Frank Harris - "Elder Conklin and Other Stories"

Catherine Parr Traill - "Canadian Crusoes"

Leonard Woolsey Bacon - "A History of American Christianity"

Horace - "The Art Of Poetry An Epistle To The Pisos"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Art in England

D >> Dutton Cook >> Art in England




Much surprise and interest are excited by this achievement of the
woodcutter's son. In Sherwin's days 'the patron' was a part which rich
people were rather fond of playing. The fact of having discovered a new
artist was in itself a sort of certificate of the discoverer's acumen
and taste. If the patronized succeeded, the patron forthwith took high
rank as a connoisseur; while on the other hand, if the efforts of the
protege resulted in failure, no great harm accrued to any one; a little
money was spent to no purpose: that was all. The mania for patronizing
was harmless enough; if based upon some vain glory, there was still a
fair leaven of kindliness about it. In the present case, the patron had
lighted upon a really clever fellow. Young Sherwin was well worth all
the money and pains spent upon him by his first employer and friend, Mr.
William Mitford, of the Treasury; and but for some inherent flaw in his
moral constitution, would have done his patron and himself
unquestionable credit.

The young man was taken from wooden bolt-making, sent up to London, and
placed under Bartolozzi, an accomplished and very thriving designer and
engraver, who formed one of the original members of the Royal Academy on
its institution in 1768. Bartolozzi found his pupil apt. He made,
indeed, rapid progress, and about 1772 received the Academy gold medals
for drawings of 'Coriolanus taking leave of his family,' and 'Venus
soliciting Vulcan to make armour for her son.' From 1774 to 1780 his
name is to be found in the catalogues of the Academy as an exhibitor of
various drawings, original and copied, in red and black chalks, after
the manner his master had rendered popular. Sherwin had proved himself a
vigorous, dashing draughtsman, standing high in his preceptor's good
opinion, higher still in his own, and surely gaining the applause of the
town.

Quitting Bartolozzi, he set up for himself, taking an expensive house in
St. James's Street. He there commenced a desultory system of designing,
painting, and engraving; doing less engraving than anything else,
however. It was his most legitimate occupation, but it was laborious,
took time, was not very highly remunerated, and he wanted to make
money--as much and as quickly as possible. He had patrons in plenty,
eager for his graceful, facile drawings, prepared to pay good prices for
them; and the man himself became a favourite in society. He was
handsome, ready, good-natured; well pleased to array his shapely person
in smart raiment, disport himself in the drawing-rooms of the noble and
rich, and add his name to the unprofitable list of fashion's votaries.

He had fallen upon 'dressy' times. A handsome young Prince of Wales was
preaching, by example, that costliness of attire was indispensable among
gentlemen; and the woodcutter's son set up decidedly for being a
gentleman. A record of his costume on one occasion, when he was engaged
to dine at his friend Sir Brook Boothby's, has come down to us. A
superfine scarlet lapelled coat, with gilt dollar-sized buttons; a
profuse lace frill frothing over the top of his white satin,
jasmin-sprigged waistcoat; small-clothes of the glossiest black satin,
with Bristol diamond buckles; silk stockings, tinged with Scott's
liquid-dye blue, and decorated with Devonshire clocks; long ruffles,
falling over hands once so worn with rude labour; extravagant buckles
covering his instep; and his hair piled up high in front, with three
rows of side curls, pomatumed and powdered, and tied into a massive club
at the back of his head. Be sure that Mr. Sherwin, thus adorned,
presented an imposing aspect; while his morning dress was scarcely less
striking. Scarlet and nankeen were the colours chiefly favoured for the
spring costume of the exquisites of the period. To the taste of a man of
fashion, Mr. Sherwin added an artist's discrimination. He was very
difficult to please in regard to shades of colour. It is told of him
that he had four scarlet coats made for him before his delicate
perception in this respect could be altogether satisfied. He would have
the right tone of scarlet, or none at all. 'Fortunately,' observes a
critic personally acquainted with the fastidious gentleman, 'he had as
many brothers as rejected coats.' And Sherwin was really kind-hearted
and generous. There seems to have been no false pride about him. With
all his success and prosperity, his airs of fashion and pretentiousness,
he was not ashamed of his less fortunate relatives--his wood-cutting
father and brothers. He befriended them as long as he was able; tried to
lift them up to his own position; brought them up to town, and did what
he could to make fine gentlemen of them. His efforts were not attended
with much success, however. Possibly the world of fashion found that one
member of the Sherwin family was quite as much as it wanted. Besides, by
reason of his abilities, the artist had a right to notice and
distinction; his relatives were without any such title. They were simple
labouring people, much amazed at the luxury and splendour with which
they found their kinsman surrounded. A story is told of their dining
with the successful artist; when one of the younger lads, without
waiting or asking for a spoon, thrusts his fingers into a dish of
potatoes to help himself. The father of the family, however, was quick
to perceive his son's offence against good manners, and corrected him in
a loud whisper: 'Moosn't grabble yer han' 'moong the 'tators _here_!'

