. Barry was a man of severe deportment,
who seldom smiled, and conceived a jest beneath
the dignity of human nature; his sarcastic remarks
therefore were expressed and uttered with a deep
and cutting air of solemnity—“he placed his life,”
as the poet says, “in the wound.” The turbulent,
uneasy, fierce temper of the man was ever and
anon breaking out—nor is it possible to deny that
envy was occasionally the inspiration of his periods.
His Lectures spared few of his more successful
brethren, and could not, therefore, be expected to

* 120 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
pass over the President himself, who was ob-
served, it is said, to avoid the pelting of the storm
of invective, by moving the trumpet from his ear,
and even seek refuge in a real or pretended nap.,
Of those ungracious allusions Reynolds often com-
plained—and sarcastically excused his frequent
nodding by saying, that he fell asleep only at the
personalities. Nor did Barry himself in after-life
look back upon them with pleasure. “Sir Joshua,
to say the truth,” he observed—but this was
when Sir Joshua was no more, “acted somewhat
weakly with respect to me; and, on the other side,
I was much to blame with respect to him: my no-
tions of candour and liberality between artists who
were friends were too juvenile and romantic for
human frailty in the general occurrences of life.
Disappointed in not finding more in Sir Joshua, I
was not then in a humour to make a just estimate
of the many shining qualities I might have really
found in him.”
Critics were not wanting who found personali-
ties in his paintings as well as in his Lectures.
In the emaciated limb which belongs to the garter
of one whom he precipitates into Tartarus in the
Adelphi Paintings, some one detected the notice-
able leg of a nobleman who had given grievous
offence to the artist. He defended himself with
warmth. “What I particularly valued in my
work,” he said, “was a dignity, seriousness, and
gravity infinitely removed from all personality.”
As he had admitted his friends freely to the joys of
Elysium, it continued to be supposed that he was
very capable of pushing his enemies as unceremo-
niously into Tartarus.

BARRY, 121
Barry thought so well of the Adelphi Series,
that he resolved to engrave them, and accordingly
began to etch them on copper with his own hand.
, But he was unequal to an undertaking which re-
quired nice delicacy of finish; and his subscribers
were astonished when the rough offspring of his
graver were put into their hands. They had ex-
pected something, probably, superior to the works
of mere engravers, and one of them expressed sur-
prise at the coarseness of the workmanship. “Pray,
sir,” said Barry, “can you tell me what you did
expect?” “More finished engravings, sir,” was
the answer. Nollekens recommended them to his
patrons, and these were not few—but Barry was
not always disposed to be thankful for acts of
kindness. The sculptor, a blunt straightforward
man without any sense of delicacy, offended the
painter's pride by calling out in the presence of
others, “Well, Jem, I have been very successful
for you this week—I have got you three more
subscribers for your prints.” Barry bade him,
with an oath, mind his own affairs—if the nobility
wanted his engravings they knew where he was to
be found. The Six Engravings were finished in
1792—all the impressions were taken with his own
hand from a press erected on purpose.
The Society of Arts had indulged him with two
exhibitions of his paintings, which yielded in clear
profit five hundred pounds; to this sum he added
two hundred pounds more, the produce of his en-
gravings; and to astonish his friends, make his
enemies stare, and show that his good sense had
survived every vicissitude of fortune and contro-
versy, he placed the money in the funds, and se-
122 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
•
cured to himself an income of sixty pounds a-year.
It ought not to be omitted that Lord Romney gave
him one hundred guineas for a portrait copied into
one of the Six Pictures—that Timothy Hollis left
one hundred pounds to “the Painter of the work
upon Human Culture in the Adelphi"—and that
Lord Radnor presented him with fifty pounds,
made payable in a cheque to the bearer, out of re-
spect to the sensitive feelings of the artist. He
always, too, remembered the kindness of the Prince
of Wales, who honoured him with several sittings,
and spoke to him with a courtesy to which he had
not been much accustomed.
Those works secured him fame, and bread at
least, if not entire independence—but the profes-
sorship of painting, a place of dignity, and which
none could fill more worthily, became to him a
source of sorrow and misfortune. Historical paint-
ing was the divinity he professed to worship, but
controversy was the false saint at whose shrine he
offered up repose of mind, social happiness, and
the best friendships he had formed. The period
of his professorship was one of continual bickering
and personal dispute. Whatever he imagined could
be useful to the Academy he proposed without
scruple—whatever he proposed, he urged with
vehemence—contradiction he regarded as insult,
and repaid with invective—nor did the heat excited
in the council-room cool out of doors; like the
anxious wife in the Poet's Tale, Barry “nursed
his wrath to keep it warm”—and at the next meet-
ing took his seat only to resume his vituperation.
Unwearied sarcasm and ever hot invective will
exhaust mortal patience in the upshot; reverence
BARRY. 123
for genius and respect for honesty of purpose will
subside when they cannot be enjoyed in peace;
and the man who regularly invades our repose, we
will rejoice to get rid of at last, though in genius
he approached the gods. Barry's great object
was to appropriate the receipts of the Academy
exhibitions to the formation of a gallery of the
Old Masters; Reynolds was anxious to devote
them to the purchase of his onm fine collection of
foreign paintings for the use of the students—pro-
positions which might have been reconciled—but
which alarmed those who desired to employ the
money in defraying the studies of young artists in
Italy, and displeased others who watched over the
increasing revenue with the vigilance of dragons,
from the mere sordid wish of seeing it accumulate.
From the love of gain, of art, or of contradiction,
the members obliged neither, and disobliged both.
Of these remarkable men, the Academy renounced
one, and the other renounced the Academy—yet
they most cordially disliked each other. “If
there be a man on earth,” said the President to
Bacon, the sculptor, “whom I seriously dislike,
it is that Barry.” -
Those whom the fame of his works, and the
rumours of his open warfare with a man of such
note as Reynolds, attracted to his study, were
struck with the squalid aspect of his establish-
ment, and his utter disregard of the advantages of
dress. When at Rome, we have it settled to a
painful certainty, that he wore a gold-laced hat;
and there is no reason to doubt but that the rest
of his dress corresponded—but how unlike the
enthusiast of the Sistine was the enthusiast of the
124 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
Adelphil His dress was coarse and mean; this
arose partly from affectation—but not wholly so.
His income was small and uncertain, and he was
too proud and honest to dress fashionably at the
expense of others. The man who contests the
matter with fortune, will sometimes be worsted;
and we must pity, not blame, the consequences
of such distress. That he was never rich, there
can be no doubt—but that he was never in want
is also certain : and it is very probable that he
flattered himself with thinking, that men would
say as he passed by, “that is Barry, the restorer
of the antique spirit in art, and the painter of the
Six Pictures in the Adelphi.-See how coarsely
he is clad, and how careless he is,” and that he
would be honoured more for the breach than the
observance of custom in such matters.
His residence in Castle Street, though wearing
a decent exterior when he took possession, soon
corresponded in look with the outward man of its
master. The worst inn's worst room, in which
the poet places the expiring Villiers, was equalled,
if not surpassed, by that in which Barry slept,
ate, and meditated in perfect satisfaction and se-
curity. His own character and whole system of
in-door economy, were exhibited in a dinner he
gave Mr. Burke. No one was better acquainted
with the singular manners of this very singular
man than the great statesman; he wished, how-
ever, to have ocular demonstration how he ma-
naged his household concerns in the absence of
wife or servant, and requested to be asked to din-
ner. “Sir,” said Barry, with much cheerfulness,
“you know I live alone—but if you will come and
BARRY, 125
help me to eat a steak, I shall have it tender and
hot, and from the most classic market in London
—that of Oxford.” The day and the hour came,
and Burke arriving at No. 36, Castle Street, found
Barry ready to receive him; he was conducted into
the painting room, which had undergone no change
since it was a carpenter's shop. On one of the
walls hung his large picture of Pandora, and round
it were placed the studies of the Six Pictures of
the Adelphi. There were likewise old straining
frames—old sketches—a printing press, with which
he printed his plates with his own hand—the
labours too of the spider abounded, and rivalled
in extent and colour pieces of old tapestry.
Burke saw all this—yet wisely seemed to see it
not. He observed too that most of the windows
were broken or cracked, that the roof, which had
no ceiling, admitted the light through many cre-
vices in the tiling, and that two old chairs and a
deal table composed the whole of the furniture.
The fire was burning brightly; the steaks were put
on to broil, and Barry, having spread a clean cloth
on the table, put a pair of tongs in the hands of
Burke, saying, “Be useful, my dear friend, and
look to the steaks till I fetch the porter.” Burke
did as he was desired: the painter soon returned
with the porter in his hand, exclaiming, “What a
misfortune! the wind carried away the fine foaming
top as I crossed Titchfield Street:” they sat down
together — the steak was tender and done to a
moment — the artist was full of anecdote, and
Burke often declared, that he never spent a hap-
pier evening in his life. Such is the story which
has been often written and often repeated, and
126 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
always with variations. Something like the scene
thus disclosed to Mr. Burke was exhibited some
time afterwards to another eminent person—whose
friendship has enabled me to enrich my narrative
with the following graphic account:—
“I wish (says Mr. Southey) I could tell you
anything which might be found useful in your suc-
ceeding volumes. I knew Barry, and have been
admitted into his den in his worst (that is to say
his maddest) days, when he was employed upon
the Pandora. He wore at that time an old coat
of green baize; but from which time had taken all
the green that incrustations of paint and dirt had
not covered. His wig was one which you might
suppose he had borrowed from a scare-crow; all
round it there projected a fringe of his own gray
hair. . He lived alone in a house which was never
cleaned; and he slept on a bedstead with no other
furniture than a blanket nailed on the one side.
I wanted him to visit me—no, he said; he could
not go out by day, because he could not spare time
from his great picture: and if he went out in the
evening, the Academicians would waylay him, and
murder him. In this solitary sullen life he con-
tinued, till he fell ill, very probably from want of
food sufficiently nourishing; and after lying two
or three days, under his blanket, he had just
strength enough left to crawl to his own door,
open it, and lay himself down, with a paper in his
hand, on which he had written his wish to be car-
ried to the house of Mr. Carlisle (Sir Anthony)
in Soho Square. There he was taken care of; and
the danger from which he had thus escaped seems
to have cured his mental hallucinations. He cast
BAR.R.Y. 127
his slough afterwards; appeared decently drest in
his own gray hair, and mixed in such society as
he liked.
“I should have told you, that a little before
his illness, he had, with much persuasion, been
induced to pass a night at some person's house in
the country. When he came down to breakfast
the next morning, and one asked how he had
rested, he said, remarkably well: he had not slept
in sheets for many years, and really he thought it
was a very comfortable thing. He interlarded
his conversation with oaths as expletives, but it
was pleasant to converse with him :—there was a
frankness and animation about him which won
good-will, as much as his vigorous intellect com-
manded respect. There is a story of his having
refused to paint portraits, and saying, in answer to
applications, that there was a man in Leicester
Square who did it. But this, he said, was false:
for that he would at any time have painted por-
traits, and have been glad to paint them.”
It was during these periods of misgiving and
despondency that Barry thought of requesting a
situation of moderate emolument from the govern-
ment—he saw places of little labour and large
profit filled by men of ordinary ability—and he
thought ministers would prefer the help of the
clever, if it were offered, to that of the dull. He
failed to perceive that service of another kind
than he could hope to render was the purchase-
price of such situations. He applied for the place
of painter to the ordnance department—he knew
so little of what he asked for, that he was sur-
prised to find that it was house-painting only, and
128 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
that the profits arose from the extent of the con-
tracts; he next applied for the situation of ser-
jeant-painter to the court, but withdrew his me-
morial on discovering that the salary was only
eighteen pounds a year. His income at this time
was necessarily very limited. From the funds he
had sixty pounds a year, which paid his house-
rent and taxes; from the Academy he derived
thirty pounds a year, as professor of painting; and
it has been calculated that the sale of his prints
brought annually £50 more. On eighty pounds
a year, then, this eminent artist had to exist, and
provide the materials of his profession—no wonder
that his dress was mean and the appearance of his
house sordid! Yet such was his independent spi-
rit, and such his frugal habits, that he was never
known either to borrow money or want it; and
it was his honest pride that he preferred selling
prints to strangers rather than to friends, nor would
he sell to either if they chanced to utter a word
unfavourable to his style of engraving.
He had even contrived to save something out of
his pittance. To all appearance he was the poorest
of the poor, and there was nothing about his house
to tempt the spoiler: but thieves are a sagacious
race; they formed their own conclusions, and in
an inroad on the painter's establishment ferreted
out about £400 and carried the money clear off.
. The public were astonished to hear of the extent
of his loss; and their astonishment increased when
Barry, in a formal placard, exculpated common
thieves, and attributed his loss to the thirty-nine
members of the Royal Academy. The nephews
of Timothy Hollis—John Hollis, and Hollis Ed-
BAR.R.Y. 129
wards, sent him at this juncture a present of £50:
it is pleasant to see benevolence descend like an
inheritance.
Barry was in his fifty-first year when Sir Joshua
Reynolds, full of years and fame, was removed
from the world. For a long course of years they
had lived in hostility; but in the contest the for-
mer alone had been the sufferer. Admiration of
the antique, and of Michael Angelo, had brought
Barry to a steak broiled with his own hands, and
a pot of porter drawn by a suspicious publican.
The theory which led him to this was not more
his own than the President's ; but this only made
matters worse: he looked upon Reynolds as a
voluntary traitor to the great cause—as a renegade
to the principles which he advocated and taught;
and he openly upbraided him with a mean love
of gain in following the lucrative trade of por-
traiture. The friends of Reynolds replied, that this
was the only line of art in which a painter could
live like a gentleman, and that his performances
were more than mere likenesses—that they par-
took very largely of the great historic style, and
exhibited, in short, an English application of the
principles of Michael Angelo. Barry, for a long
time, closed his eyes on this ingenious theory, and
continued his reproaches: but it is pleasing to be
told, as we are by Dr. Fryer, that “for several
years before Sir Joshua's death this hostility had
ceased; that they had at length the good sense
and candour to acknowledge each other's deserts,
and were not a little chagrined that any misunder-
standing should ever have clouded their free in-
tercourse.”
WOL. II, R
1:30 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
On the death of Reynolds, Barry came to the
Academy and pronounced a glowing eulogium
upon him as a man and an artist. This change
astonished many, but it was consistent with his
character: he was of an open and generous nature,
easily kindled into anger, not difficult to ap-
pease, and liable, like most violent men, to those
sudden revulsions of feeling which surprise friends
and perplex biographers. His eloquence was re-
warded: the niece of Sir Joshua, the Marchioness
of Thomond, made him a present of her uncle's
painting-chair—it was borne home in triumph to
Castle Street, and a letter of thanks addressed to
the lady, in which he compared the gift with the
celebrated chair of Pindar, which was shown so
many years in the porch of Olympia. With better
feeling he reflected that it had been instrumental
in “perpetuating the negligent honest exteriors of
the authors of the Rambler and the Traveller;”
and that it had been pressed “by Mrs. Siddons
as the Tragic Muse;” and concluded by declaring,
that in him it should find a reverential conservator
whilst God permitted it to remain under his care.*
Barry, having obtained what (with his notions
and habits) amounted to independence, employed
his time much to his own liking: he had long in-
dulged the wish to paint the Progress of Theology
—and his famous picture of Pandora was the com-
* On the death of Barry, this celebrated chair found its
way, after a variety of fortune, into the hands of an auctioneer,
whose hammer at length consigned it to the studio of Sir
Thomas Lawrence. Death has again interposed, and the
painting-chairs of those two eminent men must seek other
sanctuaries.
BARRY. - 131
mencement of the series. He began these designs
soon after the completion of the Adelphi pictures
—they were often set aside, and again resumed—
disappointment by degrees laid a chilling hand
upon him—and he was visited too by those mis-
givings of spirit to which the sons of genius are
peculiarly heirs. The Progress of the Mosaic
Doctrines, however, was sketched; and something
like the first conceptions for the pieces designed
to embody the coming of our Saviour could be
traced at his death amongst the chaos of his papers.
Of a great work thus imperfectly shadowed out,
who can give any account? Rude sketches may
indicate the main purpose and aim, but these are
liable to such changes in the execution, that a
finished work rarely corresponds with the original
design.
At intervals, while this undertaking was his
regular task, he sought refreshment in the plea-
sures of controversy, and wrote and published
his celebrated Letter to the Dilettanti Society.
In this work—which is neither commendable in
aim nor temperate in language—he embodied
almost all his disputes with mankind collectively
and individually. After describing the leading
principles of national art—the objects which the
Royal Academy had been instituted to accomplish,
and the purposes to which their money, as well
as their energies, ought to be directed—Barry
plunged into the actual conduct of the Academy's
affairs—denounced private combinations and jea-
lousies—asserted that the funds were dissipated
by secret intrigues—and, as a finishing touch to
this picture of weakness and corruption, proposed,
K 2
132 THE BRITISH PAINTER.S.

seriously to all appearance, that whenever the
judgment of the body was appealed to, the honest
vote of each member should be secured by oath !
On the appearance of this bitter diatribe in 1797,
the whole Academy, with the exception of Joseph
Nollekens, declared war against the Professor of
Painting. That Barry should have lost his temper
can surprise no one; but that a public body, com-
posed of the assembled talent in art of a great ma-
tion, should have lost temper too, must remain a
matter of surprise to all: yet so it happened. The
whole Academy was in commotion — Farington
read aloud the Letter to the Dilettanti Society—
information of personal irregularities was given
by Messrs. Dance and Daniell—and Wilton, the
sculptor, and at that period Keeper, embodied
the charges in compliance with the direction of
the committee. They accused James Barry of
making digressions in his lectures, in which he
abused members of the Academy—the dead as
well as the living ; of teaching the students habits
of insubordination, and countenancing them in li-
centious and disorderly behaviour; of charging the
Academy with voting in pensions among themselves
sixteen thousand pounds, which should have been
laid out for the benefit of the students; and, finally,
of having spoken unhandsomely of the President,
Benjamin West. -
With the haste of anger, the Academy proceeded
to act upon these charges. The accused was al-
lowed no copy of the indictment—was permitted
to say nothing in explanation or defence—was for-
mally degraded from his station of Professor—
and expelled the Academy, nay,+that nothing

BAR.R.Y. - ... 133
might be wanting to prove to the world the se-
verities which public bodies can with impunity
commit,-the sanction of the King had been ob-
tained to all these proceedings—before it was com-
municated to Barry that his name was for ever
removed from the roll of academicians. These
measures, which will always be pronounced by
far too precipitate, sounded, at the time, about as
strangely in ears unaccustomed to the bickerings
and animosities which prevail in most corporate
bodies, as poor Barry's own wild extravagance,
when he classed the academicians with thieves and
house-breakers—and imagined his person and pro-
perty the object of professional conspiracies.
His friends flattered themselves that he was
now done with debates—and would at length find
leisure to finish those great works in which he
had made some progress. In order that he might
be secured against want, and to repair the loss of
the thirty pounds a-year of which his brethren had
so ungracefully, if not unjustly, deprived him, they
proposed to gather such a sum by subscription as
would purchase a decent annuity. It was at this
time of distress that the Earl of Buchan, among
others, stood forward in Barry's behalf. This no-
bleman desired to be thought public director in all
matters of poetry and painting in Scotland. . He
spent his long life in speaking kind words, writing
encouraging letters, and dispensing patronizing
looks to all who had visited the Vatican, or were
found loitering about the nether regions of Par-
massus. On this occasion he stirred himself more
than was his wont, and astonished many by pub-
licly subscribing ten pounds; he also interceded

134 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
with the Society of Arts, and applied to many who
thought favourably of Barry's talents. I wish he
had done no more. He praised the set of proof
engravings which Barry sent in a present to Dry-
burgh—fell in love with others which were in
London—longed to possess an “easel picture” as
a memorial of friendship—condescended to name
the picture he particularly affected, The Inter-
view of Milton with Elwood the Quaker—and,
finally, requested in addition a proof engraving
from the Birth of Pandora. The painter, pleased
with all this condescension, sent a sketch of his
Milton to the noble speculator in subscriptions;
and the “easel picture” would have followed—
but that hand was soon to be laid upon Barry
which has recently fallen on his disinterested pa-
tron.
One thousand pounds in course of time were
subscribed, and an annuity of corresponding value
was purchased of Sir Robert Peel;-but all this
kindness came too late.
He was now in the sixty-fifth year of his age;
his health was generally good, and his frame, na-
turally strong, had been hardened with his ways
of living, and promised to endure for many years.
He had softened too the asperities of his man-
mers, and, though the extasy of early thought was
abated, many noble paintings were expected from
his hand, now that at length his mind was eased
by what he considered affluence, and he had no
longer either committees or councils to disturb
him. During the years which had passed since
his expulsion from the Academy, he had been en-
gaged on his great work on theology; but a large

BARRY, 135
piece now grew slowly under his hand—and in-
deed he appears never to have possessed that
dashing, alacrity of composition which distin-
guished most of the great Italian masters. He
had been employed too, from time to time, upon
his engravings; but upon the whole it may be
said that, during these latter years of his life, he
had mused much and wrought little. Neverthe-
less, high hopes were still entertained by his well-
wishers.
No previous illness had given him warning when,
on the evening of the sixth of February, 1806, he
was seized, as he entered the house where he
- usually dined, with the cold fit of a pleuritic fever,
of so intense a degree that all his powers were
suspended, and he could neither speak nor move.
Cordials were administered; he came a little to
himself, and was conveyed in a coach to his own
house; but some idle boys had plugged the key-
hole with dirt and pebbles, and the door could
not be opened. The night was dark and cold; he
was shivering with disease, and a person who ac-
companied him carried him to the house of Mr.
Bonomi. A bed was procured in the neighbour-
hood. Barry was laid down. He desired to be
left alone, and bolted the door. So well were
his orders obeyed, that he remained for forty hours
without medical aid, and when it came it was too
late. The disease had struck him mortally; a hot
fit had succeeded the cold one, and he complained
of a burning pain in his side and of difficulty of
breathing. Ill as he was he left his bed on the
afternoon of the eighth, and repaired, pale and
tottering, to Dr. Fryer, to make his complaint. He
136 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
had a pain in his side, a short and incessant cough,
quick and feeble pulse. He related that his friend.
Bonomi had made arrangements for receiving him
into his house, spoke with warm feeling of the kind-
ness of Mrs. Bonomi, and said how happy he would
be there compared to under his own roof, where he
had neither a servant nor a comfortable bed. Dr.
Fryer requested him to go to his friend's house
immediately, as he was more fit for his bed than
making visits. -
He went accordingly to Mr. Bonomi's, and
thenceforth Dr. Fryer and Dr. Combe attended
him constantly; but all skill was in vain. As the
disease gained head he was warned of his ap-
proaching dissolution, and he heard of it as a thing
neither to be desired nor dreaded. He conversed
occasionally with much cheerfulness, and, having
lingered till the twenty-second of February, ex-
pired in tranquillity and peace in the sixty-fifth
year of his age. The Royal Academy had never
proclaimed peace between them and their former
Professor, and they now allowed his dust to remain
unhonoured. The Society of Arts permitted his
body to be borne from the hall of the Adelphi,
which his genius had adorned, and Sir Robert
Peel, who by the painter's sudden death had made
a profitable bargain in the matter of the annuity,
generously gave two hundred pounds to pay for
his funeral, and raise a tablet in St. Paul's to his
memory.
This conduct of the Academy was, no doubt,
conformable to etiquette; but Barry, though he
had sinned against their rules, had done nothing
to lower him in the general estimation of mankind.
RARRY. 4. 137
He might be in their eyes a degraded Academician
—no one could call him a degraded artist; and the
remains, at least, of a man of genius had surely a
claim to some concession at their hands. But a
certain air of loftiness, it would seem, belongs to
that body collectively, which its members ever
claim individually. The sway of Reynolds was
resented so far, that numbers refused their con-
currence to having his body laid out in state, as it
is called, in their rooms, before interment. If
their dignity required this severity in the case of
one whose genius had in a great degree created
and supported them, it required more in the case
of him who had satirized and reproached them as
men mean in spirit—whose mental vision was nar-
row, and who could only be credited on oath. They
did accordingly what they could : they allowed
Barry to be borne to his grave by hands that had
never touched a pencil.
James Barry said seriously of himself, “I am
a pock-pitted hard-featured little fellow.” He was
in person under the middle size—the vicissitudes
of fortune, frequent controversies, and bitter dis-
appointments, had impressed in early life the
aspect of years upon his brow—his face was na-
turally grave and saturnine, which gave uncommon
sweetness to his smile, and great fierceness to his
anger. If we lament his unhappy temper, we
cannot refuse praise to the fortitude which baffled
all manner of discomfort: he resided, without a
murmur, in a house the perfect image of desola-
tion—the rent walls admitted the wind, the shat-
tered roof let in the rain: and there, without a
servant—without even a decent bed, the compa-
138 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
nion of poverty and solitude, he painted many noble
works. When he commenced his far-famed Six
Pictures, he was advised by one who loved him,
to take a better house, wear better clothes, hire
a steady servant, and set up a neat establishment.
Barry answered—“The pride of honesty protests
against such a rash speculation.” Many are the
stories which have been told concerning this sin-
gular man—they are chiefly ludicrous tales of
privation and pride; such as are gladly remem-
bered by those who love whatever lowers genius
to their own level, and who are as incapable of
honouring amidst eccentricities what is high-
minded and noble, as a pocket loadstone is of
picking up an anchor.
Barry was the greatest enthusiast in art which
this country ever produced—his passion for it
almost amounted to madness; and but for his
works, his words and actions might have been
gravely cited in proof of mental alienation. He
hungered and he thirsted, not figuratively, but
truly, for its sake; and from boyhood to the tomb
devoted all his faculties to establish a School of
Painting, which, avoiding common or familiar
subjects, should embody only what is dignified,
magnificent or sublime. To this high task he
brought an imagination second only to that of
Fuseli, a strong love of the poetry of nature, an
intimate knowledge of the works of the great
masters, a deep feeling for their excellencies, fine
skill of hand, and unequalled fortitude and perse-
verance. That he failed to reap the harvest which
such qualities and attainments promised, must be
imputed mainly to his infirmity of temper, but
BARRY. 139
partly also to what he so often complained of, the
unawakened taste of the country for works of an
historical nature. He wanted that graceful spirit
which conciliates and persuades—which, like the
fabled cestus of the goddess,
“Can from the wisest win their best resolves.”
There were few at that time to patronize his-
torical painting, save his Majesty, and West
monopolized all subjects for the palaces, both
sacred and profane. Portrait painters were the
prosperous in British art; and few, save them-
selves, found the way to the tables and to the
confidence of the great. Nor indeed, little as it
was then, has the love of historical painting in-
creased among us since; all the efforts of his pre-
sent Majesty, of Sir George Beaumont, Sir John
Leycester, Sir John Swinborne, Lord Lansdowne,
Lord Egremont, the Duke of Bedford, and a few
others, have been nearly in vain.
Other reasons, however, may be assigned for
Barry's want of success. His first picture, the
Legend of St. Patrick, was right—it was one of
his own island's traditions—in it he heard the voice
of Nature, and he who obeys her will seldom err.
But afterwards the miracles of Greece and the
Vatican oppressed and enthralled his fancy. The
artist who disdains to work in the spirit of his own
country will rarely work well in the spirit of any
other. The names of Barry's pictures will tell
where his heart was—Pandora, or the heathem
Eve; the Conversion of Polemon in the presence
of Xenocrates; the Birth of Venus ; Philoctetes
in Lemnos ; Jupiter and Juno—and many more.

140 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
Affection for such subjects had long since fallen
asleep, and it was not in the power of Barry to
awaken it. To be truly classic he should have
done for Britain what the artists of old did for
Greece: their works are classical—not from being
the offspring of a classic land, but because they
were the embodied poetry of its actual beauty and
Sentlment.
He turned, when it was too late, to the pages
of Milton. The subjects which he sketched from
the Paradise Lost were made when he was ad-
vanced in life, and he never finished them. They
were as follows:—Satan rising from the fiery
gulf; the Temptation of Adam; Satan meeting
with Sin and Death; Adam and Eve after the
Fall; the Triumph of Michael and fall of the
Rebel Angels; Satan in Paradise; the Descent of
the Guardian Angels; Satan detected by Ithuriel;
and Adam's vision of the Misery of his Posterity.
On several of these subjects Fuseli also tried his
hand. They are such as require powers of an Epic
order, and some of them seem to be above the
grasp of our painter. But he shared largely in
that kind of intrepidity of spirit which belonged
to West and Fuseli: subjects of ordinary emotion
had no charms for him: he loved to contemplate
what was solemn and terrible; and his mind
teemed with magnificent undertakings, which he
wanted time or talent to realize. The multitude
of his sketches, and the small number of his
finished works, attest his immoderate ambition
and his deficiency in some of those high qualities
which, like the key-stone to an arch, are necessary
to the completion of whatever is vast and grand.

BARRY. 141
His treatises, like his paintings, are distinguished
by their vigour. Of the light and shade of lan-
guage he was an indifferent master; nor was he
fastidious in neatness of arrangement, or nice in
accuracy of reasoning: nevertheless, his earnest-
ness of manner renders his writings very readable.
His enthusiasm for pencils and chisels knows
no bounds; a painting with him is the first of
human works, and a painter the noblest of God's
creatures. Poetry, he assures us, requires little
knowledge, and “the most perfect verse is no
more than the animated account or relation of the
story of a picture.” Poetry, too, he says, (and
with more truth,) is limited by its language to a
particular country; while Painting speaks all
tongues, and is readable to all nations. North-
cote, in his life of Reynolds, re-echoes Barry, and
proposes to detect the presence of true poetry, by
trying if it will turn into shape with the pencill
There is, however, much of our finest poetry that
would slip like quicksilver from the pencil of a
greater than Mr. Northcote. If a poem be only
the animated account of a picture, how many thou-
sand pictures must that man paint who shall give
us Shakespeare, or Milton, or Spenser, or Scott,
or Southey, or Wordsworth, on canvas: and if
poetry be only good when it presents such images
as painters can copy, how many passages have age
after age admired in vanity and in ignorance 1 No
one but a wild enthusiast, like Barry, would claim.
for any artist that ever breathed, an equality of mind
with Homer, or Shakespeare, or Dante—men who
have influenced the world from its centre to its
circumference; and as for Mr. Northcote's test—
142 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
the winged rapidity of poetry gives us, no doubt,
in its lowest, as well as in its higher moods, many
pictures, which the genius of art can embody; but
at the same time it presents us with images, so
vivid and yet elusive, so distinct and yet so sha-
dowy, as to set all art at defiance. Who shall
paint Elijah's Mantle of Inspiration—the Still
Small Voice—the War-Horse, whose neck is clothed
with thunder, and who snuffeth the battle afar-off
—the Magic Girdle of the Fairy Queen—or the
Cestus of Homer's Venus, so exquisitely rendered
by Cowper—
“an ambush of sweet snares, replete
With love, desire, soft intercourse of hearts,
And music of resistless whispered sounds.” .
- tº- º
-

( 143 )
WILLIAM BLAKE.
PAINTING, like poetry, has followers, the body of
whose genius is light compared to the length of its
wings, and who, rising above the ordinary sympa-
thies of our nature, are, like Napoleon, betrayed
by a star which no eye can see save their own.
To this rare class belonged William Blake.
He was the second son of James Blake and
Catharine his wife, and born on the 28th of No-
vember, 1757, in 28, Broad Street, Carnaby Mar-
ket, London. His father, a respectable hosier,
caused him to be educated for his own business,
but the love of art came early upon the boy; he
neglected the figures of arithmetic for those of
Raphael and Reynolds; and his worthy parents
often wondered how a child of theirs should have
conceived a love for such unsubstantial vanities.
The boy, it seems, was privately encouraged by
his mother. The love of designing and sketching
grew upon him, and he desired anxiously to be an
artist. His father began to be pleased with the
notice which his son obtained—and to fancy that a
painter's study might after all be a fitter place than
a hosier's shop for one who drew designs on the
backs of all the shop bills, and made sketches on
the counter. He consulted an eminent artist, who
144 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
asked so large a sum for instruction, that the pru-
dent shopkeeper hesitated, and young Blake de-
clared he would prefer being an engraver—a pro-
fession which would bring bread at least, and through
which he would be connected with painting. It
was indeed time to dispose of him. In addition
to his attachment to art, he had displayed poetic
symptoms—scraps of paper and the blank leaves
of books were found covered with groups and
stanzas. When his father saw sketches at the top
of the sheet and verses at the bottom, he took him
away to Basire, the engraver, in Green Street,
Lincoln's Inn Fields, and bound him apprentice
for seven years. He was then fourteen years old.
It is told of Blake that at ten years of age he
became an artist, and at twelve a poet. Of his
boyish pencillings I can find no traces—but of his
early intercourse with the Muse the proof lies
before me in seventy pages of verse, written, he
says, between his twelfth and his twentieth year,
and published, by the advice of friends, when he
was thirty. There are songs, ballads, and a dra-
matic poem ; rude sometimes and unmelodious,
but full of fine thought and deep and peculiar
feeling. To those who love poetry for the music
of its bells, these seventy pages will sound harsh
and dissonant; but by others they will be more
kindly looked upon. John Flaxman, a judge in
all things of a poetic nature, was so touched with
many passages, that he not only counselled their
publication, but joined with a gentleman of the
name of Matthews in the expense, and presented
the printed sheets to the artist to dispose of for
his own advantage. One of these productions is

BLAKE. 145
*
an address to the Muses—a common theme, but
sung in no common manner.
“Whether on Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the east,
The chambers of the sun, that now
From ancient melody have ceas'd;
Whether in heaven ye wander fair,
Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air,
Where the melodious winds have birth;
Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,
Beneath the bosom of the sea,
Wandering in many a coral grove,
Fair Nine ! forsaking poesie;
How have ye left the ancient love,
That Bards of old enjoyed in you, -
The languid strings now scarcely move,
The sound is forced—the notes are few.”
The little poem called “The Tiger” has been
admired for the force and vigour of its thoughts
by poets of high name. Many could weave smoother
lines—few could stamp such living images.
“Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burned the fervour of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire—
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
When thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand formed thy dread feet?
WOL. II. - L. -
146 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
What the hammer! what the chain!
Formed thy strength and forged thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dared thy deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spheres,
And sprinkled heaven with shining tears,
Did he smile, his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?”

In the dramatic poem of King Edward the Third
there are many nervous lines, and even whole pas-
sages of high merit. The structure of the verse
is often defective, and the arrangement inharmo-
nious; but before the ear is thoroughly offended,
it is soothed by some touch of deep melody and
poetic thought. The princes and earls of England
are conferring together on the eve of the battle of
Cressy—the Black Prince takes Chandos aside,
and says—
“Now we're alone, John Chandos, I'll unburthen
And breathe my hopes into the burning air—
Where thousand Deaths are posting up and down,
Commissioned to this fatal field of Cressy: -
Methinks I see them arm my gallant soldiers,
And gird the sword upon each thigh, and fit
The shining helm, and string each stubborn bow,
And dancing to the neighing of the steeds;—
Methinks the shout begins—the battle burns;—
Methinks I see them perch on English crests,
And breathe the wild flame of fierce war upon
The thronged enemy.”

In the same high poetic spirit Sir Walter Manny
converses with a genuine old English warrior, Sir
Thomas Dagworth.

