The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb Part 43

CLARENCE SONGS.--No. II

Sir,--A friend has just reminded me of a ballad made on occasion of some shipboard sc.r.a.pe into which our Royal Midshipman had fallen; in which, with a _romantic licence_, the rank of the young sailor is supposed to have been unknown, and a corporal infliction about to have been put into execution. This is all he can recover of it. He was

----"order'd to undress, Sir!

But very soon they did espy The star upon his breast, Sir: And on their knees they soon did fall, And all for mercy soon did call."

The burden was "Long live Duke William," or something to that effect. So you see, his Majesty has enjoyed his laureats by antic.i.p.ation.

C. L.

I know the town swarmed with these Clarence songs in the heyday of his young popularity. Where are they?

RECOLLECTIONS OF A LATE ROYAL ACADEMICIAN

(1831)

What Apelles was to the _Grecian Alexander_, the same to the _Russian_ was the late G---- D----. None but Apelles might attempt the lineaments of the world's conqueror; none but our Academician could have done justice to the lines of the Czar, and his Courtiers. There they hang, the labour of ten plodding years, in an endless gallery, erected for the nonce, in the heart of Imperial Petersburgh--eternal monuments of barbarian taste submitting to half-civilized cunning--four hundred fierce Half-Lengths, all male, and all military; like the pit in a French theatre, or the characters in Timon as it was last acted, with never a woman among them. Chaste sitters to Vand.y.k.e, models of grace and womanhood; and thou Dame Venetia Digby, fairest among thy fair compeers at Windsor, hide your pure pale cheeks, and cool English beauties, before this suffocating horde of Scythian riflers, this male chaos! Your cold oaken frames shall wane before the gorgeous buildings,

With Tartar faces thronged, and horrent uniforms.

One emperor contended for the monopoly of the _ancient_; two were compet.i.tors at once for the pencil of the _modern Apelles_. The Russian carried it against the Haytian by a single length. And if fate, as it was at one time nearly arranged, had wafted D. to the sh.o.r.es of Hayti--with the same complacency in his art, with which he persisted in daubing in, day after day, his frozen Muscovites, he would have sate down for life to s.m.u.tch in upon canva.s.s the faces of blubber-lipped sultanas, or the whole male retinue of the dingy court of Christophe.

For in truth a choice of subjects was the least of D.'s care. A G.o.ddess from Cnidus, or from the Caffre coast, was equal to him; Lot, or Lot's wife; the charming widow H., or her late husband.

My acquaintance with D. was in the outset of his art, when the graving tools, rather than the pencil, administered to his humble wants. Those implements, as is well known, are not the most favourable to the cultivation of that virtue, which is esteemed next to G.o.dliness. He might "wash his hands in innocency," and so metaphorically "approach an altar;" but his material puds were any thing but fit to be carried to church. By an ingrained economy in soap--if it was not for pictorial effect rather--he would wash (on Sundays) the inner oval, or portrait, as it may be termed, of his countenance, leaving the unwashed temples to form a natural black frame round a picture, in which a dead white was the predominant colour. This, with the addition of green spectacles, made necessary by the impairment, which his graving labours by day and night (for he was ordinarily at them for sixteen hours out of the twenty-four) had brought upon his visual faculties, gave him a singular appearance, when he took the air abroad; in so much, that I have seen a crowd of young men and boys following him along Oxford-street with admiration, not without shouts; even as the Youth of Rome, we read in Vasari, followed the steps of Raphael with acclamations for his genius, and for his beauty, when he proceeded from his work-shop to chat with Cardinals and Popes at the Vatican.

The family of D. were not at this time in affluent circ.u.mstances. His father, a clever artist, had outlived the style of art, in which he excelled most of his contemporaries. He, with the father of the celebrated Morland, worked for the shop of Carrington and Bowles, which exists still for the poorer sort of caricatures, on the North side of St. Paul's Church Yard. They did clever things in colours. At an inn in Reading a screen is still preserved, full of their labours; but the separate portions of either artist are now undistinguishable. I remember a Mother teaching her Child to read (B. Barton has a copy of it); a Laundress washing; a young Quaker, a beautiful subject. But the flower of their forgotten productions hangs still at a public house on the left hand, as thou arrivest, Reader, from the now Highgate archway, at the foot of the descent where Crouch End begins, on thy road to green Hornsey. Turn in, and look at it, for the sight is well worth a cup of excusatory cyder. In the parlour to the right you will find it--an antiquated subject--a Damsel sitting at her breakfast table in a gown of the flowered chintz of our grandmothers, with a tea-service before her of the _same pattern_. The effect is most delicate. Why have these harmonies--these _agremens_--no place in the works of modern art?