At this time Sherwin was making about twelve hundred pounds a year. With
industry he might have doubled that sum. But he was incorrigibly idle;
was without rule or system. For one day that he worked he would waste
three in sauntering about, calling on his friends, and in all sorts of
frivolous pursuits. And then the dissipations of the evening were as so
many heavy mortgages upon the labour of the morning. His expenditure was
profuse. He gave away money liberally in charity; was especially fond of
relieving the distressed widows and orphans of clergymen, observing that
the children of a poor curate were more to be pitied than those of a
London artist--since the latter generally had some qualification by
which they could gain a livelihood. All this had been well enough if Mr.
Sherwin had been a man of independent fortune, or had even pursued
prudently his own profession. But, his plan of life considered, he had,
in truth, no money to give away. His charity was only another form of
prodigality, He was a gambler, too. Such money as he gained when he
would condescend to work was quickly swept from him at the hazard-table.
He was soon deeply in debt; his creditors growing more and more
impatient and angry every day.

As an artist, his rapidity and cleverness were remarkable. The late Mr.
J.T. Smith, who was for some years keeper of the prints in the British
Museum, was in early life a pupil of Sherwin's, and bore testimony to
the singular ability of his master. He was ambidexterous. Occupied upon
a large engraving, he would often commence a line with his right hand,
then, tossing the graver into his left, would meet and finish the line
at the other end of the plate with marvellous accuracy. He had great
knowledge of the human form, and would sometimes begin a figure at the
toe, draw upwards, and complete it at the top of the head in a curiously
adroit manner. If he had but worked! Commissions poured in upon him, yet
he left them unexecuted. He undertook contracts, yet could seldom be
persuaded to execute them. Sometimes when the fit seized him, or when
his need of ready money was very urgent, he would apply himself with
extraordinary energy, commencing a plate one day, sitting up all night,
and producing it finished at breakfast-time the next morning. But this
industry was only occasional and accidental. Speedily he relapsed again
into slothfulness and self-indulgence.

People of note and fashion at one time thronged Mr. Sherwin's studio. It
was his boast, that from five to five-and-twenty of the most beautiful
women in London were to be seen every spring morning at his house. For
one day he hit upon a notable device, which would probably have made his
fortune if he had but given the thing fair play. He had made a drawing
of the finding of Moses. No ordinary illustration of a scene from
Biblical history, however. Mr. Sherwin did not depend upon merely the
intrinsic merits of his design; for Pharaoh's daughter was a portrait of
the Princess-Royal of England, and grouped round her were all the most
distinguished ladies of the English court--the Duchess of Devonshire,
the Duchess of Rutland, Lady Duncannon, Lady Jersey, Mrs. Townley Ward,
and others--some fifteen in all. Even tiny Moses was said to be a
portrait of some baby of distinction, born conveniently at the time. The
picture was a great success. Popular taste had been cunningly measured
and fitted. This ingenious interleaving of the Bible and the Peerage
found a host of admirers. There were some malcontents, of course: ladies
whose claims to be ranked among court beauties had been summarily passed
over by the painter; for he has rather an invidious task before him who
undertakes to decide who are the fifteen most beautiful of English women
of quality. He is certain to make hundreds of enemies if he makes
fifteen friends; and he cannot rely for certain upon doing even that
much, for, as happened in the present instance, jealousies may spring up
among the chosen fifteen. Mr. Sherwin was charged by certain of the
ladies portrayed in the picture with partiality and favouritism. One
beauty had been shown too prominently in the design, greatly to the
prejudice of other beauties, who were unfairly restricted to the
background. And why should one lady be displayed so advantageously--in a
light so brilliant--while other ladies not less attractive, as they
opined, were exhibited in so strangely subdued a way, with ugly shadows
marring the lustre of their loveliness? And then why, was indignantly
asked, why had the artist arranged the portraits so cruelly? Why was
this charming fair one, whose graces were of an irregular pattern--whose
nose has a heavenward inclination--who pretends to no strictness of
beauty, according to absurd rules laid down in drawing-books--why is she
brought into such fatal juxtaposition with this other severe and
classical-looking and statuesque lady! To be merely a foil? Much
obliged, Mr. Sherwin! The offended belle expressing angry and ironic
gratitude sweeps from the painter's studio, gathering her rustling
skirts together that they may not be soiled by the least contact with
the canvases and plaster casts, and other art-paraphernalia and rubbish
about the place.