“O, Dagworth!—France is sick!—the very sky,
Though sunshine light, it seems to me as pale
BLAKE, 147
º:
As is the fainting man on his death-bed, * -
Whose face is shown by light of one weak taper—
It makes me sad and sick unto the heart;
Thousands must fall to-day.”
Sir Thomas answers.
“Thousands of souls must leave this prison-house
To be exalted to those heavenly fields
Where songs of triumph, psalms of victory,
Where peace, and joy, and love, and calm content,
Sit singing on the azure clouds, and strew
The flowers of heaven upon the banquet table.
Bind ardent hope upon your feet, like shoes,
And put the robe of preparation on.
The table, it is spread in shining heaven.
Let those who fight, fight in good steadfastness;
And those who fall shall rise in victory.”
I might transcribe from these modest and un-
noticed pages many such passages. It would be
unfair not to mention that the same volume con-
tains some wild and incoherent prose, in which
we may trace more than the dawning of those
strange, mystical, and mysterious fancies on which
Blake subsequently misemployed his pencil. There
is much that is weak, and something that is strong,
and a great deal that is wild and mad, and all so
strangely mingled, that little or no meaning can be
assigned to it; it seems like a lamentation over the
disasters which came on England during the reign
of King John.
Though Blake lost himself sometimes in the en-
chanted region of song, he seems not to have neg-
lected to make himself master of the graver, or to
have forgotten his love of designs and sketches.
He was a dutiful servant to Basire, and he studied
occasionally under Flaxman and Fuseli; but it was


L 2
148 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
§
his chief delight to retire to the solitude of his
room, and there make drawings, and illustrate
these with verses, to be hung up together in his
mother's chamber. He was always at work; he
called amusement idleness, sight-seeing vanity,
and money-making the ruin of all high aspira-
tions. “Were I to love money,” he said, “I
should lose all power of thought; desire of gain
deadens the genius of man. I might roll in wealth
and ride in a golden chariot, were I to listen to the
voice of parsimony. My business is not to gather
gold, but to make glorious shapes, expressing
god-like sentiments.” The day was given to the
graver, by which he earned enough to maintain
himself respectably; and he bestowed his even-
ings upon painting and poetry, and intertwined
these so closely in his compositions, that they can-
not well be separated.
When he was six-and-twenty years old, he mar-
ried Katharine Boutcher, a young woman of hum-
ble connexions—the dark-eyed Kate of several of
his lyric poems. She lived near his father's house,
and was noticed by Blake for the whiteness of her
hand, the brightness of her eyes, and a slim and
handsome shape, corresponding with his own no-
tions of sylphs and maiads. As he was an original
in all things, it would have been out of character
to fall in love like an ordinary mortal; he was
describing one evening in company the pains he
had suffered from some capricious lady or another,
when Katharine Boutcher said, “I pity you from
my heart.” “Do you pity me?” said Blake, “then
I love you for that.” “And I love you,” said the
frank-hearted lass, and so the courtship began.
BLAKE, * 149
He tried how well she looked in a drawing, then
how her charms became verse; and finding more-
over that she had good domestic qualities, he mar-
ried her. They lived together long and happily.
She seemed to have been created on purpose for
Blake:–she believed him to be the finest genius
on earth; she believed in his verse—she believed
in his designs; and to the wildest flights of his
imagination she bowed the knee, and was a wor-
shipper. She set his house in good order, prepared
his frugal meal, learned to think as he thought,
and, indulging him in his harmless absurdities,
became, as it were, bone of his bone, and flesh of
his flesh. She learned—what a young and hand-
some woman is seldom apt to learn—to despise
gaudy dresses, costly meals, pleasant company,
and agreeable invitations—she found out the way
of being happy at home, living on the simplest of
food, and contented in the homeliest of clothing.
It was no ordinary mind which could do all this;
and she whom Blake emphatically called his “be-
loved,” was no ordinary woman. She wrought off
in the press the impressions of his plates—she
coloured them with a light and neat hand—made
drawings much in the spirit of her husband's com-
positions, and almost rivalled him in all things save
in the power which he possessed of seeing visions
of any individual living or dead, whenever he chose
to see them.
His marriage, I have heard, was not agreeable
to his father ; and he then left his roof and resided
with his wife in Green Street, Leicester Fields.
He returned to Broad Street, on the death of his
father, a devout man, and an honest shopkeeper,
150 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
of fifty years' standing, took a first floor and a
shop, and in company with one Parker, who had
been his fellow-apprentice, commenced printseller.
His wife attended to the business, and Blake con-
tinued to engrave, and took Robert, his favourite
brother, for a pupil. This speculation did not
succeed—his brother too sickened and died; he
had a dispute with Parker—the shop was relin-
quished, and he removed to 28, Poland Street.
Here he commenced that series of works which
give him a right to be numbered among the men
of genius of his country. In sketching designs,
engraving plates, writing songs, and composing
music, he employed his time, with his wife sitting
at his side, encouraging him in all his undertakings.
As he drew the figure he meditated the song which
was to accompany it, and the music to which the
verse was to be sung, was the offspring too of the
same moment. Of his music there are no speci-
mens—he wanted the art of noting it down—if it
equalled many of his drawings, and some of his
songs, we have lost melodies of real value.
The first fruits were the “Songs of Innocence
and Experience,” a work original and natural, and
of high merit, both in poetry and in painting. It
consists of some sixty-five or seventy scenes, pre-
senting images of youth and manhood—of domes-
tic sadness, and fireside joy—of the gaiety, and in-
nocence, and happiness of childhood. Every scene
has its poetical accompaniment, curiously inter-
woven with the group or the landscape, and form-
ing, from the beauty of the colour and the pretti-
ness of the pencilling, a very fair picture of itself.
Those designs are in general highly poetical; more

BLAKE, ! 151
allied, however, to heaven than to earth, a kind
of spiritual abstractions, and indicating a better
world and fuller happiness than mortals enjoy.
The picture of Innocence is introduced with the
following sweet verses.
“Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me—
Pipe a song about a lamb;
So I piped with merry cheer.
Piper, pipe that song again—
So I piped—he wept to hear.
Drop thy pipe, thy ha ipe,
Sing thy songs of #ºr—
So I sung the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read—
So he vanished from my sight:
And I plucked a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs,
Every child may joy to hear.”
Another song, called “The Chimney Sweeper,”
is rude enough truly, but yet not without pathos.
“When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry—weep! weep! weep!
So your chimneys I clean and in soot I sleep.
There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curl’d like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said,
Hush, Tom, never mind it, for when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.
I52 THE BRITISH PAINTERs.
And so he was quiet—and on that very night,
As Tommy was sleeping, he had such a sight;
There thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black;
And by came an Angel, who had a bright key,
He opened the coffins and set them all free;
Then down a green vale, leaping, laughing they run,
And wash in a river, and shine like the Sun.
Then, naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise up on pure clouds and sport in the wind:
And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father and never want joy.
And so Tommy awoke and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work;
Though the morning was cold, he was happy and warm,
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.”
In a higher and better spirit he wrought with
his pencil. But then he imagined himself under
spiritual influences; he saw the forms and listened
to the voices of the worthies of other days; the
past and the future were before him, and he heard,
in imagination, even that awful voice which called
on Adam amongst the trees of the garden. In this
kind of dreaming abstraction, he lived much of his
life; all his works are stamped with it; and though
they owe much of their mysticism and obscurity to
the circumstance, there can be no doubt that they
also owe to it much of their singular loveliness
and beauty. It was wonderful that he could thus,
month after month, and year after year, lay down
his graver after it had won him his daily wages,
and retire from the battle for bread, to disport his
fancy amid scenes of more than earthly splendour,
and creatures pure as unfallen dew.
In this lay the weakness and the strength of


BLAKE. 153
Blake, and those who desire to feel the character
of his compositions, must be familiar with his his-
tory and the peculiarities of his mind. He was
by nature a poet, a dreamer, and an enthusiast.
The eminence which it had been the first ambition
of his youth to climb, was visible before him, and
he saw on its ascent or on its summit those who
had started earlier in the race of fame. He felt
conscious of his own merit, but was not aware of
the thousand obstacles which were ready to inter-
pose. He thought that he had but to sing songs
and draw designs, and become great and famous.
The crosses which genius is heir to had been
wholly unforeseen—and they befel him early ; he
wanted too the skill of hand, and fine tact of fancy
and taste, to impress upon the offspring of his
thoughts that popular shape, which gives such pro-
ductions immediate circulation. His works were
therefore looked coldly on by the world, and were
only esteemed by men of poetic minds, or those who
were fond of things out of the common way. He
earned a little fame, but no money by these specu-
lations, and had to depend for bread on the labours
of the graver.
... All this neither crushed his spirit, nor induced
him to work more in the way of the world; but it
had a visible influence upon his mind. He be-
came more seriously thoughtful, avoided the com-
pany of men, and lived in the manner of a hermit,
in that vast wilderness, London. Necessity made
him frugal, and honesty and independence pre-
scribed plain clothes, homely fare, and a cheap ha-
bitation. He was thus compelled more than ever
to retire to worlds of his own creating, and seek
.*
w -
154 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
solace in visions of paradise for the joys which
the earth denied him. By frequent indulgence in
these imaginings, he gradually began to believe in
the reality of what dreaming fancy painted—the
pictured forms which swarmed before his eyes as-
sumed, in his apprehension, the stability of positive
revelations, and he mistook the vivid figures, which
his professional imagination shaped, for the poets,
and heroes, and princes of old. Amongst his
friends, he at length ventured to intimate that the
designs on which he was engaged, were not from
his own mind, but copied from grand works re-
vealed to him in visions; and those who believed
that, would readily lend an ear to the assurance
that he was commanded to execute his perform-
ances by a celestial tongue! -
Of these imaginary visitations he made good use,
when he invented his truly original and beautiful
mode of engraving and tinting his plates. He
had made the designs of his Days of Innocence,
and was meditating, he said, on the best means
of multiplying their resemblance in form and in
hue; he felt sorely perplexed. At last he was
made aware that the spirit of his favourite brother
Robert was in the room, and to this celestial visitor
he applied for counsel. The spirit advised him at
once : “write,” he said, “the poetry, and draw the
designs upon the copper with a certain liquid (which
he named, and which Blake ever kept a secret);
then cut the plain parts of the plate down with
aquafortis, and this will give the whole, both poetry
and figures, in the manner of a stereotype.” The
plan recommended by this gracious spirit was
adopted; the plates were engraved, and the work


BLAKE. 155
printed off. The artist then added a peculiar
beauty of his own. He tinted both the figures
and the verse with a variety of colours, amongst
which, while yellow prevails, the whole has a rich
and lustrous beauty, to which I know little that
can be compared. The size of these prints is four
inches and an half high by three inches wide. The
original genius of Blake was always confined,
through poverty, to small dimensions. Sixty-five
plates of copper were an object to him who had
little money. The Gates of Paradise, a work of
sixteen designs, and those exceedingly small, was
his next undertaking. The meaning of the artist
is not a little obscure; it seems to have been his
object to represent the innocence, the happiness,
and the upward aspirations of man. They bespeak
one intimately acquainted with the looks and the
feelings of children. Over them there is shed a
kind of mysterious halo which raises feelings of
devotion. The Songs of Innocence, and the Gates
of Paradise, became popular among the collectors
of prints. To the sketch-book and the cabinet
the works of Blake are unfortunately confined.
If there be mystery in the meaning of the Gates
of Paradise, his succeeding performance, by name
URIZEN, has the merit or the fault of surpassing all
human comprehension. The spirit which dictated
this strange work was undoubtedly a dark one;
nor does the strange kind of prose which is inter-
mingled with the figures serve to enlighten us.
There are in all twenty-seven designs, representing
beings human, demoniac, and divine, in situations
of pain and sorrow and suffering. One character
—evidently an evil spirit—appears in most of the
156 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
plates; the horrors of hell, and the terrors of dark-
ness and divine wrath, seem his sole portion. He
swims in gulphs of fire—descends in cataracts of
flame—holds combats with scaly serpents, or
writhes in anguish without any visible cause. One
of his exploits is to chase a female soul through a
narrow gate and hurl her headlong down into a
darksome pit. The wild verses, which are scat-
tered here and there, talk of the sons and the
daughters of Urizen. He seems to have extracted
these twenty-seven scenes out of many visions—
what he meant by them even his wife declared she
could not tell, though she was sure they had a
meaning, and a fine one. Something like the fall
of Lucifer and the creation of Man is dimly visible
in this extravagant work; it is not a little fearful
to look upon; a powerful, dark, terrible, though
undefined and indescribable, impression is left on
the mind—and it is in no haste to be gone. The
size of the designs is four inches by six; they bear
date, “Lambeth, 1794.” He had left Poland
Street, and was residing in Hercules Buildings.
The name of Blake began now to be known a
little, and Edwards, the bookseller, employed him
to illustrate Young's Night Thoughts. The re-
ward in money was small, but the temptation in
fame was great: the work was performed some-
thing in the manner of old books with illuminated
margins. Along the ample margins which the
poetry left on the page the artist sketched his
fanciful creations; contracting or expanding them
according to the space. Some of those designs
were in keeping with the poems, but there were
others which alarmed fastidious people: the serious
IBLAKE, 157
and the pious were not prepared to admire shapes
trembling in nudity round the verses of a grave
divine. In the exuberance of Young there are
many fine figures; but they are figures of speech
only, on which art should waste none of its skill,
This work was so much, in many parts, to the sa-
tisfaction of Flaxman, that he introduced Blake to
Hayley the poet, who, in 1800, persuaded him to
remove to Felpham in Sussex, to make engravings
for the Life of Cowper. To that place he accord-
ingly went with his wife and sister, and was wel-
comed by Hayley with much affection. Of his
journey and his feelings he gives the following ac-
count to Flaxman, whom he usually addressed
thus, “Dear Sculptor of Eternity.” --
“We are arrived safe at our cottage, which is
more beautiful than I thought it, and more conve-
nient. It is a perfect model for cottages, and I
think for palaces of magnificence, only enlarging
and not altering its proportions, and adding orna-
ments and not principals. Nothing can be more
grand than its simplicity and usefulness. Felpham
is a sweet place for study, because it is more spi-
ritual than London. Heaven opens here on all
sides her golden gates; her windows are not ob-
structed by vapours; voices of celestial inhabit-
ants are more distinctly heard, and their forms
more distinctly seen, and my cottage is also a sha-
dow of their houses. My wife and sister are both
well, and are courting Neptune for an embrace.”
Thus far had he written in the language and
feelings of a person of upper air; though some of
the expressions are tinctured with the peculiar en-
thusiasm of the man, they might find shelter under
158 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
the license of figurative speech, and pass muster as
the poetic language of new-found happiness. Blake
thus continues:–
“And now begins a new life, because another
covering of earth is shaken off. I am more famed
in heaven for my works than I could well conceive.
In my brain are studies and chambers filked with
books and pictures of old, which I wrote and
painted in ages of eternity before my mortal life,
and those works are the delight and study of arch-
angels. Why then should I be anxious about the
riches or fame of mortality ? You, O dear Flax-
man, are a sublime archangel, my friend and com-
panion from eternity. Farewell, my dear friend,
remember me and my wife in love and friendship
to Mrs. Flaxman, whom we ardently, desire to en-
tertain beneath our thatched roof of russet gold.”
This letter, written in the year 1800, gives the
true two-fold image of the author's mind. During
the day he was a man of sagacity and sense, who
handled his graver wisely, and conversed in a
wholesome and pleasant manner: in the evening,
when he had done his prescribed task, he gave a
loose to his imagination. While employed on those
engravings which accompany the works of Cowper,
he saw such company as the country where he re-
sided afforded, and talked with Hayley about
poetry with a feeling to which the author of the
Triumphs of Temper was an utter stranger; but at
the close of day away went Blake to the sea shore
to indulge in his own thoughts and -

“High converse with the dead to hold.”
Here he forgot the present moment and lived in
BLAKE, 1.59
the past; he conceived, verily, that he had lived
in other days, and had formed friendships with
Homer and Moses; with Pindar and Virgil; with
Dante and Milton. These great men, he asserted,
appeared to him in visions, and even entered into
conversation. Milton, in a moment of confidence,
entrusted him with a whole poem of his, which the
world had never seen; but unfortunately the com-
munication was oral, and the poetry seemed to
have lost much of its brightness in Blake's recita-
tion. When asked about the looks of those visions,
he answered, “They are all majestic shadows,
gray but luminous, and superior to the common
height of men.” It was evident that the solitude
of the country gave him a larger swing in imagi-
nary matters. His wife often accompanied him
to these strange interviews; she saw nothing and
heard as little, but she was certain that her hus-
band both heard and saw.
Blake's mind at all times resembled that first
page in the magician's book of gramoury, which
made
“The cobweb on the dungeon wall,
Seem tapestry in lordly hall.”

His mind could convert the most ordinary occur-
rence into something mystical and supernatural.
He often saw less majestic shapes than those of the
poets of old. “Did you ever see a fairy's funeral,
madam?” he once said to a lady, who happened to
sit by him in company. “Never, sir!” was the
answer. “I have,” said Blake, “but not before
last night. I was walking alone in my garden,
there was great stillness among the branches and

160 THE BRITíSH PAINTERS.
flowers and more than common sweetness in the
air; I heard a low and pleasant sound, and I knew
not whence it came. At last I saw the broad leaf
of a flower move, and underneath I saw a proces-
sion of creatures of the size and colour of green
and gray grasshoppers, bearing a body laid out on
a rose leaf, which they buried with songs, and then
disappeared. It was a fairy funeral.” It would,
perhaps, have been better for his fame had he con-
nected it more with the superstitious beliefs of his
country—amongst the elves and fairies his fancy
might have wandered at will—their popular cha-
racter would perhaps have kept him within the
bounds of traditionary belief, and the sea of his
imagination might have had a shore.
After a residence of three years in his cottage at
Felpham, he removed to 17, South Molton Street,
London, where he lived seventeen years. He came
back to town with a fancy not a little exalted by the
solitude of the country, and in this mood designed
and engraved an extensive and strange work which
he entitled “Jerusalem.” A production so ex-
clusively wild was not allowed to make its appear-
ance in an ordinary way: he thus announced it.
“After my three years' slumber on the banks of
the ocean, I again display my giant forms to the
public.” Of these designs there are no less than
an hundred; what their meaning is the artist has
left unexplained. It seems of a religious, politi-
cal, and spiritual kind, and wanders from hell to
heaven, and from heaven to earth; now glancing
into the distractions of our own days, and then
making a transition to the -antediluvians. The
crowning defect is obscurity; meaning seems now

BLAKE. Fº
w 16i
and then about to dawn; you turn plate after
plate, and read motto after motto, in the hope of
escaping from darkness into light. But the first
might as well be looked at last; the whole seems
a riddle which no ingenuity can solve. Yet, if the
work be looked at for form and effect rather than
for meaning, many figures may be pronounced
worthy of Michael Angelo. There is wonderful
freedom of attitude and position; men, spirits,
gods, and angels, move with an ease which makes
one lament that we know not wherefore they are
put in motion. Well might Hayley call him his
“gentle visionary Blake.” He considered the
Jerusalem to be his greatest work, and for a set of
the tinted engravings charged twenty-five gui-
meas. Few joined the artist in his admiration.
The Jerusalem, with all its giant forms, failed to
force its way into circulation.
His next work was the Illustrations of Blair's
Grave, which came to the world with the following
commendation by Fuseli. “The author of the
moral series before us, has endeavoured to awaken
sensibility by touching our sympathies with nearer,
less ambiguous, and less ludicrous imagery, than
what mythology, gothic superstition, or symbols, as
far fetched as inadequate could supply. His avo-
cation has been chiefly employed to spread a fami-
liar and domestic atmosphere round the most im-
portant of all subjects, to connect the visible and
the invisible world without provoking probability,
and to lead the eye from the milder light of time
to the radiations of eternity.” For these twelve
“ Inventions,” as he called them, Blake received
twenty guineas from Cromek, the engraver—a man
WOL. II. M
162 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
of skill in art and taste in literature. The price
was little, but nevertheless it was more than what
he usually received for such productions; he also
undertook to engrave them. But Blake's mode of
engraving was as peculiar as his style of design-
ing; it had little of that grace of execution about
it which attracts customers, and the Inventions,
after an experiment or two, were placed under the
fashionable graver of Louis Schiavonetti. Blake
was deeply incensed—he complained that he was
deprived of the profit of engraving his own designs,
and, with even less justice, that Schiavonetti was
unfit for the task.
Some of these twelve Inventions are natural and
poetic, others exhibit laborious attempts at the
terrific and the sublime. The old Man at Death's
Door is one of the best—in the Last Day there are
fine groups and admirable single figures—the Wise
Ones of the Earth pleading before the inexorable
Throne, and the Descent of the Condemned, are
creations of a high order. The Death of the
Strong Wicked Man is fearful and extravagant,
and the flames in which the soul departs from the
body have no warrant in the poem or in belief.
The Descent of Christ into the Grave is formal
and tame; and the hoary old Soul, in the Death of
the Good Man, travelling heavenward between two
orderly Angels, required little outlay of fancy.
The frontispiece—a naked Angel descending head-
long and rousing the Dead with the Sound of the
last Trumpet—alarmed the devout people of the
north, and made maids and matrons retire behind
their fans.
If the tranquillity of Blake's life was a little dis-


BLAKE, 163
turbed by the dispute about the twelve “ Inven-
tions,” it was completely shaken by the contro-
versy which now arose between him and Cromek
respecting his Canterbury Pilgrimage, and the
famous one by Stothard. That two artists at one
and the same time should choose the same subject
for the pencil, seems scarcely credible—especially
when such subject was not of a temporary interest.
The coincidence here was so close, that Blake
accused Stothard of obtaining knowledge of his
design through Cromek, while Stothard with equal
warmth asserted that Blake had commenced his
picture in rivalry of himself. Blake declared that
Cromek had actually commissioned him to paint
the Pilgrimage before Stothard thought of his ; to
which Cromek replied, that the order had been
given in a vision, for he never gave it. Stothard,
a man as little likely to be led aside from truth by
love of gain as by visions, added to Cromek's de-
nial the startling testimony that Blake visited him
during the early progress of his picture, and ex-
pressed his approbation of it in such terms, that
he proposed to introduce Blake's portrait in the
procession, as a mark of esteem. It is probable
that Blake obeyed some imaginary revelation in
this matter, and mistook it for the order of an
earthly employer; but whether commissioned by
a vision or by mortal lips, his Canterbury Pil-
grimage made its appearance in an exhibition of
his principal works in the house of his brother,
in Broad Street, during the summer of 1809.
Of original designs, this singular exhibition con-
tained sixteen—they were announced as chiefly
“of a spiritual and political nature”—but then the
M 2
164 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
spiritual works and political feelings of Blake were
unlike those of any other man. One piece repre-
sented “The Spiritual Form of Nelson guiding
Leviathan.” Another, “The Spiritual Form of
Pitt guiding Behemoth.” This, probably, con-
founded both divines and politicians; there is no
doubt that plain men went wondering away. The
chief attraction was the Canterbury Pilgrimage,
not indeed from its excellence, but from the cir-
cumstance of its origin, which was well known
about town, and pointedly alluded to in the cata-
logue. The picture is a failure. Blake was too
great a visionary for dealing with such literal wan-
tons as the Wife of Bath and her jolly companions.
The natural flesh and blood of Chaucer prevailed
against him. He gives grossness of body for gross-
ness of mind,-tries to be merry and wicked—and
in vain.
Those who missed instruction in his pictures,
found entertainment in his catalogue, a wild per-
formance, overflowing with the oddities and dreams
of the author—which may be considered as a kind
of public declaration of his faith concerning art and
artists. His first anxiety is about his colours.
“Colouring,” says this new lecturer on the Chiaro-
Scuro, “does not depend on where the colours are
put, but on where the lights and darks are put, and
all depends on form or outline. Where that is
wrong the colouring never can be right, and it is
always wrong in Titian and Correggio, Rubens and
Rembrandt; till we get rid of them we shall never
equal Raphael and Albert Durer, Michael Angelo
and Julio Romano. Clearness and precision have
been my chief objects in painting these pictures—

BLAKE. 165
clear colours and firm determinate lineaments, un-
broken by shadows—which ought to display and
not hide form, as is the practice of the later
schools of Italy and Flanders. The picture of the
Spiritual Form of Pitt, is a proof of the power of
colours unsullied with oil or with any cloggy ve-
hicle. Oil has been falsely supposed to give
strength to colours, but a little consideration must
show the fallacy of this opinion. Oil will not
drink or absorb colour enough to stand the test of
any little time and of the air. Let the works of
artists since Rubens' time witness to the villany of
those who first brought oil painting into general
opinion and practice, since which we have never
had a picture painted that would show itself by the
side of an earlier composition. This is an awful
thing to say to oil painters; they may call it mad-
ness, but it is true. All the genuine old little pic-
tures are in fresco and not in oil.”
Having settled the true principles and proper
materials of colour, he proceeds to open up the
mystery of his own productions. Those who failed
to comprehend the pictures on looking at them,
had only to turn to the following account of the
Pitt and the Nelson. “ These two pictures,” he
says, “are compositions of a mythological cast,
similar to those Apotheoses of Persian, Hindoo,
and Egyptian antiquity, which are still preserved
in rude monuments, being copies from some stu-
pendous originals now lost, or perhaps buried to
some happier age. The Artist, having been taken,
in vision, to the ancient republics, monarchies, and
patriarchates of Asia, has seen those wonderful
originals, called in the sacred Scriptures the che-
166 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
rubim, which were painted and sculptured on the
walls of temples, towns, cities, palaces, and erected
in the highly cultivated states of Egypt, Moab,
and Edom, among the rivers of Paradise, being
originals from which the Greeks and Hetrurians
copied Hercules, Venus, Apollo, and all the ground-
works of ancient art. They were executed in a
very superior style to those justly admired copies,
being with their accompaniments terrific and grand
in the highest degree. The artist has endeavoured
to emulate the grandeur of those seen in his vision,
and to apply it to modern times on a smaller scale.
The Greek Muses are daughters of Memory, and
not of Inspiration or Imagination, and therefore
not authors of such sublime conceptions: some of
these wonderful originals were one hundred feet in
height; some were painted as pictures, some were
carved as bass-relievos, and some as groups of
statues, all containing mythological and recondite
meaning. The artist wishes it was now the fa-
shion to make such monuments, and then he should
not doubt of having a national commission to ex-
ecute those pictures of Nelson and Pitt on a scale
suitable to the grandeur of the nation who is the
parent of his heroes, in highly finished fresco, where
the colours would be as permanent as precious
stones.” ... }
The man who could not only write down, but
deliberately correct the printer's sheets which re-
corded, matter so utterly wild and mad, was at the
same time perfectly sensible to the exquisite nature
of Chaucer's delineations, and felt rightly what sort
of skill his inimitable Pilgrims required at the hand
of an artist. He who saw visions in Coele-Syria
BLAKE. * 167
and statues an hundred feet high, wrote thus con-
cerning Chaucer: “The characters of his pilgrims
are the characters which compose all ages and na-
tions: as one age falls another rises, different to
mortal sight, but to immortals only the same: for
we see the same characters repeated again and
again, in animals, in vegetables, and in men; no-
thing new occurs in identical existence. Accident
ever varies; substance can never suffer change
nor decay. Of Chaucer's characters, some of the
names or titles are altered by time, but the cha-
racters themselves for ever remain unaltered, and
consequently they are the physiognomies of umi-
versal human life, beyond which nature never
steps. Names alter—things never alter; I have
known multitudes of those who would have been
monks in the age of monkery, who in this deistical
age are deists. As Linnaeus numbered the plants,
so Chaucer numbered the classes of men.”
His own notions and much of his peculiar prac-
tice in art are scattered at random over the pages
of this curious production. His love of a distinct
outline made him use close and clinging dresses;
they are frequently very graceful—at other times
they are constrained, and deform the figures which
they so scantily cover. “The great and golden
rule of art, (says he,) is this:—that the more dis-
tinct and sharp and wiry the bounding line, the
more perfect the work of art; and the less keen
and sharp this external line, the greater is the
evidence of weak imitative plagiarism and bung-
ling : Protogenes and Apelles knew each other by
this line. How do we distinguish the oak from
the beech, the horse from the ox; but by the
* *
*
168 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
bounding outline? How do we distinguish one
face or countenance from another, but by the
bounding line and its infinite inflexions and move-
ments 7 Leave out this line and you leave out
life itself: all is chaos again, and the line of the
Almighty must be drawn out upon it before man
or beast can exist.”
These abominations—concealed outline and tricks
of colour—now bring on one of those visionary fits
to which Blake was so liable, and he narrates with
the most amusing wildness sundry revelations made
to him concerning them. He informs us that cer-
tain painters were demons—let loose on earth to
confound the “sharp wiry outline,” and fill men's
minds with fears and perturbations. He signifies
that he himself was for some time a miserable in-
strument in the hands of Chiaro-Scuro demons, who
employed him in making “experiment pictures in
oil.” “These pictures,” says he, “were the result
of temptations and perturbations labouring to de-
stroy imaginative power by means of that infernal
machine called Chiaro-Scuro, in the hands of Vene-
tian and Flemish demons, who hate the Roman and
Florentine schools. They cause that every thing
in art shall become a machine; they cause that the
execution shall be all blocked up with brown sha-
dows; they put the artist in fear and doubt of his
own original conception. The spirit of Titian was
particularly active in raising doubts concerning the
possibility of executing without a model. Rubens
is a most outrageous demon, and by infusing the
remembrances of his pictures, and style of execu-
tion, hinders all power of individual thought. Cor-
reggio is a soft and effeminate, consequently a most
BLAKE, 169
eruel demon, whose whole delight is to cause end-
less labour to whoever suffers him to enter his
mind.” When all this is translated into the lan-
guage of sublunary life, it only means that Blake
was haunted with the excellencies of other men's
works, and, finding himself unequal to the task of
rivalling the soft and glowing colours and singular
effects of light and shade of certain great masters,
betook himself to the study of others not less emi-
ment, who happened to have laid out their strength
in outline. -
The impression which the talents and oddities of
Blake made on men of taste and genius, is well
described by one whose judgment in whatever is
poetical no one will question. Charles Lamb had
communicated to James Montgomery's book on
chimney sweepers the little song by Blake, which
I have already quoted; it touched the feelings of t
Bernard Barton so deeply, that he made inquiries
of his friend about the author, upon which he re-
ceived the following letter in explanation, written
some six years ago.—“Blake is a real name I assure
you,” says Lamb; “and a most extraordinary man
he is if he be still living. He is the Blake whose
wild designs accompany a splendid edition of
Blair's Grave, which you may perhaps have seen
or heard of; in one of which he pictures the part-
ing of soul and body by a solid mass of human
form floating off God knows how, from a lumpish
mass—fac-simile to itself—left behind on the
death-bed. He paints in water-colours marvellous
strange pictures—visions of his brain which he
asserts that he has seen. They have great merit.
He has seen the old Welch bards on Snowdon.
170 THE BRITISH PAINTER.S.,
He has seen the beautifullest, the strongest and
the ugliest man left alive from the massacre of the
Britons by the Romans, and has painted them from
memory, (I have seen these paintings,) and asserts
them to be as good as the figures of Raphael and
Angelo, but not better, as they had precisely the
same retro-visions and prophetic visions with him-
self. The painters in oil (which he will have it
that neither of these great masters ever practised)
he affirms to have been the ruin of art: and asserts,
“...that all the while he was engaged on his water paint-
ings, Titian was disturbing him—Titian, the evil
genius of oil painting ! His pictures—one in par-
ticular—the Canterbury Pilgrims, have wonderful
power and spirit, but hard and dry, yet with grace.
He has written a catalogue of them, with a most
spirited criticism on Chaucer, but mystical and full
of vision. I have heard of his poems but never
seen them. There is one to a tiger, which I have
heard recited, beginning
“Tiger, tiger, burning bright,
Through the deserts of the night,”
which is glorious. But, alas! I have not the book,
and the man is flown, whither I know not—to
Hades, or a mad-house—but I must look on him
as one of the most extraordinary persons of the
age.”
*†, describe the conversations which Blake held
in prose with demons and in verse with angels,
would fill volumes, and an ordinary gallery could
not contain all the heads which he drew of his
visionary visitants. That all this was real, he him-
self most sincerely believed; nay, so infectious
BLAKE, 171
was his enthusiasm, that some acute and sensible
persons who heard him expatiate, shook their heads,
and hinted that he was an extraordinary man, and
that there might be something in the matter. One
of his brethren, an artist of some note, employed
him frequently in drawing the portraits of those
who appeared to him in visions. The most propi-
tious time for those “angel-visits” was from nine
at night till five in the morning; and so docile were
his spiritual sitters, that they appeared at the wish
of his friends. Sometimes, however, the shape
which he desired to draw was long in appearing,
and he sat with his pencil and paper ready and
his eyes idly roaming in vacancy; all at once the
vision came upon him, and he began to work like
*
e was requested to draw the likeness of Sir
William Wallace—the eye of Blake sparkled, for
he admired heroes. “William Wallace l’’ he ex-
claimed, “I see him now—there, there, how noble
he looks—reach me my things!” Having drawn
for some time, with the same care of hand and
steadiness of eye, as if a living sitter had been
before him, Blake stopt suddenly, and said, “I
cannot finish him—Edward the First has stept in
between him and me.” “That's lucky,” said his
friend, “for I want the portrait of Edward too.”
Blake took another sheet of paper, and sketched
the features of Plantagenet; upon which his ma-
jesty politely vanished, and the artist finished the
head of Wallace. “And pray, Sir,” said a gentle-
man, who heard Blake's friend tell his story—“was
Sir William Wallace an heroic-looking man? And
what sort of personage was Edward?” The
172 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
answer was: “there they are, Sir, both framed
and hanging on the wall behind you, judge for
yourself.” “I looked (says my informant) and
saw two warlike heads of the size of common life.
That of Wallace was noble and heroic, that of
Edward stern and bloody. The first had the front
of a god, the latter the aspect of a demon.”
The friend who obliged me with these anecdotes
on observing the interest which I took in the sub-
ject, said, “I know much about Blake—I was his
companion for nine years. I have sat beside him
from ten at night till three in the morning, some-
times slumbering and sometimes waking, but Blake
never slept; he sat with a pencil and paper drawing
portraits of those whom I most desired to see. I
will show you, Sir, some of these works.” He
took out a large book filled with drawings, opened
it, and continued, “Observe the poetic fervour of
that face—it is Pindar as he stood a conqueror in
the Olympic games. And this lovely creature is
Corinna, who conquered in poetry in the same
place. That lady is Lais, the courtesan—with the
impudence which is part of her profession, she
stept in between Blake and Corinna, and he was
obliged to paint her to get her away. There ! .
that is a face of a different stamp—can you con-
jecture who he is ?” “Some scoundrel, I should
think, Sir.” “There now—that is a strong proof
of the accuracy of Blake—he is a scoundrel in-
deed ! The very individual task-master whom
Moses slew in Egypt. And who is this now—
only imagine who this is ?” “Other than a good
one, I doubt, Sir.” “You are right, it is a
fiend—he resembles, and this is remarkable, two
BLAKE. 173 .
men who shall be nameless; one is a great lawyer,
and the other—I wish I durst name him—is a
suborner of false witnesses. This other head now?
—this speaks for itself—it is the head of Herod;
how like an eminent officer in the army l’”
He closed the book, and taking out a small
panel from a private drawer, said, “this is the
last which I shall show you; but it is the greatest
curiosity of all. Only look at the splendour of the
colouring and the original character of the thing!”
“I see,” said I, “a naked figure with a strong
body and a short neck—with burning eyes which
long for moisture, and a face worthy of a murderer,
holding a bloody cup in his clawed hands, out of
which it seems eager to drink. I never saw any
shape so strange, nor did I ever see any colouring
so curiously splendid—a kind of glistening green
and dusky gold, beautifully varnished. But what
in the world is it?” “It is a ghost, Sir—the ghost
of a flea—a spiritualization of the thing!” “He
saw this in a vision them,” I said. “I’ll tell you .
all about it, Sir. I called on him one evening, and
found Blake more than usually excited. He told
me he had seen a wonderful thing—the ghost of a
flea And did you make a drawing of him ' I
inquired. No, indeed, said he, I wish I had, but
I shall, if he appears again! He looked earnestly
into a corner of the room, and then said, here he
is—reach me my things—I shall keep my eye on
him. There he comes his eager tongue whisking
out of his mouth, a cup in his hand to hold blood,
and covered with a scaly skin of gold and green;–
as he described him so he drew him.” “ . &
Visions, such as are said to arise in the sight of

- 174 THE BRITISH PAINTER.S.,
those who indulge in opium, were frequently pre-
sent to Blake, nevertheless he sometimes desired
to see a spirit in vain. “For many years,” said he,
“I longed to see Satan—I never could believe that
he was the vulgar fiend which our legends repre-
sent him—I imagined him a classic spirit, such as
he appeared to him of Uz, with some of his original
splendour about him. At last I saw him. I was
going up stairs in the dark, when suddenly a light
came streaming amongst my feet, I turned round,
and there he was looking fiercely at me through
the iron grating of my staircase window. I called
for my things—Katherine thought the fit of song
was on me, and brought me pen and ink—I said,
hush !—never mind—this will do—as he appeared
so I drew him—there he is.” Upon this, Blake
took out a piece of paper with a grated window
sketched on it, while through the bars glared the
most frightful phantom that ever man imagined.
Its eyes were large and like live coals—its teeth
as long as those of a harrow, and the claws seemed
such as might appear in the distempered dream of
a clerk in the Herald's office. “It is the gothic
fiend of our legends, said Blake—the true devil—
all else are apocryphal.”
These stories are scarcely credible, yet there
can be no doubt of their accuracy. Another friend,
on whose veracity I have the fullest dependence,
called one evening on Blake, and found him sitting
with a pencil and a panel, drawing a portrait with
all the seeming anxiety of a man who is conscious
that he has got a fastidious sitter; he looked and
drew, and drew and looked, yet no living soul was
visible. “Disturb me not,” said he, in a whisper,

BLAKE. 175
“I have one sitting to me.” “Sitting to you!”
exclaimed his astonished visitor, “where is he, and
what is he?—I see no one.” “But I see him, Sir,”
answered Blake haughtily, “there he is, his name
is Lot—you may read of him in the Scripture.
He is sitting for his portrait.”
Had he always thought so idly, and wrought on
such visionary matters, this memoir would have
been the story of a madman, instead of the life of
a man of genius, some of whose works are worthy
of any age or nation. Even while he was indulging
in these laughable fancies, and seeing visions at the
request of his friends, he conceived, and drew, and
engraved, one of the noblest of all his productions
—the Inventions for the Book of Job. He accom-
lished this series in a small room, which served
him for kitchen, bedchamber, and study, where he
had no other companion but his faithful Katherine,
and no larger income than some seventeen or
eighteen shillings a week. Of these Inventions,
as the artist loved to call them, there are twenty-
one, representing the Man of Uz sustaining his dig-
nity amidst the inflictions of Satan, the reproaches
of his friends, and the insults of his wife. It was
in such things that Blake shone; the Scripture
overawed his imagination, and he was too devout
to attempt aught beyond a literal embodying of
the majestic scene. He goes step by step with
the narrative; always simple, and often sublime—
never wandering from the subject, nor overlaying
the text with the weight of his own exuberant
fancy.
. The passages, embodied, will show with what
lofty themes he presumed to grapple. 1. Thus
176 THE BRITISH PAINTER.S.
did Job continually. 2. The Almighty watches the
good man's household. 3. Satan receiving power
over Job. 4. The wind from the wilderness
destroying Job's children. 5. And I alone am
escaped to tell thee. 6. Satan smiting Job with
sore boils. 7. Job's friends comforting him.
8. Let the day perish wherein I was born. 9. Then
a spirit passed before my face. 10. Job laughed
to scorn by his friends. 11. With dreams upon
my bed thou scarest me — thou affrightest me
with visions. 12. I am young and ye are old,
wherefore I was afraid. 13. Then the Lord an-
swered Job out of the whirlwind. 14. When the
morning stars sang together, and the sons of God
shouted for joy. 15. Behold now Behemoth, which
I made with thee. 16. Thou hast fulfilled the
judgment of the wicked. 17. I have heard thee
with the hearing of my ear, but now my eye re-
joiceth in thee. 18. Also the Lord accepted Job.
19. Every one also gave him a piece of money.
20. There were not found women fairer than the
daughters of Job. 21. So the Lord blessed the
latter end of Job more than the beginning.
While employed on these remarkable produc-
tions, he was made sensible that the little approba-
tion which the world had ever bestowed on him.
was fast leaving him. The waywardness of his
fancy, and the peculiar execution of his composi-
tions, were alike unadapted for popularity; the
demand for his works lessened yearly from the
time that he exhibited his Canterbury Pilgrimage;
and he could hardly procure sufficient to sustain
life, when old age was creeping upon him. Yet,
poverty-stricken as he was, his cheerfulness never
BLAKE. 177
forsook him—he uttered no complaint—he con-
tracted no debt, and continued to the last manly
and independent. It is the fashion to praise gé-
nius when it is gone to the grave—the fashion is
cheap and convenient. Of the existence of Blake
few men of taste could be ignorant—of his great
merits multitudes knew, nor was his extreme po-
verty any secret. Yet he was reduced—one of the
ornaments of the age—to a miserable garret and a
crust of bread, and would have perished from want,
had not some friends, neither wealthy nor power-
ful, averted this disgrace from coming upon our
country. One of these gentlemen, Mr. Linnel,
employed Blake to engrave his Inventions of the
Book of Job; by this he earned money enough
to keep him living—for the good old man still la-
boured with all the ardour of the days of his youth,
and with skill equal to his enthusiasm. These en-
gravings are very rare, very beautiful, and very
peculiar. They are in the earlier fashion of work-
manship, and bear no resemblance whatever to the
polished and graceful style which now prevails.
I have never seen a tinted copy, nor am I sure
that tinting would accord with the extreme sim-
plicity of the designs, and the mode in which they
are handled. The Songs of Innocence, and these
Inventions for Job, are the happiest of Blake's
works, and ought to be in the portfolios of all who
are lovers of nature and imagination.
Two extensive works, bearing the ominous
names of Prophecies, one concerning America, the
other Europe, next made their appearance from
his pencil and graver. The first contains eighteen,
and the other seventeen plates, and both are plen-
WOL. II. N