With such niceties in his calling D. did not much trouble his head, but, after an ineffectual experiment to reconcile his eye-sight with his occupation, boldly quitted it, and dashed into the beaten road of common-place portraiture in oil. The Hopners, and the Lawrences, were his Vand.y.k.es, and his Velasquezes; and if he could make any thing like them, he insured himself immortality. With such guides he struggled on through laborious nights and days, till he reached the eminence he aimed at--of mediocrity. Having gained that summit, he sate down contented. If the features were but cognoscible, no matter whether the flesh resembled flesh, or oilskin. For the thousand tints--the grains--which in life diversify the nose, the chin, the cheek--which a Reynolds can but coa.r.s.ely counterfeit--he cared nothing at all about them. He left such scrupulosities to opticians and anatomists. If the features were but there, the character of course could not be far off. A lucky hit which he made in painting the _dress_ of a very dressy lady--Mrs. W--e--, whose handsome countenance also, and tall elegance of shape, were too palpable entirely to escape under any masque of oil, with which even D.

could overlay them--brought to him at once, an influx of sitters, which almost rivalled the importunate calls upon Sir Thomas. A portrait, he _did_ soon after, of the Princess Charlotte, clenched his fame. He proceeded Academician. At that memorable conjuncture of time it pleased the Allied Sovereigns to visit England.

I called upon D. to congratulate him upon a crisis so doubly eventful.

His pleasant housekeeper seemed embarra.s.sed; owned that her master was alone. But could he be spoken with? With some importunity I prevailed upon her to usher me up into his painting-room. It was in Newman-street.

At his easel stood D., with an immense spread of canvas before him, and by his side a--live Goose. I enquired into this extraordinary combination. Under the rose he informed me, that he had undertaken to paint a transparency for Vauxhall, against an expected visit of the Allied Sovereigns to that place. I smiled at an engagement so derogatory to his new-born honours; but a contempt of small gains was never one of D.'s foibles. My eyes beheld crude forms of warriors, kings, rising under his brush upon this interminable stretch of cloth.

The Wolga, the Don, and the Nieper, were there, or their representative River G.o.ds; and Father Thames clubbed urns with the Vistula. Glory with her dazzling Eagle was not absent, nor Fame, nor Victory. The shade of Rubens might have evoked the mighty allegories. But what was the Goose?

He was evidently _sitting_ for a something.

D. at last informed me, that having fixed upon a group of rivers, he could not introduce the Royal Thames without his _swans_. That he had enquired the price of a live swan, and it being more than he was prepared to give for it, he had bargained with the poulterer for the _next thing to it_; adding significantly, that it would do to roast, after it had served its turn to paint swans by. _Reader, this is a true story._

So entirely devoid of imagination, or any feeling for his high art, was this _Painter_, that for the few historical pictures he attempted, any sitter might sit for any character. He took once for a subject _The Infant Hercules_. Did he chuse for a model some robust antique? No. He did not even pilfer from Sir Joshua, who was nearer to his own size. But from a _show_ he hired to sit to him a child in years indeed, (though no Infant,) but in fact a precocious _Man_, or human portent, that was disgustingly exhibiting at that period; a thing to be strangled. From this he formed _his_ Infant Hercules. In a scriptural flight he next attempted a Sampson in the lap of Dalilah. A Dalilah of some sort was procureable for love or money, but who should stand for the Jewish Hercules? He hired a tolerably stout porter, with a thickish head of hair, curling in yellowish locks, but lithe--much like a wig. And these were the robust strengths of Sampson.

I once was a witness to a _family scene_ in his painting closet, which I had entered rather abruptly, and but for his encouragement, should as hastily have retreated. He stood with displeased looks eyeing a female relative--whom I had known under happier auspices--that was kneeling at his feet with a baby in her arms, with her eyes uplifted and suppliant.

Though I could have previously sworn to the virtue of Miss ----, yet casual slips have been known. There are such things as families disgraced, where least you would have expected it. The child _might_ be ----; I had heard of no wedding--I was the last person to pry into family secrets--when D. relieved my uneasy cogitations by explaining, that the innocent, good-humoured creature before me (such as she ever was, and is now that she is married) with a baby borrowed from the public house, was acting Andromache to _his_ Ulysses, for the purpose of transferring upon canvas a tender situation from the Troades of Seneca.