The picture was without real artistic value, though undoubtedly pretty
and graceful. It was a mere acted charade of the 'Finding of Moses,' got
up impromptu as it were; the ladies being in ball-room attire, with high
powdered heads, strung with pearls and surmounted with feathers; their
silken dresses trimmed with laces, and frills, and furbelows; their
faces well whitened and rouged, according to the mode of the day. It was
more like a plate from a fashion-book than a scene from Scripture
history. True, some small attempt at imparting 'local colour' and air of
truth to the thing was just discernible. There was an affectation of
Orientalism about the background--a line of palm-trees and plenty of
pyramids and temples, presumed to be Egyptian, their style of
architecture being nondescript otherwise; but these only made the
foreground figures appear more utterly preposterous. Still, the picture
pleased the town. It was something to see in one group portraits of the
prettiest women in the country. There was a great demand for copies of
the engraving. And yet it was with difficulty the harebrained artist
could be induced to complete the plate, and supply his patrons and
subscribers with prints in return for their guineas. The thriftless,
flighty fellow seemed to persist in misconceiving his situation,
undervaluing his artist abilities; forgetting that but for these he
would still have been peg-cutting in the Sussex woods. He _would_ regard
himself as a gentleman of independent property, with whom art was simply
a pastime--not at all an indispensable means of winning his sustenance.
He seemed, indeed, to treat his talent as a sort of obstacle in his
path, blamed the world for having made him an artist, and was fond of
asserting that, for his own part, he should have preferred the army as a
profession!

He was a sort of Twelfth-Night King of Art. For a brief span his success
seemed to be without limits. His house was daily besieged by beaux and
belles of quality. 'Horses and grooms,' says Miss Hawkins in her
Memoirs, 'were cooling before the door; carriages stopped the passage of
the street; and the narrow staircase ill sufficed for the number that
waited the cautious descent or the laborious ascent of others.' But, of
course, this state of things did not last very long. Mr. Sherwin, by his
indolence--and indolence in his situation was a sort of insolence--soon
put himself out of fashion. Fortune showered her gifts at his feet, but
he was too superb a gentleman to stoop and pick them up; so the goddess,
wearying of conferring favours that were so ill-appreciated, turned away
from him in quest of more reverential votaries. When the footmen of the
quality had done with playing fantasias upon his doorknocker, the duns
took their turn, and brought less pleasant music out of it.

A troublesome time had the fashionable artist. He had to give all his
attention now to the question how his creditors could be evaded. For he
preferred evasion to payment. It never seems to have occurred to him
that the last was as efficacious a mode of silencing a dun's complaint
as keeping out of his way; while it was infinitely preferable to the
creditor. But either he had not the money by him at the right moment, or
he wanted it for some other purpose--to spend in punch, probably--for he
was now devoting himself steadily to the consumption of that deleterious
compound. He had become too idle now to work for more than the
necessities of the moment--to supply himself with pocket-money
sufficient for his immediate requirements. His argument was, that if he
could only postpone payment, he was quite justified in postponing work.
The main thing was to avoid, put off, and distance his duns. Curious
stories are told of his efforts and exploits in this respect. An old
engraver, one Roberts, purblind from incessant poring over
copper-plates, after repeated calls, finds at last his mercurial debtor
at home, and demands the settlement of his little bill for work done.
Sherwin is very civil and obliging, promises to settle forthwith the
account against him; then, taking base advantage of his creditor's
defective vision, he makes good his escape, leaving Roberts confronting
the lay-figure of the studio decked for the occasion with its
proprietor's coat and wig. Imagine the indignation of the creditor upon
the discovery of the imposture! Upon another occasion the artist,
splendidly attired--for he is engaged to dine at Sir Brook Boothby's--is
prisoned in his room, prevented from stirring forth by the fact that a
German tailor, a determined creditor who will take no denial, who will
listen to no more excuses, has sat down at the chamber door, to starve
the debtor into surrender. Time passes; there is no exit from the house
but through the studio, and there is posted the inexorable dun, who has
already waited five hours, who will wait five more--fifty more, if need
be--but he will see his debtor. And Mr. Sherwin has no money. What is he
to do?