178 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
© * &
tifully seasoned with verse, without the incum-
brance of rhyme. It is impossible to give a satis-
factory description of these works; the frontispiece
of the latter, representing the Ancient of Days, in
an orb of light, stooping into chaos, to measure out
the world, has been admired less for its meaning
than for the grandeur of its outline. A head and
a tail-piece in the other have been much noticed–
one exhibits the bottom of the sea, with enormous
fishes preying on a dead body—the other, the sur-
face, with a dead body floating, on which an eagle
with outstretched wings is feeding. The two an-
gels pouring out the spotted plague upon Britain
—an angel standing in the sun, attended by three
furies—and several other Inventions in these wild
works, exhibit wonderful strength of drawing and
splendour of colouring. Of loose prints—but
which were meant doubtless to form part of some
extensive work—one of the most remarkable is the
Great Sea Serpent; and a figure, sinking in a
stormy sea at sunset—the glow of which, with the
foam upon the dark waves, produces a magical
effect.
After a residence of seventeen years in South
Molton Street, Blake removed (not in consequence,
alas! of any increase of fortune,) to No. 3, Foun-
tain Court, Strand. This was in the year 1823.
Here he engraved by day and saw visions by night,
and occasionally employed himself in making In-
ventions for Dante; and such was his application
that he designed in all one hundred and two, and
engraved seven. It was publicly known that he was
in a declining state of health; that old age had
come upon him, and that he was in want. Several
* - BLAKE, 3. 179
friends, and artists among the number, aided him a
little, in a delicate way, by purchasing his works,
of which he had many copies. He sold many of
his “Songs of Innocence,” and also of “Urizen,”
and he wrought incessantly upon what he counted
his masterpiece, the “Jerusalem,” tinting and
adorning it, with the hope that his favourite would
find a purchaser. No one, however, was found
ready to lay out twenty-five guineas on a work
which no one could have any hope of comprehend-
ing, and this disappointment sank to the old man's
heart. r -
He had now reached his seventy-first year, and
the strength of nature was fast yielding. Yet he
was to the last cheerful and contented. “I glory,”
he said, “in dying, and have no grief but in leav-
ing you, Katherine; we have lived happy, and we
have lived long; we have been ever together, but
we shall be divided soon. Why should I fear
death? Nor do I fear it. I have endeavoured to
live as Christ commands, and have sought to wor-
ship God truly—in my own house, when I was not
seen of men.” He grew weaker and weaker—he
could no longer sit upright; and was laid in his
bed, with no one to watch over him, save his wife,
who, feeble and old herself, required help in such
a touching duty.
The Ancient of Days was such a favourite with
Blake, that three days before his death, he sat
bolstered up in bed, and tinted it with his choicest
colours and in his happiest style. He touched
and retouched it—held it at arm's length, and then
threw it from him, exclaiming, “There! that will
do ! I cannot mend it.” He saw his wife in tears
- N 2
180 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
—she felt this was to be the last of his works—
“Stay, Kate 1 (cried Blake) keep just as you are—
I will draw your portrait—for you have ever been
an angel to me”—she obeyed, and the dying artist
made a fine likeness.
The very joyfulness with which this singular
man welcomed the coming of death, made his dy-
ing moments intensely mournful. He lay chaunt-
ing songs, and the verses and the music were both
the offspring of the moment. He lamented that
he could no longer commit those inspirations, as
he called them, to paper “Kate,” he said, “I am
a changing man—I always rose and wrote down
my thoughts, whether it rained, snowed, or shone,
and you arose too and sat beside me—this can be
no longer.” He died on the 12th of August, 1828,
without any visible pain—his wife, who sat watch-
ing him, did not perceive when he ceased breath-
IIl Cº. -
William Blake was of low stature and slender
make, with a high pallid forehead, and eyes large,
dark, and expressive. His temper was touchy, and
when moved, he spoke with an indignant eloquence,
which commanded respect. His voice, in general,
was low and musical, his manners gentle and un-
assuming, his conversation a singular mixture of
knowledge and enthusiasm. His whole life was one
of labour and privation,--he had never tasted the
luxury of that independence, which comes from pro-
fessional profit. This untoward fortune he endured
with unshaken equanimity—offering himself, in
imagination, as a martyr in the great cause of poetic
art;-pitying some of his more fortunate brethren
for their inordinate love of gain; and not doubting



BLAKE. 181
that whatever he might have won in gold by adopt-
ing other methods, would have been a poor com-
pensation for the ultimate loss of fame. Under
this agreeable delusion, he lived all his life—he
was satisfied when his graver gained him a guinea
a week—the greater the present denial, the surer
the glory hereafter.
Though he was the companion of Flaxman and
Fuseli, and sometimes their pupil, he never at-
tained that professional skill, without which all
genius is bestowed in vain. He was his own
teacher chiefly; and self-instruction, the parent oc-
casionally of great beauties, seldom fails to produce
great deformities. He was a most splendid tinter,
but no colourist, and his works were all of small
dimensions, and therefore confined to the cabinet
and the portfolio. His happiest flights, as well as
his wildest, are thus likely to remain shut up from
the world. If we look at the man through his best
and most intelligible works, we shall find that he
who could produce the Songs of Innocence and
Experience, the Gates of Paradise, and the Inven-
tions for Job, was the possessor of very lofty facul-
ties, with no common skill in art, and moreover
that, both in thought and mode of treatment, he
was a decided original. But should we, shutting
our eyes to the merits of those works, determine
to weigh his worth by his Urizen, his Prophecies
of Europe and America, and his Jerusalem, our
conclusion would be very unfavourable; we would
say that, with much freedom of composition and
boldness of posture, he was unmeaning, mystical,
and extravagant, and that his original mode of
working ont his conceptions was little better than


182 THE BRITISH PAINTERs.
a brilliant way of animating absurdity. An over-
flow of imagination is a failing uncommon in this
age, and has generally received of late little quarter
from the critical portion of mankind. Yet imagi-
nation is the life and spirit of all great works of
genius and taste; and, indeed, without it, the head
thinks and the hand labours in vain. Ten thou-
sand authors and artists rise to the proper, the
graceful, and the beautiful, for ten who ascend into
“the heaven of invention.” A work—whether
from poet or painter—conceived in the fiery ex-
tasy of imagination, lives through every limb;
while one elaborated out by skill and taste only
will look, in comparison, like a withered and sap-
less tree beside one green and flourishing. Blake's
misfortune was that of possessing this precious
gift in excess. His fancy overmastered him—
until he at length confounded “the mind's eye”
with the corporeal organ, and dreamed himself
out of the sympathies of actual life. .
His method of colouring was a secret which he
kept to himself, or confided only to his wife; he
believed that it was revealed in a vision, and that
he was bound in honour to conceal it from the
world. “His modes of preparing his grounds,”
says Smith, in his Supplement to the Life of Nol-
lekens, “and laying them over his panels for print-
ing, mixing his colours, and manner of working,
were those which he considered to have been prac-
tised by the early fresco painters, whose produc-
tions still remain in many instances vividly and
permanently fresh. His ground was a mixture of
whiting and carpenters' glue, which he passed over
several times in the coatings; his colours he ground

BLAKE, 183
himself, and also united with them the same sort
of glue, but in a much weaker state. He would,
in the course of painting a picture, pass a very thin
transparent wash of glue-water over the whole of
the parts he had worked upon, and then proceed
with his finishing. He had many secret modes of
working, both as a colourist and an engraver. His
method of eating away the plain copper, and leav-
ing the lines of his subjects and his words as ste-
reotype, is, in my mind, perfectly original. Mrs.
Blake is in possession of the secret, and she ought
to receive something considerable for its commu-
nication, as I am quite certain it may be used to
advantage, both to artists and literary characters
in general.” The affection and fortitude of this
woman entitle her to much respect. She shared
her husband’s lot without a murmur, set her heart
solely upon his fame, and soothed him in those
hours of misgiving and despondency which are not
unknown to the strongest intellects. She still lives
to lament the loss of Blake—and feel it.
Of Blake's merits as a poet I have already
spoken—but something more may be said—for
there is a simplicity and a pathos in many of his
snatches of verse worthy of the olden muse. On
all his works there is an impress of poetic thought,
and what is still better a gentle humanity and
charitable feeling towards the meanest work of
God, such as few bards have indulged in. On the
orphan children going to church on Holy Thurs-
day, the following touching verses were composed
—they are inserted between the procession of girls
and the procession of boys in one of his singular
engravings.
184 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
“'Twas on a Holy Thursday,
their innocent faces clean,
The children walked forth two and two,
in red, and blue, and green;
Grey-headed beadles walked before
with wands as white as snow,
Into the high dome of St. Paul's,
like Thames' waves they flow.
O, what a multitude they seemed !
these flowers of London town,
Seated in company they sit,
with radiance all their own.
The hum of multitudes was there,
but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls
raising their innocent hands.
How, like a mighty wind, they raise
to heaven the voice of song,
Or like harmonious thunderings,
the seats of heaven among.
Beneath them sit the aged men,
wise guardians of the poor,
Then cherish pity, lest you drive
an angel from your door.”

Under the influence of gayer feelings, he wrote
what he called the Laughing Song—his pencil
drew young men and maidens merry round a table,
and a youth, with a plumed cap in one hand and
a wine-cup in the other, chaunts these gladsome
VerSeS. : +

“When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it.
BLAKE. . . . 1.85
• When the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene;
When Mary, and Susan, and Emily,
With their sweet round mouths sing haſ haſ hel

When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread;
Come live and be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of ha! haſ hel”
In the Song of the Lamb, there is a simplicity
which seems easily attained till it is tried, and a
religious tenderness of sentiment in perfect keep-
ing with the poetry. A naked child is pencilled
standing beside a group of lambs, and these verses
are written underneath.
“ Little lamb, who made thee?
Little lamb, who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bade thee feed,
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing—woolly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a lamb;
He is meek, and he is mild,
He became a little child;
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
Little lamb, God bless thee;
Little lamb, God bless thee.”
186 TIIE BRITISH PAINTERS,
It would be unjust to the memory of the painter
and poet to omit a song which he composed in
honour of that wife who repaid with such sincere
affection the regard which he had for her. It has
other merits.
“I love the jocund dance,
The softly breathing song,
Where innocent eyes do glance,
And lisps the maiden's tongue.
I love the laughing vale,
I love the echoing hill,
Where mirth is never mute,
And jolly lads laugh their fill.
I love the pleasant cot,
I love the innocent bower,
Where brown bread is our lot,
And fruit at the mid-day hour.
I love the oaken seat,
Beneath the oaken tree,
Where all the old villagers meet,
And laugh our sports to see.
I love our neighbours all,
But, Kate, I most love thee,
And love thee I ever shall,
For thou art all to me.”
Images of a sterner nature than those of do-
mestic love were, however, at all times, familiar to
his fancy; I have shown him softened down to
the mood of babes and sucklings; I shall exhibit
him in a more martial temper. In a ballad, which
he calls Gwinn, King of Norway, there are many
BLAKE. - 187
vigorous verses— the fierce Norwegian has in-
vaded England with all his eager warriors.
“Like reared stones around a grave
They stand around their king.”
But the intrepid islanders are nothing dismayed;
they gather to the charge; these are the words of
Blake forty-six years ago;-and this man's poetry
obtained no notice, while Darwin and Hayley
were gorged with adulation.
“The husbandman now leaves his plough,
To wade through fields of gore,
The merchant binds his brows in steel,
And leaves the trading shore.
The shepherd leaves his mellow pipe,
And sounds the trumpet shrill,
The workman throws his hammer down,
To heave the bloody bill.
Like the tall ghost of Barraton,
Who sports in stormy sky,
Gwinn leads his host, as black as night
When pestilence doth fly.
With horses and with chariots,
There all his spearmen bold
March to the sound of mournful song,
Like clouds around him rolled,
The armies stand like balances
Held in the Almighty's hand,
Gwinn, thou hast filled thy measure up,
Thou'rt swept from English land.
Earth smokes with blood, and groans and shakes
To drink her children's gore,
A sea of blood! nor can the eye
See to the trembling shore.
188 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
And on the verge of this wild sea
Famine and Death do cry,
The shrieks of women and of babes
Around the field do fly.”
As Blake united poetry and painting in all his
compositions, I have endeavoured to show that
his claims to the distinction of a poet were not
slight. He wrought much and slept little, and
has left volumes of verse, amounting, it is said, to
nearly an hundred, prepared for the press. If
they are as wild and mystical as the poetry of his
Urizen, they are as well in manuscript—if they
are as natural and touching as many of his songs
of Innocence, a judicious selection might be safely
published.


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( 189 )
JOHN OPIE

was born in the parish of St. Agnes, about seven
miles from the town of Truro in É. in 1761.
His father and grandfather were carpenters, and
wrote their names Oppy; his mother was de-
scended from the ancient family of Tonkin, in the
same district, but whose chief claim to distinction
arises from a county history, which one of her re-
latives wrote, and which remains unfinished, as
well as unpublished, in the hands of Lord De
Dunstanville. Of his mother's claim to high pro-
vincial descent he was either ignorant or disdain-
ful ; for his widow—a name of some note in lite-
rature—confesses that she was made acquainted
with it for the first time by a brief sketch of his.
character, published after his death by Mr. Prince
Hoare.
He appears to have been regarded amongst his
rustic companions as a kind of parochial wonder
from his early years. At the age of twelve he
had mastered Euclid, and was considered so skilful
in arithmetic and penmanship, that he commenced
an evening school for the instruction of the pea-
sants of the parish of St. Agnes. His father—a
blunt mechanic—seems to have misunderstood
all these indications of mental superiority, and
wished him to leave the pen for the plane and the
saw ; and it would appear that his paternal de-
190 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
sires were for some time obeyed, for John accom-
panied, at least, his father to his work: but this
was when he was very young, and it seems pro-
bable that he disliked the business, since his father
had to chastise him for making ludicrous drawings
with red chalk on the deals which were planed up
for use.
His love of art came upon him early. When he
was ten years old he saw Mark Oates—an elder
companion, and now a Captain of Marines—draw
a butterfly; he looked anxiously on, and exclaimed,
“I think I can draw a butterfly as well as Mark
Oates:” he took a pencil, tried, succeeded, and ran
breathless home to tell his mother what he had
done. Soon afterwards he saw a picture of a farm-
yard in a house in Truro where his father was at
work; he looked and looked—went away—re-
turned again and looked—and seemed unwilling
to be out of sight of this prodigy. For this for-
wardness his father—whose hand seems to have
been ever ready in that way—gave him a sharp
chastisement; but the lady of the house inter-
posed, and indulged the boy with another look.
On returning home he procured cloth and colours,
and made a tolerable copy of the painting from
memory alone. He likewise attempted original
delineation from life; and, by degrees, hung the
humble dwelling round with likenesses of his rela-
tives and companions, much to the pleasure of his
uncle, a man with sense and knowledge above his
condition, but greatly to the vexation of his father,
who could not comprehend the merit of such an
idle trade. **
º
OPIE , - 191
Of the early days of
“The Cornish Boy in tin mines bred,”
as Wolcot describes him, we have various and con-
flicting accounts. The Secretary for Foreign Cor-
respondence in the Royal Academy says, that he
followed his studies in art with much ardour, and
that his sketches attracted the notice of Wolcot,
(Peter Pindar,) then residing as a physician in
Truro, whose knowledge in painting and sound
judgment were of great advantage to the young
scholar. A rougher man tells a ruder story.
“Dr. Wolcot,” says Smith, “compassionately took
him as a lad to clean knives, feed the dog, &c.
purposely to screen him from the beating his fa-
ther would now and then give him for chalking
the sawpit all over. Oppy—for so we must for
the present call him — always staid a long time
when he went to the slaughterhouse for paunches
for the dog: at last the Doctor was so wonderfully
pleased by John's bringing him home an astonish-
ing likeness of his friend the carcass butcher, that
he condescended to sit to him, and the production
was equally surprising.” Some such story as this
was related by Wolcot himself, in his half grave
and half humorous way, at the period when the
subject of this memoir was high in fame; but as
his purpose was to rebuke the pride of the suc-
cessful artist, his account must be received with
some caution. It is certain, however, that our
painter lived whilst a boy as a menial in the sati-
rist's family, and gained his good-will by his
talentå-
How long he remained with Wolcot has not
192 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
been mentioned. When yet very young, we find
him commenced portrait-painter by profession, and
wandering from town to town in quest of employ-
ment. “One of these expeditions,” says Prince
Hoare, “was to Padstow, whither he set forward,
dressed as usual in a boy's plain short jacket, and
carrying with him all proper apparatus for portrait-
painting. . Here, amongst others, he painted the
whole household of the ancient and respectable
family of Prideaua, even to the dogs and cats of
the family, He remained so long absent from
home, that some uneasiness began to arise on his
account, but it was dissipated by his returning
dressed in a handsome coat, with very long skirts,
laced ruffles, and silk stockings. On seeing his
mother he ran to her, and taking out of his pocket
twenty guineas which he had earned by his pencil,
he desired her to keep them: adding, that in future
he should maintain himself.”
For his mother he always entertained the deepest
affection—and neither age, nor the pressure of
worldly business diminished his enthusiasm in the
least. He loved to speak of the mildness of her
mature and the tenderness of her heart—of her
love of truth and her maternal circumspection.
He delighted to recall her epithets of fondness,
and relate how she watched over him when a boy,
and warmed his gloves and great coat in the win-
ter mornings on his departure for school. This
good woman lived to the age of ninety-two, en-
joyed the fame of her son, and was gladdened with
his bounty. -
Of those early efforts good judges have spoken
with much approbation;—they were deficient in

ople. 193
grace, but true to nature, and remarkable for their
fidelity of resemblance. He painted with small
pencils, and finished more highly than when his
hand had attained more mastery. Lord Bateman
was one of his earliest patrons, and employed him
to paint old men and travelling mendicants: sitters
such as those neither alarmed the rustic artist with
their dignity, nor annoyed him with their remarks
—they sat in silent wonder, and beheld the second
creation of their persons—then rose and thought
him a wondrous lad. By this practice his hand
attained that ready and dashing freedom of man-
ner, which was so much his friend when more fas-
tidious heads came to his easel. His usual price,
when he was sixteen years of age, was seven shil-
lings and sixpence for a portrait. But of all the
works which he painted in those probationary days,
that which won the admiration of the good people
of Truro most was a parrot walking down his
perch: all the living parrots that saw it acknow-
ledged the resemblance. So much was he charmed
with his pursuit and his prospects, that when Wol-
cot asked him how he liked painting, “Better,”
he answered, “ than bread and meat.”
In the twentieth year of his age our limner formed
the resolution of visiting London, and set out for
the great city under the protection of Wolcot. It is
said, that the poet and the painter held a consulta-
tion upon the rustic sound of Oppy, and both unit-
ing in opinion that it was vulgar and unmusical,
changed it to Opie —a name owned by an old
Cornish family. The alteration was immaterial,
for they are both evidently the same name: but
under all the external advantages which Opie could
WOL. II. O

194 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
claim over Oppy, he was presented to Sir Joshua
Reynolds. He had not as yet determined on
having himself announced, in the blazonry of
prose and verse, as the “Wonderful Cornish-
man,” on whom nature had spontaneously, with-
out study, dropt down the gifts of art: the Pre-
sident received him courteously, gave him some
advice, and desired to see him again. He evi-
dently did not consider this new marvel at all mar-
vellous.
To rise, by silent and slow degrees, to fame,
suited ill with the rustic impatience of Opie, and
worse with the vanity of Wolcot, who desired to
amaze the town by proclaiming a prodigy. Peter
Pindar was right for once. Nothing is more
capricious than public taste: its huge appetite for
wonders requires daily food; and it swallows all
with the ravenous avidity with which the giant
gulped the wine of Ulysses, and cried, with his
half-breathless voice, “More!—Give me more!—
This is divine !” Even if the candidate for its
fickle approbation wants original genius to carry
him triumphantly onwards, he may, nevertheless,
have address enough to secure a fortune before his
deficiency is discovered—or the huzza rises on the
appearance of another new wonder. All this was
present to the mind of the sagacious satirist: he
took his measures accordingly, and the wealthy
and titled hordes, who professed taste and virtù,
and were absolute in art and literature, came
swarming out to behold “the Cornish Wonder”—
for as such the patron announced the painter.
Of the success of this manoeuvre Northcote
gives this graphic account:-‘‘The novelty and
opie. 195.
originality of manner in his pictures, added to
his great abilities, drew an universal attention
from the connoisseurs, and he was immediately
surrounded and employed by all the principal
mobility of England. When he ceased, and that
was soon, to be a novelty, the capricious public
left him in disgust. They now looked out for his
defects alone—and he became, in his turn, totally
neglected and forgotten; and, instead of being the
sole object of public attention, and having the
street where he lived so crowded with coaches of
the nobility as to become a real nuisance to the
neighbourhood, “so,’ as he jestingly observed to
me, ‘that he thought he must place cannon at the
door to keep the multitude off from it,” he now
found himself as entirely deserted as if his house
had been infected with the plague. Such is the
world!” His popularity was not, however, so
very brief as this description would induce us to
infer. Some time elapsed before he executed his
commissions. When the wonder of the town
began to abate, the country came gaping in ; and
ere he wearied both, he had augmented the origi-
nal thirty guineas with which he commenced the
adventure, to a very comfortable sum; had fur-
nished a house in Orange Court, Leicester Fields;
and was every way in a condition to bid immediate
want defiance.
The first use which he made of his success was
to spread comfort around his mother; and then
he proceeded with his works and his studies like
one resolved to deserve the distinction which he
had obtained. His own strong natural sense, and
powers of observation, enabled him to lift the veil
O 2
196 THE BRITISH PAINTERs.
which the ignorant admiration of the multitude had
thrown over his defects: he saw where he was
weak—and laboured most diligently to improve
himself. His progress was great—and visible to
all, save the leaders of taste and fashion. When
his works were crude and unstudied, their ap-
plause was deafening; when they were such as
really merited a place in public galleries, the world,
resolved not to be infatuated twice with the same
object, paid him a cold, or at least a very mo-
derate, attention. “Reynolds,” says Wilton the
sculptor, “is the only eminent painter who has
been able to charm back the public to himself
after they were tired of him.” The somewhat
rough and unaccommodating manners of Opie,
were in his way to fortune: it requires delicate
feet to tread the path of portraiture; and we must
remember that he was a peasant unacquainted with
the elegance of learning, and unpolished by inter-
course with the courtesies and amenities of polite
life. Of this he could learn little in his father's
cottage: and Wolcot, whose skill lay in coarse
satiric verse, in boisterous humour, and in profane
swearing, could be but an indifferent instructor.
He was thrown into the drawing-room, rough and
rude as he came from the hills of Cornwall, and
had to acquit himself as well as he could.
I can hardly believe all that has been said as to
that fear of heart and fever of spirit which were
upon Opie when he found himself fanned for the
first time with duchesses' plumes, and enclosed in
a glittering circle of garters and stars. A weak
man might have been bewildered, and a very vain
man too much elated—but he was neither weak
OPIE, i07.
nor vain; and it is apparent that he made no
efforts to accommodate himself to the atmosphere
which he has been described as breathing with
such superfluity of respect.
Indeed he appears to have been a plain bold
man, with a moderate share of sensitiveness. “His
habitual ruggedness of address,” observes Mrs.
Inchbald, “was stigmatized by the courtly ob-
server with the appellation of ill-breeding, whilst
a plainer and wiser description of persons found in
this contempt of affectation such a security from
design—either upon their hearts or their under-
standings—that they willingly yielded him both;
and they made this sacrifice with a kind of joyful
astonishment to observe that where the Graces
never appeared, the Virtues acted for them.” This
natural blemish in the man—this habitual rugged-
ness of manner—appeared to Northcote only the
effect of an honest indignation towards that which
he conceived to be error. It however made its
appearance early in life, and seems to have been
inherited from his father, who, according to all
accounts, was coarse and unaccommodating. “One
Sunday afternoon, while his mother was at church,
Mr. Opie, then a boy of ten or eleven years old,
fixed his materials for painting in a little kitchen,
directly opposite the parlour where his father sat
reading the Bible. He went on drawing till he
had finished every thing but the head, and when
he came to that, he frequently ran into the parlour
to look up in his father's face. He repeated this
extraordinary interruption so often, that the old
man became quite angry, and threatened to correct
him severely if he did the like again. This was

198 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
exactly what the young artist wanted. He wished
to paint his father's eyes when lighted up and
sparkling with indignation; and having obtained
his end, he quietly resumed his task. He had
completed his picture before his mother's return
'from church, and on her entering the house, he set
it before her. She knew it instantly; but, ever
true to her principles, she was very angry with
him for having painted on a Sunday, thereby pro-
faning the Sabbath-day. The child, however, was
so elated by his success, that he disregarded her
remonstrance, and hanging fondly round her neck,
he was alive only to the pleasure she had given
him, by owning the strength of the resemblance.
At this moment his father entered the room, and
recognising his own portrait, immediately highly
approved of his son's amusement during the after-
noon, and exhibited the picture with ever-new sa-
tisfaction to all who came to the house; while
the story of his anger at interruptions, so happily
excused and accounted for, added interest to his
narrative, and gratified still more the pride of the
artist.”
I would fain disbelieve this story; but it comes
too well authenticated to be omitted in a narrative
whose object is truth. To think of a child delibe-
rately putting its father in a passion that it might
copy the sparkling indignation of his eyes! and a
wife, and a loving one, recording the trick of this
sucking incendiary as a thing pleasant and merito-
rious ! The rod must, after all, have been a neces-
sary piece of furniture in the household of the
carpenter of St. Agnes!
Opie, having conquered the chief difficulties

OPIE, 199
.* ſº
of his profession, and acquired a knowledge of
French, and a smattering of Latin, now found
leisure to become sensible of a want which Lon-
don could easily supply. It is reported that love
of money first directed his eyes to the daughter
of a pawnbroker who lived in his neighbourhood.
Neither his courtship nor his marriage have been
alluded to by his biographers; the first was short,
and the second unhappy. His wife, a little wo-
man with very dark eyes, and a handsome por-
tion, had a mind of her own as well as the artist;
and, loving gaiety, was not disposed to shut her-
self up from sun and air with a man of a morose
turn, whose whole time was dedicated to the study
of the dark masters. It is said that a kind word,
and an affectionate shake by the hand, banished
from his mind in general the remembrance of any
wrong committed against him; and that such was
his placability of nature, that he was willing to con-
fide again in those who unworthily betrayed him.
His wife, a childless and giddy woman, soon put
his charity to the extreme proof; and he was com-
pelled to sue for a divorce.
That domestic sorrow such as this had a serious
influence upon his temper and his studies, who
can doubt? but those who have drawn his charac-
ter and delineated his life, avoid any allusion to
his frail partner; they had knowledge and de-
clined to use it—they were over-sensitive, and
have not done justice to the memory of Opie by
this omission. The only allusion to the circum-
stance is contained in one of the painter's own
smart sayings. He was passing the church of St.
Giles late one evening, in the company of a friend
200 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
of avowed sceptical opinions. “I was married at
that church,” observed Opie. “And I was chris-
tened there,” said his companion. “Indeed!”
answered the painter, “it seems they make un-
sure work at that church, for it neither holds in
wedlock nor in baptism ſ”
Having freed himself from the encumbrance of
an unfaithful wife, and got rid of the crowds of car-
riages which filled up the street, and annoyed his
neighbours, he divided his time between his pro-
fession and the cultivation of his mind. He was
conscious of his defective education; and, like Rey-
nolds, desired to repair it, by mingling in the com-
pany of men of learning and talent, and by the
careful perusal of the noblest writers. “Such,”
says his best biographer, “were the powers of his
memory, that he remembered all he had read: and
Milton, Shakespeare, Dryden, Pope, Gray, Cow-
per, Butler, Burke, and Dr. Johnson, he might, to
use a familiar expression, be said to know by heart.”
A man of powerful understanding and ready appre-
hension, who “remembered all he read,” and who
had nine of the greatest and most voluminous of
our authors by heart, could never be at any loss
in company, if he had tolerable skill in using his
Stores.
To his intellectual vigour we have strong testi-
mony. “Mr. Opie crowds more wisdom,” said
Horne Tooke, “into a few words, than almost any
man I ever knew—he speaks as it were in axioms
—and what he observes, is worthy to be remem-
bered.” “Had Mr. Opie turned his powers of
mind,” says Sir James Mackintosh, “to the study
of philosophy, he would have been one of the first
OPIE, 201

philosophers of the age. I was never more struck
than with his original manner of thinking and ex-
pressing himself in conversation; and had he writ-
ten on the subject, he would, perhaps, have thrown
more light on the philosophy of his art than any
man living.” “He aimed at no competition with the
learned,” says Amelia Opie, “while with a manly
simplicity, which neither feared contempt nor
courted applause, he has often, even in such com-
pany, made observations originating in the native
treasures of his own mind, which learning could
not teach, and which learning alone could not en-
able its possessor to appreciate.”
At the period of his first appearance there was
considerable encouragement for works of an his-
toric nature; West, Barry, Fuseli, and, occasion-
ally, Reynolds, produced such—with more or less
of success and applause. That this high feeling
has now greatly subsided in England, there can
be little doubt; even during the lifetime of Opie,
commissions, as they are called, for such pictures,
were becoming more and more rare; and now
alas !—it is sufficient to mention two of the more
striking instances—the “Satan” of Lawrence, and
the “Fall of Nineveh” of Martin, remain in their
studies. Opie, anxious for fame. and yet resolved
to live, did well then in dividing his pencil between
portraiture and history. -
His chief excellence lies in the former; there
he has great breadth, vigour, and natural force of
character—touched, it must be allowed, in some
instances, with a certain air of village audacity,
which comes from the artist rather than from the
sitter. His old men's heads—half fancy and half
202 THE BRITISH PAINTERs.
portrait, are deficient in carefulness of finish; but
this is more than compensated by that rough and
happy energy with which they are dashed out.
They furnish no comparisons—such as critics love
to make—with the works of Velasquez, or Van-
dyke, or Reynolds; they have a better claim to
distinction—they are truly original productions.
His portrait of Charles Fox has been justly com-
mended, nor does the circumstance of his having
completed the likeness from the bust by Nolle-
kens, as related by Smith, diminish his merit.
When Fox, who sat opposite to Opie at the Aca-
demy dinner given in the exhibition room, heard
the general applause which his portrait obtained,
he remembered that he had given him less of his
time than the painter had requested, and said
across the table, “there Mr. Opie, you see I was
right; every body thinks it could not be better.
Now if I had minded you and consented to sit
again, you most probably would have spoiled the
picture.” While this far-famed portrait was in
progress, Opie became alarmed for his success:
he was distracted by a multitude of hints, which
friends who came in swarms dropped, regarding
the expression, the posture, and the handling.
Fox was amused with the variety of opinions, and
kindly whispered to Opie, “don’t mind what these
people say—you must know better than they do.”
The ladies who sat for their portraits he found
more difficult to deal with, than the great leader
of the Whigs. There was at first a want of grace
and softness in his female heads—he felt this early,
and laboured to amend it—but it is said, that he
did not wholly succeed till his second marriage.

OPIE. 203
“Opie,” said one of his brethren, when he exhi-
bited some female portraits soon after that event,
“we never saw anything like this in you before—
this must be owing to your wife:” and it is likely
that the compliment, though paid perhaps in jest,
was nevertheless just. The habitual ruggedness
of his personal manners yielded to the winning
and graceful tact of Amelia Opie, and it is easy to
believe that her presence might have the same in-
fluence upon his pencil. The words in which she
vindicates her husband from the charge of speaking
his mind coarsely, and a desire to appear a grand
natural character, are well worth transcribing.
“Of all employments portrait painting is per-
haps the most painful and trying to a man of pride
and sensibility, and the most irritating to an irrita-
ble man. To hear beauties and merits in a por-
trait often stigmatized as deformities and blemishes
—to have high lights taken for white spots, and
dark effective shadows for the dirty appearance of
a snuff-taker:-to witness discontent in the by-
standers, because the painting does not exhibit the
sweet smile of the sitter, though it is certain that
a smile on canvass looks like the grin of idiocy;
while a laughing eye, if the artist attempts to copy
it, as unavoidably assumes the disgusting resem-
blance of progressive intoxication. Sitters them-
selves, Mr. Opie rarely found troublesome; but
persons of norship, as he called them, that is, per-
sons of great consequence, either from talent, rank,
or widely spreading connexions, are sometimes at-
tended by others, whose aim is to endeavour to
please the great man or woman by flattery wholly
at the expense of the poor artist; and to minister

204 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
sweet food to the palate of the patron, regardless
though it be wormwood to that of the painter.
Hence arises an eulogy on the beauties and per-
fections of the person painted, and regrets that
they are so inadequately rendered by the person
painting; while frivolous objection succeeds to
frivolous objection, and impossibilities are ex-
pected and required as if they were possibilities.
I have too frequently witnessed this, and my tem-
per and patience have often been on the point of
deserting me, even when Mr. Opie's had not appa-
rently undergone the slightest alteration—a strong
proof that he possessed some of that self-command
which is one of the requisites of good breeding.”
He experienced no such difficulties in his histo-
rical compositions—the heroes or the beauties of
other days had no friends to be fastidious about
their merry eyes or their smiling lips, and he could
exchange dark ringlets for tresses of gold, and
distribute glowing complexions, according to his
own will and pleasure. He had, however, an
equally painful battle to sustain with the men of
taste and virtù, whose heads were crammed with
the remembrance of the principal works of the
great masters of Italy—men who had ridden post-
haste through the continent, and returned with the
incurable belief that every thing old was excellent
—every thing new poor and degenerate. Origi-
mality was looked upon as something strange and
outré – to trust to the strength of nature was
weakness—to work so that the spirit and effect
could be justified by reference to Rembrandt or
Raphael, was to possess true taste, and to be em-
bued with the spirit of the great masters. Opie,


OPIE. 205
it must be admitted, wanted poetic power to enable
him to rise to the first eminence as an historical
painter—but he had a sense of propriety of action
and vigour of character which these connoisseurs
wanted nerve to feel, and which have stamped no
light value on many of his historical productions.
Those which have caught public fancy most are
the Murder of James the First, of Scotland; the
Presentation in the Temple; Jephthah's Wow; the
Death of David Rizzio; Young Arthur taken Pri-
soner; Arthur with Hubert; Belisarius; Juliet in
the Garden; and the Escape of Gil Blas and Mu-
sidora. Many others might be named, and many
more praised; for he conceived without much de-
lay, and executed with great readiness. He had
no air-drawn visions of beauty before him which
his pencil loved to follow; he sketched in his group,
sought living nature to help him out with what was
not in his mind's eye, and, bending his subject to
his model rather than elevating the model to suit
the subject, enslaved himself to the literal flesh and
blood which he copied. “He painted what he saw,”
says West, “in the most masterly manner, and he
varied little from it. He saw nature in one point
more distinctly and forcibly than any painter that
ever lived. The truth of colour, as conveyed to the
eye through the atmosphere, by which the distance
of every object is ascertained, was never better
expressed than by him. He distinctly represented
local colour in all its various tones and propor-
tions, whether in light or in shadow, with a perfect
uniformity of imitation. Other painters frequently
make two separate colours of objects in light and
in shade,-Opie never. With him no colour—