On a subsequent occasion I knocked at D.'s door. I had chanced to have been in a dreamy humour previously. I am not one that often poetises, but I had been musing--c.o.xcombically enough in the heart of Newman-street, Oxford Road--upon Pindus, and the Aonian Maids. The Lover of Daphne was in my mind--when, answering to my summons, the door opened, and there stood before me, laurel-crowned, the G.o.d himself, unshorn Apollo. I was beginning to mutter apologies to the Celestial Presence--when on the thumb of the right hand of the Delian (his left held the harp) I spied a pallet, such as painters carry, which immediately reconciled me to the whimsical transformation of my old acquaintance--with his own face, certainly any other than Grecianesque--into a temporary image of the oracle-giver of Delphos. To have impersonated the Ithacan was little; he had been just sitting for a G.o.d.--It would be no incurious enquiry to ascertain what the _minimum_ of the faculty of imagination, ever supposed essential to painters along with poets, is, that, in these days of complaints of want of patronage towards the fine arts, suffices to dub a man a R----l A----n.

Not only had D. no imagination to guide him in the treatment of such subjects, but he had no relish for high art in the productions of the great masters. He turned away from them as from something foreign and irrelative to him, and his calling. He knew he had neither part nor portion in them. Cozen him into the Stafford or the Angerstein Gallery, he involuntarily turned away from the Baths of Diana--the Four Ages of Guercino--the Lazarus of Piombo--to some petty piece of _modern art_ that had been inconsistently thrust into the collection through favour.

On that he would dwell and pore, blind as the dead to the delicacies that surrounded him. There he might learn something. There he might pilfer a little. There was no grappling with t.i.tian, or Angelo.

The narrowness of his domestic habits to the very last, was the consequence of his hard bringing up, and unexpected emergence into opulence. While rolling up to the ears in Russian rubles, a penny was still in his eyes the same important thing, which it had with some reason seemed to be, when a few shillings were his daily earnings. When he visited England a short time before his death, he reminded an artist of a commission, which he had executed for him in Russia, the package of which was "still unpaid." At this time he was not unreasonably supposed to have realized a sum little short of half a million sterling. What became of it was never known; what gulf, or what Arctic _vorago_, sucked it in, his acquaintance in those parts have better means of guessing, than his countrymen. It is certain that few of the latter were any thing the better for it.

It was before he expatriated himself, but subsequently to his acquisition of pictorial honours in this country, that he brought home two of his brother Academicians to dine with him. He had given no orders extraordinary to his housekeeper. He trusted, as he always did, to her providing. She was a shrewd la.s.s, and knew, as we say, a bit of her master's mind.

It had happened that on the day before, D. pa.s.sing near Clare Market by one of those open shambles, where tripe and cow-heel are exposed for sale, his eye was arrested by the sight of some tempting flesh _rolled up_. It is a part of the intestines of some animal, which my olfactory sensibilities never permitted me to stay long enough to enquire the name of. D. marked the curious involutions of the unacquainted luxury; the harmony of its colours--a _sable vert_--pleased his eye; and, warmed with the prospect of a new flavour, for a few farthings he bore it off in triumph to his housekeeper. It so happened that his day's dinner was provided, so the cooking of the novelty was for that time necessarily suspended.

Next day came. The hour of dinner approached. His visitors, with no very romantic antic.i.p.ations, expected a plain meal at least; they were prepared for no new dainties; when, to the astonishment of them, and almost of D. himself, the purchase of the preceding day was served up piping hot--the cook declaring, that she did not know well what it was, for "her master always marketed." His guests were not so happy in their ignorance. They kept dogs.

I will do D. the justice to say, that on such occasions he took what happened in the best humour possible. He had no _false modesty_--though I have generally observed, that persons, who are quite deficient in that _mauvais[e] honte_, are seldom over-troubled with the quality itself, of which it is the counterfeit.

By what arts, with _his_ pretensions, D. contrived to wriggle himself into a seat in the Academy, I am not acquainted enough with the intrigues of that body (more involved than those of an Italian conclave) to p.r.o.nounce. It is certain, that neither for love to him, nor out of any respect to his talents, did they elect him. Individually he was obnoxious to them all. I have heard that, in his pa.s.sion for attaining this object, he went so far as to go down upon his knees to some of the members, whom he thought least favourable, and beg their suffrage with many tears.

