Art in England

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'Zo you mayne tu bee a peinter, doo 'ee? What zort of peinter?'

'Historical painter, sir.'

'Heestoricaul peinter! Why, ye'll starve with a bundle of straw under
yeer head.'

Presently he read the note again.

'Mr. Hoare zays you're studying anatomy; that's no use--Sir Joshua
didn't know it. Why should you want to know what he didn't?'

'But Michael Angelo did, sir.'

'Michael Angelo! what's he tu du here? You must peint portraits here!'

Haydon was roused to opposition.

'But I won't!'

'_Won't_,' screamed the little man, 'but you _must_! Your vather isn't a
moneyed man, is he?'

'No, sir, but he has a good income, and will maintain me for three
years.'

'Will hee? Hee'd better make 'ee mentein yeerzelf.'

'Do you think, sir, that I ought to be a pupil to anybody?'

'No,' said Northcote. 'Who's to teach 'ee here? It'll be throwing your
vather's money away.'

'Mr. Opie, sir, says I ought to be.'

'Hee zays zo, does hee? ha, ha, ha, ha! he wants your vather's money.'

He received many visitors in his studio. He was constantly at home, and
liked to talk over his work, for he never paused on account of the
callers. He never let go his palette even. He went to the door with a
'Gude God!' his favourite exclamation in his west country dialect,
'what, is it _you_? Come in:' and then climbed his way back to his
canvas, asking and answering in his cool, self-possessed way, all about
the news of the day. Yet he was violent and angry, and outspoken
sometimes, was Sir Joshua's loyal pupil.

'Look at the feeling of Raphael!' said some one to him.

'Bah!' cried the little man. 'Look at Reynolds; he was all feeling! The
ancients were _baysts_ in feeling, compared to him.' And again: 'I tell
'ee the King and Queen could not bear the presence of _he_. Do you think
he was overawed by _they_? Gude God! He was poison to their sight. They
felt ill at ease before such a being--they shrunk into themselves,
overawed by his intellectual superiority. They inwardly prayed to God
that a trap-door might open under the feet of the throne, by which they
might escape--his presence was too terrible!'

Certainly he was possessed by no extravagant notions of the divinity of
blood-royal.

'What do you know,' he was asked, 'of the Prince of Wales, that he so
often speaks of you?'

'Oh, he knows nothing of me, nor I of him--it's only his _bragging_!'
the painter grandly replied.

He could comprehend the idea of distinction of ranks little more than
old Mr. Nollekens, who would persist in treating the royal princes quite
as common acquaintances, taking them by the button-hole, forgetful
altogether of the feuds of the king's family, and asking them _how
their father did_? with an exclamation to the heir-apparent of, 'Ah! we
shall never get such another when he's gone!' Though there was little
enough veneration for the king in this, as Nollekens proved, when he
measured the old monarch, sitting for his bust, from the lip to the
forehead, as though he had been measuring a block of marble, and at last
fairly stuck the compasses into his Majesty's nose. Even the king, who
was not very quick at a joke, could not fail to see the humour of the
situation, and laughed immensely.

Modern taste prefers Northcote's portraits to his more pretentious
works. The glories of Mr. Alderman Boydell's Shakespeare Gallery have
pretty well passed away. However, Northcote's pictures were among the
best of the collection. His 'Arthur and Hubert,' and the 'Murder of the
Princes in the Tower,' and 'The Interment of the Bodies by torchlight,'
were very forcible and dramatic works of art, and possessed more natural
attractions than the pictures of many of his competitors. His pupilage
with Sir Joshua prevented his falling into the washed leather and warm
drab errors of tone that then distinguished the English school of
historical painting. In the picture of the Burial of the Princes, Fuseli
criticised--

'You shouldn't have made that fellow holding up his hands to receive the
bodies. You should have made him digging a hole for them. How awfully
grand; with a pickaxe, digging, dump, dump, dump!'

'Yes,' Northcote answered; 'but how am I to paint the sound of dump,
dump, dump?'

The Boydell pictures were for a long time very popular, and the
engravings of them enjoyed a large sale.

Of course, Northcote despised Hogarth. Abuse of that painter seemed to
be one of the duties of the British historical artist of that day. Yet
he paid him homage; he painted a series of pictures, Hogarthian in
subject, and proved to the satisfaction of everybody, one would think,
the absolute superiority of Hogarth. Mr. Northcote's moral subjects,
illustrative of vice and virtue, in the progress of two young women, are
not to be mentioned in the same breath with the 'Mariage a la Mode.' Not
merely were they deficient in expression--they were not equal in point
of art-execution, though of course the more modern painter had planned
to excel in both these qualities. But Northcote's portraits are really
admirable--broad and vigorous--with much of Sir Joshua's charm of
colour, if not his charm of manner exactly.