206 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
whether white, black, primary or compound—ever,
in any situation, lost its respective hue.”
His works were not the offspring of random fits
of labour, after long indulgence in idleness; they
were the well-considered progeny of his mind and
hand—the fruit of daily toil, in which every hour
had its allotted task. He sketched out a plan of
weekly study, from which pleasure or persuasion
seldom wiled him. “He was always in his paint-
ing-room,” says Amelia Opie, “by half-past eight
in winter, and by eight o'clock in summer; and
there he generally remained, closely engaged in
painting, till half-past four in winter, and till five
in summer. Nor did he ever allow himself to be
idle when he had no pictures bespoken; and as he
never let his execution rust for want of practice,
he, in that case, either sketched out designs for
historical or fancy pictures, or endeavoured, by
working on an unfinished picture of me, to im-
prove himself by incessant practice in that difficult
branch of art, female portraiture. Neither did he
suffer his exertions to be paralysed by neglect the
most unexpected, and disappointment the most
undeserved.” *
The world looks only at the brilliant result of
an artist's labour. We see a magnificent work,
filled with divine shapes and glowing with the
freshest hues of heaven and earth, and the idea
never darkens in our fancy that he who created
this prodigy is in dread of want, and perhaps even
now knows not how he is to be fed to-morrow.
“Though he had a picture in the Exhibition of
1801, which was universally admired, and pur-
chased as soon as beheld”—I quote once more the
OPIE, 207
words of his widow—“ he saw himself at the end
of that year and the beginning of the next almost
wholly without employment; and even my san-
guine temper, yielding to the trial, I began to fear
that, small as our expenditure was, it must become
still smaller. Not that I allowed myself to own
that I desponded; on the contrary, I was forced
to talk to him of hopes and to bid him look for-
ward to brighter prospects, as his temper, natu-
rally desponding, required all the support imagin-
able. But gloomy and painful indeed were those
three alarming months; and I consider them as
the severest trial I experienced during my married
life. Even despondence did not make him indo-
lent; he continued to paint regularly as usual,
and, no doubt, by that means increased his ability.
to do justice to the torrent of business which soon
afterwards set in towards him, and never ceased to
flow till the day of his death.”
There is no doubt that Opie incurred a debt of
gratitude to Wolcot for his frank and friendly en-
couragement, when he was a menial in his house in
Cornwall, and for his anxious introduction of “the
Cornish Wonder” to the novelty-gazers of London.
The poet often complained that the painter was
ungrateful. He probably expected that when Opie
had earned fame and name, he should still consider
himself under the shadow of his patronage. I
know not enough of the private history of the artist
to decide, with certainty and exactness, in how far
he was blameable for the coldness which took place
between them, and anticipated the grave. The
doctor was an odd and capricious man, who loved
swearing better than satire, and united them both,
208 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
r;
frequently to the injury of his best friends: it was
no wonder therefore that Opie should shrink from
his society, more especially if he still retained the
airs of the master. Officious go-betweens carried
to the artist the last satiric thing which the poet
had uttered concerning him, and then returned to
the satirist with the morose and surly observations
of Opie. “What ails Wolcot at you?” said one
of those persons—“once I thought he had been
a friendly and kind-hearted man” “Aye, aye,”
answered Opie—“ in time you will know him.”
When the painter's works happened to be praised
in Wolcot's presence, he always coupled very dex-
terously the present time with the past, and formed
a back-ground to his fame with the humility and
darkness of his early life. With him who gave the
first cause of offence the odium of this estrange-
ment must abide, and I have, I own, some fears
that it appertains to Opie.
For the loss of this early friend, the infidelity of
his wife, and the fickleness of popular opinion, he
sought a wise remedy—a woman worthy of his
affection, who could soothe him in periods of de-
pression, and, by her good sense and clear under-
standing, aid him in all his undertakings. He
was thirty-seven years old, and that youthful fever
which all feel was past and gone; he could now
choose discreetly. The merits of the lady are
widely known—not through the genius of her
husband, but her own; and all who have read her
works must feel that she was worthy of wearing
the name of Opie. To her pen we owe the little
that has been publicly told concerning the private
life and modes of study of her husband; and
OPIE, 209
though we wish to know him more familiarly, we
are not insensible to the delicacy of the task which
she undertook. What other colours, save those
that are rich and bright, could a wife use in draw-
ing her husband's character ? She expected, in-
deed, that an ampler memoir would be written by
a bolder, and perhaps colder, hand; and might
desire to leave to this biographer the ungentle task
of adding the ruder touches and the darker shades.
This has not been done; from the garland which
she hung over his hearse, I must take a few more
flowers. I shall endeavour to do this with a re-
spectful hand.
Opie was no impatient labourer for wealth, who
desired to snatch his gains before his colours were
dry on the canvass: he studied much, wrought
incessantly, and was ill to please. “During the
nine years that I was his wife, (says Mrs. Opie,) I
never saw him satisfied with any one of his produc-
tions; and often, very often, have I seen him enter
my sitting-room, and, throwing himself in an agony
of despondence on the sofa, exclaim, ‘I am the most
stupid of created beings, and I never, never shall
be a painter as long as I live.’ He used to study
at Somerset House, when the pictures were hung
up, with more persevering attention and thirst for
improvement than was ever exhibited perhaps by
the lowest student in the schools, and on his return
I never heard him expatiate on his own excel-
lencies, but sorrowfully dwell on his own defects;
while he often expressed to me his envy of certain
powers in art which other painters were masters
of, and which he feared he should never be able to
obtain.”
VOL. II. P
210 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
*.
Thus quick to censure his own works, our
painter was slow to commend those of his brethren.
There is indeed a singular tardiness amongst art-
ists in either praising or blaming one another: they
seem to think that the whole world is waiting for
their opinion, and that commendation will raise a
brother above his level, and censure sink him
below it. They deal out dark and diplomatic re-
sponses respecting each other's merits, and leave
you to interpret their meaning. “Opie,” says his
wife, “was free from vanity—more particularly
from that vanity which induces a man to believe
that his wisdom is great. He was so slow to
commend, and panegyric on the works of contem-
porary artists was so sparingly given by him, that
it was natural for some persons to suppose him
actuated by the feelings of professional jealousy;
but it was more generous, and I am fully con-
vinced more just, to think this sluggishness to
praise was merely the result of such a high idea
of excellence in his art as made him not easily
satisfied with efforts to obtain it; and surely he
who was never led by vanity or conceit to be con-
tented with his onm works, could not be expected
to show great indulgence to the works of others.”
I know not what standard of excellence was pre-
sent to the fancy of Opie; but if a man is to with-
hold his approbation from all works which fail to
equal the best of the golden days of art, he may
shut his mouth for ever.
He was exposed, as all men of eminence are, to
the attacks of the envious and the malevolent. A
speculator in biography having handled one man
of genius with sharp and vulgar severity, singled
OPIE, 211
out Opie for his second victim, and so little did
he keep his infamous purpose a secret, that it
reached the ear of the artist. Opie, having pe-
rused some of his adversary's compositions, saw
that the man mistook the venom of the arrow for
the vigour of the bow: he only smiled, and said,
“If this is all he can do, he is welcome to say any
thing of me he likes. I shall neither menace him
mor bribe him into silence.” “For his fame, lat-
terly at least,” says Mrs. Opie, “he was indebted
to himself alone: by no puffs, no paragraphs, did
he endeavour to obtain public notice: and I have
heard him, with virtuous pride, declare that whe-
ther his reputation were great or small, it was self-
derived, and he was indebted for it to no exertions
save those of his own industry and talents. He
might, like others, mistake sometimes weeds for
flowers, and bring them home, and carefully pre-
serve them as such ; but the weeds were gathered
by his own hands, and he had, at least, by his la-
bour deserved that they should be valuable acqui-
sitions.”
His heart was with his art—other artists, as
Northcote said, painted to live, but Opie lived to
paint; and though he was dilatory about praising
the works which his brethren produced with the
brush, he was forward enough in admiring their
attempts with the pen. “Whatever,” said Mrs.
Opie, “ had a tendency to exalt painting and its
professors in the eyes of the world, was a source
of gratification to him. He used often to expatiate
on the great classical attainments of Mr. Fuseli,
whose wit he admired, and whose conversation he
delighted in: but I have often thought that one
P 2
212 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
cause of the pleasure which he derived from men-
tioning that gentleman's attainments, was his con-
viction, that the learning of Mr. Fuseli was an ho-
nour to his profession, and tended to exalt it in
the opinion of society.” Nor was his pleasure less
in reading the Poem on Art, by Mr. Shee—a work
which will be valued while knowledge, feeling and
elegance are in estimation.
An imaginary sum was floating incessantly be-
fore Opie's eyes, which his pencil was to accumu-
late. That golden speculation at length achieved,
he intended to retire from art—establish a gallery
of good paintings, and a well-stocked library; and
with his wife by his side, and all cares for a well-
filled easel given to the winds, enjoy life like one
who knew it was short. As he was frugal and
temperate, his expenses were small ; and as he
was a quick worknian, his gains were large. He
was too proud to incur debts, and not so vain as
to give expensive entertainments to those who
would probably have paid them with sarcasms.
He was one likely, therefore, to achieve his wishes
in gaining that desired sum, which was to come
with healing on its wings to the spirit of the painter.
But he did not, perhaps, reflect, that in retiring
from his profession an artist retires also from his
station in society. An artist is like an instrument
of music, which gives joy and gladness when skil-
fully touched, but is only looked upon as an idle
encumbrance and a piece of wood when silent and
out of tune.
Opie having written a Memoir of Reynolds for
Wolcot's edition of Pilkington's Dictionary of
Painters, and delivered lectures on art at the

OPIE. 213
British Institution, aspired to the Professorship of
Painting in the Royal Academy, when Barry was
ejected. In the Memoir of Sir Joshua, he had
exhibited knowledge of his subject, a just percep-
tion of character, and no small infirmity of taste;
in his lectures at the Institution he had been con-
sidered confused, abrupt, and unmethodical; but
now, with confirmed taste and an increase of
knowledge, he offered himself a candidate for the
professorship.–He was unexpectedly opposed by
Fuseli. When that eminent scholar was named,
he relinquished his pretensions—but it is no small
proof of the vanity of Opie, that he declared as
he withdrew from the contest, he would have
yielded to no one save Henry Fuseli. When the
Professor was made Keeper he renewed his claim,
and was instantly elected.
Of his Four Lectures, on Design, Invention,
Chiaro-Scuro, and Colouring, some account must
be given, and a short one will suffice. Few who
read them will concur in the praise bestowed on his
discourses, at the Institution, by the late excellent
Bishop of Durham, “you were known before as a
great painter, Mr. Opie, you will now be known as
a great writer also.” They are clear and sensible
enough, but deficient in original grasp of mind—
there are few vigorous sallies, or poetical flights,
or passages of deep discernment and delicate dis-
crimination. He wants imagination to raise him
to the height of his “great argument,” and his
powers of illustration are neither vivid nor various.
Yet it cannot be denied that many valuable re-
flections are scattered over these four lectures.
Let all those youths who desire to become artists
214 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
read the following admirable passage thrice over
before they wet the brush.
“Impressed as I am at the present moment with
a full conviction of the difficulties attendant on the
practice of painting, I cannot but feel it also my
duty to caution every one who hears me, against
entering into it from improper motives, and with
inadequate views of the subject: as they will
thereby only run a risk of entailing misery and
disgrace on themselves and their connexions during
the rest of their lives. Should any student there-
fore happen to be present who has taken up the
art on the supposition of finding it an easy and
amusing employment—any one who has been sent
into the Academy by his friend, in the idea that
he may cheaply acquire an honourable and profit-
able profession—any one who has mistaken a petty
kind of imitative monkey talent for genius—any
one who hopes by it to get rid of what he thinks a
more vulgar or disagreeable situation, to escape
confinement at the counter, or the desk—any one
urged merely by vanity or interest—or, in short,
impelled by any consideration but a real and un-
conquerable passion for excellence;—let him drop
it at once, and avoid these walls and every thing
connected with them, as he would the pestilence:
for if he have not this unquenchable liking, in ad-
dition to all the requisites above enumerated, he
may pine in indigence, or sculk through life as a
hackney likeness-taker, a copier, a drawing-mas-
ter, or pattern drawer to young ladies, or he may
turn picture-cleaner and help time to destroy ex-
cellencies which he cannot rival—but he must
never hope to be, in the proper sense of the word,
OPIE. 215
a painter. Strait is the gate and narrow is the
way that leads to excellence, and few there be that
find it.”
His notion of the ideal or the beautiful is na-
tural and just. “I will not undertake,” he says,
“the perilous task of defining the word beauty:
but I have no hesitation in asserting, that when
beauty is said to be the proper end of art, it must
not be understood as confining the choice to one
set of objects, or as breaking down the boundaries
and destroying the natural classes, orders, and
divisions of things, but as meaning the perfection
of each subject in its kind, in regard to form, co-
lour, and all its other associated and consistent
attributes. In this qualified, and I will venture to
say, proper acceptation of the word in regard to
art, it may be applied to nearly all things most
excellent in their different ways. Thus we have
various modes of beauty in the statues of the
Venus, the Juno, the Niobe, the Antinous, and
the Apollo; and thus we may speak, without ex-
citing a confusion of ideas, of a beautiful peasant
as well as of a beautiful princess, of a beautiful
child, or of a beautiful old man; of a beautiful
cottage, a beautiful church, a beautiful palace, or
even of a beautiful ruin. The discovery or con-
ception of this great and perfect idea of things, of
nature in its purest and most essential form, un-
impaired by disease, unmutilated by accident, and
unsophisticated by local habits and temporary
fashions, and the exemplification of it in practice
by getting above individual imitation, rising from
the species to the genus, and uniting in every sub-
ject all the perfection of which it is capable in its

216 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
kind, is the highest and ultimate exertion of human
genius.”
In his Lecture upon Invention also there is much
to commend. “Unfortunately,” he says, “this
mostinestimable quality in which genius is thought
more particularly to consist, is of all human facul-
ties the least subject to reason or rule, being de-
rived from heaven alone according to some; at-
tributed by others to organization; by a third
class, to industry; by a fourth, to circumstances;
by a fifth, to the influence of the stars; and in the
general opinion, the gift of nature only. But
though few teach us how to improve it, and still
fewer how to obtain it, all agree that nothing
can be done without it. Destitute of invention, a
poet is but a plagiary, and a painter but a copier
of others. But however true it may be, that
invention cannot be reduced to rule and taught
by regular process, it must necessarily, like every
other effect, have an adequate cause. It cannot
be by chance that excellence is produced with
certainty and constancy; and however remote and
obscure its origin, thus much is certain, that ob-
servation must precede invention, and a mass of
materials must be collected before we can combine
them. He, therefore, who wishes to be a painter
must overlook no kind of knowledge. He must
range desarts and mountains for images, picture
upon his mind every tree of the forest and flower
of the valley, observe the crags of the rock and
the pinnacles of the palace, follow the windings of
the rivulet, and watch the changes of the clouds:
in short, all nature, savage or civilized, animate or
inanimate, the plants of the garden, the animals of

OPIE. 217,
the wood, the minerals of the earth, and the mo-
tions of the sky, must undergo his examination.
Whatever is great, whatever is beautiful, whatever
is interesting, and whatever is dreadful, must be
familiar to his imagination, and concur to store his
mind with an inexhaustible variety of ideas ready
for association on every possible occasion, to em-
bellish sentiment and give effect to truth. It is
moreover absolutely necessary that then the epitome
of all—his principal subject and his judge should
become a particular object of his investigation: he
must be acquainted with all that is characteristic and
beautiful, both in regard to his mental and bodily
endowments—must study their analogies and learn
how far moral and physical excellence are con-
nected and dependent one on the other. He must
further observe the power of the passions in all
their combinations, and trace their changes as mo-
dified by constitution, or by the accidental influ-
ences of climate or custom—from the sprightliness
of infancy to the despondency of decrepitude: he
must be familiar with all the modes of life, and
above all, endeavour to discriminate the essential
from the accidental, to divest himself of the pre-
judices of his own age and country, and disregard-
ing temporary fashions and local taste, learn to
see nature and beauty in the abstract, and rise to
general and transcendental truth, which will always
be the same.”
Next to the contemplation of nature he urges
the study of poetry, which abounds in the noblest
pictures and the most splendid descriptions—
unites the present with the past, and anticipates
the future. He feels, however, that many of the
218 THE BRITISH PAINTER.S.,
sublimest and most touching passages in poetry
cannot be embodied in painting: and he also feels
that the multitude, with many men of taste among
them, are slow in acknowledging the merits which
belong to the imagination, and turn coldly away
from its most magnificent efforts. There is, in-
deed, a certain coarseness of feeling as to works of
elegance and fancy which pervades this country;
and it extends to the labours of the pen as well as
to those of the pencil and the chisel. In other
nations the presence of such things inspires a kind
of awe; with us a statue is occasionally a mark to
cast stones at, and the mob at best bestow their
shilling to stare at what they cannot enjoy. “So
habituated,” says Opie, “are the people of this
country to the sight of portraiture only, that they
can scarcely as yet consider painting in any other
light: they will hardly admire a landscape that is
not a view of a particular place, nor a history un-
less composed of likenesses of the persons repre-
sented, and are apt to be staggered, confounded,
and wholly unprepared to follow such vigorous
flights of imagination as would—as mill be felt and
applauded with enthusiasm in a more advanced
and liberal stage of criticism. In our exhibitions,
which often display extraordinary powers wasted
on worthless subjects, one's ear is pained, one's
very soul is rent with hearing crowd after crowd
sweeping round, and instead of discussing the me-
rits of the different works on view, as to concep-
tion, composition, and execution, all reiterating
the same dull and tasteless questions, niho is that 2
and is it like 2" Passages such as these would
reflect credit on any professor the Academy ever
possessed.

, OPIE. 219
On the delivery of his first lecture in the Aca-
demy Opie was complimented by his brethren: he
was escorted home by Sir William Beechey, and
appeared to his wife in a flush of joy. Next
morning he said he had passed a restless night, for
he was so elated that he could not sleep.
When Opie had finished his course of Lectures,
Mr. Prince Hoare requested an article for his pe-
riodical paper called The Artist. “I am tired”—
such was his answer—“I am tired of writing. I
shall be a gentleman during the spring months,
keep a horse, and ride out every morning.” This
vision of happiness, such as it was, he lived not to
realize. He was attacked by a slow and a con-
suming illness, which baffled the knowledge of five
skilful doctors: Pitcairn and Baillie were of the
number. They were unable to cure or even to
comprehend it. When it was known that he was
seriously ill, his friends, and they were numerous
and respectable, came round him with affectionate
solicitude. Amongst those that he loved most was
Henry Thomson, now a member of the Academy.
and to him he confided the finishing of the robes
of the Duke of Gloucester's portrait. On Satur-
day, when the pictures were to be delivered for
the exhibition at Somerset House, the picture of
the Royal Duke was placed at the foot of his bed.
A fit of delirium had subsided: he lifted his head,
and said, “There is not colour enough on the
back ground.” More colour was added: Opie
looked at it with great satisfaction, and said with
a smile, “Thomson, it will do now—it will do
now : if you could not do it, nobody could.” The
delirium returned, and took its hue from the pic-
220 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
ture he had just looked at. He imagined himself
employed in his favourite pursuit, and continued
painting in idea till death interposed on Thursday,
the 9th of April, 1807. On dissection, the lower
part of the spinal marrow and its investing mem-
brane were found slightly inflamed, and the brain
surcharged with blood. On Monday, April 20,
he was interred in St. Paul's Cathedral, near Sir
Joshua Reynolds.
In person Opie looked like an inspired peasant:
even in his most courtly days there was a country
air about him, and he was abrupt in his language
and careless in his dress, without being conscious
of either. His looks savoured of melancholy—
some have said of moroseness: the portrait which
he has left of himself shows a noble forehead and
an intellectual eye. There are few who cannot
feel his talents, and all must admire his fortitude.
He came coarse and uneducated from the country
into the polished circles of London—was caressed,
invited, praised, and patronized, for one little year
or so, and then the giddy tide of fashion receded;
but he was not left a wreck. He had that strength
of mind which triumphs over despair. He esti-
mated the patronage of fickle ignorance at what
it was worth, and lived to invest his name with a
brighter as well as steadier halo than that of
fashionable wonder.
His literary productions, have, I think, been
overrated: yet they are respectable; I will even
allow them to be wonderful for one in his con-
dition, who had a laborious profession to follow.
The great defect is what one would least have
expected—the want of vigour and energy.
OPIE , 221
What he thus failed to work into his writings
he poured largely into his paintings. There is a
freshness of look and a rude homely strength in .
his pictures which belong to the wide academy of
nature, and came upon him in Cornwall. He is
not a leader perhaps—but neither is he the servile
follower of any man or any school. His original
deficiency of imagination no labour could strength-
en and no study raise. His model mastered him;
and he seemed to want the power of elevating
what was mean, and of substituting the elegant for
the vulgar. Opie saw the common but not the
poetic nature of his subjects: he had no visions
of the grand and the heroic. His pencil could
strike out a rough and manly Cromwell, but was
unfit to cope with the dark subtle spirit of a Vane,
or the princely eye and bearing of a Falkland or a
Montrose. His strength lay in boldness of effect,
simplicity of composition—in artless attitudes, and
in the vivid portraiture of individual nature.
222 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
GEORGE MORLAND.
-º-
GeoRGE MoRLAND, the eldest son of Henry Robert
Morland, was born in the Haymarket, London, on
the 26th of June, 1763. He came of a race of
painters. He was lineally descended from Sir
Samuel Morland, an eminent mathematician and
artist; his grandfather was a painter, and lived in
the lower side of St. James's Square; and his father,
after the failure of some extensive speculations,
which all his biographers have alluded to, but left
undescribed, followed the same profession, and
painted, drew, and dealt in pictures with such in-
different success, that he became bankrupt, and
was compelled to bring up his family of three sons
and two daughters in indigence and obscurity.
It is said that the elder Morland sought to repair
his broken fortunes by the talents of his son
George—who, almost as soon as he escaped from
the cradle, took to the pencil and crayon, and
showed that he inherited art the natural way. The
indications of early talent in others are nothing
compared to his. At four, five, and six years of
age, he made drawings worthy of ranking him
among the common race of students; the praise
bestowed on these by the Society of Artists, to
whom they were exhibited, and the money which

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MORLAND. 223
*
collectors were willing to pay for the works of this
new wonder, induced his father to urge him onward
in his studies—and his progress was rapid. But
it is a dangerous thing to overtask either the mind
or the body at these years, and there is every reason
to believe that young Morland suffered both of
these evils. His father stimulated him by praise
and by indulgences at the table, and to ensure his
continuance at his allotted tasks, shut him up in a
garret, and excluded him from free air, which
strengthens the body, and from education—that
free air which nourishes the mind. His stated
work for a time was making drawings from pictures
and from plaster casts, which his father carried out
and sold; but as he increased in skill, he chose his
subjects from popular songs and ballads, such as
“Young Roger came tapping at Dolly's window,”
“My name it is Jack Hall,” “I am a bold Shoe-
maker, from Belfast Town I came,” and other pro-
ductions of the mendicant muse. The copies of
pictures and casts were commonly sold for three
half-crowns each; the original sketches—some of
them a little free in posture, and not over delicately
handled, were framed and disposed of for any sum
from two to five guineas, according to the clever-
ness of the piece, or the generosity of the purchaser.
Though far inferior to the productions of his man-
hood, they were much admired; engravers found
it profitable to copy them, and before he was six-
teen years old, his name had flown far and wide.
But long before he was sixteen, he had begun to
form those unfortunate habits by which the story
of his life is to be darkened. From ten years of
age, he appears to have led the life of a prisoner
224 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
and a slave under the roof of his father, hearing
in this seclusion the merry din of the schoolboys
in the street, without hope of partaking in their
sports. By-and-by he managed to obtain an
hour's relaxation at the twilight, and then associated
with such idle and profligate boys as chance threw
in his way, and learned from them a love of coarse
enjoyment, and the knowledge that it could not
well be obtained without money. Oppression keeps
the school of Cunning; young Morland resolved
not only to share in the profits of his own talents,
but also to snatch an hour or so of amusement,
without consulting his father. When he made
three drawings for his father, he made one secretly
for himself, and giving a signal from his window,
lowered it by a string to two or three knowing
boys, who found a purchaser at a reduced price,
and spent the money with the young artist. A
common taproom was an indifferent school of man-
ners, whatever it might be for painting, and there
this gifted lad was now otfen to be found late in
the evening, carousing with hostlers and potboys,
handing round the quart pot, and singing his song
or cracking his joke.
His father, having found out the contrivance by
which he raised money for this kind of revelry,
adopted, in his own imagination, a wiser course.
He resolved to make his studies as pleasant to him
as he could; and as George was daily increasing
in fame and his works in price, this could be done
without any loss. He indulged his son, now some
sixteen years old, with wine, pampered his appetite
with richer food, and moreover allowed him a little
pocket-money to spend among his companions, and
MORLAN D. 225
purchase acquaintance with what the vulgar call
life. He dressed him, too, in a style of ultra-dan-
dyism, and exhibited him at his easel to his cus-
tomers, attired in a green coat with very long skirts,
and immense yellow buttons, buckskin breeches,
and top boots with spurs. He permitted him too
to sing wild songs, swear grossly, and talk about
any thing he liked with such freedom as makes
anxious parents tremble. With all these indul-
gences the boy was not happy; he aspired but the
more eagerly after full liberty and the unrestrained
enjoyment of the profits of his pencil.
During this feverish period he was introduced
to Reynolds, obtained permission to copy some of
his works, and began to be very generally noticed
as an artist of no common promise. His father
was his constant companion when he went out
a-copying ; more, it is said, though it can scarcely
be believed, with the intention of seizing upon his
productions, than with the desire of preserving him
from loose associates or the charms of the tap-
room. He went to copy the painting of Garrick
between Tragedy and Comedy in the gallery of
Mr. Angerstein, at Blackheath; and the proprietor,
a man of taste, and a lover of art, desired to view
the work in its progress. The elder Morland de-
clared that his son George had refused to begin
his copy till it was promised that no one should
overlook him, and that he should act in the house
as he thought proper. This coarse arrogance was
submitted to—young Morland refused all invita-
tions to mix with the family of Angerstein—he de-
scended to the servants’ hall—emptied his flagon—
cracked his wild jest, and was exceedingly happy,
WOL. II. Q

226 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
How he escaped from the thraldom of his father
has been related by Hassell and by Smith, and as
they contradict each other, I shall rehearse both
accounts. The former, who knew Morland well,
says, that “he was determined to make his escape
from the rigid confinement which paternal authority
had imposed upon him; and, wild as a young qua-
druped that had broke loose from his den, at length,
though late, effectually accomplished his purpose.”
“Young George was of so unsettled a disposition,”
says Smith, “that his father, being fully aware of
his extraordinary talents, was determined to force
him to get his own living, and gave him a guinea,
with something like the following observation :
‘I am determined to encourage your idleness no
longer; there—take that guinea, and apply to your
art and support yourself.’ This Morland told me,
and added, that from that moment he commenced
and continued wholly on his own account.” It
would appear by Smith's relation, that our youth,
instead of supporting his father, had all along been
depending on his help; this, however, contradicts
not only Hassell, but Fuseli also, who, in his edi-
tion of Pilkington's Dictionary, accuses the elder
Morland of avariciously pocketing the whole profits
of his son's productions.
In the seventeenth year of his age he left his
father's house, with his easel, his palette, his pen-
cils—and dressed in his favourite green coat and
top boots. “He was in the very extreme of
foppish puppyism,” says Hassell, “his head, when
ornamented according to his own taste, resembled
a snow-ball, after the model of Tippy Bob, of dra-
matic memory, to which was attached a short thick

MORLAND. 227
tail, not unlike a painter's brush.” Thus accom-
plished and accoutred, with little money in his
pocket, and a large conceit of himself, he made an
excursion to Margate, with the two-fold purpose
of enjoying life and painting portraits. His skill
of hand was great—his facility, it is said, wondrous;
while his oddity of dress, his extreme youth, and
the story of his early studies, attracted curiosity
and attention—and sitters came—the wealthy and
the beautiful. But the painter loved low company
—all that was polished or genteel was the object
of his implacable dislike. He had not patience to
finish any portrait that he commenced, nor the
prudence to conceal his scorn of his betters. The
man who could leave wealthy sitters to join in the
amusement of a pig, an ass, or a smock race, was
not likely to have such patrons long; and Morland
returned to London with a dozen of unfinished
portraits, on which he had received little or no
money.
A well-known nobleman had heard of Morland's
talents, and now commissioned him to paint a few
pictures, for which he provided the subjects. This
is a sort of drudgery which genius, if it consults its
dignity, will seldom submit to ; but when the sub-
jects are “not particularly distinguished for their
purity”—these are the words of Hassell—the com-
missions ought to be rejected with indignant loath-
ing. To those commissions the biographer now
cited hesitates not to impute that “particular dis-
taste which he ever after evinced for the society of
virtuous women;” and discovers in them “a reason
why so striking a resemblance to the frail sister-
hood is found in the female subjects which occur
Q 2
228 THIE BRITISH PAINTERS,
in some of his productions.” Let his lordship an-
swer for real and not imaginary sins. Morland
had moved too long in gross company to leave the
honour of polluting his mind to any one of the
peerage. He had become ere this the boon-com-
panion of hostlers, pot-boys, horse-jockies, money-
lenders, pawnbrokers, punks and pugilists. With
these comrades he roamed the streets and made
excursions by land and water; the ribald jest, the
practical joke, and scenes coarse and sensual,
formed long ere now the staple of his life.
Amidst all this wildness and dissipation, his
name was still rising. He valued his pencil as the
means of acquiring not distinction, but the gold
wherewith to charm away creditors and liquidate
tavern bills. The pictures which he dashed off
according to the craving of the hour, are numerous
and excellent. They are all fac-similes of low
nature—graphic copies of common life—their truth
is their beauty, and if they have anything poetical
about them, it lies in the singular ease and rumi-
nating repose which is the reigning character of
many. Pigs and asses were his chief favourites;
and if he had stolen them, or dealt in them, as one
of his rustic admirers declared, he could not have
painted them better. The sheep on the hill, the
cattle in the shade, and the peasant superintending
the economy of the barn-yard, the piggery, or the
cow-house, shared also largely in his regard. He
was likewise skilful in landscape—not in that com-
bination of what is lovely or grand, over which a
poetical mind sheds a splendour that anticipates
paradise; but in close, dogged fidelity, which
claims the merit of looking like some known spot
MORLAND. 229
where pigs prowl, cattle graze, or asses browse.
At this period he lodged in a neat house at Kensall
Green, on the road to Harrow, and was frequently
in the company of Ward, the painter, whose exam-
ple of moral steadiness was exhibited to him in
Waln.
While he resided at Kensall Green, he fell in
love with Miss Ward—a young lady of beauty
and modesty—and soon afterwards married her;
she was the sister of his friend the painter; and to
make the family union stronger, Ward sued for the
hand of Maria Morland, and in about a month
after his sister's marriage obtained it. In the joy
of this double union, the brother artists took joint
possession of a good house in High Street,
Marylebone. Morland suspended for a time his
habit of insobriety, discarded the social comrades
of his laxer hours, and imagined himself reformed.
But discord broke out between the sisters concern-
ing the proper division of rule and authority in the
house; and Morland, whose partner's claim per-
haps was the weaker, took refuge in lodgings in
Great Portland Street. His passion for late hours
and low company, restrained through courtship
and the honey-moon, now broke out with the vio-
lence of a stream which had been dammed in rather
than dried up. It was in vain that his wife en-
treated and remonstrated—his old propensities
prevailed ; and the post-boy, the pawnbroker, and
the pugilist, were summoned again to his side, no
more to be separated.
Before the rupture of this brotherhood, Ward
made some engravings from the pictures of Mor-
land, which obtained the notice of Raphael Smith,

230 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
an engraver of talent and enterprise, who knew the
town, and felt the value, and foresaw the popu-
larity of those productions. Under his directions
Morland painted many pictures from familiar scenes
of life; Smith engraved them with considerable
skill, the prints had a sale rapid beyond example,
and nothing stood between the painter and fortune
but his own indiscretion. “Those works,” says
Hassell, “showed that he had a wonderful facility
in seizing those propitious coincidences—those
light, ornamental, and minute proprieties and
graces which contribute such an ample store to
the genuine stock of original composition of con-
summate art. The harmonious combination of his
back grounds, his drapery, ever natural and de-
corous, without confusion or perplexity; his chil-
dren, also, his sheep, his horses, his pigs, and all
the appendages of the rural landscape, including
every other department of picturesque scenery, are
still classed among the finest of modern produc-
tions, are still objects of imitation to young stu-
dents, and are still considered and exhibited by the
best judges and patrons of the fine arts, as most
remarkably neat, correct, and elegant views of
nature.”
In those days, before folly had entirely fixed
him for her own, Morland loved to visit the Isle
of Wight, and some of his best pictures are copied
from scenes upon the coast. A rocky shore—an
agitated surf–fishermen repairing their nets and
careening their boats, or disposing of their fish,
generally formed part of his pictures. He was
ever ready too to join them in their labour, and
more so in the mirth and carousal which followed.

MORLAND. 231
A friend once found him at Freshwater-gate, in a
low public-house called The Cabin. Sailors, rus-
tics, and fishermen, were seated round him in a
kind of ring, the rooftree rung with laughter and
song; and Morland, with manifest reluctance, left
their company for the conversation of his friend.
“George,” said his monitor, “you must have rea-
sons for keeping such company.” “Reasons, and
good ones,” said the artist, laughing, “see—where
could I find such a picture of life as that, unless
among the originals of The Cabin’” He held up
his sketch-book and showed a correct delineation
of the very scene in which he had so lately been
the presiding spirit. One of his best pictures con-
tains this fac-simile of the tap-room, with its guests
and furniture.
The early management of his father had made
the whole swarm of picture dealers, cleaners, and
copiers acquainted with Morland's value, and, what
was far more unfortunate, had let them into the
secret of his personal tastes. They knew his
love of low company, his delight in the bottle,
and his desire to enjoy the passing moment, what-
ever expense it might incur; and some of them
were ever at his elbow to lay down the gold for
present pleasures, upon the understanding that the
pencil should clear off the debt. His absurd aver-
sion to decent company naturally aided the views
of those sordid miscreants; they applauded his
vulgar prejudice as true independence, and pushed
about the jest, apparently at the expense of “the
fine people,” but really and truly at the cost of the
unhappy Morland, who sat in idea sole monarch
of the realm of free and unshackled art. These
232 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
wretches affected a vice to which they were stran-
gers; they put on the aspect of prodigality, and
with the determination in their hearts of exacting
a bitter per-centage for this condescension, accom-
panied him on his country excursions, made up his
drinking parties, and attended at his painting-room
with a purse in one hand and a bottle in the other.
“It frequently happened,” observes one of his
biographers, “when a picture had been bespoke
by one of his friends, who advanced some of the
money to induce him to work, if the purchaser did
not stand by to see it finished and carry it away
with him, some other person, who was lurking
within sight for that purpose, and knew the state
of Morland's pocket, by the temptation of a few
guineas laid upon the table, carried off the picture.
Thus all were served in their turn; and though
each exulted in the success of the trick when he
was so lucky as to get a picture in this easy way,
they all joined in exclaiming against Morland's
want of honesty in not keeping his promises to
them.”
Those honest sufferers were not without their
remedy. The picture which they purchased for
five guineas sold readily for twenty; one guinea's
worth of liquor was often repaid by a sketch which
brought ten; and if that was insufficient, they em-
ployed some dexterous and unprincipled limner to
make fac-similes of the most popular of Morland's
works, which they found people rich enough and
ignorant enough to buy as originals. “I once
saw,” says Hassell, “twelve copies from a small
picture of Morland's at one time in a dealer's shop,
with the original in the centre; the proprietor of
MORLAND. 233
which, with great gravity and unblushing assurance,
inquired if I could distinguish the difference.”
With reptiles such as these, genius ought never to
come into communion; it must be confessed, how-
ever, that Morland was not incommoded in his in-
tercourse with them by any over-righteous notions
as to money matters. In the course of the years
1790, 1791, and 1792, when his cleverest pictures
were painted, the admiring dealers swarmed round
him with offers of pecuniary assistance to any
amount. George put his hands into their pockets
without the least ceremony. He was a joyful
borrower, and took whatever was offered without
scruple or hesitation. He made no nice distinc-
tions; for he accepted from all, and he held out
to all the pleasing prospect of sevenfold remunera-
tion from the pencil.
The evil consequences of all this required no
prophetic spirit to foretell. It was in vain that his
wife, a woman of sense and beauty, endeavoured
to reclaim him; equally vain was the interposition
of his friends; who were only laughed at when
they assured him that a life of unmeasured con-
viviality, and habits of incalculable profusion, must
injure his skill of hand and his capacity of intellect,
and immure him, sooner or later, in a prison. His
fine constitution triumphed for a time over the
ordinary results of debauchery, and his knowledge
of the town and active adroitness in avoiding tip-
staffs, kept him long from acquaintance with the
jail. It is probable, indeed, that those to whom
he was indebted were more willing to alarm him,
than actually take his liberty from him; they knew
that confinement could not hasten the payment—
234 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
that the estate out of which their money was to
come was of the mind; and, what was equally
serious, it could be turned over to a new swarm
of dealers in pictures, who would inherit all their
profits.
Having received an invitation from Claude Lor-
raine Smith, a gentleman of Leicestershire, he sud-
denly vanished from the constant watchfulness of
these creditors, carrying with him a trusty friend
and five-bottle debauchée, whose neglect of the
toilet had obtained him the name of Dirty Brookes.
His entertainer, an artist himself and an encourager
of art, was also wealthy and hospitable, and Mor-
land was received with great kindness; even Dirty
Brookes was an object of attention and solicitude.
It is true that the artist, in the midst of Mr. Smith's
company, was sometimes heard to sigh for the
rougher freedom of the ale-house, and lamented
to his bosom friend that so much good wine should
be drunk without loud mirth and merry song, and
in accordance with an etiquette distressing to the
convivial notions of hostlers and pugilists. He
found some consolation, perhaps, in accompanying
Mr. Smith to the fox-chase, or at least in the con-
viviality which at evening rewarded the devotees
of that rough pastime; and it is reported that both
he and Dirty Brookes regained the reputation
which they lost by day in the chase, through their
prowess over the bottle by night. He found time,
however, to make some sketches of Leicestershire
scenery, which he afterwards wrought into pictures.
His sudden disappearance from London excited
general alarm in the whole righteous race of pic-
ture-dealers; no one knew what had become of
MORLAND. 235
him, and a waggish companion insinuated that he
was gone to France. Some of those men had ad-
vanced money on bespoke pictures; others had
paid money upon works begun, and the interest of
the whole was concerned—it would be only mis-
leading the reader to say that Morland felt at all
anxious respecting them. To him the completion
of such commissions was a matter of total indiffer-
ence; he knew that these patrons had doomed him
to constant slavery, that they merely looked upon
him as an engine which augmented their incomes,
and of which they had only to keep the wheels
oiled. When he re-appeared, the gloom passed
from their looks, and they hastened to share in the
spoils arising from his paintings of the scenery of
Leicestershire.
Yet wild and imprudent as he was, and sunk in
almost constant debauchery, his skill seemed only
to augment, and his rapidity of execution to in-
crease. Indolence cannot be ranked among his
sins. Pleasure he found could not be purchased
without money; his companions were not the fol-
lowers of an empty purse, and even Dirty Brookes
himself, who fell a sacrifice in sharing Morland's
excesses, was more moderate in his mirth when he
was in danger of settling the reckoning from his
own pocket. To get money it was necessary to
work; and certainly during his brief career he
wrought diligently. Four thousand pictures, and
most of them of great merit, which he left to con-
tinue his name, tell us that, with the sharp sword
of necessity at his back, he laboured as diligently
and successfully as if he had lived in wealth and
in honour.
236 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
During this period Morland lived at Paddington,
where he was visited by the popular pugilists of
the day, by the most eminent-horse-dealers, and
by his never-failing companions the picture mer-
chants. He was a lover of guinea-pigs, dogs, rab-
bits, and squirrels; he extended his affection also
to asses. At one time he was the owner of eight
saddle horses, which were kept at the White Lion;
and, that the place might be worthy of an artist's
stud, he painted the sign where they stood at livery
with his own hand. He wished to be thought a
consummate judge of horseflesh and a dealer in
the article. But he was taught that his wisdom
did not lie in that way by two or three sagacious
horse-jockies, and began to find that all the cun-
ning of the island was not monopolized by the pic-
ture dealers. For indifferent horses he paid with
excellent pictures; or, what was worse, with bills
which he was not always, if ever, prepared to take
up; and when due, purchased an extension of the
time by the first picture he had ready. His wine-
merchant too was in the discounting line, and ob-
tained sometimes a picture worth fifty pounds for
similar accommodation. “He heaped folly upon
folly,” says Hassell, “with such dire rapidity, that
a fortune of ten thousand pounds per annum would
have proved insufficient for the support of his waste
and prodigality.”
He was as vain as he was prodigal—was anxious
for the smiles of the meanest of mankind; and as
for flattery, any one might lay it on with a trowel.
At the grossness of his humour all the hostlers
laughed, and he that laughed loudest was generally
rewarded with a half-crown or a pair of buckskin

