' ^ (L r. ) . .1, ... } ivv . * & (i'lO'" ikJ!ctb <■ r ^ '■ , •% LIFE AND LETTERS OF WILLIAM BEWICK. VOL. I. t ■ LIFE AND LETTEES OF WILLIAM BEWICK (ARTIST). EDITED BY THOMAS LANDSEER, A.R.A. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 13 GKEAT MAKLBOROUGH STREET. 1871. The right of Trantlalion it reserved. LONDON: Stbanqewats & Waldek, Printebs, 2S Qastlc St., Leicester Square. INTRODUCTION. These records of the artistic life of William Bewiclt^' consist, with very little exception, of autobiographic and literary sketches by himself, and of hLs correspondence with distinguished artists and intimate friends. He had the happi- ness to be on teims of friendly intimacy with many renowned artists and literaiy men dur- ing the first lialf of the present century ; and his remains contain a rich store of anecdote * William IJowick was born at Darlington, October 20, 1705 — a fact wbicli, so far as the date is concerned, he has forgotten to mention in the antobiograjdiic sketc-hes with whicli this work commences. VOL. L a VI INTRODUCTION. respecting a number of the most illustrious authors and paintei’s of that brilliant period. Enjoying the friendship of Hazlitt, Hay don, Shelley, Keats, and others — entertained by Scott, Hogg, Jeffi’ey, Maturin, and many of the most distinguished novelists, poets, and essayists of his time — he had the best opportunities of collecting incidents in illustration of the career of men of whom we can never know too much. In his early life he was the pupil of Haydon, and was employed afterwards to execute some very impoi-tant commissions by Sir Thomas Lawrence, President of the Royal Academy. He lived on intimate terms with Wilkie, the Landseers, and Gibson, the sculptor, whose friendship he en- joyed in Rome, and who, in testimony of his esteem, executed a very beautiful bust of him. These records, though pretty full with re- spect to some periods of his life, still leave gaps which it would have been desirable, if possible. INTRODUCTION. VU to fill up, but unfortunately tlie materials are not extant. We trust, however, that, imperfect as in some respects they doubtless are, these memorials will be found to contain a fair portrait of one who occupied a good position as an artist, and was highly esteemed as a man by his friends of all ranks and professions. CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. CHAPTER I. EARLY DAYS DARLINGTON SIXTY YEARS AGO SCHOOL LIFE — THE BOY ARTIST ADNT SARAH BARNARD CASTLE ITINERANT ARTISTS GEORGE MARKS THE ‘EXAMINER* NEWSPAPER HAYDON — THE ELGIN MARBLES LEAVING HOME ..... 1-25 CHAPTER II. ARRIVAL IN LONDON EARLY DIFFICDLTIES HAYDON AND FUSELI LETTERS TO HIS BROTHERS OPPORTUNITIES OF STUDY THE ELGIN MARBLES MR. DAY HOPES -\ND DIS- APPOINTMENTS REFUSED ADMISSION TO THE ACADEMY HAYDON’s advice THE ROYAL ACADEMY BRIBING THE PORTER HAYDON’s GENEROSITY INTRODUCTION TO LITER- ARY CELEBRITIES — CARICATURE OF HAYDON AND HIS PUPILS ..... 26-43 CHAPTER III. VISIT TO DARLINGTON— BELZONI — HARASSED IN CIRCUMSTANCES ENGAGED ON A LARGE PAINTING, ‘JACOB AND RACHEL* NOTICES OF BEWICK*8 PICTURES HAYDON*S ‘ LAZARUS * INVOLVED IN CONSEQUENCE OF HAYDON ’s BANKRUPTCY. 44-53 X CONTENTS, CHAPTER IV. Bewick’s reminiscences of celebrated writers and artists HAYDON — PURSUIT OF THE HIGHER WALKS OF PAINTING — ‘Solomon’ — decline of haydon’s health — ‘Christ’s ENTRY INTO JERUSALEM’ HORACE SMITH — WILKIE AND HAYDON — Wilkie’s ‘reading the news of the battle of Waterloo’ — wilkie’s hands — visit to the national GALLERY PATHETIC STORY RUBENS’ ‘ CHAPEAU DE PAILLE ’ . . . . , 54-73 CHAPTER V. WORDSWORTH AND UGO FOSCOLO MISS WORDSWORTH THE ITALIAN LANGUAGE THE ITALIAN POET’s RECITATION — Foscolo’s conversation — self-devotion — theory of DISINTERESTEDNESS THE FRESCOES OF MICHAEL AN- GELO PORTRAIT OF FOSCOLO HOW HE FURNISHED HIS HOUSE IN LONDON FOSCOLO AND WILKIE HAZLITT’s LAUGH ..... 74-101 CHAPTER VI. Bewick’s literary style — reflections suggested by the MEMORY OF IIAZLITT INTELLECTUAL AND SOCIAL CHARAC- TER OF THE ESSAYIST VEHEMENCE OF HIS PASSION POLITICAL TENDENCIES HAZLITT’s HOUSE BENTHAM MILTON HAZLITT AS A CONVERSATIONALIST RAPHAEL MICHAEL ANGELO, DANTE, MILTON, AND HOMER TITIAN ABSENCE OF MIND .... 102-121 CHAPTER VII. HAZLITT (continued) CONVERSATION ON ART — ARGUMENT BETWEEN WILKIE AND HAYDON ^PAINTERS GOSSIPING ABOUT ART A PAINTING FROM LIFE REMBRANDT’s HEADS TITIAN’s FLESH-COLOURS ‘ JACOB ’s DREAM ’ HAZLITT IN A GAME AT TENNIS SIR ANTHONY CARLISLE, PROFESSOR OF ANATOMY AT THE ROYAL ACADE.MY HAZLITT AT THE SURREY INSTITUTION . . . 122-148 CONTENTS, XI CHAPTER VIII. Bewick’s difficulties — friendly advice — goes to Scot- land EDINBURGH SCHEME OF A GALLERY OF PORTRAITS ENCOUNTERS HAZLITT SHERIDAN KNOWLES POETICAL REMINISCENCES ON FISHING HAZLITT’s PERSONAL APPEAR- ANCE — STARED AT IN MELROSE — CHALK DRAWING OF HAZ- LITT EVENING WALK . . . 149-168 CHAPTER IX. FORTUNATE MISCHANCE ABBOTSFORD — PORTRAIT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS SIR WALTER SCOTT, HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS LETTER FROM SIR WALTER CONVERSATION AT DINNER FONDNESS FOR CHILDREN SIR WALTER’S RECI- TATION OF A QUAINT OLD SCOTCH BALLAD BARON d’eSTE AND MISS SCOTT BALLAD OF ‘BEWICK AND GRAHAM ’ AUNT Sarah’s legend — sir Walter’s parcel to his pub- lisher ... . . 169-199 CHAPTER X. MR. Bewick’s fame as a copyist — rembrandt in Glasgow university general graham INVITATION TO THE EGLINTOUN TOURNAMENT — THE PORTRAIT GALLERY —VISIT TO IRELAND — JOURNEY FROM BELFAST TO DUBLIN — DUBLIN REV, CHARLES ROBERT MATURIN RICHARD SHIEL AND WILLIAM HENRY CURRAN SHERIDAN KNOWLES SIR ARTHUR AND LADY CLARK MR. HAMILTON ROWAN — LORD NORBURY, THE PUNNING JUDGE — LADY MORGAN. 200-240 CHAPTER XI. SECOND VISIT TO ABBOTSFORD SIR WALTER’S GENEROUS HOSPI- TALITY SIR JOHN MALCOLM THE GREAT UNKNOWN MR. AND MRS. LOCKHART — SIR WALTER AND HIS GRANDSON SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS AND CHILDREN PERSIAN STORIES Xll CONTENTS, M. ALEXANDRE, THE VENTRILOQUIST EARL OF MINTO SIR Walter’s study — nimrod’s growl — wilkie — sir WALTER SITTING FOR HIS PORTRAIT TRAIT OF A NOBLE HEART DEATH OF MATURIN . . 241-255 CHAPTER XII. A VISIT TO THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD — UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER — A CHRISTMAS PARTY THE WAVERLEY NOVELS ‘CAM- ERON’s welcome home’ AN ODDLY MADE SADDLE THE shepherd’s ROSINANTE RETURN TO EDINBURGH LORD JEFFREY WILKIE IN EDINBURGH HAYDON’s TREATMENT BY THE ACADEMY DISADVANTAGE OF LARGE HISTORICAL PICTURES — LADY OLIVIA CLARKE . . 256-271 CHAPTER XIII. DESIRE TO VISIT ITALY HIS MARRIAGE PREPARATIONS FOR HIS JOURNEY — EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE THE BRITISH INSTITUTION— SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE DR. BIRK- BECK ARRANGEMENTS FOR JOURNEY MR. LE MESURIER LETTERS FROM GULF OF GENOA GENOA FROM GENOA TO PISA THE VINE IN ITALY FARM-HOUSES AND COT- T.4GES — GENOA TO FLORENCE . . 272-292 LIFE AND LETTERS OF WILLIAM BEWICK. CHAPTER I. EARLY DAYS DARLINGTON SIXTY YEARS AGO SCHOOL LIFE THE BOY ARTIST AUNT SARAH BARNARD CASTLE ITINERANT ARTISTS GEORGE MARKS THE ‘EXAMINER’ NEWSPAPER HAYDON THE ELGIN MARBLES LEAVING HOME. I WAS the third son of a family of seven boys and five gilds. My father, William Bewick, married Jane Roantree, a native of Harwoith- upon-Tees, and a descendant of linen manufac- turers of that place. He was by trade an up- holsterer, a plain, industrious man of business, strict and methodical in everything, and averse from all innovations to the routine of his house- hold. My mother, half-Quakeress, and unso- phisticated as she was beautiful, was more of an d VOL. I. B EARLY DAYS. ambitious character, and not seldom found herself in something like a defensive argument with my father as to the capabilities and future prospects of her sons. Her ambitions were all virtuous, and her whole life, thoughts, and anticipations were wrapped up in the welfare of her numerous and innocent family. When a little girl, and very beautiful, she was a great favourite of the blunt and uncouth mathema- tician, Emerson, who used to amuse her by playing a curious kind of music upon an in- strument of his own invention,* described as something like a mandolin, fonned of a small hollow wooden barrel, with a handle and three strings ; and he used to sit at the end of his long, passage-like study by the fire, his legs covered with leather leggings to prevent their being burnt. In due time I was sent, in company vdth an elder brother, to a respectable school kept by a Quaker, in which girls and boys studied together. Here I learnt to read and write, and here I fagged through arithmetic as far as ‘ vulgar fractions,’ which, with the rules of grammar, were my utter abomination. There A QUAKER TOWN. 3 were two or three boys who had half days in the week allowed for drawing, and, charmed rvith this exceptional and delightful accomplish- ment, I cried to my mother to allow me to join the favoured boys. She seemed pleased to con- sent ; I obtained a di’awing-book and pencils, and began the outline of a gabled barn of the simplest construction and the fewest lines. My shrewd schoolmaster smiled at my first attempt, and in expressing his encouragement put my modesty to the blush by saying that I should become a famous artist. These drarving-days greatly increased the pleasure of my school- days, the love of pictures and prints became a passion with me, and I never lost an opportu- nity of gaping in at the print-shop rvindows, or wherever a drawing or engraving was to be seen. The little work-a-day country-town in the north of England, where my parents lived, contained little or nothing of art ; nor was there any taste for art among the inliabitants, it being what may be tenned a ‘ Quaker town for here a great many ‘ broad-brims ’ had taken up their abode. The love of making and accumulating money was their ruling passion, and every 4 WORSHIP OF MAMMON. elegant accomplishment was suppressed with studied perseverance. The God Mammon flapped his drab-coloured wings over the little town, and the di’ama closed its scenic arena. Sock and buskin were contemptuously huddled beyond the precincts, and sent out of the place, as though it were criminal to represent on the stage the follies, the passions, the virtues, and the vices of mankind. The ‘ divine ’ Shakespeare’s works were banished from the Public Library, and the ‘ novels of Sm Walter Scott,’ subsequently shared the same fate. Dancing was to be decidedly discoun- tenanced, as bringing young people together for no good. Poetry was described as a false jingle of words, wherein tmtli and sense were often perverted for the sake of the rhyme. Music was pronounced a great waste of valuable time, in which useful knowledge might be ac- quu'ed instead ; indulgence in the fine arts, time and talents spent with no profitable result. He only -svas said to be ‘ getting on in the world,’ who was increasing his property ; the term gain not being applied to knowledge, virtue, or happiness, but reseiwed solely to AUNT SARAH. 5 describe peciiniaiy acquisition, synonymous in short with gold, as if nothing but gold were gain. The man whose gains were known to be rapidly increasing, was not only spoken of by the multitude under theii* breath with venera- tion, but, as if he more nearly approached crea- tive power than any other human being, he was said to be making money; and when that was said, eulogy was exhausted, and he was consi- dered to be crowned with all praise. To live in my native town was to live in the very Temple of Mammon ; and it was impossible to see the God worshipped daily, to stand in his presence, and behold the reverence he inspired, without catching the contagion of awe. The worship of the beautiful and good found no place there, for ‘ from the least of them even to the greatest nearly every one was given to covetous- ness.’ It may easily be imagined what an epoch in my childhood was a visit to a relative of my father’s, kno\vn in the family as Aunt Sarah, who resided near Barnard Castle. Boy as I was, her delicate features, her slender figure, and pensive expression, struck my imagination. G PORTRAIT or AUNT SARAH. When she held me close in lier loving embmce, and kept my little hand in hers, which trembled Avith emotion, while her beautiful eyes were dim with tears, I felt that I was in the anns of one of strong sensibility and ardent affection ; and as she arranged the dark curls that clustered round my face, and presented me to her numerous friends, I forgot eveiy thing in admiration of her sweet smile and lovely face. I remember thinking that her features and complexion were more like ‘ Avax-work ’ than anything I had seen before. My remembrance of her is still vivid, — gentle, serene, pensiA^e, and graceful in all her motions. With a romantic and chi\mlrous turn of mind, she had the ap- pearance and bearing of a highly poetic charac- ter. And, certainly, she Avas unlike any one I liaA’e ever seen ; for, Avith her enthusiasm for historical and traditional narrative, she com- bined a gentle, loving spirit ; and her heroism, her admiration of deeds of darins: in a vir- tuous or generous cause of honour, of loyal fidelity, did not interfere with the most tender domestic affections. As memoiy carries me back to those days of my youth, I see her ARCHyEOLOGICAL FEELING. plucking' Avild flo Avers for me in the lomcintic AA’oods that surround this once famed and stately castle ; or, explorhig Avith me the ex- tensiA^e ruins, pointing out toAA'er, and keep, and pinnacle, or dungeon deep, subterraneous caverns, secret passages that Avere supposed to communicate for miles underground AAuth Haby, Athelston, or Rokeby : thus affording means of escape, or conference Avith friendly allies in times of trouble or danger. She AAmuld point to Baliol’s and Brackenbury’s ToAvers, mys- teriously hinting at the prisons and cruelty of former times, my lady’s chamber, and the Duke of Gloucester’s state apartments, Avith his arms carA^ed in the bay AvindoAV, still to be seen. What a |)icture of soitoav she seemed AAdien dropping a tear upon the bloody arroAV found in the dChvis of the ruins, or hanging Avith a sigh OA^er the stone coffins dug out of the Castle Garth! With Avhat true archceo- loo'ical feeling she AA'ould endeaAmur to clear aAA'ay the rust fi'om some old coin, and to de- cipher names and dates ! EA^ery little object and circumstance connected AA’ith ‘ the Ccistle became m her eyes sanctified. And the mins 8 BARNARD CASTLE. of Barnard Castle, its woods, its water, its picturesque beauty from eveiy point of view, its liistoiy, the romance of its many legends, and its connexion with great historic names, made it the homestead of her existence. She might 1)6 said, indeed, to live only in the barbaric ages of feudal despotism, her mind being so much engrossed with the past, that she hardly seemed cognizant of the present. As we roamed the woods, or followed the fisher’s path by the ‘ rugged Tees,’ or midst the niinous walls of the Castle, my aunt woidd recount its fitful history, beguiling my young imagination with dreams of the past. She went as far back as 1300, when the Beauchamps, the Nevilles, and the Plan- tagenets held the place ; then the Duke of Gloucester (Richard III.), who obtained undi- vided possession of the Castle and extended parks in 1477. She then descended to Eliza- beth’s time, when occurred the remarkable and noble defence of the place for eleven days by Sir George Bowes, of Streatham, agamst the rebellious earls of the north of 1569. In 1590 the Castle appears to have been in tolerably good repair, until it came into the AUNT Sarah’s lament. .9 possession of Sir Henry Vane in 1626, who in 1630 unroofed and totally dismantled it for the sake of the lead, iron, wood, and stone contained in it. ‘ Oh ! misery ! can one thousand pounds worth of lead, iron, wood, and stone be more worth than a Castle which might receive a king and his whole train? Indeed, my dear nephew, it is miserable to think that the Vanes have done more to puU to pieces, and utterly destroy and rum this noble monument of former great- ness, than all the wars, sieges of barbarians, ay, or even the ruthless destroyer Time, during the many centuries before or since they have had possession of it. It is lamentable to re- flect on the want of proper feeling for the histoiy and great antiquity of such an object of interest as this once beautiful Castle, now, alas ! a total min, mouldering fast to decay, and, I fear, soon to utter anniliilation.’ Thus my aunt would lament the fall and . spoliation of her beloved castle. And as I am desirous of rendering her character more com- plete to the reader’s perception, I will endeavour to describe her dwelling, for often in domestic 10 MY aunt’s home. arranorements we discover the tendency of menta O »/ solicitude as well as particular housewifely. Thei striking novelty to me in my aunt’s home was the profusion of works of art, of all classes and descriptions ; for from the ceiling to the floor the walls were covered with varied art represen- tations — in painting, drawing, or engraving. There were, I remember, prints of Angelica Kaufmann’s sentimental and allegorical designs, — some of Boydell’s prints from Shakespeare’s historical plays, — a large pahiting, size of life, of Venus, nearly nude — with one of her own lap- dog. There were landscapes of wild and romantic character, — pictures of sentiment or poetry — of beauty or heroism, — caricatures, too, of every conceivable grade and allusion. One 1 noticed was of a lay-brother carrying upon his back a huge ' bundle of fire-wood, in Avhich were seen peeping out behind the shoes and ankles of a female, underneath which was written ‘ Supplies for THE Monastery.’ Besides })ictures, there was great store of curiosities and antiquities, — old swords, old pipes, old coins and vessels of earthen- ware, old cabinets, oak chairs, china, guns, bows and arrows. Eastern slippers and embroidered MY BED-CHAMBER. 11 gloves, daggers and rasty spurs. The chair I sat upon was of oak, carved all over, and dated 1342 upon its back ; it was of curious fonn, but lame and rickety ; and there were othei's similar, but differing in fonn, age, &c. The tables, too, were odd, vdth spu'al legs — and of various forms and workmanship. This sitting- room' was lighted by a bay-window, filling which was an exuberant hydrangea in full bloom, with bunches of flowers the size of my head, and a magnificent geranium, the full height of the window. These so screened or shaded the Hght of the apartment, that with its pictures of half- revealed figures and heads, and other objects, together with the conglomeration of strange antiquated things about, seemed to strike at first the beholder with quamt mysterious im- pressions. On my first entrance I remained m silent wonder ; while my aunt was as much amused at my abstraction as I was occupied in speculation on the novelties around me. She had the tact not to interrapt or disturb my youtlrfiil meditations, but smiled m self-satisfaction. She led me upstairs to my bed-chamber, a large antiquated room panelled with oak, and 12 STRANGE ILLUSION. old enough to be of the time of the Duke of Gloucester, It was dark and gloomy, where one candle only made ‘ darkness visible.’ There were pictures here, which, however, I did not examine, but retired to bed, wearied and satiated with aU I had seen during the day. On waking m the morning, the light of day revealed to me this ancient chamber, and straight before me, over the mantel-piece, there hung a half-length portrait, the size of life, representing a beautiful lady, looking right down upon me, with an arch Cupid by her side, the little god and herself portrayed as divinities, as was the fashion of a certain period. And what attracted my young observation was that, as I moved to different parts of the chamber the eyes of the picture seemed to follow me. This strange illusion I could not account for at the time, but I climbed upon a table to ascertain if the eyes were part of the canvas, or not ; and, sure enough, my astonishment was increased on finding the sur- face flat and perfect, and only painted over like the rest of the picture. On frequently resum- ing my examination of this work of art since the period above alluded to, I have always been QUAKER SCHOOLMASTER. 13 charmed with the colouring of the flesh, the purity, and bloom, and richness of which seemed to me unsui-passed by Titian. The ruby freshness of the lips, and the transparency of the shade-tint, quite won my admiration, and I returned to it with ever new and increased appreciation of its rare merits ; so much so, indeed, that I have no memory of the other pictm-es or objects in this room. The eftect of this beautiful picture, its harmony and glow of colour, was to chann my young fancy, — my soul yearned towards the possibility of being able to reahze such perfec- tion, and PAINTING became from that time the lodestar of my ambition. My Quaker schoolmaster, although familiar with almost eveiy scholastic or scientific diffi- culty, possessed veiy little skill in the fine arts, and his pupils were left to improve themselves fis best they could by ‘copies’ provided for them in the way of coloured engravings. When the time came for my being removed from school, and placed in my father’s business, the passion for Art still clung to me ; and as days and years passed on I was still true to my infatu- ation, taking eveiy spare moment, early in the 14 EXHIBITION OF MY PORTFOLIO. morning and late at night, to practise the dehcious enjoyment of reproducing enchanting sceneiy, or exercising my hand upon the difficult human ‘ face divine.’ My poor father became alaiTned at last, lest this ‘ ignis fatuus ’ shoidd be leading me away altogether from what he deemed my best interests in hfe ; and when my mother, delighted, exhibited my portfolio to some of her admiring friends, who praised and expatiated upon the wonders of ‘genius,’ my father would be groaning in spirit in an ad- joining room. It was curious to observe the bewildered and divided expression that his face assumed on these occasions. If one side smiled with some degree of inward pride and satisfac- tion, the other assumed an aspect of rebuke, and he felt disposed to hurry to my mother’s exhibition, shut up the folio from whence she brouglit out her son’s w'onderful works and exclaim, ‘ Nonsense, nonsense, — this will be the boy’s ruin, I foresee ! ’ But my father loved my mother, and no doubt suffered in his own breast rather than mortify his beautiful spouse, — for the praises of her child were a heaven of bliss to her. The boy’s extreme modesty THE SQUIRE S PRAISE OF GENIUS. 15 caused him to run away and hide himself on these occasions, while new sensations thrilled every nerve and agitated his whole frame, and he felt that he must live for other and nobler objects than those which occupied the men and women around him. When a fox-hunting squire saw the collection of my works, he would ex- patiate to my mother on the heavenly gifts of genius ; how those gifted with it pushed them- selves forward in the world, overcame all diffi- culties, cleared the fences, and reached theii’ goal. ‘ Then, ma’am,’ he would say, ‘ fame, riches, and honours come “thick as leaves that strew the Vale of Vallombrosa,” as the great poet hath it ; and he would leave my poor mother in an ecstasy from which it would have been sin in my father to have roused her. What gloiy it is to have praise in youth for any rare skill, physical or mental ! The part of the countiy where we lived at the period of which I wn-ite, had acquired fame for its peculiar breed of cattle, which it has ever since maintained. Exhibitions of the most extraordinary mountains of fat made the tour of the three kingdoms ; paintings and engrav- 16 ITINERANT ARTIST. ings of these bovine wonders were fashionable; and it is not strange if a young artist should copy a series of these monsters. I accordingly had di’awn, on large paper, bulls, oxen, and heifers, the most famous on record. With these I also executed sets of fox-hunting and greyhound-com’sing, large views of the lakes, the scenery of Wales, the various picturesque rivers, and remarkable places or noble seats. An unfortunate son of the brush arriving in the town and proposing to teach, I hastened by stealth, unknovTi to any of my friends, to his studio, and took my place for a set of six lessons, and accomplished under his tuition what to me was a fresh delight. It was a miniature of a beautiful girl, with a white veil spreading from the back of her head over her crimson satin dress, wliich showed in varied transparency the fonn beneath, — she might be a bride, most beautiful she appeared to my wondering eyes, — the graduated effect of the veil, in its soft transparency, seeming magical to me. This professor had been on intimate terms with Morland, and had advanced him fi.-om time to tune sums of money until he had ANOTHER ‘ DICK TINTO. 17 no more to advance. He said, whenever he went to Morland for the restitution of his accumulated debts he always left him with an addition to the sum due ; but yet he loved him, he said, and was charmed with his genius and his society. Another of these itinerant geniuses was detained in our town by sickness ; he was a son of the ‘ sock and buskin,’ but being accom- plished in the arts, and no longer able to ‘ strut his hour upon the stage,’ he wished to teach drawing ; and to him I went for six lessons more in water-colours. Here I drew single figures, grotesque or humorous, taken mostly from such subjects as he painted. My portfolios being crammed with an extensive and miscellaneous collection, and my age approach- ing seventeen, I turned my thoughts to a higher pursuit, and became wholly absorbed in the study and practice of oil-painting, the smell of which was to me aliment and perfume inexpressible. In these times of eight-horse waggons and stage - coaches there were no estabhshments to supply you with artists’ colours from the shops in London, as there are VOL. I. c 18 PICTURE OF A BROTHER CHIP. now ; so I had recourse for my first supply of necessaries, colours, oils, varnishes, canvas, the loan of an easel and palette, and so forth, to one of those country artists who, uniting the fine arts to a department of tmde, have, by a very celebrated bard, been denominated the ‘ Dick Tintos ’ of the provinces, and, like most English artists, adapt the supply of their genius to the demand. Thus he was at once house, sign, coach, and heraldiy painter, while for all A\'ho might be pleased to patronise his graphic pencil, he ventured upon the higher depart- ments of art, landscape or portraits, as well as those luminous displays yclept ‘transpa- rencies,’ painted upon a system of glazing of the Venetian school. As this universal genius made up his own materials, and ground his own colours, there was no difficulty in obtain- ing from hun whatever I needed. And here let me endeavour to place before the reader’s eye the picture of a ‘brother chip,^ long lost to the provincial world of art and science, — I say science, for he was scientific as well as everything else, by tums, being in fact a universal genius ; and there was nothing A UNIVERSAL GENIUS. 19 in the heavens above, the earth beneatli, or the waters that encompass it about, of which he did not knoAv something. His acquirements, indeed, were extraordinary. Self-taught and un- appreciated, he lived and died a recluse, known but to few ; his acquisitions of infonnation were scarcely known to himself ; it was only when subjects were brought under discussion that he found himself prepared to enter on subtle arguments and nice distinctions that would have surprised and delighted learned professors. Like many unfortunate geniuses, he was eccen- tric in person and manners. His figure was un- gainly. By an accident in early life he was lame in one leg, and crippled in one hand and foot, and his head appeared (as well as his nose) to have been knocked to one side, perhaps by the same accident. He met your gaze vuth one eye only, and if by some chance you caught a glance of the other you would obseiwe that there was a decided obliquity of vision in that organ, which he invariably kept closed in company. He was decidedly a bookwonn, and when poring over some mouldy old tome he wore a pair of wide -rimmed spectacles. 20 GEORGE marks’ SANCTUM. partly horn, partly metal, that conveyed to the observer such an open-eyed stare as not im- frequently caused him to be taken for one of those individuals caUed in Scotland ‘ uncannie,’ so that he was suspected by several of his cre- didous neighbours of being able to unravel the mysteries of futurity, or of having communi- cations with the Evil One ; and many refused to enter the precincts of his sanctum, for he was a solitary man, and would be shut up in his wonderful chamber in silence and study until after midnight. He combined many pur- suits ; he was by trade bookbinder, bird-stuffer, botanist, herbalist, geologist, mineralogist, geo- grapher, astronomer, surveyor, engraver ; his closets and shelves were crammed Avith tools, instruments, books, portfolios full of old prints of all descriptions and sizes, stuffed birds and animals, an eccentric collection of branches, and clogs, and stumps of trees, with mosses and lichens, walls covered with pictures all painted by himself, besides his slabs and mullers, easels and colours, oils and varnishes. It Avas in tliis chamber I found him. As I entered his back was toAvards me, a lighted candle AA’as in his A KINDRED SPIRIT. 21 hand, and as he turned his remarkable head towards me, his hair standing on end, his spectacles shoved up on his capacious fore- head, his eyes looking different ways with the singular effect of light and shadow — I myself being at this time rather timid and imaginative, though bold in my errand — I confess to have been taken rather ‘aback,’ and I gazed at him with some trepidation ; but he spoke encouragingly, bidding me ‘ come in.’ So I threaded my way to where he was, and ex- plained my wishes. To my infinite delight I found in him a kindred spirit, and lie promised to furnish me with all I desired to have, can- vas, colours, easel, &c.* It was by him that I was initiated into the mysteries of ‘ oil ; ’ it was by him I was told of the wonders of the palette, its mixtures and compound tints, those which were evanescent and those which stood the test of time, the ‘ rubbings in,’ the first, second, and third jiaint- ings, all the secrets of glazing, and the con- stant habit and practice of the great masters. * The name of this unknown genius was George ]\Iarks. oo FIRST BEGINNING IN OIL, their experiments after the yet undecided ‘ vehicle/ that ignis -fatiius of artists. Need I tell of the sleepless nights, the raptures of anticipation of an artist’s fimt be- ginning in oil ? When I did sleep, my dreams Avere of pictures of ineffable hannony and bril- liance, my visions of beautiful paradises and glowing sunsets, of Jacob’s Dream and the ladder with the Angels ascending and descend- ing, — of the tender aerial landscapes of Claude and the depth and richness of Titian; — all the wonders of the pencil, and of nature, arose before my ardent imagination. At last the materials came, and lighting my fire at five o’clock next morning, when all the household Avere fiist a.sleep, I arranged my apparatus and set my first palette ; and after rubbing in and rubbing out, and dabbing aAvay until breakfast, I had to my mind made little progress in getting OA’er the first trouble of a neAV process, and found that the colours either ran or crej^t or did not coA’er the ground, and seemed so hard and harsh that the disapjDointment A\’as great enough, Avhen T had to scrape all oft* and begin again de novo. And so I Avent on morniim after morning, month after CRITIQUES OF THE ‘ EXAMINER.’ 23 month, until at length I began to find the diffi- culties in the management of oil-colour give way a little to perseverance. I often visited my sin- gular friend to ask questions, to hear about painting and about artists, and once a- week, when the Examiner newspaper came to him, it was my wont to repair at night to his sanctum to hear the descriptions and critiques contained at that time in this talented paper. It was thus that I became familiar with the names of living painters, with their works and the peculiarities of their style, their merits and defects. In these critiques Haydon was mentioned with great praise, his ‘Judgment of Solomon’ ex- tolled above any other historical work of the English school (and with justice). It was by this paper I was informed about the extra- ordinary wonders of the ‘ Elgin Marbles,’ the doings of artists in the great metropolis, and aU the interesting particulars of the art of this period. Is it to be wondered at, then, if my too sanguine imagination was fired, and my desire painfully excited to see the works of the men of whom I was constantly reading ? Most parents who have a family of sons find 24 START FOR LONDON. it difficult when the time comes to decide what calling or profession their boys shall pursue during life. My parents were not exempt from this difficulty, and I was the one selected for my father’s business. Obedient to their wishes I remained thus employed until twenty years had rolled over my head. Then, burning with desire to tread the illusory but flower- enameUed way that leads to fame, and urged by an impulse that grew iiTesistible, I started for London, a countiy youth in a modest suit of brown, with twenty pounds in my pocket, earned by my bmsh — all I could call my ovm ; for my father told me that if I persisted in follow- ing the desire of my heart, I was to look for no assistance from hmi, saying at the same time, that he had no faith in such visionaiy pur- suits. London appeared to me the heaven of youthful hopes and expectations, that Armida’s garden of enchantment where all bright visions must be realised or disappointed. Viewed from a distance, it appeared decked in daz- zling beauty to my youthful imagination, espe- cially when a journey of three long days and nights by a stage-coach lay between me and ARRIVAL IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS. 25 my heaven of bliss. So it was some fifty years ago when the ‘Highflyer’ or ‘Wellington’ stopped at my father’s door, and I quitted my indulgent home for ever. Silent and simple I travelled, with visions alternately sad and bril- hant flitting before me. Everything was strange to my wondering eyes. As the coach entered the suburbs of the great City, in a heaxy shower of rain, I was warned not to take my impressions of London from that day, which was dreaiy and gloomy enough, for with the dense smoke and wet it seemed as if we were entering into an inhabited cloud. Alas ! how was I situated ! — I had no intro- ductions, no friends, not even an acquaintance, in the whirlpool of hfe that I was entering. I had come against the wishes of at least one parent, contrary to the advice of friends, who would come to my father to tell him of the risks and min of young men indulging in visionary pursuits, and urging hun, as he loved his son, to induce him to return home, and to make him turn his talents to business. 26 CHAPTER II. ARRIVAL IN LONDON EARLY DIFFICULTIES — IIAYDON AND FU- SELI LETTERS TO HIS BROTHERS OPPORTUNITIES OF STUDY THE ELGIN MARBLES MR. DAY HOPES AND DISAPPOINT- MENTS RF.FUSED ADMISSION TO THE ACADEMY HAYDON’b ADVICE THE ROYAL ACADEMY BRIBING THE PORTER HAYDOn's GENEROSITY INTRODUCTION TO LITERARY CELE- BRITIES — CARICATURE OF HAYDON AND HIS PUPILS. In London, Bewick found himself involved in all the difficulties to which the yoking and unknown artist is exposed on his first arrival in the metropolis. He appears, however, to have made the acquaintance, at an early period of his residence, of various persons who were able to guide him in the cultivation of his art, and to contribute in a great measure to his ultimate success. He thus gained the advantage of see- ing, in the beginning of his career, some of the noblest works, both of ancient and modern painters, and had opportunities of listening to and profiting by the observations of competent HAYDON. 27 critics. Nor, while studying the works of others, does he appear to have neglected the practice of his art, as he employed his time both in retouch- ing old paintings, and in producing ncAv ones, some of which he was able to dispose of to the patrons of young and promising artists. Among persons of more or less distinction with whom he became acquainted, perhaps none excited higher admu’ation, or exercised a more profound influence upon his mind, so far as regards his views of art, than Mr. B. B. Haydon, whom he calls the ‘ first painter we have.’ Haydon gave him a letter of introduction to Fuseli, A\dth the view of obtaining for him the privilege of drawing in the Academy, but at first he was unsuccessful. Haydon, indeed, ap- pears to have acted towards Bewick with remarkable kindness, urging him to press for- ward to the higher walks of art, and amid the disappointments which might beset him to ex- ercise industiy, patience, and perseverance. In his intercourse with this renowned artist, he enjoyed the privilege of becoming acquainted wdth some of the most distinguished men of the day, poets, sculptors, and painters, not only 28 Bewick’s letters to his brother. of England, but also of foreign countries. From their conversation he derived the utmost benefit, his views of art, of literature, and of life being at once greatly enlarged, and at the same time rendered more precise. His position, too, as a pupil of Haydon’s, in some degi’ee exposed him to the animosity from which that artist was seldom free. In a caricature of Haydon and his pupils, which was published, Bewick was made the most conspicuous figure after Haydon him- self But of this period of his life the fol- lowing letters, addressed from London to his brother, will give the reader an interesting outline. Dear Brother, — You vfill think, no doubt, that I am rather inert or forgetful, not to have written you ere this, but my desire was to have something satisfactoiy to tell you. I have no doubt you will want to know how I am situated here. Well, I am not doing anything, but am occupying my time in seeing the exhibitions, &c. &c., which wHl prove very useful, as I shall hereby improve my ideas. AWiat a pity it is that I have not some little independence at the MR. DAY. 29 present moment, as I have got leave to study from the celebrated marble statues which Lord Elgin brought from Greece, — likewise from a plaster cast of Phidias, now exhibiting in the Mews Gallery. Such an opportunity would be likely to found me on the Grecian purity of de- sign. I had the other morning a long conver- sation with Mr. Day (the proprietor of the King’s Mews Gallery). I showed him my pic- ture of Niobe, and he passed high encomiums on it. He is an artist, and has been in Italy, from whence he brought the celebrated cast from a statue of Phidias, twenty feet high, together with several valuable paintings by the old masters, Raphael, Carracci, Rubens, &c. ; all of which he is now exhibiting. I am to go with him to Lord Elgin’s (Burlington House) to- mon’ow morning, to see his moulders at work. He brought them with him from Rome, having there borrowed them from Canova, the cele- brated scidptor, who was over here six or seven months ago. Mr. Day is very pohte, and asked me from what part of the country I came, and who were the principal noblemen in the neigh- bourhood. I told him that the Earl of Dar- 30 HOPES AND DISAPPOINTMENTS. lington was one, and that I expected a letter of introduction from Lady Chaytor to Lady Darlington. I should like to stay here as long as pos- sible, as I can employ my time either in a drawing-school, in portrait-painting, or any- thing else that woidd be to my advantage. However, I must take my chance. I have not had much orood fortune thus far. O I remain your ever dutiful brother, Wm. Bewick. Mr. John Bewick, Newgate Street, Newcastle-on-Tyne. London, July 14th, 18 1C. Dear Brother,— I have had a great many (hSappointments, and some flattering hopes. In my last I think I mentioned Lady Darlington, — that I had received a letter from Colonel Chaytor desiring me to wait u})on her ladyship. I mentioned this to some of my friends here, asking their advice. They advised me to take a fine day, as it affects much the exhibition of any works of art. So, after waiting two or thiee weeks, during which period I retouched haydon’s paintings. 31 a picture, I repaired to Cleveland House on Monday morning, and was mortified and disap- pointed to learn that the family had quitted London the day before. Judge my feehngs at this disappointment after I had anxiously waited so long. However, I must wait patiently, and employ my time as my means will permit. I am at present painting a companion to the ‘Marriage.’ It is the ‘Presentation at the Temple.’ I am to have ten guineas for it. You would hear, if you received any of my letters to my parents, that I have been honoured with the acquaintance of Mr. B. B. Haydon, so much talked of in the papers. He is the first historical painter we have. I was drawing at Burlington House, a place where he studied. He invited me to go to his house to see his things. I got breakfast with him, and saw all his drawings from the Elgin Marbles, likewise the astonishing picture of ‘ Christ riding into Jerasalem,’ which he is now painting. His ‘ J udgment of Solomon ’ you will have heard of. It was purchased for seven hundred guineas ; he was engaged on it four years, and during that 32 LETTER TO FUSELI, time he did not earn a shilling by his profession. He has been so kind as to give me a letter to H. Fuseh, professor of painting. I took the letter with a drawing, to obtain permission to draw in the Academy. The Council met on Friday, and I am not admitted. There were about fifty drawings not admitted. Mine was only the second finished drawing I ever made. I am not acquainted with any of the Royal Academy, and Mr. Haydon was expelled the Academy. But I understand I should have given the porter at the door a shilhng to have given the letter to Mr. Fuseli himself. I was not aware of this, and one can’t tell how the letter may have operated with the Royal Aca- demicians, My means are limited : if I can manage until Lady Darlington returns, I will remain here, as I should like to be satisfied that I have tried everything. I send you a copy of Mr. Haydon ’s letter to Mr. Fuseli ; — ‘ My dear Sir, — The bearer of this is a Mr, Bewiek, who is incliistrious and very eager to get on. He brings a drawing to show you, that he may be allowed to draw in the Academy, if you think it sufficiently well done. lie seems BEWICK THE ENGRAVER. 33 to have a feeling for doing things in a large way, and I do think promises something. Excuse my troubling you. I am, dear Sir, yours respectfully, B. R. Haydox. I thought of sending something to Mr. Beudck, the engraver ; I have nothing yet good enough. There were two portraits of him in the Exhibition. He is thought a clever man here. As to my health, I am well, I have some- thing else to think about. I remain your affectionate Brother, W. Bewick. London, Sept. 17th, 181 C. Dear Brother, — You will have heard how I have been befriended by a celebrated historical painter, B. B,. Haydon, Esq. He has written to my father relative to my remaining here ; per- haps they will send you a copy of his letter, I cannot tell what he has said.* My father has * The letters written by Mr. Bewick and Mr. Haydon to his father were intrusted to a brother of Mr. B.’s, who has unfortunately mislaid them. VOL. 1. D HAYDON S KINDNESS. ;34 answered his letter, and in consequence I have i-eceived a note from Mr. Haydon inviting me to tea. I went, and had the kindest reception, evidencing friendship and an ardent desire for my getting on in the higher walks of art. He jn-omises eveiy assistance in hLs power ; all he requires in return is, that I be industrious and have patience and persevei’ance (what less can I do ?). He says it entmely depends on myself Avhether I get on or not. I shall do all in my ])ower to be industrious, &c., and a few years Avill show what I can do — how far my abilities (genius if I have any) may reach. He showed me a valuable collection of engravings. ‘ See what you like, do what you choose, and have anything I can conveniently spare,' these were his Avords at tea. He is going in a fortnight to have a figure cast life-size, and he has giA’en me leave to draAv from it. This is a particular favour. I cannot give you an idea of my feelings. He Avill arrange for me to see all the exhibitions, &c. of pictures free. I must attend the dissections in a AA'eek or tAvo, the AA^eather is too AA^ann at pre- sent. You AA'ill knoAv that Mr. Stamper and 1 ROYAL ACADEMY. 35 live together at Dr. Wilson’s, two rooms fiist- floor. Mr. Hayclon has given me some precious advice, in fact more by half than I could have expected from a father. If I ever do anything the family will be indebted to Imn. I am your dutiful Brother, Wm. Bewick. London, Jan. 12th, 1817. Dear Brother, — You will please to excuse my -writing much at present, my tune is so much engaged. Since I last wrote you, a circum- stance has occurred concerning me at the Royal Academy. On Monday I took a drawing there, desiring to be admitted a student, — the man at the door asked me if I had a letter of recom- mendation, I said. No. ‘ You would have got in much better if you had had a letter from a Royal Academician or an Exhibitor.’ I told him I had none, and that if my dravdng was not sufficient to gain my admittance, I must be content. I went to tell the circumstance to Mr. Haydon ; he ad-vised me to go back and give the porter a'shdling, but I despised this 36 HAYDON. imclerliancled bribing work, and detennined to take my chance. I called a few days, after and heard to my surprise that my drawing was admitted. I naturally asked to have it, but I was told I could not. What they mean by this, I don’t know, as it is not the usual method : it must have been that they think I am not able to do another as well. I hope I shall do better, mid that the Academy will prove a useful place for study. You will have heard that my mother received a letter from Mr. Haydon. I wish I could de- scribe my feelmgs at receiving such friendshij) from this gi’eat man. He has even gone so far as to lend me money ; and when I offered it him again he would not take it. I told him I ready 6 GENEROUS EATING-HOUSE KEEPER. what was next best to be done to obtain my dinner. Hunger, they say, sharpens one’s wits — but it did not mine ; and I pursued my walk to- wards home. When I came near the old haunt for dinner, appetite pushed me on, and I de- ten nined to tiy on trust for once. I had always clhied and paid at the same place for some years, and the waiter kneAv me. So into the eating- house I dashed, and, putting a good face upon the dilemma, asked for my usual chop, and dinner was never more gratefully consumed. When I had to pay, my hand went into my empty pocket in make-believe, and I said, “ Oh, I’ve forgot my money to-day, I will pay you to-mon'ow.” The reply was “Very well. Sir and I stepped to the dooi’ with as muclf^momentaiy satisfaction as if I had had in the bank the amount Sir George owed me, or Wilkie’s hundreds. Just as I put my foot upon the step of the outer door, a gentle tap on my shoulder stayed my progress, and I was very civilly invited by the keeper of the eating-house to walk into his room, as he wished to speak with me. I returned with him. He then shut the door, and, after apologizing for the liberty he was taking, said he had read in HAYDON’s ‘ SOLOMON.’ 67 the newspapers how badly I had been used with regard to my picture, and that if dining there, or living entirely at his house, would be any convenience to me, he should be quite delighted, and I might pay him when I was able. I agreed to dine there for the future, with many thanks for this noble, disinterested kindness. ‘ And there I continued to dme until my “ Solomon ” was completed. It was exhibited at Spring Gardens, had a good light and was well seen, made great success, — sensation, I might say — and was sold for 800 guineas, I paid all my land creditors and my noble eating-house keeper, who, aftenvards having retired from his successful business to his villa in the country a rich man, often drove in his camaofe to pay his respects to me. I stiU continued my friendship for Wilkie, and did not let trifles of this kind come between us to mar our mutual satisfaction in the j5ursuit of our loved art. He seemed to enjoy my success as much as any- body ; and I was now puffed up in all quarters as the first painter England had ever produced ; and it must be my boast that I am a true Englishman, for my art and my country are 68 ‘ CHAPEAU DE FAILLE. the only enthusiasm that possess my whole soul. I have invitations to reside in other countries, but I refuse all — it is here my fate is fixed.’ At the time Sir R. Peel bought the famous ‘ Chapeau de Paille ’ of Rubens, it was exhi- bited in Bond Street, and I accompanied Hay- don and Martin to see it. Haydon went off to a proper distance under the light of the window and exclaimed, ‘ By G — d, Martin, that’s wonder- ful ! charming ! — how pure and brilliant ! What lustrous, beaming eyes ! what a creature of brightness, of silveiy splendour ! ’ ‘ Oh,’ Mar- tin added, ‘it is fine!’ We were permitted to go within the enclosure to examine closely this extraordinary specimen of a very won- derful painter, take hun all in all. Both our great English artists viewed it closely, admii-ing its solidity, its transparency, its fra- gile brightness, its softness, its j^urity of tint, and its elastic touch, without uttering one word ; they did not seem to breathe. After they had apparently satiated them- selves, Haydon said to me, ‘There, Bewick, take your fill of that ; it is a perfect lesson to MARTIN AND HAYDON. 69 any painter.’ We then left the place, and the only remark I heard Haydon make as he got into the street was, that ‘ it at first struck him as being what is called “ fishy ” in the complexion ; ’ to which Martin assented, but he confessed he did not know much of the practice of flesh- painting, nor was he aware by his own study of the great variety of delicate tints and half-tints required to make up the one colour or effect of flesh ; he apprehended that flesh was one of the most difficult of an artist’s tasks in the search after expression. On which Haydon re- marked how few modem painters had attamed to anything like what we had just seen, and that perhaps might not rank with some of the flesh of Titian, or of Murillo, or even, I am tempted to say, with some very few specimens of his pupil Vandyck. Sir Joshua had a fine con- ception of the general effect of flesh, but he seems to have wanted delicacy and tenderness of half-tint, and the fine drawing, and execution, and purity you find in Vandyck. Titian is mellowed, but there is not the purity which charms us in Vandyck, and even Guido. ‘ I should like,’ said he, ‘ to have been able to 70 DUTCH AND VENETIAN PAINTERS. put what we have just seen by the side of a Titian. I apprehend Rubens in the head might seem cold, if not vapid. Those Venetians sacri- ficed all to their flesh, and produced tremen- dous effects of golden hrilhancy and ]iower of colour. Rubens is brilliant too, but there is not that depth — that power of rich tone. His pic- tures, though wonderful, have all the appearance of haste, of slightness, and want of solidity, whereas the Italians, the Venetians in particular, are finished with great care, with masses of solid colour, — with power, fine drawing, rich ghizings ; nothing can stand against them. Some of the Spanish painters have all this sohd impaMo, and transparent toning too, with the power and drawmg, and we have an appreciation and s}*m- pathy with both schools. The Dutch school, as it is called, is perfection of execution in small, but where carried to a large expansive scale, it does not transfer its power, but appears atten- uated or vapid.’ Martin had a peculiar habit of sneezing twice, or rather snortinjx with his nose, when con- versing, and this would increase in loudness and frequency as he warmed to his argument. Hay- MARTIN. 71 don also had the same curious propensity, but not quite so loud as Martin. In the dead silence of the room where the picture was exhibited these curious sounds were remarkably distinct, and seemed like the faint expressions of the thought of a dumb person or the sneezing of dumb animals, or like a sound and its echo. When old Kean played Syl- vester Daggerwood {for his own benefit), he imposed upon himself this same odd habit, and when presented on the stage it was laugh- able enough. Martin was of about middle size — fair, ex- tremely good-looking, and pleasing in his expres- sion ; there was nothing remarkable or eccentric in his appearance ; he was smart and trim, well dressed and gentlemanly, and wdien seen out of doors he seemed to delight in a light primrose- coloured vest with bright metal buttons, a blue coat set off with the same, his hair carefully curled, and shining with macassar oil. He was prepossessing, with a great flow of conversa- tion and argument. He was also imaginative, and kept to his points with a tenacity not easily subdued. 72 Wilkie’s dialect. Wilkie was tall, ungainly, and awkward in his manner, and, though not quite deseiw- ing the description of Mrs. Flynn, the beautiful liousekeeper of Castle Howard, who spoke of him as ‘ the ugliest man she had ever seen,’ he was by no means the ‘ golden-haired ’ Adonis his fellow-countryman, Allan Cunnmgham, would have liked to make him. He had rather a drawl- ing, hesitating speech, and when in close argu- ment woidd forget himself, and the ‘twang’ of his Northern tongue would be very strong. In- deed, he never was quite free from it, although he could not be persuaded that it was jjossible for anyone to discover by his speech that he was a Northern, and he sometimes got out of humour when told of it. Haydon would laugh at his provoked expression when he twitted him with his Scotch accent, and Wilkie would insist upon his pronunciation being ‘ pure English.’ Haydon would ciy out, ‘ Ha, ha, ha ! what a delusion ! ’ and as Wilkie became warm and vexed, his na- tive Scotch was evident enough. Haydon would then repeat and imitate the broad intonation of a particular expression that Wilkie had in his heat allowed to slip out. When he found that he WILKIE AND HAYDON IN ARGUMENT. 73 could not edge oft’ or get out of it in any way, Wilkie would laugh too, and return the quiz upon the Devonshire peculiarities by saying, ‘ Well, and yew tew are Devom'/ico’c, and fancy, like Northcote, that you speak pure English,' And so they would laugh and joke each other in a playful moment of relaxation like two school- boys, At other times they would consult and argue upon difficult matters connected with their art, and Haydon would be ftuent, decided in his propositions, would cite precedents and authorities, and be even audacious in his lan- guage, whilst Wilkie with great patience lis- tened, returned again and again to the en- counter, and hammered in separate words, that seemed difficult of enunciation, and hard to get hold of ; but his difficulty and hesitation did not in the least prevent him from following out his side of the argument, which he would put hi various forms and hghts to persuade or convince his friend, often repeating with a smile the persuasive expression of ‘ you see,’ which, as he had a slight lisp, he would pronounce ‘you sthee.’ 74 CHAPTER V. WORDSWORTH AND UGO FOSCOLO MISS WORDSWORTH THE ITALIAN LANGUAGE THE ITALIAN POET’s RECITATION Foscolo’s conversation — self-devotion — theory of DISINTERESTEDNESS THE FRESCOES OF MICHAEL ANGELO — PORTRAIT OF FOSCOLO HOW HE FURNISHED HIS HOUSE IN LONDON — FOSCOLO AND WILKIE — HAZLITt’s LAUGH. The next of these autobiographic sketches con- tains the painter’s reminiscences of Wordsworth and Ugo Foscolo, in Avhich national tempera- ment, as exhibited respectively by the English poet and his Italian confrere, is veiy accurately and forcibly discriminated. On the occasion when Bewick met Foscolo, the latter appeal's to hfive suggested the first hint of that important task on which Bewick was afterwards employed, namely, that of executing copies from the cele- brated frescoes of Michael Angelo in the Sistine Chapel at Rome. The word-picture of the two poets, wliich the artist draws from life, is very FOSCOLO AND WORDSWORTH. 