Presently the siege is raised. Good-natured Lord Fitzwilliam enters,
appreciates the situation, produces his pocket-book, and satisfies the
tailor's demand. 'Here, Mr. Sherwin,' says his lordship to the relieved
and grateful engraver, 'here is a present for you. Your tailor's receipt
for making a fine gentleman!' And Mr. Sherwin is free at last to go to
his dinner-party with what appetite he may.

We have another glimpse of the artist--mad with drink, and up all night,
alarming the neighbourhood by firing off pistols out of the window to
testify his devotion to his patrons of the house of Cavendish, his joy
that an heir had been born to the titles and honours of the dukedom of
Devonshire--and then he falls, disappears. Invitations no longer come
from Sir Brook Boothby and other grand friends; or, if they come, they
don't find Mr. Sherwin at home. As long as he can he keeps his creditors
at bay; then takes to flight--hides to escape arrest. He binds himself
to work for a publisher who harbours and supports him. But it is too
late; he cannot work now if he would. He is greatly changed, his
constitution has yielded at last to his repeated and reckless attacks
upon it. His sight is dim, and his hand is palsied. He has yielded all
claim to be accounted an 'exquisite;' the fashions are nothing to him
now; he is simply a broken-down, worn-out, prematurely old man. His
courage has left him, his gay air of confidence has quite gone; he
cannot look his misfortunes in the face; he shrinks from, shivers at,
and, in his weakness and despair, exaggerates them wildly; they prey
upon him, go near to driving him mad. Pursued and tracked to his
publisher's house--or is it merely his fears that mislead him?--he quits
his place of refuge, breaks cover, and flies he hardly knows whither.
George Steevens, the editor of Shakespeare, wrote on the first October
1790 to a correspondent at Cambridge: 'I am assured that Sherwin the
engraver died in extreme poverty at "The Hog in the Pound," an alehouse
at the corner of Swallow Street; an example of great talents rendered
useless by their possessor.' Miss Hawkins follows this narrative, and
the artist's decease is announced in the _Gentleman's Magazine_ of the
same year. It is proper to state, however, that Mr. Smith, his pupil,
has recorded a less melancholy account of Sherwin's death, which took
place, he says, 'at the house of the late Mr. Robert Wilkinson, the
printseller in Cornhill, who kindly attended him, afforded him every
comfort, and paid respect to his remains, his body having been conveyed
to Hampstead and buried in a respectable manner in the churchyard, near
the east corner of the front entrance.'

He was barely forty when he died. Prints from his engravings are still
highly esteemed by collectors. If his talent was not of the very first
class, it was still of too valuable a kind to be flung in the
kennel--utterly degraded and wasted.




SIR JOSHUA'S PUPIL.


A young apprentice with very little heart in the study of his craft,
after the manner of young apprentices, toiling in a watch and
clock-maker's shop in the town of Devonport, heard one day the fame of
great Sir Joshua's achievements in London sounding through the
county--became conscious that the good folks of the shire took pride in
the son of the Rev. Samuel Reynolds, Master of Plympton Grammar School.
Why should not he, the apprentice, become as great, or nearly so, a
credit to Devonport, his birthplace, as was Sir Joshua to Plympton,
_his_ birthplace? Could one man only have art abilities and ambitions,
and make for himself the opportunity to employ and gratify them? So the
apprentice asked himself. And he must have been a clever fellow that
apprentice! He soon convinced himself--that was easy: but he convinced
his family; he convinced several of his townsmen--a more difficult
task,--that the best thing they could do with him was to send him up to
town to study under his countryman, Sir Joshua, and to become, like him,
a great painter. He had his way at last. In his twenty-fifth year he was
painting in the studio of Reynolds, living under his roof.