TMORLAND, 237
breeches little the worse for wear. His acquaint-
ances on the north road were numerous; he knew
the driver of every coach, and the pedigree of the
horses, and taking his stand at Bob Bellamy's inn
at Highgate, would halloo to the gentlemen of the
whip as they made their appearance, and treat them
to gin and brandy. “Frequently,” says one of his
biographers, “he would parade, with a pipe in his
mouth, before the door of the house, and hail the
carriages as they passed in succession before him;
and, from being so well known, was generally
greeted in return by a familiar salute from the
postilion. The consequence he attached to this
species of homage was almost beyond belief.”
He once (we are told) received an invitation to
Barnet, and was hastening thither with Hassell and
another friend, when he was stopt at Whetstone
turnpike by a lumber or jockey cart, driven by two
persons, one of them a chimney-sweep, who were
disputing with the toll-gatherer. Morland endea-
voured to pass, when one of the wayfarers cried,
“What! Mr. Morland, wont you speak to a body!”
The artist endeavoured to elude further greeting,
but this was not to be ; the other bawled out so
lustily, that Morland was obliged to recognize at
last his companion and crony, Hooper, a tinman
and pugilist. After a hearty shake of the hand, the
boxer turned to his neighbour the chimney-sweep
and said, “Why, Dick, don't you know this here
gentleman? 'tis my friend, Mr. Morland.” The
sooty charioteer smiling a recognition forced his
unwelcome hand upon his brother of the brush;
they then both whipt their horses and departed.
This rencontre mortified Morland very sensibly;

238 THE BRITISH PAINTER.S.
he declared that he knew nothing of the chimney-
sweep, and that he was forced upon him by the
impertinence of Hooper: but the artist's habits
made the story be generally believed, and “Sweeps,
your honour,” was a joke which he was often obliged
to hear.
Raphael Smith, the engraver, had employed
Morland for years on works from which he en-
graved, and by which he won large sums of money.
He called one day with Bannister the comedian to
look at a picture which was upon the easel. Smith
was satisfied with the artist's progress, and said,
“I shall now proceed on my morning ride.” “Stay
a moment,” said Morland, laying down his brush,
“ and I will go with you.” “Morland,” answered
the other, in an emphatic tone, which could not be
mistaken, “I have an appointment with a gentle.
man, who is waiting for me.” Such a sarcasm might
have cured any man who was not incurable; it
made but a momentary impression upon the mind
of our painter, who cursed the engraver, and re-
turned to his palette. -
His love of horses, once great, gradually sub-
sided; he at length studiously refused any inter-
course with the worthy fraternity of horse-dealers,
not because he felt that they had cheated him as
often as he risked making a bargain, but because
he had found another method of disposing of his
pictures. He now retired to some secluded place,
set up his easel, dashed off a few paintings, and
entrusted them to the care and the conscience of a
bosom crony, whose name is not mentioned, and
whose business it was to dispose of them in the
most profitable market. The claim which this

MORLAND. . 239
associate had upon his confidence was confirmed
by many a deep and prolonged carousal, nor is
there reason to believe that the man failed to do
his best—he returned with the money—it was
instantly melted into gin and brandy.
All his early pride of dress gradually vanished;
his clothes were now mean, his looks squalid,
and when he ventured into the streets of London,
he was so haunted by creditors, real or imagi-
mary, that he skulked rather than walked, and
kept a look-out on suspicious alleys and corners of
evil reputation. If he saw any one looking anxi-
ously at him, which many must have done out of
compassion for the wreck which folly had wrought
with genius, he instantly imagined him a creditor,
and fled like quicksilver, for he was in debt to so
many that he dreaded duns in every street. Ha-
rassed by incessant apprehensions of arrest, he
shifted from place to place, and before the close
of his career was acquainted with every spot of
secrecy or refuge within the four counties which
surround the metropolis. One day, wearied with
perpetual changing of abode, he took his crony
with him to make a regular inspection of the King's
Bench Prison. They were conducted over that
strange scene, which still remains exactly as it is
described by Smollett, and departed with a lively
conviction that such quarters as Hatchway and
Tom Pipes coveted so earnestly would be worse
than any our painter had yet experienced. The
squalors of the Bare, however, left no impression
strong enough to alter his conduct.
On one occasion he hid himself in Hackney;
where his anxious looks and secluded manner of
240 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
life induced some of his charitable neighbours to
believe him a maker of forged notes. The Direc-
tors of the Bank despatched two of their most dex-
terous emissaries to inquire, reconnoitre, search, and
seize. These men arrived, and began to draw lines
of circumvallation round the painter's retreat; he
was not however to be surprised—mistaking those
agents of evil mien for bailiffs, he escaped from
behind as they approached in front—fled into Hox-
ton, and never halted till he had hid himself in
London. Nothing was found to justify suspicion,
and when Mrs. Morland, who was his companion
in this retreat, told them who her husband was,
and showed them some unfinished pictures, they
made such a report at the Bank, that the Directors
presented him with a couple of Bank notes of
twenty pounds each, by way of compensation for
the alarm they had given him.
The sad estate into which he had fallen made
any story of his distress be believed, and before his
death, as well as after—“anecdotes of Morland the
painter” were regularly manufactured for news-
papers and magazines. “He was found”—I copy
these words from Fuseli's edition of Pilkington—
“He was found at another time in a lodging in
Somer's Town, in the following most extraordinary
circumstances:—his infant child, that had been dead
nearly three weeks, lay in its coffin; in one corner
of the room an ass and foal stood munching barley
straw out of the cradle--a sow and pigs were so-
lacing themselves in the recess of an old cupboard,
and himself whistling over a beautiful picture that
he was finishing at his easel, with a bottle of gin
hung upon one side, and a live mouse sitting for


MORLAND. 241
º
its portrait on the other.” I must however abate
the pathetic of this scene. Morland lived and died
childless; consequently, the infant dead in the
coffin, and the ass and its foal eating straw out of
the cradle must be dismissed from the group.
It may be safer to select a few anecdotes from
Hassell, his intimate friend. This person's first
introduction to Morland was in character. “As
I was walking (he says) towards Paddington on
a summer morning, to inquire about the health
of a relation, I saw a man posting on before me
with a sucking-pig, which he carried in his arms
like a child. The piteous squeaks of the little
animal, and the singular mode of conveyance,
drew spectators to door and window; the person
however who carried it minded no one, but to
every dog that barked—and there were not a few
—he set down the pig, pitted him against the
dog, and then followed the chase which was sure
to ensue. In this manner he went through several
streets in Mary-le-bone, and at last, stopping at
the door of one of my friends, was instantly ad-
mitted. I also knocked and entered, but my sur-
prise was great on finding this original sitting with
the pig still under his arm, and still greater when
I was introduced to Morland the painter.”
A mutual friend, at whose house Morland resided
when in the Isle of Wight, having set out for Lon-
don, left an order with an acquaintance in Cowes to
give the painter his own price for whatever works
he might please to send. The pictures were accom-
panied by a regular solicitation for cash in propor-
tion, or according to the nature of the subject.
At length a small but very highly-finished drawing
WOL. II, R.

242 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
arrived, and as the sum demanded seemed out of
all proportion with the size of the drawing, the
conscientious agent transmitted the piece to Lon-
don and stated the price. The answer by post was,
* Pay what is asked, and get as many others as you
can at the same price.’ There is not one sketch
in the collection thus made but what would now
produce thrice its original cost.
One evening Hassell and some friends were re-
turning to town from Hampstead, when Morland
accosted them in the character of a mounted pa-
trole, wearing the parish great-coat, girded with a
broad black belt, and a pair of pistols depending.
He hailed them with “horse patrole !” in his na-
tural voice; they recognised him and laughed
heartily, upon which he entreated them to stop at
the Mother Red Cap, a well known public-house,
till he joined them. He soon made his appearance
in his proper dress, and gave way to mirth and
good fellowship. On another occasion he paid a
parishioner, who was drawn for constable, to be
permitted to serve in his place; he billeted sol-
diers during the day, and presided in the con-
stable's chair at night. At another time, having
promised to paint a picture for M. de Calonne, he
seemed unwilling to begin, but was stimulated by
the following stratagem. Opposite to his house in
Paddington was the White Lion; Hassell directed
two of his friends to breakfast there, and instructed
them to look anxiously towards the artist's win-
dows, and occasionally walk up and down before
the house. He then waited on Morland, who only
brandished his brush at the canvass and refused to
work. After waiting some time, Hassell went to

MORLAND, 243
the window and affected surprise at seeing two
strangers gazing intently at the artist's house.
Morland looked at them earnestly—declared they
were bailiffs, who certainly wanted him—and or-
dered the door to be bolted. Hassell having se-
cured him at home, showed him the money for
his work, and so dealt with him that the picture
was completed, a landscape and six figures, one of
his best productions, in six hours. He then paid
him and relieved his apprehensions respecting the
imaginary bailiffs—Morland laughed heartily. He
considered it as a kind of pleasant interruption to
the monotony of painting and drinking, that he was
apprehended as a spy at Yarmouth, and subjected
to a sharp examination. The drawings which he
had made on the shores of the Isle of Wight were
considered as confirmations of guilt; he was ho-
noured, therefore, with an escort of soldiers and
constables to Newport and there confronted by a
bench of justices. At his explanation they shook
their heads, laid a strict injunction upon him to paint
and draw no more in that neighbourhood, and dis-
missed him. On another occasion, he was on his
way from Deal, and Williams, the engraver, was his
companion. The extravagance of the preceding
evening had fairly emptied their pockets; weary,
hungry and thirsty, they arrived at a small ale-house
by the way-side; they hesitated to enter. Morland
wistfully reconnoitred the house, and at length
accosted the landlord—“Upon my life, I scarcely
knew it: is this the Black Bull?” “To be sure it
is, master,” said the landlord, “there's the sign.”
“Ay! the board is there, I grant,” replied our way-
farer, “but the Black Bull is vanished and gone.
- - R 2
244 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
I will paint you a capital new one for a crown.”
The landlord consented and placed a dinner and
drink before this restorer of signs, to which the
travellers did immediate justice. “Now, land-
lord,” said Morland, “take your horse, and ride
into Canterbury—it is but a little way—and buy
me proper paint and a good brush.” He went on
his errand with a grudge, and returned with the
speed of thought, for fear that his guests should
depart in his absence. By the time that Morland
had painted the Black Bull, the reckoning had
risen to ten shillings, and the landlord reluctantly
allowed them to go on their way; but not, it is
said, without exacting a promise that the remainder
of the money should be paid with the first oppor-
tunity. The painter, on his arrival in town, re-
lated this adventure in the Hole-in-the-Wall, Fleet
Street. A person who overheard him, mounted
his horse, rode into Kent, and succeeded in pur-
chasing the Black Bull from this Kentish Boniface
for ten guineas. -
A bailiff, more subtle than his brethren, succeeded
“irearresting Morland. Fallen as he was, and disco-
vered by the officer wallowing in a sty of filth and
debauchery, his talents still found him friends, by
whose recommendation and influence he obtained
the Rules of the Bench. “ This ill-fated artist,”
says Hassell, “ seemed to have possessed two
minds—one, the animated soul of genius, by which
he rose in his profession—and the other, that de-
based and grovelling propensity, which condemned
him to the very abyss of dissipation.” In his new
abode of misery—among the wreck of proud for-
tunes and high hopes—in the company of some

MORLAND, 245
whom prodigality had utterly ruined, and of others
who had only retired hither that they might live in
affluence in spite of their just creditors–Morland
was found by Hassell; he was not only content,
but, like Tam o'Shanter in his glory, conceived
himself victorious over all the ills of life. Even
here he could jest and revel, indulge the wildest
whims, and luxuriate in oddities and caprices.
Even amidst misery and recklessness like this,
the spirit of industry did not forsake him, nor did
his taste or his skill descend with his fortunes.
One day's work would have purchased him a week's
sustenance; yet he laboured every day, and as
skilfully and beautifully as ever. His favourite
companion in his retreat was a waterman, whom,
by way of distinction, Morland called “My Dicky,”
and Dicky was now the established vender of his
pictures. If chance detained the purchaser of a
bespoke painting beyond the time he promised to
send for it, “My Dicky” was instantly despatched
with it to the pawnbroker's. Dicky once carried
a picture wet from the easel, with a request for
the advance of three guineas upon it. The pawn.s.,
broker paid the money; but in carrying it into the
room his foot slipped, and the head and foreparts
of a hog were obliterated. The money-changer
returned the picture with a polite note, requesting
the artist to restore the damaged part. “My
Dicky 1’’ exclaimed Morland, “an that's a good
one ! but never mind!” He reproduced the hog in
a few minutes, and said, “There ! go back and tell
the pawnbroker to advance me five guineas more
upon it; and if he wont, say I shall proceed against
246 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
him; the price of the picture is thirty guineas.”
The demand was complied with.
For Spencer of Bow Street, he painted several
pictures; one of the best was a straw-yard; it had
evidently cost him some pains, and he was no lover
of minute work. He had introduced accordingly
a raven seated on a straw-rack, and written on the
rail under its feet, “No more straw-yards for me,
G. Morland.” The multitude of his orders in-
duced him to neglect the finishing of many of his
pictures, and the purchasers, glad to get them as
they were, employed some second-rate hand to
glaze up the foreground; “but this,” observes
Hassell, “ was confined to picture dealers, whose
skill lay in supplying half-worn landscapes with
new skies, and in cracking and varnishing new his-
torical pictures to produce the appearance of anti-
quity.” His common price, when in confinement,
was “four guineas per day with his drink;” and
his employer sat down beside him telling pleasant
stories and pouring out liquor till the time expired.
It often required some skill to obtain a good day's
wörk, for the glass was apt to be in his fingers in
the morning before the pencil, and he continued to
handle both alternately till he had painted as much
as he pleased, or till the liquor got the better,
when he claimed his wages, and business closed
for the day. -
He had no wish, however, to be distinguished
as a resident in the realm of durance: taking ad-
vantage of the liberty of a day-rule in term time,
he borrowed a horse—rode from house to house
among his friends in the country round London—
MORLAND, 247
contradicted boldly the story of his imprisonment
—returned to town at the spur, and exhibited him-
self at every low pot-house on his way to the Rules.
His vanity soared not beyond the present moment;
to make a good passing impression was his chief
aim; and while his money lasted, he was sure of
success among those whose applause he valued.
Though well-descended, he regarded that matter.
little, and would rather have had the laugh of a
pot-house on his side than all the emblazonments
of heraldry. In his earlier and better days, a so-
licitor informed him that he was heir to a baronet's
title, and advised him to assert his claim. I know
not whether there was any real foundation for this
lawyer's story. “Sir George Morland 1” how-
ever, said the painter, “It sounds well, but it
wont do. Plain George Morland will always sell
my pictures, and there is more honour in being a
fine painter than in being a fine gentleman.”
When the Insolvent Debtors' Act at length re-
stored him to liberty — he was almost past the
power of enjoying it. His constitution was ruined,
and his personal character was sunk into general
contempt. No one would associate with him but
the meanest of mankind, nor did he wish this
otherwise. In his thirty-ninth year, the palsy
struck him. He recovered partially, but would
often fall back senseless in his painting chair, and
sometimes sink into sleep with his palette and
brush in his hand. His left hand was so much
affected, that he could no longer hold the im-
plements of his profession. He was not, how-
ever, dismayed; he made drawings in pencil and
in chalk, tinted them lightly, still enriched the
248 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
country with works at once bold, original and
striking, and seemed to set want and disease at
defiance. But the swiftest runner is soonest at
the end of his journey. Morland was carried for
debt to a spunging-house in Air Street, and to
strengthen his courage on the loss of his liberty,
swallowed an unusual quantity of spirits, which,
instead of stupefaction, produced fever. Atwell,
the keeper of the house, became alarmed, and ap-
plied to his friends for assistance: their sympathy,
if exerted—of which there is no proof–came too
late; the powers of life were exhausted, and he
died, after a brief illness, in utter wretchedness
and penury, in the fortieth year of his age. His
wife, from whom he had been separated for some
time, in consequence of family feuds, survived him
only a few days. -
Morland had a look at once sagacious and sen-
sual, and the same friends who compared his fore-
head to that of Napoleon, represent him as vain
and irritable, fretful and vindictive. His character
as a man was essentially vulgar, and he seemed
insensible to shame. He loved all kinds of com-
pany save that of gentlemen; it gave him pain to
imitate the courtesies and decencies of life, and he
disliked accordingly all those whose habits required
their observance. He married without being in
love and treated his wife with carelessness, because
he was incapable of feeling the merits of modesty
or domestic worth. He had fits of profuse gene-
rosity and capricious affection; but folly and gross-
ness were his familiar companions.
As an artist Morland's claims to regard are high
and undisputed. He is original and alone; his
MORLAND. 249
style and conceptions are his own; his thoughts
are ever at home—are always natural—he extracts
pleasing subjects out of the most coarse or trivial
scenes, and finds enough to charm the eye in the
commonest occurrence. He never paints above
the most ordinary capacity, and gives an air of
truth and reality to whatever he touches. He has
taken a strong and lasting hold of the popular
fancy; not by ministering to our vanity, but by
telling plain and striking truths. He is the rustic
painter for the people; his scenes are familiar to
every eye, and his name is on every lip. Painting
seemed as natural to him as language is to others,
and by it he expressed his sentiments and his feel-
ings and opened his heart to the multitude. His
gradual descent in society may be traced in the
productions of his pencil; he could only paint well
what he saw or remembered; and when he left
the wild sea-shore and the green-wood side for
the hedge ale-house and the Rules of the Bench,
the character of his pictures shifted with the scene.
Yet even then his wonderful skill of hand and
sense of the picturesque never forsook him. His
intimacy with low life only dictated his theme—
the coarseness of the man and the folly of his com-
pany never touched the execution of his pieces.
"All is indeed homely—nay, mean—but native
taste and elegance redeem every detail. To a full
command over every implement of his art, he
united a facility of composition and a free readi-
ness of hand perhaps quite unrivalled.
His pictures were mostly produced under the
influence of intoxication, and the strong stimulant
of immediate payment; they were painted in the
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terror of want, and in the presence of the sordid
purchaser, who risked five guineas in a venture for
twenty—yet they want nothing which art can be-
stow, or the most fastidious eye desire. Such was
the precious coin with which this unfortunate man
paid for gin, obtained the company of the scum
and feculence of society and purchased patience
from his creditor, or peace from the tipstaff. The
annals of genius record not a more deplorable story
than Morland's.

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( 251 )
EDWARD BIRD.
-sº-
Elward BIRD was born at Wolverhampton, on the
12th day of April, 1772. His father, a clothier
by trade, was a man of sense and information, and
gave him a fair education. His mother watched
over him—for he was a weakly child—with the
most anxious solicitude. When very young—the
family tradition says three or four years old—he
began to sketch. He would stand on a stool,
chalk outlines on the furniture, and say, with
childish glee, as he eyed his labours, “Well done,
little Neddy Bird!”. He would be up with the
dawn to draw figures upon the walls, wheh he
called French and English soldiers, and was con-
tinually in disgrace with the servant maids of his
father's house, who had to make use of their mops
and scrubbing-brushes after those early risings.
He was privately encouraged in these pursuits
by his eldest sister, now Mrs. Baker; his first box
of colours was purchased with her pocket-money
—long hoarded for that purpose: and after he had
risen to distinction, “Sarah,” he would some-
times say, “I must thank you for my being an
artist.” Nor were his talents in those childish
days unfelt by his father; but remote from col-
lections of paintings, unacquainted with the fame
252 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
they bring, and their influence with the world,
the worthy clothier never thought of his son be-
coming a painter by profession, and regarded it as
at best a pleasing but unprofitable calling. His
first attempt worthy of notice dates in his four-
teenth year—this was the imaginary interview be-
tween the Earl of Leicester, and the daughters
whom Miss Lee has conferred on Mary Queen of
Scots, in her novel of “The Recess.” It is now
in the house of the artist's widow.
When his father saw that his love of drawing
and sketching was incurable, he began to grow
anxious to turn it to some account, but could think
of nothing better than apprenticing him to a
maker of tea-trays—these accordingly it became
the boy's business to ornament and embellish.
Birmingham then, as now, sent over the world
many productions of domestic usefulness, which
require not only skill of hand, but good taste
and some fancy. On such things Bird first tried
his pencil, and was soon distinguished above his
fellow workmen for the neatness and beauty of his
embellishments. Of this there is strong proof:
long after, when his name was in the ranks of
acknowledged genius, he was on a tour in France
with several companions, and at Boulogne drank
tea off a beautiful tray which excited their notice
and praise. Bird looked at it and smiled; when
they had recommenced their journey, one of his
friends said, “I did not think they could have
made such trays in France.” “It was not made
here,” said Bird, “it was made in Birmingham,
for I painted it.” One of the party was with
difficulty restrained from turning back and buy-
BIRD. 253
ing it. Works of this nature, however, are, in a
great measure, produced by a kind of mechanical
process, in which genius claims little share. The
daily reproduction of the same shapes and the
same ornaments is but a wearisome task. To
dedicate the golden hours of his life to gather
wealth for the benefit of some manufacturer, was
the original curse of Bird's condition, and he no
sooner had the sense to perceive this, than he
found courage necessary for setting himself free.
When his indentures expired, very advantageous
offers were made to induce him to continue with
the “trade:” but he refused them all, and, pro-
bably without any defined plan of conduct for
future life, resigned a connexion which, with talents
infinitely below his, many could have made highly
lucrative. -
Bird had long felt that yearning after distinc
tion which genius ever feels; he had improved his
knowledge in the nature and use of colours; his
eye was already familiar with the human form,
and his mind stored with those images of social hu-
mour and fire-side affection in which his strength
lay. Of nature as he felt it, and of manners and
passions, he had produced many sketches with
the pencil—some he had tried to make permanent
in oil; and his confidence was daily increasing
with his skill. -
It was to the advantage of his art that he was
thus self-instructed—for his genius was not of
that powerful and self-relying order which gains
much and loses nothing in the lecture-room, and
the mechanical workshop attached to academies.
The routine of a regular education in art would

254 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
probably have tamed down the gentle fire with
which nature had endowed his bosom to a very
insignificant spark. - --
Though Bird listened to the call of ambition, he
was a wise and prudent man, and obeyed it but
in part. He relinquished all connection with
Birmingham and her teaboards, and, removing to
Bristol, commenced a drawing-school. During the
intervals of instruction, he sketched, designed,
and painted, with all his early ardour, and with
success such as follows patient self-discipline. He
by and by thought so well of his works, that he
ventured to show some of them to his friends, and
amongst others to Mr. Murphy, an artist of taste
and feeling, who liked them so much that he ad-
vised their being exhibited. To this Bird was
averse for some time, but he at last consented to
send two to the Bath Exhibition. It was neces-
sary that a price should be named ; the painter
wrote down ten guineas each: his friend, with a
better sense of their merit, wrote down thirty;
and they found ready purchasers. This was in
1807, when Bird was in his thirty-fifth year. His
sketch-books, says Mr. Murphy, were at that time
filled with subjects fit to expand into paintings,
and contained scenes of all kinds, serious and
comic. They were marked by an original spirit,
and showed a natural skill in grouping. The Inte-
rior of a Volunteer's Cottage was the subject of
one of his works; and Clowns dancing in an Ale-
house another. The threats of a French invasion
had
“ Brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws.”
BIRD, 255
and Bird had the bayonet of a volunteer at that
time in his hands. He was surrounded by a
growing family. Fame and money were both de-
sirable, and they were both obtained. Art cannot
be followed without incurring expense; and the
very reputation which genius acquires is a tax
upon the pocket by bringing friends and strangers.
Our painter's heart opened with his fortune: he
was never a profuse, but always a very liberal
Iſlan,
His first successful work, if we measure success
by the applause of the world, was called “Good
News.” Some of his earlier pictures, I have heard
good judges say, were of higher merit—and this
is not unlikely; it seldom happens that the first
original work which genius produces seizes the
attention of mankind: it is considered by many
as the lucky hit of an ordinary mind, and passed
by till it is recalled to notice by a continuation
of works from the same hand. “The Choristers
Rehearsing” and “The Will” followed, and re-
ceived equal praise, and, what was not less fortu-
mate, obtained purchasers of high distinction: his
present Majesty bought the first, and added judi-
cious commendation to liberal payment; and the
other was purchased by the late Marquis of Has-
tings. The Royal Academy soon afterwards con-
ferred honour on themselves by enrolling our self-
taught artist among their number.
His next work was his most poetical, and de-
cidedly his best one. This is a representation of
the Field of Chevy Chase on the day after the
battle. It is painted in the mournful spirit with
which the glorious old ballad concludes, and can-
256 THE BRITISH PAINTER.S.
not well be looked on without tears. These are
the words embodied: -
“Of fifteen hundred Englishmen
Went home but fifty-three;
The rest were slaine in Chevy Chase
Under the greenewoode tree.
Next day did many widows come
Their husbands to bewayle; e
They washed their wounds in brinish tears,
But all would not prevayle. -
Theyr bodyes bathed in purple blood
They bare with them away;
They kist them dead a thousand times
Ere they were cladd in clay.”
Of this heroic ballad, which Sir Philip Sydney
said roused him like the sound of a trumpet, and
which Ben Jonson affirmed was well worth all his
dramas, the people of England are great admirers,
and amongst the peasantry of the south it is almost
the only one known. When they saw a painting
which gave a life-like and touching image of a
scene often present to the fancy, they were loud
in its praise. Lady Percy is, with perfect pro-
priety, made a visitor of the fatal field : she ap-
pears in deep agony beside the body of her lord.
The old Minstrel thought proper to slay Percy by
the spear of Sir Hugh Montgomery, and we ap-
peal to history in vain against the poet's decision.
The gentle Kate of Shakespeare, who said to
Hotspur, in his interview with Glendower, “Lie
still, thou thief, and hear the Welch lady sing,”
had that sorrowful duty to perform at the battle
of Shrewsbury, stricken many years after Otter-

BIRD. 257
bourne. This exquisite piece, which should have
been purchased by some wealthy Douglas or
Percy, was böught for 300 guineas by the Mar-
quis of Stafford; while Mr. (now Sir Walter)
Scott acquired the original sketch. The same
munificent nobleman purchased Bird's next pic-
ture, the Death of Eli, for 500 guineas; and the
British Institution added their testimony to its
merits, by presenting the painter with their pre-
mium, amounting to £315.
Concerning the picture of the Death of Eli a
curious story was circulated. Bristol long en-
dured the reproach of parsimony both in prose
and verse. Two English poets have expressed
themselves with no measured bitterness of spirit
concerning the sordid spirit of its merchants.
Thus sings Richard Savage:
“ Upstarts and mushrooms; proud, relentless hearts;
Thou blank of sciences ! thou dearth of arts!
Such foes as learning once was doomed to see,
Huns, Goths and Vandals, were but types of thee.”
And Robert Lovell is equally severe;
“No mild urbanity attracts the sight,
No arts of skill or elegant delight;
But sordid wealth inspires the general cry,
And speeds the step and sharps the eager eye;
Foul as their streets, triumphant Meanness sways,
And grovelling as their mud-compelling drays;
Discordant sounds compose the Babel hum,
'Tis—how goes sugar? what's the price of rum?
What ships arrived? and, how are stocks to-day? .
Who's dead? who's broken? and, who's run away?”

If such reproaches were ever due, they are so no
WOL. II. S
258 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
longer: Bristol has now her literary and scientific
Institutions, and can point to many individuals of
the most refined manners as well as the most ge-
nerous liberality among her citizens. Touched
somewhat, however, with the spirit described in
Lovell's verses, three gentlemen of that city sub-
scribed 100 pounds each, and commissioned, as it
is called, a picture from the pencil of Bird. He
painted the Death of Eli. The lucky proprietors
sold it for 500 guineas; and, inspired with this,
perhaps, unexpected profit, clubbed their hundreds
again and waited on the painter with a fresh com-
mission. But he had no wish to have his brains
sucked at that rate, and declined their proposal.
The meaning of these citizens in their first offer
was kindly; they wished to inspire the artist with
a proper confidence, and made remuneration cer-
tain; but they could not resist the temptation of
gain. They ought to have paid Bird the whole
sum which they received, and not sought to enrich
themselves under pretence of friendship. But
neither the satire of poets nor individual parsi-
mony must conceal the fact that Bristol took an
affectionate interest in his prosperity, and that he
found many friends and patrons amongst her citi-
ZenS.
Business about this time took Bird to his native
town. He was personally recognized by many,
and received with an enthusiasm which would
have been creditable to a place of higher preten-
sions. His early companions gathered about him,
and he made them cordially welcome. Many of
those persons survive, and they all, and of their
own accord, when his name is mentioned, speak
BIRD, 259.
first of the active kindness of his heart, and then:
of the early indications of his talents. “I knew
Ned Bird, Sir,” said one of those humble friends,
“when he was a boy at school; he never thought
of himself; he would give the one half of his
dinner to a beggar-woman and the other to a
lame soldier, and fast upon his lesson.” Nor had
increase of years hardened his heart. One night,
as he was on his way to his lodging, a woman ran
wildly out of a door, crying “My child! my child!”
Bird went into her house, and finding one of her
children in strong convulsions, instantly brought a
physician. “Look to the boy,” said Bird, “and
look also to the mother—she seems to need it
much : I will pay for all.” He returned next day,
gave the poor widow a present of money, and
when the child—which recovered only for a short
time—died, he buried it at his own expense.
On his return to Bristol he recommenced his
studies. His chief merit as an artist lay in natural
and touching representations of homely and social
things: history, either profane or sacred, required
a spirit more in unison with the magnificent and
the majestic, and an imagination of a more heroic
order. He had seen the living nature which the
former requires, and had taken frequent sittings:
he had to conceive the nature which belongs to the
latter, and in that rare quality he was found defi-
Clent.
His picture of “Good News” is a happy per-
formance. The group which he assembled in
the little ale-house has no doubt recalled similar
scenes to all who have observed it. “The Black-
smith's Shop,” an early painting of much promise,
- S 2
260 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
was touched with the same spirit of social glee :
and the “Country Auction” is ranked by many as
one of his cleverest pictures. The sound of the
auctioneer's hammer has called together a motley
crowd, all anxious to bid for articles, and all bid-
ding in character. An old grey-headed peasant
has bought a large Bible; his son-in-law hesitates
between a punch-bowl and a cradle; and his
daughter sees nothing but the glitter of a tea-table
service. A cautious gamekeeper and a bustling
butcher are contending for a fowling-piece. A
little girl has placed a burnished cullender above
her curls, and eyes a mirror with much satisfac-
tion; while a gaping crowd of rustic connoisseurs
are examining, with all the empty sagacity of a
committee of taste, into the merits of an old daub-
ing about to be exposed to sale. The colouring
of the whole is mellow and harmonious.
Nor was he less skilful in subjects where the
interest was confined to a single figure with little
action. When he happened to meet an original-
looking personage, young or old, his practice was
to make a rude sketch on the spot—return to his
study—assign to the figure some characteristic
employment—expand it upon the canvass, and give
it all the charm of colouring. He painted such
works with astonishing rapidity : the picture ex-
isted complete in his mind, and an effort of art
and memory reproduced it. During the stormy
season of 1812 he was in London—found a fa-
mishing match-girl in the street—painted her in
character in three days, and sold the work for
thirty guineas. An old man seeking alms came
across his way; of him too he took a character-
BIRD, 261
istic likeness—half real and half imaginative, and
with equal success. Accurate copies of nature he
disliked: he took a poetic license with his subjects;
he had a happy knack in combination, and formed
clever and consistent groups out of very discord-
ant materials. “He could,” said one of his ad-
mirers, “extract delight and joy out of any thing:
I mean personally as well as with his pencil.”
“The Gipsey Boy,” “The Young Recruit, “Meg
Merrilies,” “Game at Put,” and various other
paintings are all instances of his skill in adapting
living life to the purposes of art. In this respect
he resembled Opie. When one of his friends con-
gratulated him upon the rapidity with which he
dashed off his lesser, but his happier works, Bird
said, “Yes, I can do them quickly; but it will not
do to tell the world how soon I can paint such
things.” They who believe that what is done
well cannot have been done quickly, are often
mistaken.
The reputation of these paintings recalled pub-
lic attention to his earlier productions, and “The
Village Politicians,” a cabinet picture, and “The
Poacher,” in six scenes, came out of obscurity.
In these six pictures he conducts a peasant from
his happy fireside through the varied fortunes of
a poacher's life: seeking for game with his compa-
nion; carrying it home to his wife and children;
selling it by lamp-light to the guard of a coach;
betrayed by his comrade; admonished by a cler-
gyman in prison; and restored to his family an
amended man with a resolution to be wise in future.
I fear the poacher's career seldom terminates in a
manner so pleasant to contemplate,

262 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.

Sometime during the year 1813, Bird obtained
the notice of the Princess Charlotte, who, young
as she was, perceived the true native excellence of
his works, and expressed a wish to see the artist.
He was introduced, accordingly, at Warwick House,
and was charmed, as all were, by the grace and
Rindly dignity of her manners. Encouraged by
her courtesy, which had no chilling stateliness
about it, he spoke readily and well, and acquitted
himself so cleverly that her Royal Highness took
an opportunity of saying to Mr. Murphy, who in-
troduced him, “Mr. Bird is a very well-bred man
—he has a natural politeness about him.” The
Princess promised him her support, and appointed
him her painter, on which he made her a present
of a work he had lately finished—“The Surrender
of Calais.” This was a favourite production, and
he desired, very properly, to place it in the best
company: alas! in that enviable situation it was
not long to remain. That sad event happened
which brought tears to all eyes, and of which one
of our best poets has so mournfully sung.
“In its summer pride arrayed
Low our Tree of Hope is laid!
Low it lies;–in evil hour, |
Visiting the bridal bower,
Death hath levelled root and flower;
Windsor! in thy sacred shade,
This the end of pomp and power!
Have the rites of death been paid;
Windsor! in thy sacred shade
Is the Flower of Brunswick laid l’”
On the death of our painter, his widow wished
EIRD, 263
to exhibit his works, and applied to Prince Leo-
pold of Saxe-Coburg for a loan of “The Surrender
of Calais :” the Prince did more than was asked,
or expected, or indeed wished—he presented the
painting to Mrs. Bird accompanied by a donation
of an hundred pounds.
. . During one of his visits to London, Bird sat for
his bust to Chantrey; and the writer of this very
imperfect account had thus many opportunities of
conversing with him. He said he had no regular
system of study; he painted or sketched just as it
suited him, and when once he had sat resolutely
down to his easel, it was no easy thing to make
him quit it. . The subject once settled, he gene-
rally painted fast, and when fastest, best. He
wrought much by candle-light, and in this manner
he painted his Death of Eli. At this time Mr.
Chantrey was busied with one of his cleverest
works—the figure of Lady Louisa Russell—a child
fondling a bird in her bosom, and standing on tip-
toe with delight. As the sculptor was anxious to
have it ready for the approaching Exhibition, he
stuck a candle in the front of his hat, took a chisel
in his hand, and laboured at the statue during the
evenings. On one or more of those occasions,
Bird was his companion. The light in the sculp-
tor's hat glimmered as he moved his head amongst
busts and groups, and statues—some emerging
from the block, some rough-hewn, and others fully
finished. The singular scene took the painter's
fancy, and he resolved to make a picture of it. ... I
wish he had finished this very original design: he
left it sketched in oil. Chantrey appears in the
act of carving one of the hands of the figure, sur-
264 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
rounded by his other works, over which there is
shed a partial illumination. When the bust of
Bird was finished, Skirving of Edinburgh, an artist
of some talent and more eccentricity, paid the gal-
lery of the sculptor a visit. He fixed his eye on
the bust of the painter and said to the person who
showed it, “Well—and who is that ?” “It is
Bird—Bird of Bristol.” “Bird! what strange
bird is he 7” “He is an eminent painter.”
“Painter! and what does he paint 7” “Ludicrous
subjects, sir.” “Ludicrous subjects have you
sat?” Upon this the other answered, “He has
had one sitting ; but when he heard that a gentle-
man with a white hat, and who wore no neckcloth,
had arrived from the North, he said, ‘Go, go—I
know of a subject more ludicrous still: Mr. Skir-
ving is come.’”
These visits to London, and his admiration of
the historical pictures of the great painters, wrought
a sore change on Bird: he forsook that style of art
natural to his feelings, and dedicated his pencil to
far other aspirations. He became affected with
a kind of Scripture mania. He thought only of
sublime passages in the Bible, and scenes of re-
ligious tragedy which the Reformation furnished.
The fortitude of Job, the Death of Saphira, the
Crucifixion, and the Burning of Ridley and Lati-
mer, are amongst his latter works: they found
admirers and purchasers. There is considerable
talent in these paintings and some pathos; but
they are deficient in that regal loftiness of look
which the subjects require, and without which
merely clever works are but processions of pup-
pets. Our Redeemer's Atonement had already
IBIRD, 265 -
been painted by higher hands, and the Martyrdom
of the Bishops is a subject too horrible for any
genius to render acceptable.
Those works having failed to yield fame to the
artist in proportion to the toil they cost him, he
filled up the measure of his sorrow by attempting
what I may call the Political style of art. The
times in which Bird lived teemed with events of
vast importance: kings and thrones appeared and
disappeared like figures in a disturbed dream ;
and the splendid sun of Napoleon was setting as
it rose, in blood. We all remember, and many of
us witnessed, the departure of Louis XVIII. from
his English exile for Paris. The painter had
awakened a deep interest by his Surrender of
Calais : he probably imagined that the further he
came down the stream of national story, the in-
terest of the subject would increase; and in an
evil hour for his own happiness, he resolved to
paint the Embarkation of the French King and his
attendants.
Of this work—which proved to be his last—Bird
soon made the sketch, and all that he wanted was
the likenesses of certain important personages.
From Louis himself and his courtiers—men who,
having suffered from oppression, had learned to
be merciful—he received polite and kind atten-
tion. The old King praised the generous English,
and the Duchess of Angouleme spoke highly to
the honour of our ladies. But some of the nobles
of his native land, whom he wished to introduce,
were by no means so tractable to our artist; who
seems indeed to have been little skilled in the arts
of courtly conciliation. They answered his appli-


. 266 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
cations very civilly, but day after day neglected
to bestow on him the necessary sittings. His
patience and at length his health failed him, after
a sore trial of many months. The death of a son
and a daughter, whom he tenderly loved, pressed
grievously about the same period upon his feel-
ings: he grew peevish and dejected, and a droop-
ing look and unsteady step began to give notice
that his days were numbered.
It is painful to think that the sensitive feelings
of a man of genius should have been at the mercy
of people thus unconscious or neglectful of its
claims; but it is still more painful to think that
he dedicated his time to processions and pageants,
in which the likenesses of such ephemeral per-
sonages were necessary to his purpose. Bird
slowly sunk under the pressing misery of hope
deferred, diplomatic excuses and courtly delays;
and on the 2d day of November, 1819, felt no
longer the insolence of office. He died in the
forty-eighth year of his age, and was buried in
the cloisters of Bristol Cathedral. - *
Three hundred gentlemen of Bristol joined in
the funeral procession of their favourite painter,
and when the grave received his remains they
were so much affected with the sight of his son—
a child of seven years old, who was there as chief
mourner—that they requested leave to bear the
expense of the interment. This Mrs. Bird, with
modesty and good feeling, declined. A colder
tale is, however, told, and even credited far from
Bristol. Those three hundred gentlemen, it is
said, obtained, with much intreaty, Mrs. Bird's
permission to bury her husband with all the ho-

BIRD, 267
&
nours of the city and at their own expense. The
scene was splendid, and many were the external
symptoms of public woe; but when all was over,
the undertaker presented his bill to the widow of
the painter. If this story be true, the sarcasms
of Savage and Lovell are merciful and kind—but
I believe it rests on no sufficient authority. h
Edward Bird was in stature below the middle
size, his eyes were expressive, his smile particu-
larly winning, and his whole look full of intelli-
gence. He was an admirer of truth, loved good
order in his family, and kept strict discipline
amongst his children, who loved and feared him.
The air of rusticity which hovered about his per-
son wore off as he became animated in company:
there was much about him to please and even
captivate, and, what all men reverence, a perfect
sincerity of heart. Towards the close of his life
his looks grew dark and melancholy; but this
was less the fault of his mind than of his fortune;
he felt that the world of fashion which he had
worshipped was making its own return—neglect-
# while it praised, and spurning while it caressed
III].
The early works of Bird have an original and
unborrowed air, which mark an artist who thought
for himself, and sought the materials of his pic-
tures in the living world around him, rather than
in the galleries of art. In these he was eminently
happy, and his very success was the cause of his
after-sorrow. A swarm of counsellors came round,
who persuaded him that fame was the satellite of
fashion, and induced him to forsake the modest
path to permanent reputation, and follow the
268 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
º

will-o'-wisp of pageant-painting, which led to the
slough of despond and to despair and the grave.
Those who wish well to the fame of Edward Bird
will speak of his paintings of humble life, and
seek to forget not only these mistaken efforts of
his declining hand, but even his historical produc-
tions, with the single exception of Chevy Chase.