75 -effective, and we have no reason to doubt in every respect faithful. Foscolo and Wordsworth. On one occasion I met the Italian poet and lecturer Ugo Foscolo with Words woiili and some ladies, at tea at Haydon’s in the evening. The contrast between the two })oets was re- markable. Our own sat still and collected, philosophic and considerate. His soul seemed full of the religion of poetry. He had dwelt apart, and arrived at convictions through expe- rience and inspiration. His tranquillity was noble and majestic, like the repose of the lion. Conscious strength, with mild reserve, beamed placidly over the features that spoke of content springmg from the conviction of Universal Good. His Italian brother poet, vo- latile and passionate, ever and anon started from his chair, and vapoured about — whirling round the room, — Hvirling his quizzing glass rapidly in excitement, as if he were suffering under some galvanic influence, expressing by violent action and gestures, as well as in eveiy feature 7G MISS WORDSWORTH. of his remarkable face, whatever sentiment or proposition he wished to enforce. One of the ladies present (Miss Wordsworth, I think) began by praising the Italian language, ‘ for its grace, its force, its suitableness to poetiy and to song, its mellifluous sweetness to the ear, merely in sound,’ &c. Wordsworth joined in, commending likewise the Italian pronunciation of the Latin language, ‘ which seemed to him always natural and proper, being emphatic as well as soft,’ and, he said, ‘ he should fancy Milton would have adopted the Itahan mode of conversing in Latin, as suiting his own ideas of fulness, rotundity, and power, combined with sweetness adding, ‘ What a treat it would have been to listen to John Milton, the immortal, repeating the poetry of Virgil or of Horace ! ’ One of the ladies here asked Signor Foscolo to be kind enough to favour the company by repeating a few lines in the pure Italian tongue. The poet very obligingly complied with the request, and rising to his feet, commenced in the manner of the improvvisatori of his country, and recited with deep feeling, passion, fire, and pathos, not forgetting the appropriate gesture Foscolo’s description of himself. 77 of the actor, his own lines, descriptive of him- self They were as follows : — ‘ Solcata ho fronte ; occhi incavati intenti ; Crin fnlvo, eraunte guance, ardito aspetto, Labbri tumidi, arguti, al riso lenti ; Capo chino, bel collo, irsuto petto : ^lembri esatti ; vestir seinplice, eletto ; Ratti i passi, i pensier, gli atti, gli accenti ; Sobrio, ostinato, uniano, ispido, schietto ; Avverso al niondo, avversi a me gli eventi ; Mesto i piu giorni, e solo ; ognor pensoso : Alle speranze incredulo e al timore ; II pudor me fa vile, e prode 1’ ira. Parlami astuta la ragion ; ma il core, Ricco di vizi c di virtu, delira — Fors’io da morte avro fama e riposo.’ * * Translation. Intent and deep-sunk eyes, a furrowed brow. Fair hair, thin cheeks are mine, and look possessed ; Lips full and eloquent, to laughter slow ; Head bent, and well-formed neck, with shaggy breast; Limbs neatly made, simple yet choice in clothes ; I do the world (fortune doth me oppose) ; Rapid in movement, action, thought, and word ; Temperate, yet firm, humane, and fond of truth ; !Most often sad and lonely from my youth ; Thongbtfnl ; by hope or terror seldom stirred ; Shame makes me coward — anger makes me brave ; Reason speaks sweetly to me, but my heart. In virtue rich, and vice, doth madly start; Perhaps from death I fame and rest shall have. 78 ITALIAN EECITATION. No description can convey an adequate idea of the oratorical peculiarities of this ori- ginal and eccentric foreigner, as he gave this portrait of himself, abounding in contrast of tones, of manner, of action, changing from the mild, placid, or mournful to the spirited, sar- castic, denunciatory, or severe. No one unused to Italian recitation can form a just conception of it. Haydon’s small parlour seemed too confined for the voice, or for the violent gesticulation, of Signor Foscolo. Words- worth a])i)eared astounded as the Italian pro- ceeded with the description of himself, and seemed to be wondering to what excess this unexpected phrenetic display would lead ; and when the poet came to the last four Imes, in which the letter r is rather frequent, our English poet seemed moved to fear, and opened his mouth and eyes, gasping for breath, so startling was the effect of the shrill trumpet-like voice of the speaker, as it vibrated, sonorous or deep, mtli the roimh sound of the letter r rumblinof in his throat or rattlinfj on his tongue. Tlie ladies O o fluttered in tremulous agitation, looking at each other, not without alarm, as this strange original Foscolo’s contortions. 79 was acting his wild part before them, throwing himself into all the contortions of which his pliant body was capable, while his voice and expression were equally variable and intense ; his ‘ intent and deep-sunk eyes ’ darting like lightning, burning in anger, or melting in pensive softness, as occasion required. All this [in so small a sitting-room, and so close to the audience, seemed excess even from an Italian point of view ; and when it is thought that it was all about himself, it approached to madness, and the strangers naturally felt alarm lest it should end in some dire fit of insanity. The lady who had innocently mduced this display had lialf repented, but she might aftenvards be pleased to have mtnessed so sinorular an exhibition. o Mr. Haydon, being acquainted with the Itahan language, and ahvays entering into the enjoyment of an origmal character like Fos- colo’s, was in his element, and he cordially thanked the Signor for exerting himself to so much effect. Wordsw'orth w'as silent and absorbed. The exhibition, altogether, seemed too much for him ; whether it was the difficulty he might feel with the Italian Ian- 80 HUMAN NATURE. guage, or that he was puzzled and thrown out of his usual ideas of a quiet chanting mode of recitation, or that he could not make out to his satisfaction what conclusions to draw from this his first interview with the Italian poet. But the last act of this eventfid evening was still to come. After the various little epi- sodes of a social party like this, where free conversation was passing round,- and Haydon’s small talk to the ladies, with his joyous laugh, was amusing them and making Wordsworth smile, some one havmg spoken in reply, and by way of badinage, of the beauty of disinter- estedness, and the generosity of the nature of man in his undegenerate state, Mr. Foscolo started into life — for this was a subject that seemed to be his hobby — and directing his con- versation to his brother poet, auned some serious blows against the good qualities and virtuous intentions of human nature, insistmg that man’s actions arose entirely from self-interest, that his motives and springs of action were naturally and unavoidably selfish, traceiible to those sources that tended to his benefit or advantage. Upon these premises he grounded his argument. MOTIVES OF HUMAN ACTIONS. 81 which appeared as nothing compared with the energy and violence with which he delivered it. Indeed, he seemed unable to speak or convei-se at all unless he was upon his feet, giving loose to all the parts of his body at once ; and, as his thoughts prompted the utter- ances of his tongue, his whole frame fol- lowed in the wake of that maiwellous organ ; and the louder he spoke, the more violent was the action of his various members. In- deed, his argumentation, or liis conversation, was a species of acting, which, upon the stage and at a proper distance, would have been energetic and spirited ; though, upon the Eng- lish stage, it woidd have been thought over- done. Wordsworth allowed Signor Foscolo to proceed to the end of his reasoning without any interruption, when, finding a pause, he quietly said, — ‘ Suppose a person had fallen into the water, and there seemed eveiy probability of his being drowned, and another person, entirely a stranger, and by mere chance coming that way, shoidd, mthout premeditation, or even thought of consequences, jump in to save the VOL. I. G 82 DISINTERESTEDNESS. drowning man, and happily, or not, succeed, what interest or benefit could the humane person expect to derive from his saving, or tiying to save, the life of a fellow-creature ? ’ F . — ‘ There is not an instance of a person voluntarily risking his own life to save another, unless in the expectation of reward or benefit in some shape or other.’ W . — ‘ I think there are instances in my ovTi knowledge, and I hope many that I may not be aware of, nor have ever heard of’ F . — ‘ Ah ! no. Impossible !’ ir. — ‘ I assure you, Sir, that, in my o^vn knowledge, a case occurred where there could be no expectation of reward or benefit what- ever, for the parties were totally unknown to each other ; and the disinterested individual who saved the other from a watery grave was not only unknown, but was never seen again in the neighbourhood after the interesting cir- cumstance, — interesting, I may say : for the life so saved was a precious life : it was the son of a poor widow, whose labour was the only support of herself and a numerous small family. I often tried to find out the name of the HUMANE IMPULSES. 83 heroic preserver of this young man’s life, but in vain ; nobody had ever seen him before the circumstance happened, nor up to this present moment has he ever been known to appear in the neighbom'hood. I could mention other instances of disinterestedness, similar to this one, if necessary, to prove the humanity and instinct of noble self-sacrifice and generosity planted by Providence in the breast of man.’ F. — ‘ Sir, there must be some mistake ; it may have been done to satisfy some vain-gloiy of personal exhibition, — the art of swimming, — or the strength of the s^vimmer, to receive adu- lation for the courage, the success.’ W , — ‘As far as appeared the humane im- pulse came momentarily, without premedita- tion, and the feat done, he quitted hastily the scene of his heroism, and no one knew who he was, nor where he came from. Besides, there are many similar acts of noble and disinterested beneficence in the history of man. It would be ungenerous and unchristian to condemn the human race to such naiTOw l30unds, when it is admitted by philosophy and reason that Chris- tian benevolence is natural, that our Maker 84 FOSCOLO S EXCITEMENT. has bestowed upon us impulses of generous sympathy, — of heartfelt tenderness towards our kind.’ All this was uttered in the quiet solemnity peculiar to Wordsworth, as if dictated by pro- found conviction of its truth. His brother poet listened with attention, for Wordsworth's man- ner was impressive. But no sooner had he concluded his observations, with the seeming satisfaction of having performed a duty, than his opponent (for the conversation now took the semblance of disputation) sprang upon his feet, eyed the philosophic poet at the opposite side of the room, for a moment only, — ‘ Collecting all his might, dilated stood, Like Teneriffe or Atlas unremoved then walking up directly in front of his anta- gonist, deliberately doubled his fist, and held it in Wordsworth’s face, close to his nose, staring at him with his curious Chinese eyes, and crying, or bawling rather, in rude em- phasis, — ‘ Ball ! It is all to satisfy self. Sir, to jilease self, to gratify self-love or pride, to have LIBERAL SENTIMENTS. 85 the satisfaction of performing something that will in his expectation be substantially rewarded, or secure the gratification of the passion of self-esteem ; and in this way the efiect re- volves and turns round — what you call ? — to meet the pleasure of self, — the doer of it, — derived, in the first instance, from the impulse of anticipation or expectancy of re- compense ; and in the second place, of self- gratification, vanity, pride, ambition, or the innumerable small selfish passions in the breast of man.’ Having uttered these liberal sentiments with the vehemence natural to the Italian, holding his clenched fist all the time in our poet’s face, he started off suddenly with a tiiumphant wave of his extended hand, and spinning quickly round the circle of the com- pany, lie nodded as he passed each his self- satisfaction, as if he had quite confounded his adversaiy, tossing and twiiding his quizzing- glass the whole time in agitation and excite- ment. The self-complacency and apparent con- ceit could only be equalled by a Malvolio ; and as he repeated his circuitous turns round 8G RAPID GYRATIONS. and round, the ladies drew in their feet and costume, not a little apprehensive, for they were shocked at the liberty taken with a gentle- man of such moderation and mildness as Mr. W ordsworth, however amused they might be at the novel antics of the foreign poet. Mr. Haydon put on an expression of alann when Foscolo stepped up to Wordsworth with so little ceremony ; and although an excel- lent conversationalist, seemed inclined to allow the ariiument to be fouffht out between the literary gentlemen, enjoying the high treat of the contrast of character in these two gifted men. Whilst Signor Foscolo was executing his ra[)id gyrations within the circle of the coin- [>any, Wordsworth remamed unmoved, and I observed he shut both eyes, as if looking in- wai'ds to collect and digest arguments so con- tradictory to his own convictions, and so un- favoural)le to his view of humanity, and I perceived he breathed a faint sigh vdthin himself There was now a pause, and silence j)ervaded the company. I ventured to observe that I coidd have wished for the presence of CONVERSATION WITH WORDSWORTH. 87 Mr. Coleridge, as tlie subject of conversation put me in mind of what he said to ]\Ir. Hazlitt in TIls Valley of Rocks, where the fishennan gave an account of a hoy who had been drowned the day before, and whom they had tried to save at the risk of their own lives. He said ‘ he did not know how it was that they ventured, hut. Sir, we have a nature towards one another.’ This expression, Coleridge remarked to Hazlitt, was a fine illustration of that theoiy of disinter- estedness which he (in common with Butler) had adopted. Signor Foscolo bent his eye upon me, hut did not deign to make further remark, and Wordsworth opened his eyes and smiled to me, saying, in low and subdued tones, ‘ W ell, I must and do believe that there are such things existing as sincere disinterestedness, philan- thropy, and even patriotism.’ He then came and took a seat beside me, and told me how pleased he had been with my drawings from llaphael’s Cartoons and the Elgin Marbles that he had seen exhibited, and what desire he had to see similar comprehensive copies from the cele- bmted frescoes of Michael Angelo, such as the 88 MICHAEL ANGELO. Prophets and Sibyls, and the compositions from the Sistine Chapel at Rome. ‘ Angelo,’ he said, ‘ is the great epic painter, the poet executing his high imaginings with the pencil ; no one touches the hem of his garment in that lofty comprehensiveness that soars beyond the re- gions of commonplace, adding ideality and greatness to ordinary fonns, giving subhmity and distinctive character to what in other hands might only be dramatic. Although I appreciate, and I hope can admire sufficiently, the beauties of Raphael’s transcendent genius — and let us observe that in him there are no inanities — yet we must brace the sinews, so to speak, of our comprehension to grapple with the grandeur and sublimity of thought and imagina- tion, the epic greatness, of Michael Angelo, who has the merit of eclipsing in these respects, as well as in the difficulties and technicalities of his art, every other artist that had preceded him ; — I mean of that epoch. And we must not forget that it was the splendour, the brilliance, the superlative lustre of this sun of Art, that shone, and enlightened vdth new and ennobling impressions and enlarged conceptions the re- SOCIAL CONVERSE, 89 fined, pure intelligence and the beautiful soul — if I am pennitted to say so, — of Raphael, The brighter luminaiy glanced, as it were, a ray of its peculiar force to the already divinely- endowed genius, and added a new lustre to that already there. It was an additional ray of sunlight into the prism of genius, which there blended with other bright hues, strength- ening the glittering beauties that sparkled in their primitive modesty) delicate and sensitive, Raphael was strengthened, both morally and physically, by Michael Angelo, for by him his mind expanded, his hand was emboldened, and he depicted his conceptions with greater power and distinctive character ; and what, perhaps, is extraordinary, without duninishing in the least his wonted delicacy, or grace, or refinement,’ ]\Ir, Wordsworth seemed greatly relieved from a metaphysical dispute so disagreeably conducted, and smiled with pleasure in dwell- ing upon the beauties of art and the poetry of painting. It seemed bahn to him to return to social converse and pleasant themes. ‘ Let me take this opportunity,’ he said to me, ‘ to express my admiration of those beautiful works by your 90 PORTRAIT OF WORDSWORTH. namesake, the engravings on wood, transcripts of nature, that I look at with ever-recuiTing pleasure, and wonder at the variety and texture the artist has contrived to produce upon such difficult material. I hope, when you have an opportunity, you will not forget to make my compliments and respects to Mr. Bewick.’ Perhaps it may be interesting, and not out of place, if I quote liere a description of the person of our English poet, by one who knew him well. ‘ Mr. Wordsworth, in his person, is above the middle size, with marked features, and an air somewhat stately and quixotic. He reminds one of some of Holbein’s heads, grave, saturnine, with a slight indication of sly hu- mour, kept under by the manners of the age or by the pretensions of the pemon. He has a. jieculiar sweetness in his smile, and great depth and manliness and a nigged hannony in the tones of his voice. His manner of reading his own poetry is particularly imposing ; and in his favourite passages his eye beams with preter- natural lustre, and the meaning labours slowly up from his swelling breast. No one who has seen him at these moments coidd go away with HAZLITT ON WOKDSWORTH. 