After all, his dearest wishes gratified, perhaps the pupil was little
better off. If cleverness, like fever, were contagious, it had been all
very well. But the master was but an indifferent master. He could not,
or would not, instruct. He was himself somewhat deficient in
education--had few rules--only a marvellous love and perception of the
beautiful, and an instinctive talent for its reproduction on his canvas.
It was as certain as it was innate, but not to be expressed in words, or
communicated or reasoned upon in any way. The deeds of genius are things
done, as of course, for no why or wherefore, but simply because there is
no help for it but to do them. So the pupils painted in the studio of
their pseudo-preceptor for a certain number of years, copying his works;
or, when sufficiently advanced, perhaps working at his backgrounds,
brushing away at draperies, or such conventional fillings in of
pictures, and then went their ways to do what they listed, and for the
most part to be heard of no more in art chronicles. They had probably
been of more use to the painter than he had been to them. Certainly our
friend the clockmaker's apprentice was. For when there arose a cry of
'Who wrote Sir Joshua's discourses, if not Burke?' this pupil could give
satisfactory evidence in reply. He had heard the great man, his master,
walking up and down in the library, as in the intervals of writing, at
one and two o'clock in the morning. A few hours later, and he had the
results in his hands. He was employed to make a fair copy of the
lecturer's rough manuscript for the reading to the public. He had noted
Dr. Johnson's handwriting, for _he_ had revised the draft, sometimes
altering to a wrong meaning, from his total ignorance of the subject and
of art: but never a stroke of Burke's pen was there to be seen. The
pupil, it must be said for him, never lost faith in his master. Vandyke,
Reynolds, Titian--he deemed these the great triumvirate of portraiture.
Comparing them, he would say, that Vandyke's portraits were like
pictures, Sir Joshua's like the reflections in a looking-glass, and
Titian's like the real people. And he was useful to the great painter in
another way, for he sat for one of the children in the Count Ugolino
picture (the one in profile with the hand to the face). While posed for
this, he was introduced as a pupil of Sir Joshua's to Mr. Edmund Burke,
and turned to look at that statesman. 'He is not only an artist, but has
a head that would do for Titian to paint,' said Mr. Burke. He served,
too, another celebrated man. With Ralph, Sir Joshua's servant, he went
to the gallery of Covent Garden Theatre, to support Dr. Goldsmith's new
comedy, _She Stoops to Conquer_, on the first night of its performance.
While his friends are trooping to the theatre, the poor author is found
sick and shivering with nervousness, wandering up and down the Mall in
St. James's Park. He can hardly be induced to witness the production of
his own play. Johnson's lusty laugh from the front row of a side box
gives the signal to the worthy _claque_, who applaud to an almost
dangerous extent, in their zeal for their friend, because there runs a
rumour that Cumberland and Ossian Macpherson and Hugh Kelly are getting
up a hiss in the pit.

'How did you like the play?' asked Goldsmith of the young painter, who
had been clapping his hands until they ached, in the gallery by the side
of good Mr. Ralph.

'I wouldn't presume to be a judge in such a matter,' the art-student
answered.

'But did it make you laugh?'

'Oh, exceedingly.'

'That's all I require,' said Goldsmith, and sent him box tickets for the
author's benefit night, that he might go and laugh again.

Sir Joshua's pupil was James Northcote, a long-lived man, born at
Devonport in 1746, and dying at his London house, in Argyll Place,
Regent Street, in 1831. If he had a Titianesque look in his youth, he
possessed it still more in his age. Brilliant eyes, deeply set; grand
projecting nose; thin, compressed lips; a shrewd, cat-like, penetrating
look; fine, high, bald forehead, yellow and polished, though he often
hid this with a fantastic green velvet painting cap, and straggling
bunches of quite white hair behind his ears. A little, meagre man, not
more than five feet high, in a shabby, patched dressing-gown, almost as
old as himself, leading a quiet, cold, penurious life. He never married.
He had never even been in love. He had never had the time, or he had
never had the passion necessary for such pursuits, or he was too deeply
devoted to his profession. He was always, brush in hand, perched up on a
temporary stage, painting earnestly, fiercely, 'with the inveterate
diligence of a little devil stuccoing a mud wall!' cried flaming Mr.
Fuseli.

Haydon, with a letter of introduction from Prince Hoare, called upon
Northcote. He was shown first into a dirty gallery, then up-stairs into
a dirtier painting-room, and then, under a high window, with the light
falling full on his bald grey head, stood a diminutive wizened figure in
an old blue striped dressing-gown, his spectacles pushed up on his
forehead. Looking keenly with his little shining eyes at his visitor, he
opened the letter, read it, and with the broadest Devon dialect, said--

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