For fifty years he lived in Argyll Place, passing the greatest part of
that time in his studio--a small room not more than nine feet by twelve,
crowded with the conventional articles of _vertu_ that were then
considered to be the indispensable properties of a painter. His maiden
sister--'Northcote in petticoats,' she was often called, she was so like
him in face, figure, and manner--superintended his frugal household. Its
economy was simple enough. The brother and sister were of one opinion.
'Half the world died of over-feeding,' they said. They went into an
opposite extreme, and nearly starved themselves. When there was a cry in
the land about scarcity of food, they did not heed the panic; they were
accustomed to a minimum of sustenance, they could hardly be deprived of
that. Fuseli, who sowed his satire broadcast, exclaimed one day: 'What!
does Northcote keep a dog? What does he live upon? Why, he must eat his
own fleas!' But the painter did not attempt to force his opinions upon
others, so the kennel and the kitchen fared better than the parlour. The
servants were indulgently treated, permitted to eat as they pleased, and
die in their own fashion--of repletion or apoplexy, if it seemed good to
them.

If he was cold and callous and cynical to the rest of the world, he was
ever good and kind to the pinched elderly lady his sister. By his will
he gave directions that everything in his house should remain
undisturbed, that there should be no sale of his property in her
lifetime. He was counselled by considerate friends to have all his
pictures sold immediately after his funeral while his name was fresh in
the memory of the public; it was urged that his estate would benefit
very much by the adoption of such a course. 'Gude God, no!' the old man
would cry; 'I haven't patience with ye! Puir thing! d'ye think she'll
not be sufficiently sad when my coffin be borne away, and she be left
desolate! Tearing my pictures from the walls, and ransacking every nook
and corner, and packing up and carting away what's dearer to her than
household gods, and all for filthy lucre's sake! No; let her enjoy the
few years that will be spared to her; when she walks about the house let
her feel it all her own, such as it be, and nothing missing but her
brother. I'd rather my bones were torn from my grave, and scattered to
help repair the roads, than that a single thing should be displaced here
to give her pain. Ye'll drive me mad!'

One day there was a great crowd in Argyll Place. Not to see the painter,
not even to see a royal carriage that had just drawn up at his door, nor
a popular prince of the blood who occupied the carriage, but to catch a
glimpse of one about whom the town was then quite mad--raving mad: a
small good-looking schoolboy, a theatrical homunculus, the Infant
Roscius, Master William Henry Betty. Of course rages and panics and
manias seem to be very foolish things, contemplated by the cool grey
light of the morning after. It seems rather incredible now, that crowds
should have assembled round the theatre at one o'clock to see Master
Betty play Barbarossa in the evening; that he should have played for
twenty-eight nights at Drury Lane, and drawn L17,000 into the treasury
of the theatre. He was simply a handsome boy of thirteen with a fine
voice, deep for his age, and powerful but monotonous. Surely he was not
very intellectual, though he did witch the town so marvellously. 'If
they admire me so much, what would they say of Mr. Harley?' quoth the
boy, simply. Mr. Harley being the head tragedian of the same strolling
company--a large-calved, leather-lunged player, doubtless, who had awed
provincial groundlings for many a long year. Yet the boy's performance
of Douglas charmed John Home, the author of the tragedy. 'The first time
I ever saw the part of Douglas played according to my ideas of the
character!' he exclaimed, as he stood in the wings; but he was then
seventy years of age. 'The little Apollo off the pedestal!' cried
Humphreys, the artist. 'A beautiful effusion of natural sensibility,'
said cold Northcote; 'and then that graceful play of the limbs in
youth--what an advantage over every one else!' As the child grew, the
charm vanished; the crowds that had applauded the boy fled from the man.
Byron denounced him warmly. 'His figure is fat, his features flat, his
voice unmanageable, his action ungraceful, and, as Diggory says (in the
farce of _All the World's a Stage_), "I defy him to extort that d----d
muffin face of his into madness!"' Happy Master Betty! Hapless _Mister_
Betty!

Opie had painted the Infant as the shepherd so well known to nursery
prodigies watching on the Grampian Hills the flocks of his father, 'a
frugal swain, whose constant care,' etc. etc. His Royal Highness the
Duke of Clarence, who was a patron of the stage--or the people on it, or
some of them--brought the boy to Northcote, to be represented in a
'Vandyke costume retiring from the altar of Shakespeare,'--rather an
unmeaning ceremonial. But the picture was a great success, and the
engraving of it published and dedicated to the duke. He was then about
forty--a hearty, bluff gentleman, supposed to be free and breezy in his
manliness from his service at sea,--kindly and unaffected in manner, had
not the slightest knowledge of art, but regarded Northcote as 'an
honest, independent, little, old fellow,' seasoning that remark with an
oath, after the quarter-deck manner of naval gentlemen of the period.