=
-
wº-
º
_º-º-º-º-º:


( 269 )
HENRY FUSELI.
-º-
HENRY FUSELI—so he chose to spell his name,
though his fathers wrote it Fuessli–first saw the
light, by all accounts save his own, in the year
1741, at Zurich; but as he seldom wished to
think like other men, so he refused to be born
according to tradition or register books, and taking
up a little German memoir of himself, changed
the date from 1741 to 1745, without adding either
day or month. He always spoke of his age with re-
luctance. Once when pressed about it he peevishly
exclaimed, “How should I know? I was born in
February or March—it was some cursed cold
month, as you may guess from my diminutive sta-
ture and crabbed disposition.” He was the second
of eighteen children: his name pertains to Swit-
zerland—all by which that name is distinguished
to England.
The father, John Gaspard Fuessli, obtained some
fame as a portrait and landscape painte. : his taste
for poetry procured him the friendship of Kleist,
Klopstock and Wieland; and from his History of
the Artists of Switzerland, his more eminent son
drew some of the materials for an enlarged edition
of Pilkington's Dictionary of Painters. He was
270 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
of the same family as that Matthias Fuessli, a
painter, of Zurich, who studied in Venice, and
died in 1665, of whom Henry gives this brief cha-
racter:—“His extensive talent was checked by
the freaks of an ungovernable fancy—his subjects
in general were battles, towns pillaged, conflagra-
tions, and storms.” There is a kindred likeness
here. The maiden name of Henry's mother was
Elizabeth Waser; he loved to speak of her, and
attributed much of his knowledge to her instruc-
tions—she died when he was eighteen years old.
His father, a scholar and an artist, had probably
experienced some of the sorrows common to both
characters, and, desirous that his son should at
least have bread, proposed to educate him for the
church. The wayward temper of the boy, and
his already enthusiastic love of painting, opposed
strong obstacles to this sensible plan, and the
father, with much of his own wilfulness of spirit,
resolved to enforce obedience. For a while he
was successful. Henry made great progress in
learning—having overleaped the first difficulties,
he became an ardent devourer of the classics; but
it was only or chiefly to find, in the poetry of
Greece and Rome, vivid images of heroic life and
daring flights of imagination.
The time which the school demanded was thus
spent, by one who could do in minutes what would
have cost his fellows hours; for the rest of the
day he had other occupation. As soon as he was
released from his class, he withdrew to a secret
place to enjoy unmolested the works of Michael
Angelo, of whose prints his father had a fine col-
lection. He loved when he grew old to talk of

FUSELI, 271
those days of his youth, of the enthusiasm with
which he surveyed the works of his favourite mas-
ters, and the secret pleasure which he took in
acquiring forbidden knowledge. . With candles
which he stole from the kitchen, and pencils which
his pocket-money was hoarded to procure, he
pursued his studies till late at night, and made
many copies from Michael Angelo and Raphael,
by which he became familiar thus early with the
style and ruling character of the two greatest
masters of the art. The wild old work, called
“Howleglas,” caught his fancy, and he illustrated
it with outlines, representing the ludicrous gam-
bols of a motly jester—with the strange dances
and mischievous tricks of fantastic imps and elves.
The chief character in this strange book, which
was once as popular in England as in Germany, is
Howleglas himself—a personage corresponding
with the Lord of Misrule of Scotland—so well
described by Sir Walter Scott. “The mock dig-
nitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose
thick-squab form had been rendered grotesque by
a supplemental paunch well stuffed. He wore a
mitre of leather with a front like a grenadier's cap,
adorned with mock embroidery and trinkets of tin.
This surmounted a visage the nose of which was
the most prominent feature, being of unusual size,
and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear.
His robe was of buckram, and his cape of canvass
curiously painted and cut into open work. On
one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an
owl, and he bore in the right hand his pastoral
staff, and in the left a small mirror, having a han-
dle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose
272 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
adventures translated into English were once
extremely popular.” The illustrations of Fuseli
were in the spirit of the book, and it is a right face-
tious one—abounding with practical jokes, many
of which the young artist very cleverly embodied.
Etchings of these early attempts were afterwards
published, and are now exceedingly rare; they
are said not to be without merit, and to show, as
the poet says, that “the boy is father of the man.”
His schoolfellows perceived his talents—some of
them purchased his works—and he presently
found himself with more money in his pocket than
he knew well what to do with. The taste of our
youth was decidedly in favour of whatever is
staring and extravagant. He bought a piece of
flame-coloured silk, had it made into a coat, and
in this splendid attire marched up the streets of
Zurich; but the laughter and mockery of his com-
panions put him into such a passion that he soon
threw off the garment and vowed never to be fine
again.
With this two-fold taste for literature and art
upon him, Fuseli was placed—I know not at what
age—in the Humanity College of Zurich, of which
two distinguished men, Bodmer and Breitenger,
were professors. Here he became the bosom com-
panion of that amiable enthusiast, Lavater, studied
English, and conceived such a love for the works
of Shakespeare, that he translated Macbeth into
German. The writings of Wieland and Klopstock
influenced his youthful fancy, and from Shake-
speare he extended his affection to the chief mas-
ters in English literature. His love of poetry was
natural, not affected—he practised at an early age
the art which he admired through life, and some of
IFUSELI, - 273
his first attempts at composition were pieces in his
native language, which made his name known in
Zurich.
Like some other youthful poets, he was also a
reformer. In conjunction with Lavater he com-
posed a pamphlet against a ruler in one of the
bailiwicks, who had abused his powers, and perhaps
personally insulted the two friends. The pea-
santry, it seems, conceiving themselves oppressed
by their superior, complained and petitioned; the
petitions were read by young Fuseli and his com-
panion, who, stung with indignation at the tale of
tyranny disclosed, expressed their feelings in a
satire, which made a great stir in the city. Threats
were publicly used against the authors, who were
guessed at, but not known; upon which they dis-
tributed placards in every direction, offering to
prove before a tribunal the accusations they had
made. Nay, Fuseli actually appeared before the
magistrates—named the offender boldly—arraigned
him with great vehemence and eloquence, and was
applauded by all and answered by none. Pam-
phlets and accusations were probably uncommon
things in Zurich; in some other countries they
would have dropt from the author's hands harm-
less or unheeded, but the united labours of Fuseli
and Lavater drove the unjust magistrate into exile
and procured remuneration to those who had suf-
fered. Of this wonder-working production I can
give no further account. It made Fuseli, in all like-
lihood, few friends; we are certain that it brought
him enemies, who were powerful enough to make
their anger be felt, and finally succeeded in in-
ducing the young genius to quit Zurich.
WOL. II. T

274 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
With a reputation for scholarship, poetry, paint-
ing, and patriotism, and the degree of Master of
-Arts attached to his name, Fuseli bade farewell to
his father's house, and travelled, in company with
Lavater, to Berlin, where he placed himself under
the care of Sulzer, author of the “Lexicon of the
Fine Arts.” His talents and learning obtained him
the friendship of several distinguished men, and
his acquaintance with English poetry, induced Pro-
fessor Sulzer to select him as one well qualified
for opening a communication between the literature
of Germany and that of England. Sir Andrew
Mitchell, British ambassador at the Prussian court,
was consulted; and pleased with his lively genius,
and his translations and drawings from Macbeth
and Lear, received Fuseli with much kindness,
and advised him to visit Britain. Lavater, who
till now had continued his companion, presented
him at parting with a card, on which he had in-
scribed in German, Do but the tenth part of what
you can do. “Hang that up in your bed-head,”
said the physiognomist, “obey it—and fame and
fortune will be the result.”
If we trust the register of Zurich, Fuseli was in
his twenty-second year when he appeared in Eng-
land in 1763; but if we prefer his own statement
as to the time of his birth, he was but eighteen—a
tender age for obtaining the notice of ambassadors,
and too young surely and inexperienced for open-
ing a communication between two great nations in
a matter of literature; yet his behaviour on arriving
in this great Babylon may seem to countenance his
own story. “When I stood in London,” said he,
“ and considered that I did not know one soul in

FUSELI, 275
all this vast metropolis, I became suddenly im-
pressed with a sense of forlornness and burst into
a flood of tears. An incident restored me. I had
written a long letter to my father, giving him an
account of my voyage and expressing my filial
affection—now not weakened by distance—and
with this letter in my hand, I inquired of a rude
fellow whom I met, the way to the Post Office.
My foreign accent provoked him to laughter, and as
I stood cursing him in good Shakesperian English,
a gentleman kindly directed me to the object of
my inquiry.” The embarrassment and tears thus
described may strike many as suiting better the
milkiness of eighteen than the firmer manhood of
twenty-two. -
After he reached London, we hear no more of
the channel of communication which Professor
Sulzer employed him to open between the lite-
rature of Britain and that of Germany. In what
manner this was to be accomplished, I can find no
account: he had common letters of credit to Coutts,
the banker, and friendly introductions to Johnson,
1Millar, and Cadell, the booksellers, who all re-
ceived him with kindness; but he was made ac-
quainted with no man of influence or genius, and
had to seek his way into such society as he might.
His friends, the booksellers, obtained for him the
situation of tutor to the son of some nobleman,
whom he accompanied to Paris. This employment
suited ill with the fiery impatience and untameable
enthusiasm of Fuseli. He loved not to tell the
name of his pupil, nor allude to the success of his
labours, nor was he willing, it is said, to have the
matter mentioned. His governorship is supposed
* T 2
276 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
to have been short: and he returned to London
to dedicate his pen to the daily toils of literature
—to translations, essays, and critiques. Of such
pieces he wrote nearly an hundred, but acknow-
ledged none save a translation of Winklemann's
work on painting and sculpture; and it required
some nerve to make that acknowledgment, for the
book, as has been mentioned in the life of Barry,
advocates the doctrine that British genius is un-
equal to the task of making noble works of art—
a notion which, however absurd, seems to have
sometimes possessed Fuseli himself. The book
which Barry so bitterly answered, excited no ge-
neral attention here. It is a part of the English
temper to listen to such fantastic assailants with
exasperating indifference.
Fuseli afterwards tried his skill on more inflam-
mable materials—he precipitated himself into the
angry controversy then raging between Voltaire
and Rousseau. “Fuseli,” said Bonnycastle to
him one day after dinner, “ you can write well—
why don't you write something?” “Something!”
exclaimed the other, “you always cry write—
Fuseli write l—blastation! what shall I write ”
“Write,” said Armstrong, who was present, “write
on the Voltaire and Rousseau Ron—there is a sub-
jectſ” He said nothing—but went home and be-
gan to write. The enthusiasm of his hatred or
his love enabled him to compose his Essay with
uncommon rapidity, and he printed it forthwith,
in the hope that it would fly abroad to exalt
Rousseau, and confound Voltaire. “It had,” said
one of his friends, “a short life and a bright end-
ing.” The whole impression caught fire, and either

FUSELI, -- 277
angry philosopher lived and died in ignorance whe-
ther the future professor of painting in England
was his friend or his enemy. Fuseli was after-
wards much ashamed of this production, and
scarcely counted the man his friend who alluded
to it. Armstrong, the poet, his constant associate,
had once the boldness to tax him in company with
having written it—Fuseli kindled up “like fire to
heather set” and poured out his fury in both Eng-
lish and German. This calmed him—he then
argued that his friend had no right to couple his
name with such a work—but he did not deny it.
Though thus busied with tutorships and trans-
lations, he had not forgotten his early attachment
to art. He found his way to the studio of Sir
Joshua Reynolds, and submitted several of his
drawings to the President's examination, who
looked at them for some time, and then said,
“How long have you studied in Italy” “I
never studied in Italy—I studied at Zurich—I am
a native of Switzerland—do you think I should
study in Italy 7—and, above all, is it worth while 7”
“Young man,” said Reynolds, “were I the author
of these drawings, and were offered ten thousand
a year not to practise as an artist, I would reject
the proposal with contempt.” This very favour-
able opinion from one who considered all he said,
and was so remarkable for accuracy of judgment,
decided the destiny of Fuseli; he forsook for ever
the hard and thankless trade of literature—refused
a living in the church from some patron who had
been struck with his talents—and addressed him-
self to painting with heart and hand.
The first effort of his pencil was “Joseph inter-
278 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
preting the Dreams of Pharaoh's chief Baker and
Butler.” I have been unable to learn how this
work was executed or received; there was proba-
bly no contention for it among the patrons of art,
since Johnson, the bookseller, became the pur-
chaser. It hung in his house till it became cracked
and faded, when Fuseli took it home to lay what
he called “the villanous clutch of restoration upon
it.” The attempt was probably never made, and
the picture was lost or destroyed. He had now
lived eight years in England, and was in the thir-
tieth year of his age; his enthusiasm was un-
bounded, his learning great, his imagination of a
high order, and much was expected from his zeal
and talents, on whatever field he might ultimately
fix them.
At this period his literary compositions were
wonderfully free from the peculiarities which mark
the writings of foreigners. They have much the
air of being written with the scrupulous fastidious-
mess of one conscious of the sins most likely to
beset him, and anxiously avoiding the enthusiasm
as well as the idioms of the German style. Per-
haps those for whom he wrote such desultory
communications, had shown him with a wet pen
how to sober down the poetic aspirations of his
vein, and finding resistance unprofitable, he sub-
mitted the full-blown flowers of his fancy to the
editorial scythe with composure. But when emi-
mence in art brought him into notice, he resumed
the original license of his pen, and hazarded freer
thoughts and took bolder liberties with language.
His German nature prevailed a little against his
English education—and it cannot be denied that
FUSELI, 279.
it infused a dash of poetic fervour into his lectures
and critical compositions.
His wit, and learning, and talent in art, gained
him early admission to the company of the wealthy
and the distinguished, and such was the varied
power of his conversation that he never met a
stranger without impressing him with a respect for
his genius and a dread of his ridicule. His poetic
talents were of no ordinary kind, and his poems,
written in his native language, are deficient, I have
heard, neither in force nor in fire—though occa-
sionally deformed by bad taste. His attempts in
English verse are rude and unmelodious—distin-
guished by harsh rugged vigour. -
The sketches and drawings of Fuseli were of
a higher order than the works of his pen, and as
art speaks an universal language, they were free
from those deformities which are so visible in his
writings. They exhibited a deep poetic feeling,
acquaintance with the poets and historians of old,
and a perfect sense of the heroic action and senti-
ment which the noblest line of art requires. Arm-
strong, the poet, his friend and counsellor, was not
insensible of their excellence, when he joined in
persuading him to woo the muse of painting alone.
He no sooner formed this resolution than he de-
termined to visit Rome. Armstrong accompanied
him, and both used to relate that whilst they were
descanting on the glories of the Eternal City and
the splendour of ancient sculpture and modern
poetry, their reveries were interrupted by the
sudden grounding of the vessel. This happened
near Genoa, they took to their boats, landed in
safety--quarrelled on the road to Rome, and sepa-
*
280 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
rated in no good mood at Florence. . The poet
went his own way, and Fuseli hastened to the ca-
pital of art.
He had from his boyhood admired Michael An-
gelo in engravings, and he adored him now in his
full and undiminished majesty. It was a story
which he loved to repeat, how he lay on his back
day after day, and week succeeding week, with
upturned and wondering eyes, musing on the splen-
did ceiling of the Sistine Chapel—on the unattain-
able grandeur of the Florentine. He sometimes,
indeed, added, that such a posture of repose was
necessary for a body fatigued like his with the
pleasant gratifications of a luxurious city. He
imagined, at all events, that he drank in as he lay
the spirit of the sublime Michael, and that by stu-
dying in the Sistine, he had the full advantage of
the mantle of inspiration suspended visibly above
him. The flighty imagination of Fuseli required
a soberer master; the wings of his fancy were a
little too strong sometimes for his judgment, and
brought upon him the reproach of extravagance—
an error so rare in British art that it almost be-
comes a virtue. He was no idle votary, for he
strove to imitate; he was no ignorant admirer, for
he thus praises his great master.
“Sublimity of conception, grandeur of form, and
breadth of manner, are the elements of Michael
Angelo's style. By these principles he selected or
rejected the objects of imitation. As painter as
sculptor, as architect, he attempted—and, above
any other man, succeeded—to unite magnificence
of plan and endless variety of subordinate parts
with the utmost simplicity and breadth. His line

F1GSELI. ' 281
is uniformly grand; character and beauty were
admitted only so far as they could be made
subservient to grandeur; the child, the female,
meanness, deformity, were by him indiscriminately
stamped with grandeur. A beggar rose from his
hand the patriarch of poverty; the hump of his
dwarf is impressed with dignity; his women are
moulds of generation; his infants teem with the
man; his men are a race of giants. This is the
“Terribil via " hinted at by Agostino Caracci,
though perhaps as little understood by the Bolog-
nese as by the blindest of his Tuscan adorers, with
Vasari at their head. He is the inventor of epic
painting in that sublime circle of the Sistine Chapel
which exhibits the origin, progress, and final dis-
pensation of Theocracy. He has personified mo-
tion in the groups of the Cartoon of Pisa; embo-
died sentiment in the monuments of St. Lorenzo;
unravelled the features of meditation in the pro-
phets and sybils of the Chapel of Sixtus; and in
the Last Judgment, with every attitude that varies
the human body, traced the master trait of every
passion that sways the human heart. Though as
sculptor he expresses the character of flesh more
perfectly than all who came before or after him, yet
he never submitted to copy an individual, Julio
the Second only excepted, and in him he repre-
sented the reigning passion rather than the man.
In painting, he contented himself with negative
colour, and as the painter of mankind, rejected all
meretricious ornament. The fabric of St. Peter,
scattered into infinity of jarring parts by Bramanti
and his successors, he concentrated, suspended the

282 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
cupola, and to the most complex gave the air of
the most simple of edifices.”
This character carries the image of the author's
mind; the style, however, is clearer, and the ex-
pression less complicated or obscure than was com-
mon with Fuseli. No unimaginative dauber ever
hid his ignorance of anatomy under a redundancy
of drapery, more effectually than this remarkable
man could veil ordinary thoughts under colossal
words. The reader will thank me for transcribing
also the following portrait of Leonardi da Vinci.
“Leonardi da Vinci broke forth with a splendour
which distanced former excellence; made up of all
the elements which constitute the essence of genius;
favoured by education and circumstances; all ear,
all eye, all grasp; painter, poet, sculptor, anatomist,
architect, engineer, chemist, mechanist, musician,
man of science, and sometimes empiric, he laid
hold of every beauty in the enchanted circle—but
without exclusive attachment to one, dismissed, in
her turn, each. Fitter to scatter hints than teach
by example, he wasted life insatiate in experiment.
To a capacity which at once penetrated the prin-
ciple and real aim of art, he joined an inequality of
fancy that at one moment lent him wings for the
pursuit of beauty, and the next flung him on the
ground to crawl after deformity: we owe him
chiaro-scuro with all its magic; we owe him carica-
ture with all its incongruities. His notions of the
most elaborate finish and his want of perseverance
were at least equal. Want of perseverance alone
could make him abandon his Cartoon, desticed for
the great council chamber at Florence, of which the

EUSELI, 283
£).
celebrated contest of horsemen was but one group;
for to him who could organize that composition,
Michael Angelo himself ought rather to have been
an object of emulation than of fear.” -
Fuseli seldom thought with sober feelings upon
either art or literature, and he delighted to invest
the objects of his love with the brightness of heaven
—-those of his hate with the hues of utter darkness.
He poured out his admiration in words which he
wished to thunder and lighten; his irony stung like
an adder, and his sarcasm cut like a two-edged
sword. As he claims attention in writing as well
as in painting, I shall quote a third passage, where
his skill in the former art aided him in expressing
his feelings concerning the latter.
“The inspiration of Michael Angelo was fol-
lowed by the milder genius of Raphael—the father
of dramatic painting — the painter of humanity:
less elevated, less vigorous, but more insinuating;
more pressing on our hearts; the warm master of
our sympathies. What effect of human connexion
—what feature of the mind, from the gentlest emo-
tion to the most fervid burst of passion, has been
left unobserved—has not received a characteristic
stamp from that examiner of men 7 Michael An-
gelo came to nature—nature came to Raphael—
he transmitted her features like a lucid glass—un-
stained, unmodified. We stand with awe before
Michael Angelo, and tremble at the height to which
he elevates us. We embrace Raphael and follow
him wherever he leads us. Perfect human beauty
he has not represented. No face of Raphael's is
perfectly beautiful—no figure of his, in the ab-
stract, possesses the proportions which could raise -

284 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
fy
it to a standard of imitation: form to him was only
a vehicle of character or pathos; and to those he
adapted it, in a mode and with a truth that leave
all attempts at emendation hopeless. His inven-
tion connects the utmost stretch of possibility with
the most plausible degree of probability, in a way
that equally surprises our fancy, persuades our
judgment, and affects our heart. His composition
always hastens to the most necessary point as its
centre, and from that disseminates—to that leads
back as rays all secondary ones. Group, form,
and contrast are subordinate to the event, and
common-place is ever excluded. The line of Ra-
phael has been excelled in correctness, elegance,
and energy; his colour far surpassed in tone, in
truth, and harmony; his masses, in roundness, and
his chiaro-scuro in effect; but, considered as instru-
ments of pathos, they have never been equalled;
and in composition, invention, expression, and the
power of telling a story, he has never been ap-
proached.”
Of Correggio he writes with the same power
and discrimination. “Another charm was yet
wanting,” he says, “to complete the round of art
—harmony: it appeared with Antonio Laeti, called
Correggio, whose works it attended like an en-
chanted spirit. The harmony and the grace of
Correggio are proverbial: the medium which by
breadth of gradation unites two opposite princi-
ples, the coalition of light and darkness by imper-
ceptible transition, are the elements of his style.
This inspires his figures with grace—to this their
grace is subordinate : the most appropriate—the
most elegant attitudes were adopted—rejected—

FUSELI. 285
perhaps sacrificed to the most aukward ones, in
compliance with this imperious principle : parts
vanished, were absorbed, or emerged in obedience
to it. This unison of a whole predominates over
all that remains of him, from the vastness of his
cupolas to the smallest of his oil pictures. The
harmony of Correggio, though assisted by exqui-
site hues, was entirely independent of colour: his
great organ was Chiaro-Scuro, in its most extensive
sense; compared with the expanse in which he
floats, the effects of Leonardi da Vinci are little
more than the dying ray of evening, and the con-
centrated flash of Giorgiome discordant abruptness.
The bland central light of a globe, imperceptibly
gliding through lucid demi-tints into rich reflected
shades, composes the spell of Correggio, and affects
us with the soft emotions of a delicious dream.”
Such are the characters which Fuseli drew with
his pen of those four illustrious artists. The calm
dignity, the solemn grace and tranquil divinity of
Raphael, affected him less than the vigorous, ener-
getic, and startling productions of Michael Angelo.
The works of the latter were indeed more akin to
the fancy of Fuseli, which loved like a meteor to
shine upon unpassable places, and light the dark-
mess of that region which forms the border-land
between sense and absurdity. The mental radi-
ance which Raphael shed so largely upon his com-
positions was inferior, in the opinion of this new
student in the grand style, to the muscular glory
of his great rival. Fuseli had little sympathy with
gentleness and repose: he thought there was no
dignity without action—no sublimity without ex-
aggeration. He fulfilled the injunctions of Rey-
286 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
nolds—he ate and drank and slept and waked
upon Michael Angelo. By a wiser course of study
he might have schooled down his imagination; but
he shunned the calmer company of Correggio and
Raphael to quaff wine from the cup of the Poly-
phemus of modern art. He lived in a species of
intoxication—affected the dress and mimicked the
manners of Michael—assumed the historic shoe,
and would have preferred the sandal. In drawing
and in sketching he tried to imitate his master's
dashing energy and extravagance of breadth, which
induced Piranesi to exclaim, “Fuseli—this is not
designing, but building a man l’” When time had
mellowed his taste, and in his turn he had become
an instructor, he continued to prefer that broad
nervous freedom of hand, and held in derision all
that was cautiously neat or timidly graceful. He
would seize the chalks of the students, stamp with
his tiny foot till they stared or smiled—cry “See!”
and delineate a man in half the time and with
a broader stroke than a tailor uses in chalking
out a garment. Yet coarse as such hasty out-
lines seemed to the inexperienced, in the view of
those acquainted with design, they contained the
elements of the truest art, and presented such ma-
terials for study as none but the hand of a master
could dash off.
Of his studies in the numerous galleries of Italy
he has left a minute account. He refused to follow
the common method of laboriously copying the
chief pictures of the great masters, with the hope
of carrying away their spirit as well as the image
of their works. He sought to animate his own
compositions by contemplating rather than tran-


FUSELI, 287
scribing their's. To his sketches he added obser-
vations with his pen; they are rapturous about all
that is lofty, nor are they deficient either in the
shrewdness which penetrates, or the wisdom which
weighs. He loved to dream along the road—to
follow the phantasies of an unbridled imagination—
to pen sarcastic remarks—sketch colossal groups,
and would call out ever and anon, when some
strange thought struck him, “Michael Angelo !”
His company was eagerly courted by all who
wished to be thought wise or witty; and with the
English gentry, who then, as now, swarmed in
Rome, he formed friendships which were useful
in after-life.
How Fuseli supported himself abroad during
eight years of study, he has not told us; his family
were respectable, not opulent; his attempts with
the pen had enabled him to live without making
his purse overflow, and as his paintings were few,
it has been supposed that the income arising from
his own exertions was but little. It is now ascer-
tained that such was his winning way in conversa-
tion, and such even then the acknowledged powers
of his pencil, that from English travellers alone
he had at one time commissions to the amount of
£1300. Some of his letters from Rome have a
laconic brevity which amuses those whom they fail
to inform ; others breathe of a sadness of heart and
depression of spirit, such as the sons of genius are
commonly heirs to.
“I am inexcusable, Madam,” he thus writes to
Miss Moser. “I know your letter by heart, and
have never answered it: but I am often so very
unhappy within, that I hold it a matter of remorse
288 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
to distress such a friend as Miss Moser with my
own whimsical miseries:— they may be fancied
evils, but to him who has fancy, real evils are un-
necessary, though I have them too. All I can say
is, that I am approaching the period which com-
monly decides a man's life with regard to fame or
infamy: if I am distracted by the thought, those
who have passed the Rubicon will excuse me, and
you are amongst the number. Madam, your most
obliged servant and friend—FUSELI.”
In 1774 he sent to the British Exhibition a
drawing of the Death of Cardinal Beaufort, and
three years after, a Scene from Macbeth—both
marked by much boldness and originality. His
mind loved to range with Shakespeare and Milton
—the Satan of the latter, majestic even in ruin,
was a favourite study, and he imagined no one
save himself could body him forth in all his terror
and glory; the Tempest and the Midsummer Night's
Dream contained images no less congenial, and he
had already filled his portfolio with designs worthy
of the wand of Prospero or the spells of Puck.
His imagination—though he seemed not aware of
it—was essentially Gothic; his mind dwelt with
the poetry and the superstitions of Christendom ;
he talked about, but seldom drew, the gods and
goddesses of Olympus.
In the year 1778 Fuseli left Italy with commis-
sions for pictures in his pocket to a large amount;
commissions, most of which, I grieve to say it, were
afterwards ungenerously withdrawn. Such fickle
patrons are not uncommon in the history of British
art—the meanness of the great, and the sordidness
of the wealthy, pressed sorely upon Fuseli, soured