91 an impression that he was a “ man of no mark or likelihood.” Perhaps the comment of his face and voice is necessary to convey a full idea of his poetry. HLs language may not be intel- ligible, but his manner is not to be mistaken. It is clear that he is either mad or inspked. In company, even in a tete-d-tete , Mr. Wordswoidh is often silent, indolent, and reserved. If he is become verbose and oracular of late years, he was not so in his better days. He threw out a bold or an mdifferent remark vithout either effoii: or pretension, and relapsed into musing again. He shone most (because he seemed most roused and anhnated) m reciting his own poetry, or in talking about it. He sometimes gave strik- ing views of his feehngs and trains of association ,in composing certain passages. If one did not always understand his distinctions, still there was no want of interest- — -there was a latent meaning worth inquiring into, like a vein of ore that one cannot exactly hit upon at the moment, but of which there are sure indications. ‘ In art, he greatly esteems Bewick’s wood- cuts and Waterloo’s etchings. But he some- 92 REMBRANDT. times takes a higher tone, and gives his mind fair play. We have known him enlarge with a noble intelligence and enthusiasm on Nicolas Poussin s fine landscape compositions, pointing out the unity of design that pervades them, the superintending mind, the imaginative prin- ciple that brings all to bear on the same end ; and declaring he would not give a rush for any landscape that did not express the time of day, the climate, the period of the world it was meant to illustrate, or had not this character of whole- ness in it. His eye also does justice to Rem- brandt’s fine and masterly effects. In the way in which that artist works something out of nothing, and transforms the stump of a tree, a common figure, into an ideal object, by the gor- geous light and shade throvm upon it, he per-, ceives an analogy to his own mode of investing the minute details of nature with an atmosphere of sentiment ; and in pronouncing Rembrandt to be a man of genius, feels that he strengthens his own claim to the title. Those persons who look upon Mr. Wordsworth as a merely puerile writer, must be rather at a loss to account for PORTRAIT OF FOSCOLO. 93 his strong predilection for such geniuses as Dante and Michael Angelo.’* Like Mr. Wordsworth, Signor Foscolo in his person was above the middle height, but in every other respect he differed greatly. He was, to be sure, rather bony, but then he was wiry, alert, energetic, wild, and betimes uncontrol- lable. If, as Mr. Hazlitt says, Wordsworth seemed ‘ either mad or inspired,’ the Italian poet was ever in a ravissante posture, ready for attack, always in extremes and excess. Tlis madness never seemed the inspiration, but rather the vexed passion, of the Muse, — the boiling, lashing surge of a stormy sea, tossed by unknown or unapparent causes, which might be lying at the bottom of his own fiery temperament. He never apjieared, like Wordsworth, to ‘ relapse into musing,’ but was ever on the watch, like some untamed animal of the Abbruzzi, who waits the moment of attack, and spring supon his game with ferocity and rage, ‘ By anger brave,’ * HazHtt’s Spirit of the Age. .94 PERSONAL APPEARANCE. — as he says of himself. After mauling his adversaiy with loud and fiery dashes of his Avithering tongue, he thinks he has destroyed him, or his argument, and whu-ls about the circle of the company in triumphant bombast, as much as to say, ‘ See the extraordinary power of superior genius over this cjuiescent and spi- ritless antagonist.’ But he mistook his man when he assailed Wordsworth, for he was a real John Bull ; he came again ‘ to the argument,’ and by quiet unimpassioned facts confuted his sounding words and flighty brawling, his solemn tranquillity even seeming to enrage him the more. It cannot be said that Ugo Foscolo pos- sessed ‘ marked features ’ in the sense Mr. Hazlitt means of Wordsworth, yet he had something distinctive in his features, although his face was not an uncommon one. His face was long with ‘ thin cheeks,’ as he describes, and doAvn the middle of these straggled a narrow strip of grizzly, sandy-red whiskers, coming in a point to the corners of his mouth. His eyes were like those represented in Chinese figures, the outer corners running upwards, as ECONOMISING IN LONDON, 1)5 Haydon said ‘ like those of a fox,’ — deep-sunk and piercing, unsympathising, electrical eyes that you did not encounter with inclination or pleasure. His smile was odd, it was that vacant, unmeaning, and painful smile seen in insanity ; you coidd not return it, but might wonder what it meant. As to his wardrobe being ‘ choice,’ I did not perceive anything re- markably elegant or select in his apparel ; his coat hung upon him as if it had been made for another person (perhaps home-made), the tails came together, pushing each other outwards, forming the letter V. Signor Foscolo told how he had economised in furnishing his house in London, by purchasing wood, and having his chairs and tables, drawers and bedsteads, made in the house by ‘ day work.’ f The same was the case with the carpets and curiains, havmg women to sew them, &c. He told us what he had saved by this plan, and, looking veiy sinister, recommended it to others about to funiish, Haydon praised the thrift, but laughed afterwards at the idea of his filling his house with workpeople, shavings, and saw- .96 FOSCOLO AND WILKIE. dustj and occupying his time in running round the town, cheapening materials at the wood- merchants' and the diupers’ shops. ‘ Better far,’ he said, ‘had he gone to a furniture-broker’s and bought second-hand furniture, with all the live-stock into the bargain.’ What different impressions the personal appearance of men make upon different indi- viduals ! I am remmded of this by the follow- ing circumstances, and by a certain similarity between Foscolo and Wilkie. They were both tall, both had sandy-coloured reddish hair, both were of manners unusual in society ; hut how ^ opposite ! what a contrast ! — One was fiery, impetuous, restless ; — the other gaunt, awk- ward, nervous, — slow to speak or to move, — painfully cautious and reserved, seldom caught approaching to enthusiasm, even about his art, in which he was so eminent. His finely pro- portioned and beautifully formed hands, a lady told me, were the only part about him to praise. From Foscolo’s portrait of himself in his sonnet, you would think that he was an Apollo. Again, if we read the description of Wilkie’s j^emon by his countryman, Mr. Allan Cunningham, he ap- WILKIi:. 97 pears an Adonis, with golden locks, curling and clustering round his beautiful face. While the housekeeper at Castle Howard, Mrs. Flynn, thus describes his visit to the Castle : — ‘ Mr. Wilkie came dovni here to the Castle to see the pictures, and the only words he spoke to me were — “When does Lord Carlisle dine ? ” His Lordship being told of the strange question Mr. Wilkie, a stranger, had asked, flew into a pas- sion, and was highly offended, observing, “ What does the fellow mean? — does he want to dine with me ? I think my steward or housekeeper may content him.” Now people of genius — clever people — are generally treated with great attention and proper consideration both by my Lord and Lady, but m consequence of this unusual question Mr. Wilkie was never in- vited to remain. But, bless me ! did you ever see such an ugly creature ? Forgive me, but Mr. Wilkie is the ugliest man I ever saw in my life — red hair, eyes like boiled gooseberries, starmof at one as if he had never seen a woman before ! — \vith not one word of civility to any- body. Now my dear friend, IMr. Jackson, v/as not, to be sure, to be called good-looking ; nay. VOL. I. • II 98 ‘ THE ROSE OF CASTLE HOWARD.’ he was ordinary ; but then he made himself agreeable to everybody. Poor fellow ! he used to take his morning walk there upon the lawn, before beginning to paint, always wishing me good morning, vdth some pleasant observations, and everybody here would have been glad to do anything for him. The fiimily were all kind to him, and my Lord took an interest in all he did. This house, indeed, was like a home for him. ]\Ir. Jackson was not very particular in his dress, although he was a tailor’s son ; and when he painted my dear little Lady Maiy (called in the Exhibition, and in the engravings, “ The Pose of Castle Howard ”), he placed her upon a table, and the spirited httle thing, not lik- ing to stand cooped up so long, got out of humour with the painter, plumped upon Mr. Jackson’s waistcoat, abused him for wearing such an ugly colour, — a \n_ilgar pattern, which “ she could not bear the sight of,” and begged him to go and change it. The patient artist laughed at the dear little creature’s discrimi- nation, affected petulance, and promised he woidd change it if she would only stand a little longer in the right position, and so he managed MR. JACKSOX. 99 t<) humour and coax her, till he produced that beautiful picture of her that is the admiration bf every one. Yes, Mr. Jackson was only the son of a Malton tailor, and he is a Iloyal Aca- demician, as they call them. I thought at first that Mr. Wilkie was perhaps the son of some of those poverty-stricken Scotch lairds, with more shabby pride in their heads than money in their pockets ; but I understand he is the son of a Scotch clergyman, and it is a pity but his father had taught him a little more of Christian humility and good manners, so as not to come from Scotland here to a great house like this, and expect to dine with my Lord, even ivithout an invitation. Now, there is my dear young Lord, he is not handsome, but what can exceed his goodness, his amiabihty, his condescension, and his gentlemanly courtesy ? My young Lord is beloved by all classes, wherever he goes. Such is the difference of breeduig, of birth, of a na- tural sense of propriety, that is given to gentle natures, not to speak of nobihty.’ The good and sensible Mrs. Flynn, taldng offence as his Lordship himself did at the strange question as to ‘my Lord’s time of 100 hazlitt’s laugh. dining ; ’ saw Wilkie under a different aspect, and imder different influences, from his country- man, Mr. Allan Cunningham, though it is more likely Sir David (then Mr. Wilkie) asked the question with a view to avoid my Lord’s dinner-hour, rather than that he was guilty of such an impropriety, so unhke his modesty and his independent sphit, as to desire to in- trude into a family circle without invitation. Having arranged to sit to Haydon for his picture the next day, I went to him accordingly, and after that rather tedious business was over he asked me to accompany him to Mr. Hazlitt’s, to give him a description of the extraordinaiy exhibition we had witnessed the night before between Foscolo and Wordsworth. Mr. Hay- don told exactly what had occuiTed, and how timid and alanned the ladies appeared at the gesticulations and violent manner of Foscolo. Hazlitt laughed his curious laugh, a sort of hysteric shout — a quick ‘Ah! ah!’ stopping suddenly. He was much amused, and laughed at Wordsworth’s sang-froid, saying, ‘He was right to hold to the last, when he was in the right.’ I asked if he did not suppose that WORDSWORTH. 101 Hobbes or Helvetius was present at Mr. Hay- don’s ? He replied, ‘Well, either of those gentlemen would probably have taken the same side of the question ; but I hope that for the sake of good manners, to say nothing of phi- losophy, they would have hstened ^vith more fairness and reasonable calmness to what such a person as my friend Wordsworth would have to say upon any subject that he thought it worth while to trouble himself to speak about.’ 102 CHAPTER VI. Bewick’s literary style — reflections suggested by the MEMORY OF IIAZLITT INTELLECTUAL AND SOCIAL CHARAC- TER OF THE ESSAYIST VEHEMENCE OF HIS PASSION POLITICAL [tendencies HAZLITT’s HOUSE BENTHAM MILTON HAZLITT AS A CONVERSATIONALIST RAPHAEL MICHAEL ANGELO, DANTE, MILTON, AND HOMER TITIAN ABSENCE OF MIND. It is by no means improbable that his fami- liarity with Hazlitt’s characteristic sketches of poets, essayists, and painters, may have had considerable influence in suggesting to Bewick the idea of these literary portraits of his con- temporaries, the presentment of which is in all respects so vivid. If so, the following chaj)ter on Hazlitt himself, whom he knew not only by his wiitings, but by intimate personal inter- course, must be regarded as so much the more interesting. Perhaps in some respects the ambi- tion to imitate the great English essayist, or some shnilar type of literaiy excellence, has tended to "WILLIAM HAZLITT. 103 lead him away from that simplicity and direct- ness of style which would have rendered his portraits so much the more truthful, and from "vhich it is probable he would not have departed ii he had trusted to his own instead of to foreign O iispiration. The influence of Hazhtt is nowhere more apparent than in Bewick’s sketch of that eloquent writer. - William Hazlitt. Man is said to be ‘ The paragon of animals,’ lecause of his intelligence, but if in ' action’ he may be compared to a Deity, his frailties and unaccountable mequalities reduce him to the level of imperfect beings. Well has it been said, ‘ What a want of harmony there is between man and the other works of God ; how imperfects and unflnished, as it were, is man ; how the mind longs, stimggles to penetrate the mysteries of its being ; how imperfect and without aim does life sometimes seem ! Eveiything besides man seems to reach its utmost perfection. Man alone ajjpears a thing incomplete and faulty. 104 MAN. Other things and beings are finished and com- plete — man alone is left, as it were, half made up. A tree grows and bears fruit, and the end of its creation is answered. A complete curcle is run. It is the same with the animals. No one expects more from a lion or a horse than ;s found in both. But with man it is not so.. In no period of histoiy, and among no people, his it been satisfactorily detennined what man is, or what are the limits of his capacity and beirg. He is full of contradictions, and incomprehen- sible in his organisation. For wliile everT’ other affection finds rest in its appropriate object, which fully satisfies and fills it, the de- sire of unlimited improvement and of long life — the strongest of all the desires — alone is answered by no coiTesponding object. And man would seem a monster in creation — coin- spared with other things an abortion — and in himself, and compared with himself, an enigma, a riddle which no human wit has ever solved, or can ever hope to solve. And when we think of the great and good of other times, and of what the mind of man has in them accomplished, we feel that he has been made not altogether IIAZLITT. 105 unworthy of a longer life and a happier lot than earth frequently afibrds.’ Such are the reflections that apply, aptly enough, to the memory of one of the brightest ‘spu’its of the age’ — for in his intellectual strength, his frailties, and his inequalities, Wil- liam Hazlitt was indeed ‘ an enigma and a riddle.’ If he was a scholar, philosopher, and subtle metaphysician, a severe critic and sarcastic poli- tician, he was also a lover of timth for its own sake, and his mind was free and’ independent, and breathed the spirit of liberty in every fonn of language. He could discruninate and appre- ciate the beauties of nature — feel the chamis and amenities of refined taste in poetry and art. To simplicity and genuineness of character were added the eccentricities of a wayward and im- pressive temperament, original genius, boundless stores of knowledge and of thought. A brilliant imagination and discriminating refinement gave him a power of language that surprised, if it did not charm, the world of literature and of criticism. With all this varied intelligence and intel- lectual ability, the reader will see by what lOG CHARACTER OF HAZLITT. follows, Ilow strange and unaccountable often Avere his actions ; in what relation he stood to the great family of mankind. For though odd and quaint, he was not a misanthrope ; he loved the companionship of man and the exchange of intellectual thought, was gentle and tender to the feelings of others, and guarded against giving offence to those he asso- ciated with. He was besides the most patient listener, and Avould consider and weigh the obseiwations of the youngest and most inexpe- rienced ; indeed, he seemed ever anxious to draw forth the opinions of the modest and retii’ing genius. Although the scope of his mind and turn of thought were original, and his manner simple, he carried about him the air and bearing of a scholar, and if he Avas unquestionably im- pulsive, he still possessed a mental reseiwation, so that he AA^as, as I have said, ‘ full of con- tradictions.’ It so happened that I .saAv a good deal of this remarkable man, at the best period, perhaps, of his life and fame, and I Avill endeaA'our to remember and note doAvn such incidents as are likely to illustrate his character, or are in- HIS SENSITIVE NATURE. 107 teresting as throwing light on the history of one of the distinguished literary men of the time. William Hazlitt was one of the most un- affected men I have ever met with, undisciplined and unrestrained by the rules and usages of society. One may have observed the vagaries of pretenders, or, still more, the excesses of im- becility ; but these are explicable and con- temptible enougli. What was remarkable in Hazlitt was the smiplicity and spontaneity of all his strangeness, and if he gave way to vehe- mence of passion or irritation, or was melted into moods of softer and even amatory emotions, he never attempted to conceal in the least his feelings, or repress the expression of them, just as if he believed all the world sympathised with his mdignation, his jealousy, his romantic at- tachments, or his wrongs. It excited sorrow and pain to see a man of such intelligence, with features so capable of expressing the varied emotions of his too sensitive nature, lash himself into terrible bursts of uncontrollable mge, the effect of his excitable nervous temperament, where the slmhtest discord vibrated to his O inmost soul, while it found no echo in the 108 WAYWARD CHARACTER. breasts of others, who could only gaze with wonder as at a frenzied being, amazed by the violence of the physical action which followed the phases of his mental excitement, at the expression of his features, and at his burning language. Surely human face could not be more ex- quisitely formed for expression of the passions, equally capable of exhibiting the softer, tender emotions of the soul, with the sudden flashes and fury of turbulent anger. In all the freaks of his wayward character, his wonderfully endowed organisation was ruled by the omnipotence of mind, and his excitable temperament, played upon like some stringed instrument, was moved to tenderness or in- tensity by the very slightest touch or varia- tion of Nature, so that it might be said that this over-sensitive being was led on the uneven tenor of his way by the im- certain ‘ music of the spheres.’ Yet, in his soul, dwelt supreme the love of freedom and intel- lectual independence ; and if he toiled for the liberty and happiness of the human race, though he might receive small thanks for his endeavours, hazlitt’s house. 109 his courage never wavered. His nature seemed to revel in attacking and upsetting what he conceived to be the despotism of mankind ; and thus was engendered a hatred to the assumed Di vine. Right of Kings, for he deemed that assumption little less than blasphemy. In all his propositions, his criticism, and his political bias, he was sincere in his convictions, and ex- pressed himself accordingly in vivid and eloquent language peculiarly his own. I have no distinct recollection of my first interview with Hazlitt. It was probably at Haydon’s ; but I remember well being taken, for the first time, by Haydon to Hazlitt’s resi- dence in Westminster; that house so remark- able and interesting as having been the abode of Milton. The house was curious. The entrance was a sort of porch opening to a small anteroom, with very red brick floor and upright posts, that one rubbed one’s shoulders against, and the staircase was naiTOw and dark. The room where Hazlitt received us was, as he infoimed us, in the same condition that it haci been in IVIilton’s time ; the same dull-white painted wainscot, the 110 HAZLITT AND BENTHAM. same windows looking into a garden-like piece of ground, tricked out into grass-plots, shmb- beries, and wmdmg walks, with two noble trees crossing the windows. From these windows might occasionally be seen the celebrated law- giver Bentham, shuffling along in loose deshabille, his shu-t-neck thrown open, the strings of his knee- breeches hanging about his shrunk legs, his loose habit of a coat seeming too large for his short jjulfy body. He staggered along with faltering steps, as if he would be tripped up by the least pebble or interruption in his way. W e coidd hear distinctly his chirpy, garrulous voice, in broken treble tones or shrill uncertam sounds, answer- ing to questions put to him by his companion, a spruce and well-adjusted divine, as they saun- tered together in the open walks or leafy bowel’s, conversing, it is not improbable, upon the huvs of the universe or ecclesiastical polity. The contrast between the two individuals was remarkable enough, and seemed to indicate the past and the present age. The one scram- bled along decrepit and negligent ; the other trimmed and debonnair, in scuttle-hat, silk stockings, and silver buckles, paced elegantly Milton’s house. Ill with measured steps, as if walking to music. ]\Iy fancy suggested that this clerical person might be a Paley, a Barrington, or a Bowles. Seated, as I was, in that ancient chamber, once the honoured abode of the epic poet, and where I imagined he probably hymned and sung of Paradise, ‘ I beheld the poet blind, yet bold. In slender book his vast design unfold : Messiah crown’d, God’s reconcil’d decree, Rebelling angels, the forbidden tree, Heav’n, hell, earth, chaos, all.’* Overcome by emotions so profound and ab- sorbing, I could picture to myself the imaginary groups that once dwelt or assembled here. I saw them, as they might have appeared m the quaint costumes and maimers of the time, sur- immding the venerable poet and his graceful daughters, with his Quaker friend Elwood. The air of the place seemed harmonised to sounds of heavenly music, as of the organ, in tones large, round, and full, expressive of the jioet’s verse. It was an effort to recall my attention from the indulgence of imaginaiy conceptions to the * Andrew Marvel. 112 IIAZLITT AND HAYDON. reality, and to the conversation of the two living friends before me. I remember 'well how silent I was, how engrossed my mind and faculties were during tliis, to me, memorable first in- terview at Hazhtt’s residence. The critic and essayist, like the painter, ■was a fluent conversationahst, and their candour and tone of intercourse were respectful and cor- dial ; and however spirited them language, there was always that gentlemanly deference that characterised the minds of both. They spoke of books, of Waveiiey, comparing the author with Richardson, Addison, Madame d’Arblay, &c., with the French and Spanish novelists. But to this I need not further allude, as Mr. Hazlitt has himself given his sentiments on these subjects in another place. Hazhtt Avas ever urging the painter into ques- tions and debate about art, and when it did not seem agreeable (as it seldom was) for Haydon to acquiesce in this, he would start off upon his OAvn views and opinions, and Haydon listened Avith great attention to his fresh and vigorous observations on the practice of the art, and his just and discriminating conclusions on the Italian HIS LOVE OF ART, 113 schools of painting. The author was now artist, now politician or metaphysician, and with his vast and varied stores of knowledge illustrated in perspicuous language the sentiments and opinions he wished to convey. Happily for me, I could appreciate the part of his charming conversation which related to art. It excited my enthusiasm and inflamed my ambition, when with passion and emotion he ‘ confessed that his bias, his great love, was art. He turned to it as the sunflower turns to the sun. And if he had to express his greatest ambition, it would be that his son should become a great painter, as he himself had unfortunately not become. Indeed, his own greati thirst of fame was to be great in art. To be a great painter, he thought, above all other divine inspimtions ! ’ He dilated upon Raphael, calling him ‘ the heaven-born ! ’ ‘ the divinely-inspu’ed ! ’ ‘ celestial creature ! ’ He questioned if the ‘ gentleness of Shakespeare ’ could be compared to ‘ the sweet- ness of Raphael’s nature,’ and with somewhat of bitterness said, — ‘ It is curious that Michael Angelo, Milton, Dante, and perhaps Homer, the great epic minds. VOL. I. I 114 PERSECUTION OF GENIUS. ^should have been alike so persecuted during their lives. The first was harassed and unhappy hy the jealousies and cabals of artists and their conflict- ing interests (for he had his nose broken by one of them in envy of his great powers), and by the intrigues of priestcraft, often intermpting his great works. Indeed he had to fly for his life, and place himself under the protection of another state. Milton, too, had his domestic ills, his poli- tical broils, was in daily fear of assassination, was compelled to hide himself, and had a mock burial to save him from the scaffold. So of Dante. Of Homer we know less. But is it not hard to thinli; of these things, that men of genius, so elevated by nature, by endovnnent, above the ca- pacity of other creatures, their inferiors in mental (piahties, should be left at the sport of untoward cu’cumstances, or be played upon at the mercy of grovelling incapacity, through the jealousy of a lower grade of mankind ? May we not be per- mitted to look for aid and protection from the Creator of such rare and mighty minds — of beings, by comparison almost superhuman ? If posterity mourn the sad hours of suffering, of hitter, because unmerited, persecution, we have TITIAN. 115 at least the works, the sublmie imaginings, of these inspired beings, left to ns that we may judge of their merits and deserts, and venerate the memory of the exalted in retribution of their ignoble and despised persecutors.’ He would then branch off, with evident de- light to himself as well as his hearers, into a dis- cursive flight among the great painters of dif- ferent epochs and countries, obseiwing, — ‘ After all, I would rather be Titian than even Haphael, or Michael* Angelo, or Correggio ; and why ? Because Titian has gone beyond all the painters of his own or any other tune or countiy. He dipped his pencil in the gorgeous tints and tones of soul-subduing harmony, rich and full and fresh, and ripe as autumn fruit. His was a masteiy of the scale of colour, and that, too, laid on, pencilled, in such perfection of execution, such wonderfid manipulation, as to be a mystery and a lesson to all painters of future times. It is to Titian we attribute the perfection of the painter’s art, and it is in that my soul is wrapt — enchamed — in wondering ad- miration.’ I have to express too, in all humility, my competitive incapacity, having tried with all 116 MICHAEL ANGELO, the ardour and devotion I was capable of, to come near the rich brilUance and depth of this great painter’s works, by copymg them in the Louvre. ‘ Others have imagined finer compositions, more sublime conceptions, as some of the “ Pro- phets” and “Sibyls” of Michael Angelo, Per- haps nothing has equalled, in epic grandeur and exalted thought, his “Jeremiah mouiTung the Destmction of Jemsalem,” his whole body weighed and di’ooping like “ An aged tree surcharged with showers.” His “Prophet Joel,” and the “Ciunean Sibyl,” are fine. All these grand conceptions are marked by distinctive character, intensity of expression, and are the work of a great master-mind. It was to this great man alone the privilege of the epic hi art was given. None have touched his greatness. ‘The “Paul Preaching ” and the “Transfigur- ation ” of Paphael, with some othem, are noble compositions, and full of dramatic interest and fine expression, but are they so perfect in the painter’s art ? The fresco of Michael Angelo, ( BENTHAM. 117 and the cartoons of Raphael, are not, perhaps, fair comparisons, but the “ Transfiguration ” of Raphael is an oil-picture, and although there is refined and inimitable expression — the figure of the Saviour finely balanced, suspended, or ascending in the ah’, with the floating lightness of a bird, and the figure of St. John, all pro- priety, and beautifully graceful — yet all these fine things, to my mind, are inferior in execution and colour to the Titian, to that perfection of the painter’s art that I have alluded to.’ Haydon assented, with some reservation as to the distinction of class, style, and purpose for which the works were executed, and perhaps Mr. Hazlitt had not appreciated this distinction. However, I wished to endeavour to remember his peculiar opinions as to Titian, and to record them. When Hazlitt perceived Bentham enter the garden, he paused in his conversation, looking earnestly out of the window, and pointing him out, said, ‘ Ah ! that is the gi’eat lawgiver, Bentham; a remarkable man: he would make laws for the whole universe, but, as the sailors say, “ he doesn’t allow for the \\dnd.” ’ 118 hazlitt’s room. Upon hearing a noise at the door, and per- ceiving his only child creepmg in upon all fours, he jumped up from his seat, ran to him, and clasping his boy in his arms, hugged, and kissed, and caressed him, like some ardent loving mother with her first-born. The room we were in, I may remark, was in keeping with the general negligence and pecu- liarity of Hazlitt’s habits. There was little furniture, no appearance of books, no pictures or prints of any kind whatever ! — a confusion and apparent want of comfort and domestic order reigned in the apartment. Over the mantel- shelf, upon the wainscot, instead of picture or looking-glass, there was written, in good bold hand (Hazlitt’s ovm writing) as high up as he could reach and covering the whole space, idl manner of odd conceits (as they appeared to be), of abbreviations, — words, — names, — enigmatical exclamations, — strange and queer sentences, quotations, — snatches of rhyme, — bits of arith- metical calculations, — scraps of Latin, — French expressions, — Avords or signs by which the author might spin a chapter, or weave an elaborate essay. The chimneypiece seemed to HAYDON ON HAZILITT. 119 be his tablet of mnemonics, — his sacred hiero- glyphics, — -all jotted down ^^dthout line, or form of any kind, some horizontal, some running up to the right, some do-wn to the left, and some obliquely. They seemed thoughts and indications of things to be remembered, put down on the instant, and I concluded that this room might not be his study, but his living- room. Wlien we took our leave my companion observed to me : — ‘ What a remarkable man ! — how profound and abstruse he can be ! — he touches the most difficult subjects with a master-mind, — how he must have studied, and refined upon those subtle questions he delights to argue, — with what fine, and expressive language he clothes his - thoughts, and one. is as much astonished as delighted that a being so wayward and uncer- tain can pursue with constancy abstract specu- lations and investigations that seem to give zest or energy to his curious mmd. He delights in metaphysics, as he does in art. His odd manner, and absence of mind, are peculiarities grown with his nature. What a curious organ- 120 ABSENCE OF MIND. isation ! — what a strange mixture of genius and eccentricity, — of mental power and uncertainty of purpose, — of ‘ imagination all compact,’ and the negation of realities about him. Keats says that a poet has nothing poetical about him ; here is romance and poetry both in a hving prose- writer ! I do enjoy the conversation and sincerity of Hazlitt, perhaps more than any one else ; he is natural, — unaffected, — expresses him- self with a frankness, impetuosity, and passion, that arrest one’s attention and secure one’s confi- dence, he sympathises with one’s Art-notions too, and is on the whole the best conversationa- list (except one) that I know. ‘ I will tell you of one of the many instances that I know of his absence of mind. When that little boy of his was to be christened, and the day appointed for the, ceremony, all prepara- tions made, and a pheasant provided by him, as an extra-course for dinner, the friends and sponsors all arrived and waiting for the offici- ating minister, the time passing agreeably and rapidly away, some one, who began to ap- prehend the chances of a dilemma, suggested the question, whether the clergyman had been CHRISTENING DINNER. 121 mfomied of the necessity of his attendance ? When our author, first in some confusion, then blank dismay, confessed that there might he some probability of his having forgotten to give that piece of infonnation, so necessaiy to the consummation of their intended business. He then fell to accusations of himself, of his incom- prehensible stupidity, that he never had the least thought of what was proper, &c. &c., add- ing with more good nature, “ Well, never mind ; it is too late, I suppose, now, to correct my folly in this affair : let us at all events enjoy the christening-dinner, even without the ministerial ceremony.” ’ 122 CHAPTER YII. IIAZLITT (continued) CONVERSATION ON ART ARGUMENT RETWEEN WILKIE AND HAYDON PAINTERS GOSSIPING ABOUT ART A PAINTING FROM LIFE REMBRANDT’s HEADS TITIAN’s FLESH-COLOURS ‘JACOB’s DREAM* IIAZLITT IN A GAME AT TENNIS SIR ANTHONY CARLISLE, PROFESSOR OF ANATOMY AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY — IIAZLITT AT THE SURREY INSTITUTION. [ OFTEX met Hazlitt at Hajdon’s, and had good opportunity of observing his character, of witnessing the wonderful power and varied re- sources of his mind. He was apt to brood over metaphysical difficulties, and in his abstract deductions was never certain, he said, that he made himself understood. His company was always acceptable to Haydon, and he came occa- sionally on Sundays, bringing some of his lucubrations, which he would, at a fittmg op- portunity, and with modest awkwardness, draw from his coat-pocket. Then explaining the QUESTION FOR DEBATE. 123 subject of his paper, he would read it with feeling and freshness, as though it engrossed all his mind. Glancing occasionally to obseiwe what effect his language liad upon his hearers, he would sometimes rise from his seat, and in the interest of the subject pour forth in impas- sioned tones, excited expression, and animated action, the violence of his emotion. It was in this way he read his Letter to Gifford, — The Description of a Prize Fight, — On the Death of Kavannah, &c, &c. If the paper so read seemed to have the desired effect, he would send it to the press. Haydon could seldom be induced to converse about art, and Hazlitt seemed glad, on the oc- casion of meeting Wilkie, to draw both painters into argiunent upon this subject. The question he introduced was unimportant, if not foolish, as stated by Hazlitt, ‘ Whether a particular set of colours arranged on a painter’s palette did not influence his style of art ? — so much so, indeed, as to be a question whether any artist would not have painted in the same style, scale of colour, and peculiarities, with any given palette, — say, for instance, of Titian, Rubens, or Rem- 124 ABSURD COXTROV'ERSY. brandt, — and that a painter, with the palette so set of any one of these three, would have painted in the precise style of Titian, Rubens, or Rembrandt ? ’ Wilkie was first appealed to, and ‘ thought certainly that any one, with the particular set of colours and varied tints peculiar to Titian, or those of Rubens or Rembrandt, would be so influenced as to paint in the same style and colouring as these great artists. That is, suppose a palette with the peculiar and p>articular primitive colours, so arranged, with gradations of tints and variations, that palette would so influence his taste, his mind, his ideas, and his “ feeling ” for contrast and harmony, that he would indeed be induced to paint in the style and manner of the painter to whom that parti- eular palette of colours had belonged.’ Hay don smiled, and shook his head, as dis- agreeing with Wilkie. Hazlltt pushed and provoked the argument by all the eloquence and energy of which he was capable, hi favour of Wilkie’s seeming views ; and however pre- posterous and absurd the proposition, the con- troversy was carried on for some time. HAYDON AND WILKIE. 125 It is probable that Hazlitt commenced the argument only to hear what the two gi’eat painters would offer in support or rejection of the question. Or, he might be curious to witness a combat of words between two persons so eminent for expressing their ideas by the pencil.