But _death_, which extends the measure of a man's stature to appearance; and _wealth_, which men worship in life and death, which makes giants of punies, and embalms insignificance; called around the exequies of this pigmy Painter the rank, the riches, the fashion of the world. By Academic hands his pall was borne; by the carriages of n.o.bles of the land, and of amba.s.sadors from foreign powers, his bier was followed; and St. Paul's (O worthy casket for the shrine of such a Zeuxis) now holds--ALL THAT WAS MORTAL OF G. D.

THE LATIN POEMS OF VINCENT BOURNE

(1831)

A complete translation of these poems is a desideratum in our literature. Cowper has done _one_ at least, out of the four which he has given us, with a felicity almost unapproachable. Few of our readers can be ignorant of the delightful lines beginning with:--

"There is bird, which by its coat----"

A recent writer has lately added nine more to the number; we wish he would proceed with the remainder, for of all modern Latinity, that of Vincent Bourne is the most to our taste. He is "so Latin," and yet "so English" all the while. In diction worthy of the Augustan age, he presents us with no images that are not familiar to his countrymen. His topics are even closelier drawn; they are not so properly English, as _Londonish_. From the streets, and from the alleys, of his beloved metropolis he culled his objects, which he has invested with an Hogarthian richness of colouring. No town picture by that artist can go beyond his BALLAD-SINGERS; Gay's TRIVIA alone, in verse, comes up to the life and humour of it.

Quae septem vicos conterminat una columna, Consistunt nymphae Sirenum ex agmine binae; Stramineum capiti tegimen, collumque per omne Ingentes electri orbes: utrique pependit Crustato vestis cno, limoque rigescens Crure usque a medio calcem defluxit ad imum.

Exiguam sec.u.m pendentem ex ubere natam Altera; venales dextra tulit altera chartas.

His vix dispositis, pueri innuptaeque puellae Accurrunt: sutor primus, cui lorea vitta Impediit crines, humili, quae proxima stabat, Proruit e cella, chartas, si forte placerent, Empturus; namque ille etiam se carmine multo Oblectat, longos solus quo rite labores Diminuit, fallitque hybernae taedia noctis.

Collecti murmur sensim increbrescere vulgi Auditi, et excurrit nudis ancilla lacertis.

Incudem follesque et opus fabrile relinquens, Se densae immiscet plebi niger ora Pyracmon.

It juxta, depressum ingens cui mantica tergum Incurvat, tardo pa.s.su; simul ille coronam Aspectat vulgi, spe carminis arrigit aures; Statque morae patiens, humeris nec pondera sent.i.t.

Sic ubi Tartareum Regem Rhodopeus Orpheus Threiciis studuit fidibus mulcere, laboris Immemor, aeolides stupuit modulamina plectri, Nec sensit funesti onera inc.u.mbentia saxi.

Saebe interventus rhedae crepitantis, ab illo Vicorum, ant illo, stipantem hinc inde catervam Dividit; at rursus coeunt, ubi transiit illa, Ut coeunt rursus, puppis quas dividit, undae.

Canticulae interea narraverat argumentum Altera Sirenum, infidi perjuria nautae, Deceptamque dolo nympham; tum flebile carmen Flebilibus movit numeris, quos altera versu Alterno excepit: patulis stant rictibus omnes: Dextram ille acclinat, laevam ille attentius aurem, Promissum carmen captare paratus hiatu.

Longa referre mora est, animum qua vicerit arte Virgineum juvenis. Jam posc.u.n.t undique chartas Protensae emptorum dextrae, quas illa vel illa Distribuit, cantatque simul: neque ferreus iste Est usquam auditor, dulcis cui lene camaena Non adhibet tormentum, et furtivum elicit a.s.sem.

Stat medios inter baculoque innit.i.tur Irus; Nec tamen hic loculo parcit, sed prodigus aeris Emptor adest, solvit pretium, carmenque requirit.

Fors juxta adstabat vetula iracundior aequo; Quae loculo ex imo invitum, longumque latentem Depromens vix tandem obolum, Cedo, fmina, chartam, Inquit; ut aeternum monumentum in pariete figam, c.u.m laribus mansurum ipsis, quam credula nymphis Pectora sint; fraudis quam plena, et perfida nautis.

Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column[62] draw, Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw; Their yellower necks huge beads of amber grace, And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race.

With cloak loose-pinn'd on each, that has been red, But long with dust and dirt discoloured Belies its hue; in mud behind, before, From heel to middle leg becrusted o'er.