FUSELI. 289
his temper, and brought on those fits of despon-
dency which are the surest inheritance of the ima-
ginative. He paid a visit to his native Zurich,
and lived six months with his father, whom he
loved tenderly. His elder brother, Rodolph, had
settled in Vienna, and become librarian to the em-
peror, and his brother Caspar died in the prime of
life, after having distinguished himself by several
skilful compositions on entomology. Early in 1779
he left Zurich, to which he never returned, and
came back to London with his mind strengthened
in knowledge, and his hand improved in its cun-
ning. With the reputation of an eight years' resi-
dence in Rome upon him, he commenced his pro-
fessional career, and the beginning was auspicious.
Thus stood art at that time in England. Rey-
molds excelled all men in portraiture and wrought
unrivalled and alone. ilson and Gainsborough
sufficed for the moderate measure of public de-
mand in landscape. Barry and West shared be-
tween them the wide empire of religious and his-
toric composition, and there was nothing left for
Fuseli save the poetical. Nature had endowed
him eminently for this field, and the nation showed
symptoms of an awakening regard for it. No pre-
ceding painter had possessed himself of the high
places of British verse. The enthusiasm for Mil-
ton, and especially for Shakespeare, was warmer
and also more intelligent than at any former time;
and Fuseli was considered by himself and by many
friends as destined to turn this state of feeling to
excellent account.
The first work which proved that an original
mind had appeared in England, was the “Night-
WOL. II, U
290 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
mare,” exhibited in 1782. “The extraordinary
and peculiar genius which it displayed,” says one
of his biographers, “was universally felt, and per-
haps no single picture ever made a greater impres-
sion in this country. A very fine mezzotinto en-
graving of it was scraped by Raphael Smith, and
so popular did the print become, that, although
Mr. Fuseli received only twenty guineas for the
picture, the publisher made five hundred by his
speculation.” This was a subject suitable to the
unbridled fancy of the painter, and perhaps to no
other imagination has the Fiend which murders
our sleep ever appeared in a more poetical shape.
Though the Nightmare was the work which
caught the public fancy most, the OEdipus and his
Daughters—a work of a far higher order—was the
first which he exhibited on his return from Rome.
This is indeed a picture of singular power—full of
feeling and terror. The desolate old man is seated
on the ground, and his whole frame seems in-
spired with a presentiment of the coming ven-
geance of heaven. His daughters are clasping
him wildly, and the sky seems mustering the thun-
der and fire in which the tragic bard has made him
disappear. “Pray, Sir, what is that old man afraid
of?” said some one to Fuseli, when the picture
was exhibited. “Afraid, Sir,” exclaimed the
painter, “why afraid of going to hell!”
His rising fame—his poetic feeling—his great
knowledge—and his greater confidence—now in-
duced Fuseli to commence an undertaking worthy
of the highest genius—The Shakespeare Gallery.
An accidental conversation at the table of the
nephew of Alderman Boydell, started, it is said,
FUSELI. 291
the idea; and West, and Romney, and Hayley,
shared with Fuseli in the honour. But to the
mind of the latter, such a scheme had been long
present; it dawned on his fancy in Rome, even as
he lay on his back marvelling in the Sistine, and
he saw in imagination a long and shadowy succes-
sion of pictures. He figured to himself a magni-
ficent temple, and filled it, as the illustrious artists
of Italy did the Sistine, with pictures from his fa-
vourite poet. All was arranged according to cha-
racter. In the panels and accessaries were the
figures of the chief heroes and heroines—on the
extensive walls were delineated the changes of
many-coloured life, the ludicrous and the sad—the
pathetic and the humorous—domestic happiness
and heroic aspirations—while the dome which
crowned the whole exhibited scenes of higher emo-
tion—the joys of heaven—the agonies of hell—all
that was supernatural and all that was terrible.
This splendid piece of imagination was cut down
to working dimensions by the practised hands of
Boydell, who supported the scheme anxiously and
effectually. On receiving £500 Reynolds entered,
though with reluctance, into an undertaking which
consumed time and required much thought: but
Fuseli had no rich commissions in the way—his
heart was with the subject—in his own fancy he had
already commenced the work, and the enthusiastic
alderman found a more enthusiastic painter, who
made no preliminary stipulations, but prepared his
palette and began.
Shakespeare presented an entire world to the
eye of art; and to embody the whole or any con-
siderable portion of his visions, would demand a
U 2
292 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
combination of powers not to be hoped for. As
might have been expected, Fuseli grappled with
the wildest passages of the most imaginative plays;
and he handled them with a kind of happy and vi-
gorous extravagance, which startled common be-
holders.
The Tempest, the Midsummer Night's Dream,
King Lear, and Hamlet, suggested the best of the
eight Shakespearian pictures which he painted,
and of these, that from Hamlet is certainly the
noblest. It is, indeed, strangely wild and super-
human—if ever a Spirit visited earth, it must have
appeared to Fuseli. The majesty of buried Den-
mark is no vulgar ghost such as scares the belated
rustic, but a sad and majestic shape with the port
of a god; to imagine this, required poetry, and in
that our artist was never deficient. He had fine
taste in matters of high import; he drew the
boundary line between the terrible and the horri-
ble, and he never passed it; the former he knew
was allied to grandeur, the latter to deformity and
disgust. An eminent metaphysician visited the
gallery before the public exhibition; he saw the
Hamlet's Ghost of Fuseli, and exclaimed, like
Burns's rustic in Halloween, “Lord preserve me!”
He declared that it haunted him round the room.
Two of these pictures merit a more detailed
account — the Infant Shakespeare, and Titania.
The first is a fine piece of imagination introduc-
tory to the series of paintings, and the other is
scarcely less so, though professing only to embody
a particular passage of the great poet. In the In-
fant Shakespeare, Tragedy is represented, a beau-
tiful and mournful dame, nursing in her bosom the
17tJSELI, 293
young dramatist; she seems exhausted by her ma-
ternal indulgence, and the child—his lips moist
with milk and his eyes beaming with inspiration
and health—appears anxious to quit her bosom
for that of Comedy—a more youthful and gladsome
lady, who with loose looks and looser attire—with
laughing eyes and feet made to do nothing but
dance, has begun to toy and talk with him.
Around this group the painter has summoned
the various characters which the poet afterwards
created. Lady Constance is there with her settled
sorrow—Lady Macbeth exhibits herself in that
sleeping scene to which a Siddons has added ter-
rors all her own; the three weird sisters—those
black and midnight hags—appear dim but well de-
fined. Falstaff too is there, a hogshead of a man
with a tun of wit: and Caliban, a strange creation
—a connecting link between man and brute—comes
grovelling forward to look at his creator. Over the
whole glares Hamlet's Ghost, throwing a sort of
supernatural halo upon all around. The mask of
Othello lies in the robe of Tragedy, and Queen
Mab and one of her merriest comrades are sport-
ing in Shakespeare's cradle. f
The Titania is more exclusively comic, and can
be compared to nothing more aptly than to the
Strolling Actresses of Hogarth—it overflows with
elvish fun and imaginative drollery. It professes
to embody that portion of the first scene in the
fourth act where the spell-blinded queen caresses
Bottom the weaver, on whose shoulders Oberon's
tranforming wand has placed an ass's head. Tita-
nia, a gay and alluring being, attended by her
THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
&
troop of fairies, is endeavouring to seem as lovely
as possible in the sight of her lover, who holds
down his head and assumes the air of the most
stupid of all creatures. One almost imagines that
her ripe round lips are uttering the well known
words,-
“Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed,
While I thy amiable cheeks do coy,
And stick musk roses in thy sleek smooth head,
And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy.”
The rout and revelry which the fancy of the painter
has poured around this spell-bound pair baffles all
description. All is mirthful, tricksy, and fantastic.
Sprites of all looks and all hues—of all “ dimen-
sions, shapes, and mettles,”—the dwarfish elf and
the elegant fay—Cobweb commissioned to kill a
red-hipped humble bee on the top of a thistle, that
Bottom might have the honey-bag—Pease-Blos-
som, who had the less agreeable employment of
scratching the weaver's head—and that individual
fairy who could find the hoard of the squirrel and
carry away his nuts—with a score of equally merry
companions are swarming everywhere and in full
employment. Pease-Blossom, a fairy of dwarfish
stature, stands on tiptoe in the hôllow of Bottom's
hand, endeavouring to reach his nose—his fingers
almost touch, he is within a quarter of an inch of
scratching, but it is evident he can do no more,
and his new master is too much of an ass to raise
him up.
The paintings which composed the Shake-
speare Gallery were supplied by various hands;
FUSELI, 295
the plan was new, and novelty seldom fails to at-
tract the multitude; but the multitude cannot be
supposed to have much sympathy with works of a
purely poetic order. There must be a strong in-
fusion of the grosser realities of life to secure ex-
tensive popularity: any rustic can feel the merits
of John Gilpin, but what can such a person com-
prehend of the Penseroso 2 Much as the Shake-
speare Gallery was praised, its excellence therefore
was not felt by the people at large. The supe-
riority of Fuseli in poetic conception over all his
compeers was however appreciated by the few, on
whose approbation alone he placed any value.
Those pictures were followed by others, all of
a poetic order—Dante's Inferno suggested the
Fransesca and Paolo—Virgil supplied him with
Dido, from Sophocles he took CEdipus devoting
his son, and from Boccaccio the Theodore and
Honorio. Concerning this latter picture Fuseli
used to say, “Look at it—it is connected with the
first patron I had.” He then proceeded to relate
how Cipriani had undertaken to paint for Horace
Walpole a scene from Boccaccio's Theodore and
Honorio, familiar to all in the splendid translation
of Dryden, and, after several attempts, finding the
subject too heavy for his handling, he said to Wal-
pole, “I cannot please myself with a sketch from
this most imaginative of Gothic fictions; but I
know one who can do the story justice—a man of
great powers, of the name of Fuseli.” “Let me
see this painter of your's,” said the other. Fuseli
was sent for, and soon satisfied Walpole that his
imagination was equal to the task by painting a
splendid picture. He entertained till the hour of
296 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
his death a regard for Cipriani. Those works were
all marked by poetic freedom of thought and by
more than poetic extravagance of action. They
astonished many whom they could not please, and
the name of Fuseli was spread over the island and
heard of in foreign lands. He was elected an As-
sociate of the Academy in 1788, and early in 1790
became an Academician—honours won by talent
without the slightest co-operation of intrigue.
His election was nevertheless unpleasant to Rey-
molds, who desired to introduce Bonomi the archi-
tect. Fuseli, to soothe the President, waited on
him and said, “I wish to be elected an academi-
cian. I have been disappointed hitherto by the
deceit of pretended friends—shall I offend you if
I offer myself next election. “Oh, no,” said Sir
Joshua with a kindly air, “no offence to me; but
you cannot be elected this time—we must have
an architect in.” “Well, well,” said Fuseli, who
could not conceive how an architect could be a
greater acquisition to the Academy than himself
—“Well, well, you say I shall not offend you by
offering myself, so I must make a trial.” The re-
sult has been related in the life of Reynolds.
In the year 1788, he had taken a house in
Queen Ann Street East, with a suitable gallery
and studio, and married Sophia Rawlins. She
proved a kind and faithful wife, who soothed him
in moments of irritation, loved him warmly, and
worshipped his genius. Higher birth and more
delicate breeding might not have done more for
him. She was handsome in youth, nor was she
much faded when Opie painted her portrait. She
was a woman of discretion too as well as of kindly
FUSELI, 297
feelings, and had what ladies call “trials.” These
must be described, as they are interwoven closely
with the character of her husband.
At the table of Johnson, the bookseller, Fuseli
was a frequent guest, and in all conversations that
passed there was lord of the ascendant. There he
met his friend Armstrong, who praised him in the
journals, Wolcot, whom he hated, and Mary Wol-
stonecraft, who at the first interview conferred
upon him the honour of her love. The French
Revolution was at that time giving hopes to the
young and fears to the old. Fuseli was slightly
smitten: but the cap of liberty itself seemed to
have fallen on the heart as well as the head of the
lady; who conducted herself as if it were absurd
to doubt that the new order of things had loosened
all the old moral obligations, and that marriage was
but one of those idle ceremonies now disposed of
for ever by the new dispensation of Lepaux and
his brethren. With such notions Mary Wolstone-
craft cast bold eyes upon the Shakespeare of can-
vass. And he, instead of repelling, as they de-
served, those ridiculous advances, forthwith, it
seems, imagined himself possest with the pure
spirit of Platonic love—assumed the languid air of
a sentimental Corydon—exhibited artificial rap-
tures, and revived in imagination the fading fires
of his youth. Yet Mrs. Fuseli appears to have
had little serious cause for jealousy in this mutual
attachment.
“Between the celebrated painter and herself,
(says the able writer who afterwards married Mary
Wolstonecraft,) there existed sentiments of genuine
affection and friendship. She saw Mr. Fuseli fre-
298 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
*:
quently; he amused, delighted, and instructed her.
As a painter, she could not but wish to see his works,
and consequently to frequent his house; she visited
him ; her visits were returned. Notwithstanding
the inequality of their years, Mary was not of a
temper to live upon terms of so much intimacy
with a man of merit and genius without loving
him. The delight she enjoyed in his society she
transferred by association to his person. She had
now lived for upwards of thirty years in a state of
celibacy and seclusion, and as her sensibilities were
exquisitely acute, she felt this sort of banishment
from social charities more painfully than persons
in general are likely to feel it. The sentiments
which Mr. Fuseli excited in her mind taught her
the secret to which she was in a manner a stranger.
Let it not, however, be imagined, that this was
any other than the dictate of a refined sentiment,
and the simple deduction of morality and reason.
It happened in the present case that Mr. Fuseli
was already married; and in visiting at his house
his wife became the acquaintance of Mary. Mary
did not disguise from herself how desirable it would
have been that the man in whom she discovered
qualities calling forth all the strength of her attach-
ment, should have been equally free with herself.
But she cheerfully submitted to the empire of cir-
cumstances.”
The coquetting of a married man of fifty with a
tender female philosopher of thirty-one can never
be an agreeable subject of contemplation; but it
is probable that Fuseli felt no disposition to aban-
don his wife and his duty, however culpable he
may have been in permitting the commencement
FUSELI, 299
of this absurd flirtation. Mrs. Fuseli, meanwhile,
regarded the philandering of these originals with no
easy mind. One day, when she seemed to be in
a towering passion, “Sophia, my love,” said her
sarcastic husband, “why don't you swear?—you
don't know how much it would ease your mind.”
To ease her own mind, Mary Wolstonecraft went
to France in the year 1792. “One of her princi-
pal inducements to this step,” says her husband
and biographer, “related, I believe, to Mr. Fuseli,
She had at first considered it as reasonable and
judicious to cultivate what I may be permitted to
call a Platonic affection for him, but she did not in
the sequel find all the satisfaction in this plan which
she had originally expected from it. It was in
vain that she enjoyed much pleasure in his society
and that she enjoyed it frequently. Her ardent
imagination was continually conjuring up pictures
of the happiness she would have found if fortune
had favoured their more intimate union. She felt
herself formed for domestic affection, and all those
tender charities which men of sensibility have
always treated as the dearest bond of human so-
ciety. General conversation and society could not
satisfy her; she felt herself alone as it were in the
great mass of her species, and she repined when
she reflected that the best years of her life were
spent in this comfortless solitude. These ideas
made the cordial intercourse of Mr. Fuseli, which
had at first been one of her greatest pleasures, a
source of perpetual torment to her. She conceived
it necessary to snap the chain of this association in
her mind, and for this purpose determined to seek
a new climate and mingle in different scenes.” It
*
*...*
300 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
would have been as well if Philosophy had kept
her favourite daughter at home; but I shall lift the
veil no further—those who wish to follow out the
story of this strange person, may consult the pages
of the gentleman who could not only admire, but
marry her, and when she was no more, employ the
pen, which wrote Caleb Williams, in a detailed nar-
rative of her crazy and vicious career.
Fuseli sought refuge from the active affections of
Miss Wolstonecraft, in the absorbing studies of a
new and gigantic undertaking—this was the Mil-
ton Gallery of Paintings commenced in 1791, com-
pleted in 1800, and containing in all forty-seven
pictures from the works of the illustrious poet.
This magnificent plan originated with Fuseli, was
countenanced by Johnson the bookseller, and sup-
ported by the genius of Cowper, who undertook
to prepare an edition of Milton with translations
of his Latin and Italian poems. The pictures were
to be engraven and introduced as embellishments to
the work. Of this task the poet thus writes to his
friend Rose: “You, who know how necessary it is
for me to be employed, will be glad to hear that I
have been called to a new literary engagement, and
that I have not refused it. A Milton, that is to
rival, and, if possible, exceed in splendour Boydell's
Shakespeare, is in contemplation, and I am in the
editor's office. Fuseli is the painter. My busi-
ness will be to select notes from others, and write
original notes: to translate the Latin and Italian
poems and give a correct text.” Ill-health inter-
fered between the poet and his task—the painter
went to work with more than even his accustomed
enthusiasm. It would appear, however, that Boy-
TUSELI, 301
dell threw obstacles in the way, though of what
kind I cannot guess. They are thus alluded to by
Cowper in one of his letters. “As to Milton, the
die is cast—I am engaged—have bargained with
Johnson and cannot recede. This squabble, in the
mean time, between Fuseli and Boydell does not in-
terest me at all; let it terminate as it may, I have
only to perform my job and leave the event to be
decided by the combatants.” If Boydell was dis-
pleased because Fuseli had preferred the offers of
Johnson we may then suppose that the Shakespeare
had been to him a profitable undertaking—men in
business seldom dispute concerning works which
are not marketable. The upshot was, that Boy-
dell was vanquished or was pacified, and the work,
which perhaps had never been seriously inter-
rupted, went on.
To this high task the artist brought many high
qualities; but when the doors of the Milton Gal-
lery were opened to the world, it was seen that the
genius of Fuseli was of a different order from that
of Milton. To the severe serene majesty of the
poet the intractable fancy of the painter had re-
fused to bow; the awful grandeur of the realm of
Perdition, and the sublime despair of its untame-
able Tenant, were too much for him—though he
probably thought them too little. He could add
fury to Moloch and malignancy to Beelzebub; but
he fell below the character of terrible daring,
enduring fortitude, and angelic splendour, which
mark the arch-apostate of Milton. The most vi-
sible want is in that grave and majestic solemnity
with which the poet has invested all that he has
302 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
touched ; and the chief excellences to be set
against this prevailing defect, are a certain aérial
buoyancy, and a supernatural glow of colour, which
in some of these pieces fill the imagination of the
observer, and redeem in so far the reputation of
Fuseli.
Of the paintings which compose this gallery,
The Lazar House is most admired by men of
vertà: The rising of Satan at the touch of Ithu-
riel's Spear is the favourite with the multitude.
In the first he showed fine taste and poetic tact,
by omitting all which could excite disgust, and
by giving a mental rather than a bodily image of
the poet's meaning. In the latter he shows us our
first parents asleep in all the lustre of innocence,
and the discovered fiend starting up in his own
likeness at the touch of the celestial spear. In
the Lazar House he has handled a difficult subject
with wonderful skill—in the other he has suc-
cessfully shown the power which he possessed
above all men of giving aerial motion to his super-
natural creations. In the whole compass of art
there is not a lovelier or more terrific scene than
this—the naked and reposing loveliness of the new
created pair, and the startled and louring looks of
the audacious fiend as he rises “like a pyramid
of fire,” are blended into one strange but perfect
harmony.
To image forth the undaunted fiend with horror
plumed on his helm was no common task, but to
give a true and yet an undisgusting picture of the
Lazar House, seemed more difficult still. Let the
reader only conceive how it was possible to per-
FUSELI. 303
sonate these lines without offending against the
proprieties of pictorial composition.
“Immediately a place
Before his eyes appear'd, sad, noisome, dark;
A Lazar House it seem'd; wherein were laid
Numbers of all diseased; all maladies
Of ghastly spasm, or racking tortures; qualms
Of heart-sick agony; all feverous kinds;
Convulsions, epilepsies, fierce catarrhs;
Intestine stone and ulcer; colic pangs;
Demoniac phrenzy, moping melancholy,
And moonstruck madness; pining atrophy,
Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence;
Dropsies and asthmas, and joint-racking rheums.
Dire was the tossing, deep the groans; Despair
Tended the sick, busied from couch to couch,
And over them triumphant Death his dart
Shook, but delayed to strike.”


Fuseli has omitted Despair—Demoniac phrenzy is
one of the most pathetic imaginings of the painter.
This fine picture, together with the Bridging of
Chaos, is in the gallery of Lord Guildford.
“The Night-Hag” is another noble effort of
imagination—it embodies these grand lines:
“Nor uglier follow the Night-Hag, when, called
In secret, riding through the air, she comes,
Lured with the smell of infant blood, to dance
With Lapland witches, while the labouring moon
Eclipses at their charms.”
In this picture Fuseli may almost be said to have
equalled his author; yet it remained long on his
hands. In 1808, when Mr. Knowles bought it,
Fuseli looked earnestly at him, and said, “Young
man, the picture you have purchased is one of my
304 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
very best—yet no one has asked its price till now
—it requires a poetic mind to feel and love such
a work.”
In a pecuniary point of view these pieces were
unproductive; but the praise which the attempt
and much of the execution obtained gratified the
painter, nor was he unwilling to believe, that, like
the poem which they embellished, they would have
but an age of oblivion and many centuries of light.
They were all visible, he said, to his fancy before
he painted them. He pondered over the poet till
he was fully possessed with the character of the
scene; the figures which belonged to it appeared
as it were in a vision: but he nevertheless com-
plained of the splendour in which his fancy in-
vested them, and declared that he could not paint
up to his imagination. In comparing those splendid
fictions with living nature, he was struck, he often
said, with the lamentable deficiencies of the latter;
yet conscious that by nature he must be tried and
judged, he was heard to exclaim in a fit of peevish-
ness, “Damn Nature —she always puts me out.”
He had sometimes the curiosity to walk into the
Milton Gallery after it was opened to the public,
and as it was never very crowded, he could look
at his works without much fear of interruption.
One day a visitor accosted him, mistaking him for
the keeper — “Those paintings, Sir, are from
Paradise Lost I hear, and Paradise Lost was writ-
ten by Milton—I have never read the poem, but
I shall read it now.” “I would not advise you,
Sir,” said the sarcastic artist, “ you will find it an
exceedingly tough job.” In the original sketch
of the guardian angels forsaking our first parents
FUSELI, 305
after the fall, they were represented rising on
wings. He looked earnestly at his sketch, and
exclaimed—for he generally thought aloud—
“They shall rise without wings.” He tried and
succeeded.
Fears of a pecuniary nature pressed not a little
on Fuseli while he laboured in the Milton Gallery,
From these he was relieved by a stedfast friend—
Mr. Coutts—who aided him while in Rome and
forsook him not in any of his after difficulties.
The grateful painter once waited on the banker
and said, “I have finished the best of all my
works—the Lazar House—when shall I send it
home?” “My friend,” said Coutts, “for me to
take this picture would be a fraud upon you and
upon the world. I have no place in which it
could be fitly seen. Sell it to some one who has
a gallery—your kind offer of it is sufficient for
me, and makes all matters straight between us.”
For a period of sixty years that worthy man was
the unchangeable friend of the painter. The ap-
prehensions which the latter entertained of poverty
were frequently without cause, and Coutts on such
occasions has been known to assume a serious
look and talk of scarcity of cash and of sufficient
securities. Away flew Fuseli, muttering oaths and
cursing all parsimonious men, and having found
a friend, returned with him breathless, saying,
“There ! I stop your mouth with a security.”
The cheque for the sum required was given, the
security refused, and the painter pulled his hat
over his eyes
“To hide the tear that fain would fall”—
and went on his way. * ---
WºOL. II. X
306 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
Before he commenced his labours in the Milton
Gallery, he obtained the friendship of the poet
Cowper. This was brought about by their sympa-
thy of admiration for Homer. He, we have already
said, was one of the gods whom Fuseli worshipped,
while on our English poets, with the exception of
Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton, he
looked with indifference or contempt. But when
the author of the Task laid his hand on Homer, in
1784, he rose suddenly in the estimation of Fuseli.
To offer incense to his chief idol was a proof at once
of belief and taste, and the learned artist volun-
teered to correct some passages where the trans-
lator, as he imagined, had erred in the sense, and
to lend him light in other parts which the com-
mentators had left obscure. That he was equal to
all this there can be little doubt, since Cowper
says so. “I am very sensibly obliged,”—he thus
writes to his bookseller, in 1790—“ by the re-
marks of Mr. Fuseli, and I beg that you will tell
him so: they afford me opportunities of improve-
ment which I shall not neglect. When he shall
see the press copy he will be convinced of this,
and will be convinced, likewise, that smart as he
sometimes is, he spares me often when I have no
mercy on myself.”
- In another letter the poet bestows higher praise
on his critic. “My translation, (he says,) fast as
it proceeds, passes under the observation of a most
accurate discerner of all blemishes. I know not
whether I told you before or now tell you for the
first time, that I am in the hands of a most extra-
ordinary person. He is intimate with my book-
seller and voluntarily offered his service. I was


FUSELI, * 307
at first doubtful whether to accept it or not; but
finding that my friends were not to be satisfied on
any other terms, though myself a perfect stranger
to the man and his qualifications, except as he was
recommended by Johnson, I at length consented,
and have since found reason to rejoice that I did.
I called him an extraordinary person, and such he
is ; for he is not only correct in Homer and accu-
rate in his º: of the Greek to a degree
that entitles him to that appellation, but though a
foreigner, is a perfect master of our language and
has exquisite taste in English poetry.” Praise
from a man so wise and conscientious as Cowper
is entitled to every respect. -
Examples of his critical sagacity and specimens
of his mice perception of the meaning of Homer,
might readily be quoted, for Cowper has affixed
Fuseli's initials to all the emendations which he
adopted. There is a strong poetic sensibility in
many of his corrections; and the learned are
agreed that sound scholarship pervades them all.
“By his assistance,” says Cowper, with his cus-
tomary openness, “I have improved many pas-
sages,” supplied many oversights, and corrected
many mistakes—such as will of course escape the
most diligent and attentive labourer in such a
work. I ought to add, because it is the best



* To give a single example —the second line in the fol-
lowing passage, describing Hector and his warriors, in the
thirteenth Book of the Iliad, was supplied by Fuseli.
. . . . . . . . “Spear crowded spear,
Shield, helmet, man, pressed helmet, man, and shield:
The hairy crests of their resplendent casques
Kiss'd close at every nod.”
x 2
308 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
assurance of his zeal and fidelity, that he does not
toil for hire, nor will accept of any premium, but
has entered upon the business merely for his
amusement.” In literature as well as in art,
Fuseli was a thorough enthusiast—the love of
mere amusement had no charms for him any more
than the desire of gain—he was a slave to his
love of fame, and a slave to nothing else. His
voluntary labours on Homer extended over a space
of five years.
Though Fuseki was accustomed to express sove-
reign contempt for all that artists know by the
name of commissions, he had been prevailed upon
by an offer of two hundred and fifty pounds to
make drawings for a large edition of Shakespeare.
Of this backsliding he never failed to speak with
sorrow and scorn; he conceived commissions to
be injurious to art, and to take away much of the
inspiration which must or should be felt in the
creation of works of true genius. His illustrations
of Shakespeare, however, are not less clever than
strange. They are full of poetical feeling and
more than poetical wildness. The observance of
nature and the barbarism of dress were constantly
in his way, and in his attempts to escape from the
fetters of costume he cuts very curious capers.
Orlando in the Forest is a striking example—he is
demanding food for his famishing companion, his
posture is ludicrously extravagant, and his dress
fits so close, that were it not for the projecting
selvages of his pantaloons, he would not appear
to live in a land of civilization and tailors.
Nor was Fuseli much more sedate in the action
of his designs, when a graver work demanded his
FUSELI, 309
pencil—he furnished sketches for the Bible, pub-
lished in sixpenny numbers, and joined Richard
Westall in illustrating a splendid edition of the
New Testament. This too was a commission;
whatever resembled trade hurt the sensitive mature
of Fuseli: for the excellence of the work take his
own words. “We made pictures for the New
Testament—there was only one good one among
them all, and I suspect I painted it; but Richard
may have the merit if he likes, for it was not
much.” The ci-devant friend of Miss Wolstone-
craft was no scoffer at revelation, nor would he
suffer any one in his presence to call it in question;
he was, in fact, too full of feeling not to reverence
his Bible, and he was at all times difficult to please
with modern attempts to embody Scripture. When
Northcote exhibited his judgment of Solomon,
Fuseli looked at it with a sarcastic smirk on his
face. “How do you like my picture ?” inquired
Northcote. “ Much” was the answer—“ the
action suits the word—Solomon holds out his fin-
gers like a pair of open scissors at the child, and
says, “Cut it.”—I like it much ſ” Northcote re-
membered this when Fuseli exhibited a picture re-
presenting Hercules drawing his arrow at Pluto.
“How do you like my picture?” inquired Fuseli.
“Much ſ” said Northcote—“ it is clever, very
clever, but he'll never hit him.” “He shall hit
him,” exclaimed the other, “ and that speedily.”
Away ran Fuseli with his brush, and as he laboured
to give the arrow the true direction, was heard to
mutter, “Hit him —by Jupiter, but he shall hit
him l’”
His reverence for Homer and regard for Cowper
310 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
induced him, on the appearance of the Iliad in
1793, to write a criticism upon it in the Analytical
Review, a work which was favoured with many
contributions from his pen—on natural history,
classical learning, and the fine arts. It was not easy
indeed to translate up to Fuseli's notion of Homer;
and Cowper comprehended him fully when he read
his critique. “I am happy,” said that modest and
devout poet, “to have fallen into the hands of a
critic rigorous enough indeed, but a scholar and a
man of sense, and who does not deliberately intend
me mischief. I am better pleased indeed that he
censures some things, than I should have been to
be treated with unmixed commendation; for his
censure, to use the new diplomatic term, will ac-
credit his praise. In his particular remarks he is
for the most part right, and I shall be the better
for them, but in his general ones I think he asserts
too largely and more than he could prove. The
critic, by the way, is Fuseli—I know him by infalli-
ble indications.” It was not easy to mistake the hand
of one who took such singular liberties occasion-
ally with the English language. The observations
in this criticism were sometimes profound, often
sagacious, and occasionally sarcastic.
It pleased Fuseli to be thought one of those
erudite gentlemen whom the poet describes—

Far seen in Greek—deep men of letters;
and he loved to annoy certain of his companions
with the display of his antique lore. He some-
times composed Greek verses in the emergency of
the moment, and affected to forget the name of the
author. He once repeated half-a-dozen sonorous
FUSELE, 3.11
and well-sounding lines to Porson, and said “With
all your learning now you cannot tell me who
wrote that.” The Professor, “ much renowned
for Greek,” confessed his ignorance, and said “I
don't know him.” “How the devil could you
know him 7” chuckled Fuseli—“ I made them
this moment.” When thwarted in the Academy,
and that was not seldom, his wrath aired itself in a
polyglott. “It is a pleasant thing and an advan-
tageous,” said the painter, on one of those occa-
sions, “to be learned. I can speak Greek, Latin,
French, English, German, Danish, Dutch, and
Spanish, and so let my folly or my fury get vent
through eight different avenues.”
Many sarcastic remarks were uttered and more
written on the wild insobriety of his productions,
and as he was not spared himself, neither did he
spare others. His vanity was galled, not wounded,
by the random strictures of criticism; and his
reign at the table of Johnson, the bookseller,
where he appeared weekly, was sometimes ren-
dered uneasy by the satire of Wolcot, to whom
the oddities of the artist presented a broad mark.
But it was impossible to dethrone him. He had
reigned there forty years, adorning the society by
his learning and enlivening it with his wit, and in
both he was a match for any of the distinguished
men, and those were not few, whom it was his for-
tune to encounter.
When Barry lost the professorship of painting,
in the year 1799, it was bestowed with acclama-
tion on Fuseli, and as his mind was overflowing
with knowledge of all kinds, he found little diffi-
culty and much pleasure in fulfilling the duties of

312 THE BRITISH PAINTERs.
his new station. During his professorship he de-
livered nine lectures; of which the following six
only are printed—on ancient art, modern art,
invention, composition, expression, and chiaro-
scuro. The first three are the best. In them he
has poured out learning, observation, and feeling
with a lavish hand, and there is an original power
in his diction, such as no man has exhibited before
or since in a language not his own. The first
three lectures were delivered in 1801, the crowds
who went to hear them were great, and their cheers
vehement. His disquisition upon Invention has
been deservedly admired. It is difficult to select
a single passage which will give a sufficient notion
of the author's original grasp of mind.
“Form, in its widest meaning, the visible uni-
verse that envelopes our senses, and its counter-
part, the invisible one, that agitates our mind with
visions bred on sense by fancy, are the element
and realm of invention: it discovers, selects, com-
bines the possible, the probable, the known, in a
mode that strikes with an air of truth and novelty.
Possible, strictly, means an effect derived from a
cause, a body composed of materials, a coalition
of forms whose union or co-agency imply in them-
selves no absurdity, no contradiction: applied to
our art, it takes a wider latitude; it means the
representation of effects derived from causes, or
forms compounded from materials heterogeneous
and incompatible among themselves, but rendered
so plausible to our senses, that the transition of
one part to another seems to be accounted for by
an air of organization, and the eye glides imper-
ceptibly, or with satisfaction, from one to the other,
FUSELI. 313
or over the whole: that this was the condition on
which, and the limits within which, the ancients
permitted invention to represent what was strictly
speaking impossible, we may with plausibility
surmise from the picture of Zeuxis, described by
Lucian in the memoir to which he has prefixed
that painter's name, who was probably one of
the first adventurers in this species of imagery.
Zeuxis had painted a family of Centaurs: the
dam, a beautiful female to the middle, with the
lower parts gradually sliding into the most exqui-
site forms of a young Thessalian mare, half re-
clined in playful repose, and gently pawing the
velvet ground, offered her human nipple to one
infant centaur, whilst another greedily sucked the
feline udder below, but both with their eyes turned
up to a lion whelp held over them by the male
centaur, their father, rising above the hillock on
which the female reclined, a grim feature, but
whose ferocity was somewhat tempered by a smile.
“This picture the artist exhibited, expecting
that justice from the penetration of the public
which the genius deserved that taught him to give
plausibility to a compound of heterogeneous forms,
to inspire them with suitable soul, and to imitate
the laws of existence ; he was mistaken. The
novelty of the conceit eclipsed the art that had
embodied it; the artist was absorbed in his sub-
ject, and the unbounded praise bestowed was that
of idle restless curiosity gratified. Sick of gods
and goddesses, of demigods and pure human com-
binations, the Athenians panted only for what was
new... The artist, as haughty as irritable, ordered
his picture to be withdrawn. “Cover it, Micchio,'
314 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
said he to his attendant, “ cover it, and carry it
home, for this mob stick only to the clay of our
art.” Such were the limits set to invention by
the ancients: secure within these it defied the
ridicule thrown on that grotesque conglutination
which Horace exposes: guarded by these, their
mythology scattered its metamorphoses, made
every element its tributary, and transmitted the
privilege to us on equal conditions. Their Scylla
and our Portress of Hell—their daemons and our
spectres—the shade of Patroclus and the ghost of
Hamlet—their naiads, nymphs and oreads, and
our sylphs, gnomes and fairies—their furies and
our witches—differ less in essence than in local
temporary social modifications: their common
origin was fancy operating upon the materials of
nature, assisted by legendary tradition and the
curiosity implanted in us of diving into the invi-
sible; and they are suffered or invited to mix
with or superintend real agency, in proportion to
the analogy which we discover between them and
ourselves. Pindar praises Homer less for that
‘winged power' which whirls incident on incident
with such rapidity, that, absorbed by the whole
and drawn from the impossibility of single parts,
we swallow a tale too gross to be believed in a
dream, than for the greater power by which he
contrived to connect his imaginary creation with
the realities of nature and human passions: with-
out this, the fiction of the poet and the painter
will leave us rather stupified by its insolence than
impressed by its power; it will be considered only
as a superior kind of legerdemain—an exertion of
ingenuity to no adequate end.”

FUSELI, 315
The chief aim of the new Professor was to im-
press on his audience a sense of the nobleness of
art, and the high purposes to which alone it ought
to be dedicated. With his own pencil he endea-
voured to obey his own maxims, and the subjects
which he painted were all in their nature poetical.
Neither the advice of friends, the taunts of ene-
mies, nor the offers of the wealthy, could induce
him to descend farther down the scale of art.
Like some of the old preachers, who, in their fierce
sermons, ordered the profane and those who were
not chosen, to rise and depart, he dismissed from
his lecture-room all students with sordid minds,
who looked upon art as the way to gain—and who
had none of the fervour of natural genius. On
those who made mere fac-similes of human life, or
who painted new-mown meadows, or well-fed oxen,
he had little mercy. He asserted in conversation,
if not in lectures, that the Royal Academy robbed
the plough and the shoemaker's stall of very meri-
torious persons, and that many came to the sculp-
tor's chisel and the painter's pencil, who might
have handled the joiner's plane or the tailor's scis-
sors with greater advantage to the public and pro-
fit to themselves.
To support his theory of Invention, he was
ready with illustration from ancient lore and the
stores of an inexhaustible imagination. On one
occasion he introduced the following happy quo-
tation from Quintilian:– “We give,” says that
eminent Roman, “the name of visions to what the
Greeks call phantasies: that power by which the
images of ancient things are represented by the
mind with the energy of objects moving before
316 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
our eyes: he who conceives these rightly will be a
master of passions; his is that well-tempered fancy
which can imagine things, voices, acts, as they
really exist—a power, perhaps, in a great measure,
dependent on our will. For if those images so
pursue us when our minds are in a state of rest,
or fondly fed by hope, or in a kind of waking
dream; that are seen to travel, to sail, to fight, to
harangue in public, or disposes of riches we pos-
sess not, and all this with an air of reality, why
should we not turn to account this view of the
mind? Suppose I am to plead the case of a mur-
dered man, why should not every supposable cir-
cumstance of the act float before my eyes? Shall
I not see the murderer, unawares, rush in upon
him—in vain he tries to escape—see how pale he
turns—hear you not his shrieks—his entreaties?
—do you not see him flying, struck, falling? Will
not his blood, his ashy semblance, his groans, his
last expiring gasp, seize on every mind?”
“By this radiant recollection of associated
ideas,” continues Fuseli, “the spontaneous ebulli-
tions of nature, selected by observation, treasured
by memory, classed by sensibility and judgment,
Shakespeare became the supreme master of pas-
sions and the ruler of our hearts: this embodied
his Falstaff and his Shylock—Hamlet and Lear—
Juliet and Rosalind. By this power he saw War-
wick uncover the corpse of Gloucester and swear
to his assassination and his tugs for life: by this
he made Banquo see the Weird Sisters bubble up
from earth, and in their own air vanish: this is
the hand that struck upon the bell when Mac-
beth's drink was ready, and from her chamber
Fuseli. - 317
pushed his dreaming wife once more to methodize
the murder of her guest:-and this was the power
of Theon; such was the unpremeditated concep-
tion which inspired him with the idea of that war-
rior, who, in the words of AElian, seemed to em-
body the terrible graces and the enthusiastic furor
of the God of War. Impetuous he rushed on-
ward to oppose the sudden incursion of enemies—
with shield thrown forward and high brandished
falchion, his step, as he swept on, seemed to de-
vour the ground; his eye flashed defiance—you
fancied to hear his voice—his looks denounce
perdition and slaughter without mercy. His
figure, single, and without other accompaniments
of war than what the havoc of the distance showed,
Theon deemed sufficient to answer the impression
he intended to make on those whom he had se-
lected to inspect it. He kept it covered till a
trumpet, after a prelude of martial symphonies, at
once by his command blew with an invigorated
fierceness a signal of attack—the curtain dropped
— the terrific figure appeared to start from the
canvass, and irresistibly assailed the astonished
eyes of the assembly.”
Not the least valuable parts of Fuseli's lectures
are those in which he, for the illustration of his
own opinions, describes and compares particular
works of the great masters. The Lecture on
Eapression (published in 1820) is especially rich
in passages of this kind, nor perhaps has Vasari
himself surpassed, even in his famous description
of Giorgione's St. Mark, the effect produced by
the style of Fuseli in treating of the Samson of
318 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
Rembrandt, as contrasted with that of Julio Ro-
mano. The reader will not quarrel with the
length of the following quotation. -
“The gradations of expression within, close to,
and beyond its limits, cannot perhaps be elucidated
with greater perspicuity than by comparison; and
the different moments which Julio Romano, Van-
dyke and Rembrandt, have selected to represent
the subject of Samson betrayed by Delilah, offers
one of the fairest specimens furnished by art.
Considering it as a drama, we may say that Julio
forms the plot, Vandyke unravels it, and Rem-
brandt shews the extreme of the catastrophe.
“In the composition of Julio, Samson, plunged
into sleep, and stretched on the ground, rests his
head and presses with his arm the thigh of Delilah
on one side, whilst on the other a nimble minion,
busily but with timorous caution, fingers and clips
his locks: such is his fear, that, to be firm, he
rests one knee on a footstool tremblingly watching
the sleeper, and ready to escape at his least mo-
tion. Delilah, seated between both, fixed by the
weight of Samson, warily turns her head toward a
troop of warriors in the back ground; with the
left arm stretched out she beckons their leader,
with the finger of the right hand she presses her
lip to enjoin silence and noiseless approach. The
Herculean make and lion port of Samson, his
perturbed though ponderous sleep, the quivering
agility of the curled favourite employed, the harlot
graces and meretricious elegance contrasted b
equal firmness and sense of danger in Delilah, the
attitude and look of the grim veteran who heads



FUSELI, 319
the ambush, whilst they give us the clue to all that
followed, keep us in anxious suspense—we palpi-
tate in breathless expectation; this is the plot.
“The terrors which Julio made us forbode,
Vandyke summons to our eyes. The mysterious
lock is cut; the dreaded victim is roused from the
lap of the harlot-priestess. Starting unconscious
of his departed power, he attempts to spring for-
ward, and with one effort of his mighty breast and
expanded arms to dash his foes to the ground and
fling the alarmed traitress from him—in vain,
shorn of his strength, he is borne down by the
weight of the mailed chief that throws himself
upon him, and overpowered by a throng of in-
furiate satellites. But though overpowered, less
aghast than indignant, his eye flashes reproach on
the perfidious female whose wheedling caresses
drew the fatal secret from his breast; the plot is
unfolded, and what succeeds, too horrible for the
sense, is left to fancy to brood upon, or drop it.
“This moment of horror the gigantic but bar-
barous genius of Rembrandt chose, and, without
a metaphor, executed a subject, which humanity,
judgment and taste taught his rivals, only to treat;
he displays a scene which no eye but that of Do-
mitian or Nero could wish or bear to see. Sam-
son, stretched on the ground, is held by one Phi-
listine under him, whilst another chains his right
arm, and a third, clenching his beard with one,
drives a dagger into his eye with the other hand.
The pain that blasts him, darts expression—from
the contortions of the mouth and his gnashin
teeth, to the crampy convulsions of the leg dashed
high into the air. Some fend-like features glare


320 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
through the gloomy light which discovers Delilah,
her work now done, sliding off, the shears in her
left, the locks of Samson in her right hand. If
her figure, elegant, attractive, such as Rembrandt
never conceived before or after, deserve our won-
der rather than our praise: no words can do jus-
tice to the expression that animates her face, and
shows her less shrinking from the horrid scene,
than exulting in being its cause. Such is the
work, whose magic of colour, tone, and chiaro-
scuro, irresistibly entrap the eye, whilst we detest
the brutal choice of the moment.
“Let us, in conclusion, contrast the stern pathos
of this scenery with the placid emotions of a milder
subject, in the celebrated pictures which represent
the Communion or Death of St. Jerome, by Agos-
tino Caracci, and his scholar, Domenichino, that
an altar-piece in the Certosa, near Bologna, this in
the church of St. Girolamo della Carità at Rome;
but for some time both exhibited in the gallery of
the Louvre at Paris. What I have to say on the
invention, expression, characters, tone and colour
of either, is the result of observations lately made
on both in that gallery, where then they were
placed nearly opposite to each other.
“In each picture, St. Jerome brought from his
cell to receive the sacrament, is represented on his
knees, supported by devout attendants; in each
the officiating priest is in the act of administering
to the dying saint; the same clerical society fills
the portico of the temple in both ; in both the
scene is witnessed from above by infant angels.
“The general opinion is in favour of the pupil,
but if in the economy of the whole Domenichino
FUSELI, 321
º
surpasses his master, he appears to me greatly in-
ferior both in the character and expression of the
hero. Domenichino has represented Piety scarcely
struggling with decay, Agostino triumphant over
it: his saint becomes in the place where he is a
superior being, and is inspired by the approaching
god: that of Domenichino seems divided between
resignation, mental and bodily imbecility, and de-
sire. The saint of Agostino is a lion, that of Do-
menichino, a lamb.
“In the sacerdotal figure administering the via-
ticum, Domenichino has less improved than cor-
rected the unworthy choice of his master. The
priest of Agostino is one of the Frati Godenti of
Dante, before they received the infernal hood; a
gross, fat, self-conceited terrestrial feature, a coun-
tenance equally proof to elevation, pity or thought.
The priest of Domenichino is a minister of grace,
stamped with the sacred humility that character-
ized his master, and penetrated by the function of
which he is the instrument.
“We are more impressed with the graces of
youth than the energies of manhood verging on
age: in this respect, as well as that of contrast
with the decrepitude of St. Jerome, the placid
contemplative beauty of the young deacon on the
foreground of Domenichino, will probably please
more, than the poetic trance of the assistant friar
with the lighted taper in the foreground of Agos-
tino. This must, however be observed, that as
Domenichino thought proper to introduce super-
natural witnesses of the ceremony in imitation of
his master, their effect seems less ornamental and
WOL. II, Y

322 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
more interwoven with the plan, by being perceived
by the actors themselves.
“If the attendant characters in the picture of
Agostino are more numerous, and have on the
whole furnished the hints of admission to those of
Domenichino, this, with one exception, may be
said to have used more propriety and judgment in
the choice. Both have introduced a man with a
turban, and opened a portico to characterize an
Asiatic scene.
“With regard to composition, Domenichino un-
doubtedly gains the palm. The disposition on the
whole he owes to his master, though he reversed
it; but he has cleared it of that oppressive bustle,
which rather involves and crowds the principal
actors in Agostino, than attends them. He spreads
tranquillity with space, and repose without vacuity.
“With this corresponds the tone of the whole.
The evening freshness of an oriental day tinges
every part; the medium of Agostino partakes too
much of the fumigated inside of a Catholic chapel.
“The draperies of both are characteristic and
unite subordination with dignity, but their colour
is chosen with more judgment by Domenichino,
the imbrowned gold and ample folds of the robe
of the administering priest are more genial than
the cold blue, white and yellow on the priest of
his master; in both, perhaps, the white draperies
on the foreground figures have too little strength
for the central colours, but it is more perceived in
Caracci than in Domenichino.
“The forms of the saint in Caracci are grander
and more ideal than in the saint of Domenichino-


FUSELI, 323
some have even thought them too vigorous: both,
in my opinion, are in harmony with the emotion
of the face and expression of either. The eager-
mess that animates the countenance of the one may
be supposed to spread a momentary vigour over
his frame. The mental dereliction of countenance
in the other with equal propriety relaxes, and
palsies, the limbs which depend on it.
“The colour of Caracci's saint is much more
characteristic of fleshy though nearly bloodless
substance, than that chosen by his rival, which is
withered, shrivelled, leathery in the lights, and
earthy in the shade; but the head of the officiating
priest in Domenichino, whether considered as a
specimen of colour independent of the rest, or as
set off by it, for truth, tone, freshness, energy, is
not only the best Domenichino ever painted, but
perhaps the best that can be conceived.”
He loved to say strong and daring things—to
take poetic freedom with language, and to scatter
snatches of character over his compositions, such
as he hoped would sink into the reader's mind by
their satiric weight, or adhere to the memory be-
cause of their vividness and force. His character
of Salvator Rosa is struck briefly and glowingly
off; perhaps he rates his merit too low—what
“Savage Rosa dashed” is as savagely treated.
These are his words: “The wildness of Salvator
Rosa opposes a powerful contrast to the classic
regularity of Poussin. Terrific and grand in his
conceptions of inanimate nature, he was reduced
to attempts at hiding by boldness of hand his ina-
bility of exhibiting her impassioned, or in the dig-
mity of character: his line is vulgar; his magic


43.