* Be this as it may, he seemed quite serious in the whole affair, and enjoyed the fmy ; putting in a few words of encouragement or provocation on the one side or the other, fidgeting and smiling with delight when any difficulty seemed apparent in the argument. He seemed, too, highly amused at the dissimilitude of the two characters before him. Haydon was energetic, explanatoiy, voluble, and eager to convince ; whilst Wilkie, on the contrary, was slow, diy, caustic, cautious, keep- ing much on the defensive, and when pushed hard would return to his argument in strong Scotch intonation. Although the great painter of ‘ Reading the Will ’ and ‘ The Pensioners ’ seemed to do his best in debating this ex- traordinary proposition, yet it appeared possi- ble that lie had taken that side of the fray to humour Hazlitt, whom he seldom met, and might wish to propitiate. When, however, the 12G VANDYCK AXD FRANK HALS. heat of debate had partly subsided, and there was a pause, Hazlitt tinned to me, who had been a silent hstener during the whole time, and asked, ‘Well, Sir, what do you say to this interesting question % ' ‘ If you will permit me,’ I replied, ‘ to repeat an anecdote of what is recorded to have occurred to the two celebrated painters, Vandyck and Frank Hals, perhaps it may illustrate your pre- .sent question. When Vandyck visited Frank Hals at Haerlem, he introduced himself as a gentleman on his travels who wished to have his portrait painted, and had only two hours to spare. Hals, who was humed away from the tavern, took the first canvas that lay in his reach, and sat down to work in a very expedi- tious manner. He shortly desired the sitter to look at what he had done. Vandyck seemed pleased with what he saw, and told Hals that such work appeared so very easy he thought he could do it himself. He took the palette and pencils, made Hals sit down, and in a short time he painted his portrait, but the moment Hals cast his eyes on it he cried out in astonish- ment, that no hand except that of Vandyck HAZLITT AND WILKIE. 127 could work so wonderfully. Thus, tho palette and coloui’s of Hals did not tend to produce his, or any style, but that of Vandyck hunself’ Haydon smiled at me in satisfaction, and Wilkie opened his mouth and eyes, and looked at me in silence, though pleasantly. Hazlitt said in soft and subdued tones, and with kind- ness, ‘ Ah ! that is indeed to the point, Sir; but as I never heard of it before, I hope it is true V ‘ It is quite true,’ replied Haydon. Wilkie still seemed inclined to hammer out In his hesitating way some proposition, and began discrimuiating his subtle niceties in his northern accent, for he was rather fond of puz- zles in debate ; and as he was circumspect, cold, cautious, and not easily convinced, so he was. slow, and the last person to laugh at a joke, or appear to apprehend points of wit or fun. Hazlitt and Haydon laughed to see Wilkie beginning to perplex himself anew about a ques- tion upon which probably none of the three en- tertamed any serious views. As Hazlitt and Wilkie seldom met, and were * of such opposite characters, they did not get on very well together. Wilkie lacked the cor- 128 HAYDON. diality and frankness of nature and of manner that characterised Haydon, and which seemed to satisfy the author and set him at his ease ; and Hazlitt enjoyed the society and appre- ciated the heartiness of Haydon’s mgenuous nature. He would often say, ‘ Haydon is a fine, frank, as well as clever man, and albeit the best 2>ainter England has produced, I find him well read up in the literature of the day ; never at a loss for subjects of conversation, whether of books, politics, or men and things. The only subject he seems to desire to eschew, with me at least, is the fine arts. I observe he keeps his great picture covered up, lest, I suppose, it should lead to or suggest that line of conver- . sation ; and this puts me in mind of what Gold- smith says of Sir J oshua, — “ When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff. He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff." Perhaps there is not much good resulting from painters gossipmg about their art, for, after ex- hausting themselves during the day in the prac- % tice of it, they wish for the relaxation of some other subject, and Haydon has always plenty of NORTIICOTE AND HAYDOX. 129 good conversation without that, which he says satisfies no one. Pie talks well, too, upon most subjects that interest one, indeed better than any painter I have met. Northcote is talkative and original, but then he is narrow in his views, and confined in his subjects. Haydon is more a scholar, and has a wide range and versatility of information. One enjoys his hearty, joyous laugh ; it sets one upon one’s legs, as it were, better than a glass of champagne, for one is de- lighted to meet such a cheerhig spirit in the saddening depression that broods over the heartless despotism and hypocrisy of the world. His laugh rings in my ears like merry bells. When I do ask him to show me his picture, he does so without reseiwe, and with an open can- dour, courting my remarks. How finely he does some things ! He has great power of expres- sion, fine drawing, good, solid, and rich colour, — no difficulty in composition, and tells the story comprehensively. What refinement and pathos in some of his female characters ! far beyond anything that has been done in modern times. His “ Judgment of Solomon ” is, to my mind, tlie very finest work of that high class to be found VOL. I. K 130 PAINTING BY HAZLITT, since the time of Titian. And to the excellence of that great pamter some parts of the picture may be compared ; which is the highest compli- ment I can pay, since Titian is my seal of per- fection. Posterity will do Haydon the justice moderns may deny him.’ Thus Hazlitt would talk, as we sauntered homeM'ards together in the evening from Hay- don’s house, parting with an invitation to me to call upon him — which I did veiy soon after, and was gratified by his shovdng me some of his pro- ductions with the pencil. ‘ Now,’ he said, ‘ you have heard me preach and argue a good deid about painting and the arts, I wish to let you see that I have done something practically on canvas, and onginal. Here is the painting of an old head done from life ; eveiy touch, every line is strictly copied from the poor old creature who sat for it : she wearied and fell asleep, by which lucky accident I got near enough to elaborate all those wrin- kles ; her mouth was pursed up into all those intricate lines you see there. I worked at it from day to day, and cduld have gone on for a month to reach the truth of Nature, or approach COMBINATIONS OF COLOUR. 131 the force of Rembrandt. Indeed, I confess to you that I had the vanity to feel, or mistiikingly judge, that my insignificant endeavour put me in mind of some of Rembrandt s heads. And I would ask to live a hundred years, and be per- mitted to paint every day of the year, could I come near the merit of that painter. You will observe in those flesh tints, and shadow coloim, how difficult it is to produce the transparency, with the depth, force, and richness of that master’s secret, — mellow without muddiness — bright without crudity. How the devil he pro- The letters and introductions that I have brought with me give me an opportunity for yal Academy a series of full- sized copies in oil, of Michael Angelo’s Prophets and Sibyls in the Sistine Chapel at Rome ; and heai’ing of Mr. Bewick’s great skill as a copyist, and of his earnest desire to visit Italy, he offered him one hundi’ed guineas for a large copy of the Delphic Sibyl in the Sistine Chapel. The artist, seeing in this offer a means of realizing his wish to study the great works of Itahan art m Rome, went immediately to London to see Sir Thomas Lawrence. All seemed favourable to his wishes. At his own request his commission was in- creased, and leavmg his young wife Avith the VOL. I. T 274 PKOPOSED VISIT TO ITALY. mother he so tenderly loved, he left his native place to visit that land of art whose shrines are the goal of every artist’s pilgrimage. In * Italy he had the happiness of again meeting his friend Sir David Wilkie, but the story of his life and experience in that country will best be told by the letters he addressed to his wife. From this correspondence the reader will perceive how conscientiously Mr. Bewick discharged this new commission as well as every other duty that he undertook. He prepared himself for the study of Italian art, and for the execution of the task on which he was specially sent, by rendering himself familiar with everything about Italy, by surrounding himself, so to speak, with an Italian atmosphere. He studied the language, he read accounts of the countiy, he made himself familiar with the man- ners and customs of the people, and he pored over the maps which delineated the physical features of the peninsula. A voyage to Italy was in those days a much more lengthened and formidable task than it is now when railways take us over the Alps into the very bowels of the land. By all but the most IN LONDON, 275 wealthy the jorn-ney had to be undertaken by sea, and the voyage was made in a sailing vessel, generally by no means remarkable for speed or comfort. Bewick was accompanied by a young gentleman named Le Mesurier, and on joining the vessel in which he was to sail, he was happy to learn that the captain and pilot were both natives of Newcastle or Sunderland. Mr. Bewick sailed in a small sloop of 150 tons, crossing the Bay of Biscay, passing through the Straits of Gibraltar, going along the coast of Spain and Portugal, and running the risk of being made prisoner by some Barbary pirates, a danger to which he laughingly alludes, but which was often attended with serious con- sequences in those days. London, June 21st, 1826. My dearest Bess, — I write to tell you how I am going on. My time has been occupied principally in seeing the sights (as they are called) of London — or rather that part of them named exhibitions. The exhibition of Somerset House is the first to be spoken of, not from its superior claims on the score of merit, but because SOMERSET HOITSE. 27 () it is the most crowded both with pictures and Avith people, and is little less than a lounge for all sorts of gaiety. In this exhibition there are more had pictures than good ones, and it be- comes really tiresome to search out the few which are worthy of notice, and the only relief a man has in such a case is to let his eyes drop upon a natural beauty close by him. This is certainly a relief from the disgust excited by a bad picture of an ugly woman or disagreeable old man. The most striking portrait in the collection is that of Mr. Canning, by Sir Thomas Lawrence. There is one of the King (by whom I don’t know). That is wretched ; the sign over Mr. Scott’s door is as well painted, and more kingly in appear- ance. It offers a striking contrast to the masterly work of Canning. Mr. Haydon has two pictures in this exhibition, neither of them very good. I was disappointed in them. Mr. Wilkie is at Venice, and hiis nothing. The best landscape, or what comes nearest to pleas- ing nature, is by a Mr. Constable. The great Turner has two. Neither is to my taste, but stdl they are grand. Mr. Briggs, a relation of BRITISH INSTITUTION. 277 Mr. F. Smith, has two of the best historical pic- tures, and a Mr. Etty one of the Choice of Paris, the best of that class. Mr. Calcott, Mr. Collins, and Mr. Midready have good pictures. I will not tire you, however, with a catalogue of what you have not seen, but go to another exhibition, which was more select, and of course more com- plete and gratifying. I mean the exhibition of pictures entii'ely in water-colours. Here there is nothing to offend either judgment or taste, and you leave the room delighted. It is pleasing to observe how Mr. Robson shines ; he has some beautiful drawings of lake and mountain scenery. The next exhibition is the British Institution, where His Majesty has allowed his collection to be placed for a short time. There are pictures of the very first class, by old masters, Titian, Rembrandt, Teniers, Cuyp, Reynolds, &c., &c. I happened to go at the fashionable hour on the second day. The company were all gay and fashionable, and a crowd of carriages and ser- vants was waiting in the street. I next visited the interior of St. Pauls Cathedral, ascended as high as the top of the dome, pass- ing through the Whispering GaUeiy, where the 278 MUSIC AT THE CATHOLIC CHAPEL. closing of a door sounds as loud as the report of a gun. We were so tired by climbing so many stairs that we did not see the Great Bell, the bell that is only sounded at the death of any of the Boyal Family, when its tremendous bass voice is heard all over the city. St. Peter’s at Rome is one-third larger than St. Paul’s. The Parliament House I also visited. This morning there was a grand requiem sung to the memory of one of the Canons at the Catholic Chapel. The musical composer. Von Weber, Braham, Miss Stephens, and all the principal singers, joined. The music at the Catholic Chapel was very fine, but the ceremony altogether was not so imposing or so grand as I expected, and I propose to myself the pleasime of hearing and seeing much more splendid Catholic ceremonies on the Continent. Kindest remembrance to all friends, and believe me truly. Your faithful W. Bewick. London, June 29th, 1826. My dear Bess, — I have written two letters to you since the one I sent by post, intending to SAIL ON THE THAMES. 279 send them hy Mr. Sams. His parcels go by- sea, and therefore I send this by post. I have been a good deal with Mn Bandinel, who is extremely kind in giving me letters of introduction to Lord Burghersh, our consul at Florence, and also to the consul at Naples, with other persons of consequence on the Con- tinent. He takes great interest in me, and goes with me here and there to make inquiries, &c. I dine with him to-day, and after dinner we intend to go on the water in a boat. He takes great delight in rowing, and particularly in passing other boats, which he does with great rapidity, his boat being so light and well shaped. I have had one excursion with him, and it was delightfid. A summer s evenmg sail up the Thames is one of those treats that can only be appreciated by those who have enjoyed it, and which I purpose myself the fehcity some time, ere long, of giving you, as I intend you to meet me in London on my return. Indeed, whenever I see anything curious, or that gives me plea- sure, I always wish you were with me ; and T only seem to enjoy it half without you. How-' ever, we must hope for the future. 280 SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE. I breakfasted this morning Avith Sir Thomas Lawrence, who has been kind enough to give me a commission to execute for him in Rome, and likewise begs of me to write from that city about an extensive work that he has long wished to have done, and which he wall propose to the Academy in London. Sir Thomas will give me a letter to obtain easy accommodation for this purpose in the place where those fine things are. I dare say you will all feel gratified with this unexpected show’ of kindness from Sir Thomas Lawrence, considering the situation in which my connexion with Haydon has placed me with the ])ody of the Royal Academy, of wdiich Sir Thomas is President ; and I must observe it augurs ver}’ w’ell, and is no doubt promising. ‘ It is a good thing to have a friend at court.’ Tell my mother that Sir Thomas had written an answer to my letter, but for some reason or other did not send it. He gave it to me this morning, saying, ‘ I would find that he had not been so negligent or uninterested about me as 1 might thmk.’ The letter is curious, and of course, I must preserve it. DR. BIRKBECK. 281 I have just seen Dr. Bii-kbeck, who, according to his usual benignity, is extremely kind, and gives me an introduction to Prince somebody, whose name I do not remember. I shall see him on Sunday morning, and if an opportu- nity olfers, will speak to him about Bob. The Doctor is so engaged in his profession, that it is difficult to speak with him. I waited an hour this morning, with a number of other visitors, before I could see him. Dr. Birkbeck says that he saw Jonathan Backhouse here, and that he told him I was settled at Darlington, practising my profession. Strange thing that he shoidd tell him about me, and not even call to see me, all the time I was at Darlington ; but Dr. B. says ‘they are curious.’ Give my best love to all. I think I shall set off from London about Monday first. I have seen George Har- rison. He is dressed in tip-top fashion, and has a Chancery suit pending with George Allen for property belonging to his mother. He does not seem to have anything else to do. Ever yours truly, Wm. Bewick. 282 MR. LE MESURIER. The two letters that I mentioned, I will en- close in Mr, Sams’ parcel by sea. The weather here is extremely sultry and oppressive. What will it he in Italy 1 London, July 2nd, 1826. My Dearest Bess, — I have just been on board of ship with my companion, a young gen- tleman, a son of Mr. Le Mesurier, late Rector of Haughton-le-Skeme, who is going as far as Rome with me. We have detennined upon going by sea, it being the most pleasant at this time of year, as also cheaper and less troublesome. The vessel is quite new, this being her first voyage to the Mediterranean. She is made for fast sail- ing, and has certainly the best accommodation I have seen for passengers, — a beautifid large cabin, with only two berths in it, one at each side, like couches, with moreen hangings round them. We are provided with food, and porter, beer, and spirits, for the sum of forty guineas for two. They usually charge twenty-five to thirty guineas for one person ; so that this is thought very cheap. The passage is calculated to be about a month or six weeks, but we have MR. HAMILTON. 283 been told this morning that thirty days will be the extent — as far as Genoa. After stopping a short time at Genoa, we go to Leghorn, where I intend to buy myself a straw hat ; from Leg- horn we go to Lome ; and from thence it is my intention to proceed at some time or other to Naples, for which place I have letters of intro- duction. Should you wish to write before you hear from me, you can direct to me at Messrs. Freeborn, Smith, and Co., Lome, where I shall get letters on my arrival. Mr. Le Mesurier is a young man just from Oxford. His going with me is quite accidental, and a hurried journey, as he knew nothing about it when he left Oxford. On Friday last he came to London, and his uncle persuaded him to go with me. He is quite a young man of fashion, and about twenty. I intend to write to you from Genoa or Leghorn, and tell you all that seems strange and amus- ing. I have had an interview with Mr. Ham- ilton, late of the Foreign Office, and late Consul at Naples; he gives me letters to SirWm. Gell at Naples, and others there. Mr. Bandinel, who is now Under-Secretary of State at the Foreign Office, gives me permission to send my letters 284 THE COLUMBIAN PACKET. to him, for any of my friends in this country. There is another gentleman who is very anxious to go to Italy with me, and will, he says, follow me in a fortnight. The name of the vessel that I go by is the Columbian Packet, Captain Saddler. Mr, Bandinel’s address is James Ban- dinel. Esq,, Foreign Office, London, should you wish at any time to apply to him for any in- formation or business that I may write about. On Board the Columbian Packet. July 7th, Friday . — We are to be in the Downs this day, and the pilot will take this letter on shore for the post-office. I am look- ing at maps, learning Italian, and reading about the country. My father will see in his geography the long voyage we are taking. We expect to see Spain and the coast of Portugal, through the Straits of Gibraltar, and crossing the Bay of Biscay we hope to see the scene where the famous and ever-memorable battle of Trafalgar was fought. Our Captain and Pilot are both from Sunderland or Newcastle, and there is one of the OAvners on board who comes from the county of Durham; so that on the first day UNCOMFORTABLE BERTH. 