The prince sat in the studio while the artist drew the Infant. Northcote
was not a man to wear a better coat upon his back for all that his back
was going to be turned upon royalty. He still wore the ragged, patched
dressing-gown he always worked in. The painting of Master Betty was
amusing at first, but it seemed, in the end, to be but a prolonged and
tedious business to the not artistic looker-on. He must divert himself
somehow. Certainly Northcote's appearance was comical. Suddenly the
painter felt a twitching at his collar. He turned, frowned angrily, but
said nothing. The prince persevered. Presently he touched lightly the
painter's rough white locks.

'Mr. Northcote, pray how long do you devote to the duties of the
toilet?'

It was very rude of his Royal Highness, but then he was _so_ bored by
the sitting.

The little old painter turned round full upon him.

'I never allow any one to take personal liberties with me. You are the
first that ever presumed to do so. I beg your Royal Highness to
recollect that I am in my own house.'

He spoke warmly, glanced haughtily, then worked at his canvas again.
There was silence for some minutes. Quietly the duke opened the door and
left the room. The painter took no notice.

But the royal carriage had been sent away. It would not be required
until five o'clock. It was not yet four; and it was raining!

The duke returned to the studio.

'Mr. Northcote, it rains. Will you have the kindness to lend me an
umbrella?'

Calmly the painter rang the bell.

'Bring your mistress's umbrella.'

Miss Northcote's umbrella was the only silk one in the house. The
servant showed the prince down-stairs, and he left the house protected
from the shower by Miss Northcote's umbrella.

'You have offended his Royal Highness,' said some one in the room.

'_I_ am the offended party,' the painter answered with dignity.

Next day he was alone in his studio when a visitor was announced.

'Mr. Northcote,' said the duke, entering, 'I return Miss Northcote's
umbrella you were so kind as to lend me yesterday.'

The painter bowed, receiving it from the royal hands.

'I have brought it myself, Mr. Northcote,' the duke continued, 'that I
might have the opportunity of saying that I yesterday took a liberty
which you properly resented. I am angry with myself. I hope you will
forgive me, and think no more of it.'

The painter bowed his acceptance of the apology.

'Gude God!' he exclaimed, afterwards telling the story, 'what could I
say? He could see what I felt. I could have given my life for him! Such
a prince is worthy to be a king!'

More than a quarter of a century passed, and then the Duke of Clarence
was the King of England--William the Fourth. The old painter was still
living, at work as usual, though weak and bent enough now: but with his
brain still active, his tongue still sharp, his eyes still very
brilliant in his lined shrunken face. 'A poor creature,' he said of
himself, 'perhaps amusing for half an hour or so, or curious to see like
a little dried mummy in a museum.' He employed himself in the
preparation of a number of illustrations to a book of fables published
after his death. He collected prints of animals, and cut them out
carefully; then he moved about such as he selected for his purpose on a
sheet of plain paper, and, satisfying himself at last as to the
composition of the picture, he fixed the figures in their places with
paste, filled in backgrounds with touches of his pencil, and then handed
the curious work to Mr. Harvey, the engraver, to be copied on wood and
engraved. The success of the plan was certainly as remarkable as its
eccentricity.

He employed his pen as well as his pencil: contributed papers to the
_Artist_, and published, in 1813, a life of Sir Joshua. A year before
his death he produced a _Life of Titian_, the greater part of which,
however, was probably written by his friend and constant companion
Hazlitt. About the same time Hazlitt reprinted from the _Morning
Chronicle_ his _Conversations with Northcote_, a work of much interest
and value.

He was in his small studio, brush in hand, very tranquil and happy,
within two days of his death. It seemed as though he had been forgotten.
'If Providence were to leave me the liberty of choosing my heaven, I
should be content to occupy my little painting-room with the continuance
of the happiness I have experienced there, even for ever.' He spoke of
his works without arrogance. 'Everything one can do falls short of
Nature. I am always ready to beg pardon of my sitters after I have done,
and to say I hope they'll excuse it. The more one knows of the art, and
the better one can do, the less one is satisfied.'

Sir Joshua's pupil--'Of all his pupils I am the only one who ever did
anything at all'--died on the 13th July 1831, in the eighty-sixth year
of his age.

HOPPNER AND LAWRENCE.

I.