Y 2
324, THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
visions, less founded on the principles of terror
than on mythologic trash and caprice, are to the
probable combinations of nature what the pa-
roxysms of a fever are to the flights of a vigorous
fancy. Though so much extolled, and so ambi-
tiously imitated, his banditti are a medley made
up of starveling models, shreds and bits of armour
from his lumber-room brushed into notice by a
daring pencil. Salvator was a satirist and a critic,
but the rod which he had the insolence to lift
against the nudities of Michael Angelo, and the
anachronism of Raphael, would have been better
employed in chastising his own misconceptions.”
This is sufficiently severe; but the presumption
of Salvator in lifting his hand against Michael, the
throned god of Fuseli's idolatry, was not to be
passed without some show of resentment. Rem-
brandt had not sinned in that sort; his character
is drawn with equal vigour and with more of jus-
tice. “Rembrandt was in my opinion a genius of
the first class in whatever relates not to form. In
spite of the most portentous deformity, and without
considering the spell of his chiaro-scuro, such
were his powers of nature—such the grandeur,
pathos, or simplicity of his composition, from the
most elevated or extensive arrangement to the
meanest and most homely—that the best cultivated
eye, the purest sensibility, and the most refined
taste dwell on them, equally enthralled. Shake-
speare alone excepted, no one combined with so
much transcendent excellence, so many, in all
other men, unpardonable faults, and reconciled us
to them. He possessed the full empire of light
and shade, and of all the tints that float between
FUSELI, 325
them: he tinged his pencil with equal success in
the cool of dawn, in the noon-day ray, in the livid
flash, in evanescent twilight, and rendered dark-
ness visible. Though made to bend a stedfast
eye on the bolder phenomena of nature, yet he
knew how to follow her into her calmest abodes,
give interest to insipidity or baldness, and pluck a
flower in every desert. None ever like Rem-
brandt knew to improve an accident into a beauty,
or give importance to a trifle. If ever he had a
master he had no followers. Holland was not
made to comprehend his power. The succeeding
school of colourists were content to tip the cot-
tage, the hamlet, the boor, the ale-pot, the sham-
bles, and the haze of winter, with orient hues or
the glow of setting summer suns.” -
Having bestowed so much admiration on the
princes of the calling, he had little left for other
and inferior spirits. Of the Massacre of the In-
nocents by Tintoretto, he says, with singular vi-
gour, “The stormy brush of Tintoretto swept
individual woe away in general masses. Two
immense wings of light and shade divide the com-
position and hide the want of sentiment in tumult.”
He dismisses the names of our British artists in
general words and with hasty abruptness. He
was disposed to allow the claim of genius in a
very moderate degree to few of his more imme-
diate brethren—a high opinion of his own powers
was impressed on all he said—he laboured hard
with tongue, pen, and pencil, to make that supe-
riority be felt, nor was he unwilling at any time to
lower the reputation of his compeers by sarcastic
sallies, ironical praises, and ludicrous comparisons.
326 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
He once called out, as the pictures were coming
into the Academy for exhibition, “What pictures
are come?” “Many—very many, sir,” said the
servant. “I know that, but whose are they 7”—
“There are, six landscapes, sir, by Mr. .”
“Oh, don’t name him, I know whom you mean.
Bring me my great coat and umbrella, and I’ll go
and see them.” This was his way of pronouncing
them cold and wintry looking works.
During the brief peace of 1802 Fuseli visited
Paris, and saw, in common with thousands of his
adopted countrymen, the well-filled galleries of
Napoleon. He remained there so long that he
collected materials for a dissertation on the sub-
ject, and on his return to London proceeded to
arrange them. But the renewal of the war, or the
apathy of his booksellers, discouraged him so
effectually that he discontinued these labours, and
employed his talents on a new edition of Pilking-
ton's Dictionary of Painters. This work, which
appeared in 1805, added little to the reputation of
Fuseli. He introduced indeed about two hundred
new artists as candidates for fame; but most of
them were obscure, and their names were strange
to the world. It was a sufficient claim, he seems
to have thought, to this distinction that a painter
had tried the historic style. On the other hand,
he affected not to know the christian name of
Gainsborough, though all the world knew it was
Thomas; he was grossly unjust also to that elegant
artist's merits; nay, such was his haughty bigotry
that he classed the works of Hogarth among the
daily vulgarities of common minds. His admira-
tion of the eminent painters of historic or poetic


FUSELI. - 327
sº
compositions was strained and exaggerated, and,
his contempt for those who sought to win fame
by humbler works was still more out of har-
mony with the ordinary views and feelings of his
readers.
Having conceived an affection for the poetry of
Gray—which, however, was confined chiefly to
the translations—he painted The Bard, The De-
scent of Odin, and The Fatal Sisters. He was
fond indeed of the wild mythology of the Scan-
dinavians, and numerous traces of the impression
which it had made on his mind might be pointed
out in his paintings and in his sketches. His
“Thor battering the Serpent” was such a favourite
that he presented it to the Royal Academy as his
admission gift. With quiet beauty and serene
grace he knew not well how to begin; the hurry-
ing measures, the crowding epithets, and startling
imagery of the northern poetry suited the intoxi-
cated fancy of Fuseli. Such was his love of terri-
fic subjects, that he was known among his brethren
by the name of Painter in ordinary to the Devil,
and he smiled when some one officiously told him
of this, and said, “Aye! he has sat to me many
times.” Once, at Johnson the bookseller's table,
one of the guests said, “Mr. Fuseli, I have pur-
chased a picture of your’s.”—“Have you, Sir ;
what is the subject?” “Subject 2 really I don't
know.”—“That's odd; you must be a strange fel-
low to buy a picture without knowing the subject.”
“I bought it, Sir, that's enough—I don't know
what the devil it is.”—“Perhaps it is the devil,”
replied Fuseli, “I have often painted him.” On
this one of the company, to arrest a conversation

328 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
, which was growing warm, said, “Fuseli, there is
a member of your Academy who has strange looks
—and he chooses as strange subjects as you do.”
“Sir,” exclaimed the Professor, “he paints nothing
but thieves and murderers, and when he wants a
model he looks in the glass.”
Fuseli was sudden in his resentments and some-
times severe in his revenge. He had sketched
a picture of Miranda and Prospero from the Tem-
pest, and was considering of what dimensions he
should make the finished painting, when he was
told that Lawrence had sent in for exhibition a
picture on the same subject and with the same
figures. His wrath knew no bounds. “This
comes,” he cried, “ of my blasted simplicity in
showing my sketches—never mind—I’ll teach the
face-painter to meddle with my Prospero and Mi-
randa.” He had no canvas prepared—he took a
finished picture, and over the old performance
dashed in hastily, in one laborious day, a won-
drous scene from the Tempest—hung it in the
exhibition right opposite that of Lawrence, and
called it “a sketch for a large picture.” Sir
Thomas said little, but thought much—he never
afterwards, I have heard, exhibited a poetic sub-
iect. -
J On the death of Wilton the sculptor, Fuseli be-
came Keeper of the Royal Academy, and removed
from Berners Street, where he had lived some two
years, to his rooms in Somerset House. This si-
tuation—due alike to his great merits and to his
declining years, was not supposed to be unwel-
come in a pecuniary point of view; it provided
a pleasant residence and a respectable salary, and

FUSELI, 329
placed for ever above want one who, by his learn-
ing and the poetic character of his works, had done
much honour to the Academy. A bye-law obliged
him to resign the Professorship, which he regained
on the death of Opie, and thenceforth filled both
situations with honour to himself and to the insti-
tution. The enthusiasm of his nature, his foreign
pronunciation, the massy vigour of his language,
and the sharp acidity of his wit, were not wasted
}. empty walls,<-the lecture-room was commonly
ull.
He was also on the whole liked as Keeper. It is
true that he was often satiric and severe on the
students—that he defaced their drawings by correc-
tions which, compared to their weak and trembling
lines, seemed traced by a tar-mop, and that he
called them tailors and bakers, and vowed that
there was more genius in the clan of one of Mi-
chael Angelo's eagles than in all the heads with
which the Academy was swarming. The youths
on whom this tempest of invective fell smiled
—and the Keeper, pleased by submission, walked
up to each easel—whispered a word of advice
confidentially, and retired in peace to enjoy the
company of his Homer, Michael Angelo, Dante,
and Milton.
He was an unwilling listener to the praise of
any painter out of the true historic school. He
mentioned Reynolds in his lectures as a great
portrait painter and no more; and one evening in
company, when Sir Thomas Lawrence was dis-
coursing on what he called the historic grandeur
of Sir Joshua, and contrasting him with Titian and
with Raphael, Fuseli kindled up : “Blastation
330 THE BRITISH PAINTERs.
you will drive me mad—Reynolds and Raphael!
—a dwarf and a giant!—why will you waste all
your fine words!” He rose and left the room,
muttering something about a tempest in a pint
pot. Lawrence followed, – soothed him, and
brought him back. These two eminent men loved
one another. The Keeper had no wish to give
permanent offence, and the President had as little
desire to be on ill terms with one so bitter and so
satirical. They were often together; and I have
heard Sir Thomas say, that he never had a dis-
pute with Fuseli save once—and that was con-
cerning their pictures of Satan. Indeed, the
Keeper, both with tongue and pen, took pleasure
in pointing out the excellencies of his friend, nor
was he blind to his defects. “This young man,”
thus he wrote in one of his early criticisms, “would
do well to look at nature again; his flesh is too
glassy.” Lawrence showed his sense of his mo-
nitor's accuracy by following the advice. When
Lawrence had risen into reputation and had money
at command, he said, laying his hand upon one of
Fuseli's sketches, “make me a painting of this
fine subject, and I will give you the price of one
of my best paintings.” “The fit is off me for this
subject,” said Fuseli, “I wish you would choose
some other.” He was unwilling to paint to the
suggestion of others, and he perhaps disliked the
idea of having his poetic painting paid by the price
of a portrait.
The students found a constant source of amuse-
ment in his oddities, his jests, and the strong
biting wit which he had ever at their service. They
were fond of repeating his jokes. He heard a


FUSELI, 331
violent altercation in the studio one day, and in-
quired the cause. “It is only those fellows, the
students, Sir,” said one of the porters. “Fellows!”
exclaimed Fuseli, “I would have you to know, Sir,
that those fellows may one day become academi-
'cians.” The noise increased—he opened the door
and burst in upon them, exclaiming “You are a
den of damned wild beasts.” One of the offenders,
Munro by name, bowed and said, “and Fuseli is
our Keeper.” He retired smiling, and muttering
“the fellows are growing witty.” Another time he
saw a figure from which the students were making
drawings lying broken to pieces. “Now who the
devil has done this?”—“Mr. Medland,” said an
officious probationer, “he jumped over the rail and
broke it.” He walked up to the offender—all lis-
tened for the storm. He calmly said, “Mr. Medland,
you are fond of jumping—go to Sadler's Wells—it
is the best academy in the world for improving
agility.” A student as he passed held up his
drawing, and said confidently, “Here, Sir—I
finished it without using a crumb of bread.” “All
the worse for your drawing,” replied Fuseli, “buy
a two-penny loaf and rub it out.” “What do you
see, Sir 7” he said one day to a student, who, with
his pencil in his hand and his drawing before him,
was gazing into vacancy. “Nothing, Sir 7” was the
answer. “Nothing, young man,” said the Keeper
emphatically, “then I tell you that you ought to
see something—you ought to see distinctly the true
image of what you are trying to draw. I see the
vision of all I paint—and I wish to heaven I could
paint up to what I see.”
With wit at command, and willingness to let it

332 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
be felt, he had nevertheless many friends, and
among them we must number the students of the
Royal Academy. Those of the year 1807 pre-
sented him with a silver vase, designed by one
whom be loved—Flaxman the sculptor: he re-
ceived it very graciously. Ten years afterwards
he was presented with the diploma of the first
class in the Roman Academy of St. Luke.
He reserved a little of his wit and satire for
his elder brethren of the easel and the modelling
stool. He had aided Northcote and Opie in ob-
taining admission into the Academy, and when he
desired some station for himself, he naturally ex-
pected their assistance—they voted against him,
and next morning went together to his house to
offer an explanation. He saw them coming—he
opened the door as they were scraping their shoes,
and said, “Come in—come in—for the love of
heaven come in, else you will ruin me entirely.”—
“How so?” cried Opie. “Marry, thus,” replied
the other, “my neighbours over the way will see
you, and say, ‘Fuseli's done—for there's a bum-
bailiff,' he looked at Opie, ‘going to seize his
person; and a little Jew broker,’ he looked at
Northcote, ‘going to take his furniture’—so come
in I tell you—come in " On Northcote especially
he loved to exercise some of the malevolence of
rival wit. He looked on his friend's painting of
the angel meeting Balaam and his ass. “How do
you like it?” said the painter. “Vastly, North-
cote,” said Fuseli, “you are an angel at an ass—
but an ass at an angel.” A person who desired to
speak to the Keeper of the Academy, followed so
close on the porter, whose business it was to in-
fuseli. 333
troduce him, that he announced himself with an
expression which the inimitable Liston has since
rendered proverbial, “I hope I don't intrude.”—
“You do intrude,” said Fuseli, in a surly tone,
“Do I ?” said the visitor; “then, Sir, I will come
to-morrow, if you please.” “No, Sir,” replied he,
“don’t come to-morrow, for then you will intrude
a second time: tell me your business now.”
Fuseli spared no one: on Nollekens he was
often very merciless; he disliked him for his close
and parsimonious nature, and rarely failed to hit
him under the fifth rib. Once at the table of
Mr. Coutts the banker, Mrs. Coutts, dressed like
Morgiana, came dancing in presenting her dagger
at every breast: as she confronted the sculptor,
Fuseli called out, “ Strike—strike—there's no
fear; Nolly was never known to bleed.” When
Blake, a man infinitely more wild in conception
than Fuseli himself, showed him one of his strange
productions, he said, “Now some one has told
you this is very fine.”—“Yes,” said Blake, “the
Virgin Mary appeared to me, and told me it was
very fine: what can you say to that ?”—“Say ?”
exclaimed Fuseli, “why nothing—only her lady-
ship has not an immaculate taste.”
From 1817 to 1825, Fuseli exhibited at the
Academy a dozen of pictures, and neither the
fervour of his fancy nor his skill of hand had failed
him in the least. Of his twelve last pictures, six
were received with much approbation—Perseus
starting from the cave of the Gorgons—the Lady
and the Infernal Knight in Theodore and Honorio
—Dante descending into Hell discovers in a whirl-
wind the forms of Paolo and Francesca—an In-
334 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
cantation from Theocritus—Theseus, Ariadne, and
the Minotaur—and Comus from Milton. These
works attest his love of poetic art, and his reso-
lution to die as he had lived—in the service of the
loftier Muses.
Fuseli was wise in calling in the graver to the
aid of his fame. His exquisite outline was pre-
served, his wild colouring, which startled thou-
sands, concealed, and the ruling sentiment exhi-
bited in all its perfection. This was performed
for him by the hand of Moses Haughton—an artist
skilful alike with graver and pencil, and as the
engravings were all made under the eye of Fuseli
himself they are much in request with collectors,
and rarer than I could wish them to be. Of these
the Lazar House—Satan aroused from the ear of
Eve—Hamlet's Ghost—the Midsummer Night's
Dream—and that fine one the

“Goddess fair and free,
In heaven yeleped Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth”—

are the best specimens, and those who have the
good fortune to possess them are enabled to see
Fuseli in some of his highest moods.
He had the art of acquiring friends and the
rarer art of retaining them. To the names of
Cadell and Boydell and Armstrong, his first and
intimate companions, he added many more as he
increased in years; and in naming those who pur-
chased his works, we name the chief patrons of
the poetic style of painting. Roscoe, the elegant
author of the life of Leo the Tenth, bought eleven
—Wood Mason purchased four—Sir Robert
FUSELI, 335

Smythe became proprietor of several—six went to
the gallery of Mr. Locke of Newbury Park—two
were purchased by Sir Brooke Boothby-as many
by the late Lord de Tabley—Graham Moore and
Carrick Moore, brothers of Sir John Moore, com-
missioned several. Mr. Knowles increased his
collection to a dozen, and the Earl of Guildford,
a kind and constant friend, became proprietor of
forty. He exhibited in all some seventy pictures
—but he painted several hundreds, and those are
scattered through many collections. One of great
merit—Paulo and Francesco—is honourably placed
in the gallery of Sir Thomas Lawrence; and
another singularly wild and beautiful piece is in
the keeping of one who feels its worth, Mr. Waine-
wright.
The wit of Fuseli was ever ready, and flowed
freely out for the pleasure or the annoyance of all
who visited him, whether friends or strangers. So
much did it abound that the man who was in his
company but once was sure to hear something
worthy of being remembered for the rest of his
life. I have already given specimens not a few—
one who studied under him in the Academy has
enabled me to relate a few more—I shall set them
down at random, for the periods at which some
of them were uttered are uncertain.
One day, during varnishing time in the exhibi-
tion, an eminent portrait painter was at work on the
hand of one of his pictures; he turned to the
Keeper, who was near him, and said, “Fuseli—
Michael Angelo never painted such a hand.”—
“No, by Pluto,” replied the other, “but you have,
many.” He had an inherent dislike to Opie; and
336 . THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
some one, to please Fuseli, said, in allusion to the
low characters in the historical pictures of the
Death of James the First of Scotland and the mur-
der of David Rizzio, that Opie could paint nothing
but vulgarity and dirt. “If he paints nothing but
dirt,” said Fuseli, “he paints it like an angel.”
He was probably pleased to see the head of his
enemy Wolcot figuring away on the shoulders of
an assassin in the Death of the Royal Poet. One
day a painter, who had been a student during the
keepership of Wilton, called and said, “The stu-
dents, Sir, don't draw so well now as they did
under Joe Wilton.” “Very true,” replied Fuseli,
“any body may draw here, let them draw ever so
bad—you may draw here if you please !”
During the delivery of one of his lectures,
wherein he calls landscape painters the topogra-
phers of art, Beechey admonished Turner with
his elbow of the severity of the sarcasm; presently
when Fuseli described the patrons of portrait paint-
ing as men who would give a few guineas to have
their own senseless heads painted, and then as-
sume the air and use the language of patrons, Tur-
ner administered a similar hint to Beechey. When
the lecture was over Beechey walked up to Fuseli,
and said, “How sharply you have been cutting up
us poor labourers in portraiture l’’ “Not you, Sir
William,” exclaimed the professor, “I only spoke
of the blasted fools who employ you!” A man
of some station in society, and who considered him-
self a powerful patron in art, said at a public din-
ner where he was charmed with Fuseli's conversa-
tion, “If ever you come my way, Fuseli, I shall
be happy to see you.” “I thank you,” replied
Flu SELI. ' , 337

the painter, “but I never go your way—I never
even go down your street, though I often pass by
the end of it.” He looked on a time at a serpent
with its tail in its mouth, a common-place emblem
of eternity, which was carved upon an exhibited
monument. “It wont do, I tell you,” said Fu-
seli to the sculptor, “you must have something
new.” The something men startled a man whose
imagination was none of the brightest, and he said,
“How shall I find something new 7” “O, no-
thing so easy,” said Fuseli, “I’ll help you to it.
When I went away to Rome I left two fat men
cutting fat bacon in St. Martin's Lane; in ten
years time I returned, and found the two fat men
cutting fat bacon still: twenty years more have
passed, and there the two fat fellows cut the fat
flitches the same as ever. Carve them! if they
look not like an image of eternity I wot not what
does.”
During the exhibition of his Milton Pictures he
called at the banking-house of Mr. Coutts, saying
he was going out of town for a few days, and
wished to have some money in his pocket. “How
much 7” said one of the members of the firm.
“How much l’” said Fuseli, “why as much as
twenty pounds; and as it is a large sum, and I
don't wish to take your establishment by surprise,
I have called to give you a day's notice of it!”
“I thank you, Sir,” said the cashier, imitating
Fuseli's own tone of irony, “we shall be ready
for you—but as the town is thin and money scarce
with us, you will oblige me greatly by giving us
a few orders to see your Milton Gallery—it will
keep cash in our drawers and hinder your exhibi-
WOL. II, Z
338 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
tion from being empty.” Fuseli shook him heartily
by the hand, cried, “Blastation! and you shall have
the tickets with all my heart; I have had the opi-
nion of the virtuosi, the dilletanti, the cognoscenti,
and the nobles and the gentry on my pictures—and
I want now the opinion of the blackguards. I shall
send you and your friends a score of tickets, and
thank you too for taking them.”
His life, though not without disappointment,
had been hitherto without sickness, and his spirits
seemed inexhaustible, but old age had now come
upon him and the end was drawing nigh. He had
lived eighty years and upwards—enjoyed the
world, and obtained no little distinction: nor was
he insensible to the advantages which he had en-
joyed. “I have been a happy man,” he said, “for
I have been always well, and always employed in
doing what I liked;” a boast which few men of
genius can make. When work with the pencil
failed, he lifted the pen, and as he was ready and
clever with both, he was never obliged to fill up
unemployed time with jobs which he disliked.
He was an early riser and generally sat down to
breakfast with a book upon entomology in his hand.
He ate and read, and read and ate—regarding no
one and speaking to no one. He was delicate and
abstemious—and on gross feeders he often exer-
cised the severity of his wit. Two meals a-day
were all he ventured on—he always avoided supper
—the story of his having supped on raw pork-
chops that he might dream his picture of the
Nightmare has no foundation. Indeed the dreams
he delighted to relate were of the noblest kind, and
consisted of galleries of the fairest pictures and
statues, in which were walking the poets and

FUSELI, 339
painters of old. Having finished breakfast and
noted down some remarks on entomology, he went
into his studio—painted till dinner time—dined
hastily, if at home, and then resumed his labours,
or else forgot himself over Homer, or Dante, or
Shakespeare, or Milton, till midnight. He was
subject to fits of despondency, and during the con-
tinuance of such moods he sat with his beloved
book on entomology upon his knee—touched now
and then the breakfast cup with his lips, and
seemed resolutely bent on being unhappy. In
periods such as these it was difficult to rouse him,
and even dangerous. Mrs. Fuseli on such occa-
sions ventured to become his monitress. “I know
him well,” she said one morning to a friend who
found him in one of his dark moods, “he will not
come to himself till he is put into a passion—the
storm then clears off and the man looks out serene.”
“Oh no,” said her visiter, “let him alone for awhile
—he will soon think rightly.” He was spared till
next morning—he came to the breakfast-table in
the same mood of mind. “Now I must try what
I can do,” said his wife to the same friend whom
she had consulted the day before; she now began to
reason with her husband, and soothe and persuade
him; he answered only by a forbidding look and
a shrug of the shoulder. She then boldly snatched
away his book and dauntlessly abode the storm.
The storm was not long in coming—his own fiend
rises up not more furiously from the side of Eve
than did the painter. He glared on his friend
and on his wife—uttered an imprecation deeper
than I dare write—rushed up stairs and strode
about his room in great agitation. In a little while
Z 2
340 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
his steps grew more regular—he soon opened the
door, and descended to his labours all smiles and
good humour.
He was on a visit to the Countess of Guildford
at Putney Hill, and having engaged to dine with
Mr. Rogers the poet, along with Sir Thomas Law-
rence and Mr. Ottley, was about to proceed to
London, when he felt suddenly indisposed. Lady
Guildford persuaded him to send an apology,
which he wrote with reluctance—he went to bed,
and grew worse and worse. Doctors Holland and
Crichton, two skilful physicians, were called in—
but nature, which had lasted long, was manifestly
giving way, and all aid proved unavailing. Fuseli
was perfectly calm and quite conscious of his situ-
ation. “My friend,” he said to Mr. Knowles,
who hurried from London to see him, “I am going
to that bourne whence no traveller returns.” He
spoke with the same cheerful resignation and
calmness to Lady Guildford and her accomplished
daughters, who watched over him with much soli-
citude, and seemed uneasy and restless when Sir
Thomas Lawrence, who admired and loved him,
was away from his side. Early in the morning of
the fifth day of his illness a fatal change in his
looks was visible—he seemed aware of this—he
looked anxiously round the room—said several
times in a low and agitated voice, “is Lawrence
come—is Lawrence come 7” and then appeared to
listen for the sound of the chariot wheels which
brought his friend once a-day from London to his
bed-side. He raised himself up a little—then sank
down and died, on the 16th of April, 1825, in the
84th year of his age.
FlujSELI, 341
For the character of Henry Fuseli, personal and
mental, I willingly transcribe the words of Lavater;
they are less the offspring of his wild speculations
in physiognomy than the settled convictions of
his heart and mind; it is to be remembered that
our artist and he were early and attached compa-
nions. “The curve which describes the profile
in whole is obviously one of the most remarkable:
it indicates an energetic character which spurns at
the idea of trammels. The forehead, by its con-
tours and position, is more suited to the poet than
the thinker. I perceive in it more force than gem-
tleness—the fire of imagination rather than the
coolness of reason. The nose seems to be the
seat of an intrepid genius. The mouth promises
a spirit of application and precision, and yet it
costs the original the greatest effort to give the
finishing touch to the smallest piece. Any one
may see, without my telling it, that this character
is not destitute of ambition, and that the sense of
his own merit escapes him not. It may also be
suspected that he is subject to impetuous emo-
tions, but will any one say that he loves with ten-
derness—with warmth to excess? Though capable
of the greatest actions, to him the slightest com-
plaisance is an effort. His imagination is ever
aiming at the sublime and delighting itself with
prodigies. Nature intended him for a great poet,
a great painter, and a great orator-—but, to borrow
his own words, ‘inexorable fate does not always
proportion the will to our powers; it sometimes
assigns a copious proportion of will to minds
whose faculties are very contracted, and frequently
342 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
ſº
associates with the greatest faculties a will feeble
and impotent.’”
This, we must confess, is a shining but not very
amiable character—a less theatrical description
may not be unacceptable. Fuseli was of low sta-
ture—his frame slim, his forehead high, and his
eyes piercing and brilliant. His look was proud,
wrapt up in sarcastic—his movements were quick,
and by an eager activity of manner he seemed
desirous of occupying as much space as belonged
to men of greater stature. His voice was loud
and commanding—nor had he learned much of the
art of winning his way by gentleness and persua-
sion—he was more anxious to say pointed and
stinging things than solicitous about their accu-
racy; and he had much pleasure in mortifying his
brethren of the easel with his wit and overwhelm-
ing them with his knowledge. He was too often
morose and unamiable—habitually despising those
who were not his friends, and not unapt to dislike
even his best friends, if they retorted his wit, or
defended themselves successfully against his satire.
In dispute he was eager, fierce, unsparing, and
frequently precipitated himself into angry discus-
sions with the Council, which, however, always
ended in peace and good humour—for he was as
placable as passionate. On one occasion he flew
into his own room in a storm of passion, and
having cooled and come to himself, was desirous
to return; the door was locked and the key gone;
his fury overflowed all bounds. “Sam " he
shouted to the porter, “Sam Strowager, they have
locked me in like a blasted wild beast—bring
FUSELI, 343
crowbars and break open the door.” The porter
—a sagacious old man, who knew the trim of the
Keeper—whispered through the keyhole, “Feel
in your pocket, Sir, for the key !” He did so,
and unlocking the door, with a loud laugh ex-
claimed, “What a fool—never mind—I’ll to the
Council, and soon show them they are greater asses
than myself.”
With all these impediments in the way of popu-
larity, Fuseli was generally liked, and by none
more than by the students who were so often made
the objects of his satire. They were sensible that
he was assiduous in instruction—that he was very
learned and very skilful, and that he allowed no
one else to take liberties with their conduct or
their pursuits. He had a tact like that of inspi-
ration in singling out the most intellectual of the
pupils—he was the first to notice Lawrence, and
at the very outset of Wilkie he predicted his future
eminence. He was so near-sighted that he was
obliged to retire from his easel to a distance and
examine his labours by means of an opera glass,
then return and retouch and retire again and look.
This imperfection was seriously in his way to
eminence, and helps to account for a certain hard-
ness of anatomical detail visible even in his best
works. His weakness of sight was well known,
and one of the students in revenge for some sati-
rical strictures, placed a bench in his way, over
which he nearly fell. “Bless my soul,” said the
Keeper, “I must put spectacles upon my shins.”
This sally of wit saved him probably from falling
into a passion.
Men interpreted Fuseli's frequent complaints of
344 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
want of encouragement in his art as tantamount to
an acknowledgment of poverty. He became a
member of the Academy at the urgent request of
his wife, in order that she might be sure of forty
pounds annually in case of his death; and the Royal
Academy bestowed the Keepership upon him in
order to avoid the reproach of permitting a man
of his learning and genius to suffer from want in
his old age. To the surprise of his executors and
the astonishment of his brethren, he died compa-
ratively rich. How he had contrived to hoard,
no one could divine; the sums which he received
for his paintings were not large; the earnings of
his pen could be but moderate, and in his native
land he inherited no patrimony. He lived at little
expense it is true—but frugality cannot soon make
six or seven thousand pounds out of a small in-
come. I hesitate to mention, what I suspect is
the truth, that opulent friends paid him more than
he charged for his pictures, in the belief that such
kindness was not unseasonable, and that Fuseli
wanted the fortitude to confess that he had no real
occasion for such benevolence.
As a painter, his merits are of no common
order. He was no timid and creeping adventurer
in the region of art, but a man peculiarly bold and
daring—who rejoiced only in the vast, the wild,
and the wonderful, and loved to measure himself
with any subject, whether in the heaven above, the
earth beneath, or the waters under the earth. The
domestic and humble realities of life he considered
unworthy of his pencil, and employed it only on
those high or terrible themes where imagination
may put forth all her strength, and fancy scatter all
FUSELI, 345
her colours. He associated only with the demigods
of verse, and roamed through Homer, and Dante,
and Shakespeare, and Milton, in search of subjects
worthy of his hand; he loved to grapple with
whatever he thought too weighty for others; and
assembling round him the dim shapes which ima-
gination called readily forth, sat brooding over the
chaos, and tried to bring the whole into order and
beauty. He endeavoured anxiously to

“Produce those permanent and perfect forms,
Those characters of heroes and of gods,
Which from the crude materials of the world
His own high mind created.”
But poetry had invested them with a diviner pomp
than Fuseli could command, and it was on these
occasions that he complained of his inability to
work up to the conceptions of his fancy. He had
splendid dreams, but like those of Eve they were
sometimes disturbed by a demon, and passed away
for ever before he could embody them.
His main wish was to startle and astonish—it
was his ambition to be called Fuseli the daring
and the imaginative, the illustrator of Milton and
Shakespeare, the rival of Michael Angelo. Out
of the seventy exhibited paintings on which he re-
posed his hope of fame, not one can be called com-
mon-place—they are all poetical in their nature,
and as poetically treated. Some twenty of these
alarm, startle, and displease ; twenty more may
come within the limits of common comprehension;
the third twenty are such as few men could pro-
duce, and deserve a place in the noblest collec-
tions; while the remaining ten are equal in con-

346 THE BRITISH PAINTERS,
ception to any thing that genius has hitherto pro-
duced, and second only in their execution to the
true and recognised masterpieces of art. It cannot
be denied, however, that a certain air of extrava-
gance and a desire to stretch and strain is visible
in most of his works. A common mind, having no
sympathy with his soaring, perceives his defects at
once, and ranks him with the wild and unsober—a
poetic mind will not allow the want of serenity and
composure to extinguish the splendour of the con-
ception; but whilst it notes the blemish, will feel
the grandeur of the work. The approbation of
high minds fixes the degree of fame to which
genius of all degrees is entitled, and the name of
Fuseli is safe.
His colouring is like his design, original; it has
a kind of supernatural hue, which harmonizes with
many of his subjects—the spirits of the other state
and the hags of hell are steeped in a kind of kindred
colour, which becomes their characters. His notion
of colour suited the wildest of his subjects; and the
hue of Satan and the lustre of Hamlet's Ghost are
part of the imagination of those supernatural shapes.
Yet original as his colouring is, and suitable to the
scenes which it often embodies, it seems unnatural
when applied to earthly flesh and blood, and com-
municates hues which belong to other worlds to the
sons and daughters of Adam. It is to be praised
rather than imitated, and would be out of harmony
º subjects of common emotion and every-day
1Ie,
His sketches are very numerous, amounting to
eight hundred, and show the varied knowledge and
vigorous imagination of the man. He busied him-
FUSEI, I, 347
self during his hours of leisure with making sketches
and drawings from scenes which had occurred in
his reading, or had arisen on his fancy; in this
manner he illustrated the whole range of poetry
ancient and modern. Those who are only ac-
quainted with Fuseli through his paintings know
little of the extent of his genius; they should see
him in his designs and drawings, to feel his powers
and know him rightly. The variety of those pro-
ductions is truly wonderful, and their poetic feel-
ing and historic grandeur more wonderful still. It
is surprising too how little of that extravagance of
posture and action which offends in his large paint-
ings is present here; they are for the most part
uncommonly simple and serene performances.
Scattered amongst those sketches, we are some-
times startled by the appearance of a lady floating
gracefully along in fashionable attire—her patches,
paint, and jewels on—and armed for doing mischief
amongst the sons of modern men. There is no
attempt at caricature—they are fac-similes, and
favourable ones, of existing life and fashion. Their
presence amongst the works we have described jars
upon our feelings—they are out of keeping with
the poetic simplicity of their companions, and look
as strange as court ladies would do taking the air
with the Apollo and the dying Gladiator. They
do, however, what the painter meant. They tell
us how contemptible every thing is save natural
elegance and simple grandeur, and that much
which gives splendour to a ball or levee, will never
mingle with what is lofty or lasting.
His love of the loose wit and free humour of
the old writers of Italy and England was great; as
348 THE BRITISH PAINTERS.
he read them he chuckled with pleasure, and taking
up his pencil lent form to such scenes as gladdened
his fancy. Those works are entitled to the praise
of poetic freedom and vivacity—the humour and
the wit triumph over all other levities—and sense
has generally the better of sensuality. Fire, how-
ever, fell amongst most of these when he died—
nor do I blame the hand of his widow who kin-
dled it.
We cannot contemplate the portfolios of his seri-
ous drawings, opened to us by their possessor, Sir
Thomas Lawrence,” without being struck with the
extraordinary genius of Fuseli, and lamenting the
blindness and deficiency of taste of the age in which
he lived. Had he received any thing like adequate
encouragement, public feeling would have awed
down his extravagance of imagination, and those
compositions, now consigned to the cabinet of his
eminent friend, would have been expanded into
pictures and adorning the galleries of our country.
Of all the painters whom this country has encou-
raged—they are not indeed many—no one had
either the reach of thought or the poetic feeling of
Fuseli—he had comprehension for all that is great,
and imagination for all that is lofty.
Of his literary compositions something more
should be said—I rank them high, and yet con-
siderably below the efforts of his pencil. He
affected to strike out remarkable sentences and
express characters by a few weighty words—to
* This kind and generous man is now lost to us. His life,
if the author be spared to complete another volume of this
work, will be included.
FUSELI, 349
utter instructions pointed and oracular; to season
sound counsel with shrewd wit, and by the use
of poetic diction give warmth and energy to the
whole. To accomplish this, generally, required a
better disciplined mind, and perhaps a better ac-
quaintance with our language than he possessed ;
but in many passages his success is splendid. He
always feels well—often deeply; but the great
fault is that he seldom allows the stream of his
mind to run smoothly along; he leads it astray
into artificial falls, and bewilders it in links and
serpentines. He had such a high opinion of his
own acuteness and wisdom, that he wrote a whole
volume of Aphorisms on Art—three hundred in
number; some of these are said to be acute—some
sensible—some profound, and a great many visi-
onary. He also began a regular history of his
art, but stopped at Michael Angelo. The frag-
ment is yet unpublished.
END OF WOL. II.
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