275 we dined five persons all from the same or ad- joining counties. We came on board on Tues. day Mr. Bandinel has given me a Bible and a Shakspeare. Young Le Mesurier is fond of poe- try — Lord Byron, &c. &c. ; I find him a very good companion. We were on shore at Graves- end yesterday, getting fowls, pickles, gin, &c. Gravesend is a very poor place, the streets are narrow and dirty, and the shops are like those of a village, except the spirit-shops, which seem to thrive best. The women are anything but pretty. Whether we go on shore at the Downs or not, I don’t know ; if the Captam wants any- thing, we probably may. Our vessel is 150 tons burthen, and has ten hands on board. I find my bed too short, and my pillow very hard. The mattress and pillow are stuffed with short hair, the waste from brush-makers, or something of that kind, so that I have not slept well, but have been caught dreammg aloud, calling out so loud that the Captain came to ask me ‘ What was the matter ? ’ when I awoke in the greatest agony, and was glad to find it hut a dream. I shall most certainly write to you on my arrival at Genoa, where I anticipate 276 FROM THE GULF OF GENOA. most delicious gales, wafted from orange, pome- granate, and citron-trees. The best way for you will be to write down on a paper whatever occurs that you wish me to know ; and then, when you send to me, you have only to refer to the paper, and there will be no chance of your forgetting anything. Yours truly, W. Bewick. On Board the Columbian Packet, August 15th, 1»26. My Dear Friends at Darlington, — I write this in the Gulf of Genoa, about four miles from the city of that name. It is a beau- tiful day, a slight breeze ripples the water, and we expect to be in the harbour in an hour or two. It is with difficulty I tear myself from the magnificent view before my eyes to make some- thing in way of a note for England, for fear that anything should prevent my doing so after get- ting on shore, as I have no doubt that you will feel anxious to hear from me. Therefore, I pre- pare this sheet for the post-office, to be the first thing for me to expedite on my landing. Calms and contrary winds have detained us so long MONOTONY OF THE VOYAGE. 287 that we have had what is thought rather a tedious passage. However, we have had no rough weather, neither have I been sick. The only thing I can complain of is the extreme dulness and monotony of a long sea voyage. Your bones ache with lassitude and ennui, you tumble and toss and roll about. A game of chess is dull, draughts are stupid. Shakspeare is too much, Milton hard to understand. Your Itahan grammar you cannot bear to look at, and you lie on your back watching the changes of the clouds, the twinkling of stars, the crack- ing of the cordage, the flapping of the sails, and the music of the rigging. But it is rather a pleasant thing to be going at the rate of eight or nine knots an hour, your vessel swinging over the water. We rounded Cape St. Vincent at this rate. It was flne, and a beautiful sunset. The Captain was in a good humour for the first time and cracked his joke, and pointed out the spot of Jarvis’ triumph. But time wanes, and I must speak of the present. It is certain that no human being could fail to enjoy a sight so enchanting as the one before me just now, a city of about fifty 288 GENOA. palaces, mth villas and rural seats spread over the rich wooded mountains of the Apennines, extending for upwards of twenty miles each way along the line of coast. At this distance it gives you the idea of dominoes pricked into a gi'ound of moss, and you see by the telescope the immense palaces of marble, with windows innumerable, such as we used to draw from fancy when boys. My brother John was famous for these castles of fancy. This is a fairy scene indeed ! — what a situation ! — what advantages of water, mountains, cultivated banks and hang- ino- wardens ! The brown and ban'en moun- O O tains, see how they pierce the sky and grasp the clouds. What strange dragon-like fonn is that .which creeps along the side of that steep, yet sloping mountain, casting its shadow far athwart the ravine below ? Then the city walls wind crooked, zig-zag up and down, — here the road ascends to Lucca, Pisa, and Leghorn. But now I leave this distant view and prepare to show myself a healthy subject — not an improper cau- tion. The bill of health is produced, and we land. What joy ! such we judge liberty to be after captivity. CITY OF PALACES. 289 August IQih . — Since writing the above I have been ashore, and as I have told you that this is the city "wnth its fifty palaces, I must now correct myself and say that it is a city of palaces, noble buildings, enriched and beautified by painting, gilding, and marble of different colours. By moonhght many of the buildings are splendid, in point of effect and picturesque display, for the pale moonlight renders defects that tune has made upon the decorations less distinct, and therefore you have the beauty of light and shadow, extended proportions, and other cha- racteristics in perfection. The moon is fuU to- night. I have been gratified and astonished. 1 go in the morning to see the interior of some of these Palazzi. There is here a very good family, % that of Mr. Le Mesurier, cousin to my companion. He is a merchant, and veiy attentive and kind. A young gentleman of the name of Wakefield is visiting them from England, and he vdll ac- company us to the south. It is expected we go from this on Monday first or Tuesday ; and al- though I intend to remain in Florence a week O or two, yet as a letter vdll be a fortnight in coming from England, you had better write to VOL. I. u 290 FLORENTINE LADIES. me at Rome (Messrs. Freeborn, Smith, and Co.) I will write on my arrival there, if not from Florence. The ladies here wear no bonnet in the morn- ing, but a piece of mushn like a scarf, that certainly looks extremely graceful. They cany- large fans, which they use constantly, as do the gentlemen also. I lodge at a very good hotel, where I have a very nice room \rfth crimson silk draperies and white cotton, and on the ceiling are three Cupids in the sky, with flowers, and wreaths of laurel. The floor is brick, no carpets in this country — good houses have marble or painted stucco, I have just seen, in one of the palaces, the interior of a room, called the ‘ Golden Saloon,’ from its being al- most entirely covered with gilding — pillars, doors, walls, ceilings, all richly carved and gilt, with a painting in the ceiling and mirrors where there is not gdding. The mere decorations of this saloon cost forty thousand pounds sterling. It is principally gold upon lapis lazuli, -with all kinds of rich ornament. Hanging from the ceiling are cut-glass chandehers, which the mirrors, reaching from top to bottom of the room, reflect STREETS AND HOUSES. 2.91 and repeat ad infinitum, and yon fancy your- self in an immense suite of halls, extending as far as the eye can reach. This has a fine effect. I am very anxious to hear from you to know how you are, and if Robert has got another > situation, or what he mtends to do. Has my father looked into the geography yet ? Tell him we passed close round Spain, and saw Cadiz, Gibraltar, Cape St. Vincent, and might have been taken prisoners on the Barbary Coast, and sold to slavei’y,’ but we were not. We were frightened a little, however, by a strange sail that gave us chase, but it tumed out to be a French corvette that wished to knoAv who we were and what, and so fired. Ever yours affectionately, W. Bewick. Should any letters come for me they need not be opened, but you can tell me where they come from, and I can send you word if you are to forward them to me. The streets are veiy narrow here ; they scarcely allow two carriages to pass between wall and wall, and the houses are veiy high. Some parts of the town put me I 292 FLORENCE. ill mind of Edinburgh, liut in this respect only. In other respects the much -boasted Edhi burgh falls short, and the houses look like so many stables compared with the houses here. The following letter, giving an account of, Bewdck’s journey to Rome, shows that he not only possessed the talents of an artist, but also that spirit of observation which enabled him to fonn, from the facts and circumstances that came under his notice, very accurate and discriminating judgments on the position and prospects of the country through which he tra- velled. In a very limited space we have here a remarkably comprehensive view of a consider- ably portion of Italy in the early part of the present centuiy — a view which to those who are acquainted with that country, and can compare its past with its present state, is exceedingly in- teresting and instinctive. Florence, Sept. 15th, 1826. My Dear Bess, — I should certamly have written to you before this, had I been certain either of remaining liere at Florence, or of pro- DELAYED IN FLORENCE. 293 ceeding to Rome. But although I have been here about a fortnight, I have lived in doubt all the time. On my arrival, I was told it was dangerous and highly improper to go to Rome at this season. This made me delay, and I thought, if I could employ myself for a month or so here, it woidd be safer. I accordingly determined to copy a picture, and obtamed permission to do so at the ‘ Pitti Palace ; ’ but unfortunately, after giving myself a great deal of trouble and vexation, and losing about eight days in getting this permission, I found, to my surprise, that they only had one scaffolding (to enable one to get up to the picture), and this one was engaged for a month ; so that my idea of stopping here is quite done away with, and as I am assured that there is no danger what- ever at Rome, now the rains have fallen, I have determined to set off on Friday the first, and to remain at Rome during the winter. I should not have gone so soon, but a friend of mine with his family of nine went on Tuesday. He had received letters assuring him that on account of the season being so favourable, and the late showers, not the slightest apprehension need 294 ASCENDING THE APENNINES. » be entertained. I should tell you that m and neai- Home, the inhabitants (and yet more strangers) are liable to a complaint arising from the malaria, during the summer season. This is what frightened me, — but now I am assured there is no danger whatever. You would hear from me at Genoa, at least, I wrote a letter and put it in the post myself. I have since that time travelled through a most delightful, rich, and varied country, par- ticularly the part from Genoa to Pisa, which is the most pictiu'esque that the eye can behold or the imagination conceive. In ascending the Apennines, by an excellent new road, winding through fo7'ests (I may call them) of olive and chestnut, interspersed occasionally with the other varieties peculiar to the country, we passed the most beautiftd villages and cottages, perhaps only more beautiful to an artist from their being placed m such fine situations and built in such picturesque styles — not to speak of external ornaments of painting, &c. ; for in this countiy every cottage, bam, or palace must have its exterior decorations of paintmg, sculp- ture, or earthen ornament, — and these often PROFUSION OF FRUIT. 295 evidence good taste and excellent fancy. Then again the vine in this part does not grow in small bushes as in France and some parts of Italy, hut is trained from tree to tree m festoons, the most luxuriant you can imagine ; the large pui’ple bunches (about the size of yourself) hanging in luscious profusion ; tempting the thirsty traveller to a dangerous risk, for it is dangerous to eat fruit just plucked in the sun. You will think it very odd at Darlington that, after I have abused the people here for being such thieves and robbers, there should be no occasion for fences to the gardens and grounds. But so it is nearly the whole way that I have travelled. A fence has seldom ob- structed my inclination to take fruit of any sort. Peaches, nectarines, plums, walnuts, figs, almonds, and grapes, in variety and profusion, have tempted Tne at every turn. The large ‘ water-melon,’ green outside and red mside, is plentiful here. It is a little larger than a Bailiff’s head, very juicy, but tasteless. The other melon, which is called here j^oiypone, is white outside, and of a richer flavour. The general appearance of the country is that of one 290 FARM-HOUSES. immense orchard. There are no green fields of grass (ah ! how delicious is the recollection of a grass field !) — of turnips, potatoes, or even corn ; for the whole country is planted with fruit-trees, having cabbages, or a few po- tatoes, between the rows of trees. Occasionally you will see a small plot snatched as it were for corn, or millet, perhaps half an acre at a time, not more. Even the steepest h ill s and highest mountains are fonned into terraces, each terrace containing its due quantity of fruit-trees. Land thus cultivated must require much labour and attention, and cannot be parcelled out into large farms, as nearly all farmers cultivate their fanns by their own family. At first, I thought that the houses which peeped through the trees in the valleys, and covered the sides of the mountains, were villas belonging to gentlemen, or the countiy-seats of those connected with a large city. But no ! There is scarcely an acre of land but what has its farm-house, — and you are astonished fre- quently at descrying a snug, romantic cottage perched in wold sublimity on the rocky summit of a mountain half hid in clouds, without RAPPELLO. 297 any apparent road by Avhich yon can ascend to it. On the way from Genoa to Pisa, you ti-avel at no great distance from the sea. The road often winds up an almost perpendicular mountain, and sometimes you look down on chimney-tops below you, — sometimes on the sea. Then the road descends again to the water’s edge, the canaage-wheels sinking into the sand, and you are taken over mountains, across rivers without bridges, and so on till you enter Pisa. Here your coachman cracks his whip, and drives at a furious rate, crossing the river Amo by a stone or marble bridge. Tlie nimbling of the carriage, and the jingling of the bells on the horses, are quite astounding ; and when it is known that Milord Inglese is driving to the sign of the ‘ Hussar,’ he has a dozen fellows following him, keeping up with the speed of a four-liorse drive. From Genoa to Florence, I had two com- panions, who, with myself, formed the party occupying a fine caniage vdth four excellent horses. At a place on the road called Rappello, we had veiy good beds, but unhappily tenanted, and the mosquitoes too buzzed about ; and 298 ITALIAN INTERIORS. although I had a mosquito curtain, I could not .sleep for the other vermin. At last, my head fell on the pillow from sheer weariness, and I slept soundly until morning, when I found Mr. Le Mesurier stying all over by mosquitoes, so that I was afraid he had got the measles. For my part I did not feel these disagreeable tormen- tors till I came to Florence ; but at this moment I am covered with red spots, like the chicken- pox. At the Galleries to which I go, I gene- rally observe the English visitors with their foreheads pimpled by this insect. However, I can bear this tolerably well ; but I must tell you it is quite disgusting to see the people, even the finest ladies, as coolly spit upon the carpet, should there be one, as if they were using a perfume bottle. By the by, caiq)ets are uncommon here. Those that are used are made of fist of difierent colours, which foiTn the weft into stripes so mregular that, when the seams are made, the colours are all different, white joined to black, and red to blue, and so on. There is no such thing as paper for rooms. They are all either painted with landscapes, figures, and ornaments, or in the best houses FLORENTINE LADIES. 299 hung with rich figured silk damask, which looks beautiful. Their beds have no poles, and the tester hangs from the ceiling. There are few fire-places, although I am told that in vdnter it is colder than in England. Amongst other wants to the comforts of the houses here, are the bells. You have to call to the servants by name if you want one. I will write you from Rome, as I expect letters from you there. As there are no letter- carriers here, you may as well direct your let- ters, William Bewick, Esq., Poste Restante, Rome. My travelling companion to Rome is an old but respectable priest, and an acquaint- ance of Dr. Gradwell’s, to whom I have a letter of introduction from Mr. Hogarth. The ladies here dress well, exactly like the English, even to the rainbow ribbons. They generally have fine figures, and walk gracefully, and with dignity. They are, I think, rather tall and full grown, and tie themselves very tight at the waist. They are not pretty, but have ex- pressive countenances. Their eyes are large, black, and languid, with long black eyelashes ; and they stare very much at a new-comer. I 300 time’s changes. liave been told, by an English lady here, that they are very fond of Englishmen, but not of Englishwomen. Compliments to Mr. Smith and family. Dr. Bum, Mr. Graham, and Mr. Botcherby. Mind you tell me how you are ! and all news ; write upon thin paper, as the postage is according to its weight. I will write to Mr. Smith from Borne. It will be about five weeks before I get an answer to this letter at Borne. Affectionately yours, W. Bewick. From Florence, Sept. 15tb, 1826. In reference to the artist’s remarks on the manners of the Florentine ladies, it may be observed that, although they were no doubt perfectly true at the time they were written, they are no longer applicable to Italian ladies, either of Florence, or of any other city of the Peninsula. THE END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. London ; Strangiways & Walden, Printei'S, 28 Castle St. Leicester Sq.