There have always been factions in art; and while the schools have
battled separately, there has been no lack of single combats between
individual painters.

Pordenone painting his frescoes in the cloisters of St. Stefano at
Venice with his sword drawn and his buckler at hand, prepared for the
violence of Titian, is a sample of the masters who found it necessary to
combine profession of the fine arts with the business of a bravo.
Domenico Veniziano was brutally assaulted by Andrea del Castagno;
Annibale Caracci, Cesari, and Guido were driven from Naples, and their
lives threatened by Belisario, Spagnoletto, and Caracciolo. Agostino
Beltrano, surpassed in painting by his own wife, Amelia di Rosa (the
niece of an artist of eminence), murdered her in a fit of jealous rage;
Michael Angelo was envious of the growing fame of Sebastiano del
Piombo; Hudson[19] quarrelled with his pupil Reynolds, who in his turn
was made uneasy by the progress of his rival Romney; and Hoppner, on his
deathbed, writhed under the polite attentions of Sir Thomas Lawrence.
'In his visits,' said the poor sick man bitterly, 'there is more joy at
my approaching death than true sympathy with my sorrows.'

[19] A story to this effect has been generally credited; but in the
_Life of Reynolds_ by Messrs. Leslie and Taylor, 1865, a different
version is given of the relations subsisting between Sir Joshua and his
preceptor, and the notion of the one regarding the other with any sort
of animosity is rejected, if not altogether disproved.

II.

The mother of JOHN HOPPNER was one of the German attendants at the Royal
Palace. He was born in London in the summer of 1759. George the Third
took a strong personal interest in the bringing up and education of the
child, whose sweet musical voice and correct ear soon won for him the
post and white stole of a chorister in the royal chapel. Of course there
were motives attributed in explanation of the king's kindness and
benevolence, and the boy himself, it would appear, was not eager to
contradict a slander which ascribed to him illustrious, if illicit,
descent. The world chose to see confirmation of the rumours in this
respect, in the favour subsequently extended to the young man by the
Prince of Wales, who supported him actively against such formidable
rivals as Lawrence, Owen, and Opie, and was the means of directing a
stream of aristocratic patronage to his studio. He entered as a
probationer the school of the Royal Academy--passing gradually through
the various stages of studentship, and emerging at last a candidate for
the highest prizes of the institution. He underwent few of the
privations of the beginner--knew little of the trials and struggles of
the ordinary student. Almost 'a royal road' was opened for him. So soon
as he could draw and colour decently, patrons were ready for him. Mrs.
Jordan sat--now as the Comic Muse--now as Hippolyte; a 'lady of quality'
was depicted as a Bacchante. Then came portraits of the Duke and Duchess
of York, the Prince of Wales, and the Duke of Clarence. He lived in
Charles Street, close to Carlton House, and wrote himself 'Portrait
painter to the Prince of Wales.' The king and queen were quite willing
to favour their son's favourite, particularly as they believed, with
many other people of the time, that the heir-apparent 'had a taste.' But
soon obstacles came between them and the painter. They had never liked
Reynolds. Hoppner, full of honest admiration of Sir Joshua, did not
hesitate to sound his praises even in the unwilling eyes of royalty. The
question, as he held, was one of art, not of kingly predilection. It was
uncourtierlike, and the monarch was much displeased. He could not endure
contradiction or opposition even in regard to matters of which he knew
nothing whatever, such as art for instance. Then the giddy proceedings
of the minor and rival court at Carlton House were desperately annoying
to plain 'Farmer George;' and in a small way Hoppner had become
celebrated in the Prince's circle: for the painter was gaily disposed,
witty, and high-spirited. The Prince of Wales having thrown himself into
the open arms of the Whigs, Mr. Hoppner must needs become a zealous
politician, espousing the principles of the party opposed to the king.
He could expect little from their most gracious majesties after that. He
obtained nothing. Certainly he was imprudent. What had a painter to do
with politics? He thus diminished gravely the area of his prospects. It
became quite impossible for Tory noblemen and gentlemen of distinction
to bestow patronage upon, sit for their pictures to, a Whig
portrait-painter. Why, he might caricature them! And after painting all
his Whig friends and associates, what was he to do? with a rival in the
field by no means to be despised or held cheaply.

III.

In the last century it behoved everybody who desired to be accounted 'a
personage,' or to be ranked amongst 'people of quality,' to quit London
at a certain season of the year, and repair to the city of Bath, or 'the
Bath,' as it was frequently called. Now a journey to Bath in those days
was no trifling matter: it involved frequent stoppages by the way, and
the inns and posting-houses upon the road became, necessarily, _very_
important, and oftentimes very profitable concerns. Miss Burney, the
author of _Evelina_, records in her diary the particulars of her journey
to Bath with Mrs. Thrale, in the year 1780. She stopped the first night
at Maidenhead Bridge; slept at Speen Hill the second, and Devizes the
third; arriving at Bath on the fourth day of her journey. The inn
patronized by Miss Burney at Devizes was the Black Bear, of which one
Thomas Lawrence was the landlord. It is in regard to this establishment
we have to request that the reader will give us his attention for a few
minutes.

Mr. Lawrence had been by turns a solicitor, a poet, an artist, an actor,
a supervisor of excise, a farmer, an innkeeper, and, of course, a
bankrupt. Probably he might have retired from the Black Bear with a
fortune, but that he had a numerous family of sixteen children to
support, and that he was not particularly well qualified to succeed as
an innkeeper. He seems to have set up for being 'a character,' and his
neighbours were inclined to ridicule and censure him for giving himself
airs. A bustling, active, good-humoured man, he was prone now and then
to play the scholar and the fine gentleman, the while he lost sight of
his more recognised position as a landlord. He wore a full-dress suit of
black, starched ruffles, and a very grand periwig; was ceremonious and
stately in his manners, affected an inordinate love of literature and an
air of connoisseurship that contrasted rather strangely with his
calling. Certainly there was not such another landlord to be seen upon
the road between London and Bath; if, indeed, anywhere else. He was
proud of his elocutionary powers, and in a full, sonorous voice he would
read aloud select passages from Shakespeare and Milton to all such
persons as evinced an inclination to listen to him--sometimes, indeed,
to people who did not in the least wish to hear him. It is hardly to be
wondered at that divers of the Black Bear's customers occasionally felt
indignant and outraged when, travel-worn and hungry, eager for the bill
of fare and supper, they were met by the landlord's proposal to
expatiate for their benefit upon the beauties of the poets, or to recite
for their entertainment certain most elegant extracts. It was food for
the body they desiderated, not solace for the mind; and it was, perhaps,
only natural that they should treat Mr. Lawrence's suggestions rather
curtly. Not that the innkeeper was prompt to take offence. The man who
rides a hobby-horse seldom heeds or perceives the criticism of
bystanders upon the paces or proportions of his steed. Mr. Lawrence
could obtain a hearing from other quarters. Once a week he visited Bath,
and passed an evening in the green-room of the theatre there. The actors
would listen to him, or pretend to do so; some of them would permit him
to read their parts to them, and give them counsel as to the manner in
which these should be rendered on the stage, purposing to revenge
themselves afterwards, the rogues, by availing themselves of the
comforts of the Black Bear, without calling for their accounts when they
quitted that hostelry.

But even a greater celebrity at Devizes than Mr. Lawrence was his son
Thomas, born in 1769, youngest of the sixteen children. He seems to have
been regarded on all hands as a sort of infant prodigy of great use in
attracting visitors to the inn. He could stand on a chair and recite
poetry, or he could wield his blacklead pencil and take the portrait of
any one who would condescend to sit to him. 'A most lovely boy,' writes
Miss Burney,--with long, luxuriant, girl-like tresses, that tumbled down
and hid his face when he stooped to draw. 'He can take your likeness, or
repeat you any speech in Milton's _Pandemonium_,' the proud father would
cry, 'although he is only five years old.' And at this age he is stated
to have produced a striking likeness of Mr. (afterwards Lord) Kenyon. At
seven the portrait of the prodigy was taken, and engraved by Mr.
Sherwin, the artist. At eight, it seems, his education was finished. His
recitations--he had no doubt been carefully instructed by his
father--were pronounced to be 'full of discrimination, feeling, and
humour, set off by the various tones of a voice full, harmonious, and
flexible.' Pretty well this, for such a mere baby as he was at the time!
He recited on various occasions before Garrick, Foote, John Wilkes,
Sheridan, Burke, Johnson, Churchill, and other famous people, resting
for the night or to change horses at Devizes on their road to Bath. Old
Lawrence lost no opportunity of talking to his customers, and of
exhibiting his wonderful son. All are alleged to have been charmed with
him. Mr. and Mrs. Garrick passing through the town, would retire to a
summer-house in the garden of the Black Bear, and amuse themselves for
some time with the recitations of the little fellow. 'Tommy has learned
one or two new speeches since you were here, Mr. Garrick,' the father
would exclaim, bringing forward his precocious boy. 'There was something
about him,' says an authority, 'which excited the surprise of the most
casual observer. He was a perfect man in miniature; his confidence and
self-possession smacked of one-and-twenty.'

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